house?”
Father Prior Vicenzo Bandello of Santa Maria delle Grazie scrutinized me with great severity before inviting me to enter the sacristy. At last I was meeting the man who had written the report on the death of Beatrice d’Este for Bethany.
“Father Alessandro has spoken much about you,” he continued. “Apparently, you are a scholarly man. A meticulous intellectual, with strong willpower, someone who may enrich our community during his stay among us. What did you say your name was?”
“Agostino Leyre, Father Prior.”
The prior had finished the office of terce as the insufficient sun hovered over the Valley of Padana. He was about to withdraw to prepare his sermon for Donna Beatrice’s funeral when I accosted him. Only partly was it an impulsive act on my part. Hadn’t Father Alessandro insisted that I ask any of the brethren about my riddle? Had he not assured me that the least expected among the monks might grant me the correct answer? And who was less expected than the Father Prior himself?
I made my decision shortly after returning frozen from our adventure, in search of warmth inside the monastery. Luck had it that as I ventured into the sacristy I happened to come upon the Father Prior. The librarian had left me, with the excuse that he needed to get food in the kitchen for our next working session, and I seized the opportunity.
Father Prior Vicenzo Bandello was a little over sixty, with a face creased like an old sail, a strong chin and a surprising tendency to allow his gestures to betray every one of his emotions. He was even smaller than I thought the night I’d seen him in the church. He was moving nervously between the painted doors of the sacristy cupboards, uncertain as to which to close first.
“Tell me, Father Agostino,” he said while putting away the chalice and paten from the previous Mass. “I’m curious. What exactly do you do in Rome?”
“I’m appointed to the Holy Office.”
“I see, I see…And, if I understand correctly, in the spare time left by your duties, you delight in solving puzzles. That’s splendid.” He smiled. “I’m certain we’ll get along well.”
“It is precisely that subject about which I’d like to speak to you.”
“Is that so?”
I nodded. If the Father Prior was the eminence that the librarian had vaunted, it was probable that the presence of the Soothsayer in Milan would not have escaped his notice. But I had to exercise caution. Perhaps he himself was the author of the letters and was afraid of disclosing his identity until he was sure of my true intentions. Even worse, perhaps he was not aware of the Soothsayer’s existence, but if I revealed it to him, who could prevent him from alerting Ludovico of our plans?
“Tell me this, Father Agostino. As someone who delights in uncovering secrets, you must have heard of the art of memory?”
The Father Prior asked the question nonchalantly while I was trying in vain to determine to what degree he might be involved in the matter of the anonymous correspondence. Perhaps I was being too zealous. It seemed as if every new monk I encountered at Santa Maria became part of my list of suspects. The Father Prior was to be no exception. The truth is that, of all possible alternatives, of the close to thirty friars who lived within these walls, the Father Prior was the man whose profile best fit that of the Soothsayer. I can’t imagine how we did not realize it back in Bethany. Even his first name, Vicenzo, consisted of seven letters, like the seven lines of the infernal Oculos ejus dinumera or the seven windows of the southern façade of the church. It came to me as I watched him opening and closing cupboard doors and secreting away a large bunch of keys under his habit. The Father Prior was one of the few who had access to the budgets and plans of the duke for Santa Maria, and likely the only one who would make use of a safe official courier to send his letters to Rome.
“Well?” he asked,
Father Prior Vicenzo Bandello of Santa Maria delle Grazie scrutinized me with great severity before inviting me to enter the sacristy. At last I was meeting the man who had written the report on the death of Beatrice d’Este for Bethany.
“Father Alessandro has spoken much about you,” he continued. “Apparently, you are a scholarly man. A meticulous intellectual, with strong willpower, someone who may enrich our community during his stay among us. What did you say your name was?”
“Agostino Leyre, Father Prior.”
The prior had finished the office of terce as the insufficient sun hovered over the Valley of Padana. He was about to withdraw to prepare his sermon for Donna Beatrice’s funeral when I accosted him. Only partly was it an impulsive act on my part. Hadn’t Father Alessandro insisted that I ask any of the brethren about my riddle? Had he not assured me that the least expected among the monks might grant me the correct answer? And who was less expected than the Father Prior himself?
I made my decision shortly after returning frozen from our adventure, in search of warmth inside the monastery. Luck had it that as I ventured into the sacristy I happened to come upon the Father Prior. The librarian had left me, with the excuse that he needed to get food in the kitchen for our next working session, and I seized the opportunity.
Father Prior Vicenzo Bandello was a little over sixty, with a face creased like an old sail, a strong chin and a surprising tendency to allow his gestures to betray every one of his emotions. He was even smaller than I thought the night I’d seen him in the church. He was moving nervously between the painted doors of the sacristy cupboards, uncertain as to which to close first.
“Tell me, Father Agostino,” he said while putting away the chalice and paten from the previous Mass. “I’m curious. What exactly do you do in Rome?”
“I’m appointed to the Holy Office.”
“I see, I see…And, if I understand correctly, in the spare time left by your duties, you delight in solving puzzles. That’s splendid.” He smiled. “I’m certain we’ll get along well.”
“It is precisely that subject about which I’d like to speak to you.”
“Is that so?”
I nodded. If the Father Prior was the eminence that the librarian had vaunted, it was probable that the presence of the Soothsayer in Milan would not have escaped his notice. But I had to exercise caution. Perhaps he himself was the author of the letters and was afraid of disclosing his identity until he was sure of my true intentions. Even worse, perhaps he was not aware of the Soothsayer’s existence, but if I revealed it to him, who could prevent him from alerting Ludovico of our plans?
“Tell me this, Father Agostino. As someone who delights in uncovering secrets, you must have heard of the art of memory?”
The Father Prior asked the question nonchalantly while I was trying in vain to determine to what degree he might be involved in the matter of the anonymous correspondence. Perhaps I was being too zealous. It seemed as if every new monk I encountered at Santa Maria became part of my list of suspects. The Father Prior was to be no exception. The truth is that, of all possible alternatives, of the close to thirty friars who lived within these walls, the Father Prior was the man whose profile best fit that of the Soothsayer. I can’t imagine how we did not realize it back in Bethany. Even his first name, Vicenzo, consisted of seven letters, like the seven lines of the infernal Oculos ejus dinumera or the seven windows of the southern façade of the church. It came to me as I watched him opening and closing cupboard doors and secreting away a large bunch of keys under his habit. The Father Prior was one of the few who had access to the budgets and plans of the duke for Santa Maria, and likely the only one who would make use of a safe official courier to send his letters to Rome.
“Well?” he asked,
Similar Books
