Agapito Geraldini climbs the stairs, panting, out of breath. Behind him is a page who carries a heavy, dark brown bear skin fur over his arm.
Ennio leads the way. He behaves much less rudely when Valentino’s first secretary is in the house.
Niccolò is sitting in a chair at a window of his room. He can’t stand lying down anymore but still doesn’t have the strength to go outside. He looks down at the people in the small piazza below and the sight of them rouses him. He holds Dianora’s book of poems in his hands and rereads a few of them. His eyes go from the page to the piazza and back again in a constant flow of sensations, images, thoughts.
It’s as if she were there with him, speaking to him, as if he could ask her questions and she could answer them, every line revealing new meanings and interpretations of the subject at hand.
Ennio stops outside Niccolò’s door, indicating to the secretary that they have arrived, and announces Agapinto’s presence.
Niccolò jumps to his feet when he hears Geraldini’s name. He doesn’t want to greet him in his bedchamber and certainly can’t let him see his unmade bed or the pissoir on the floor. Luckily he had gotten dressed; despite the huge effort, he had forced himself to resume certain daily routines.
He hurries out of the room, closing the door behind him. The secretary smiles and extends a cordial welcome. His Excellency would like to know if he has regained his strength, if he had a good trip, and if he is well enough to come and see him.
Why does the prince want to see him? Judging from Geraldini’s expression, it would seem as though his intentions were good.
“Before receiving you, the duke asks that you meet with lady Dianora again. He said that you were better than any medicine for her, although I confess I don’t understand exactly what that means.”
Niccolò is tired but feels a surge of joy regardless. Worried that his eyes might betray him, Niccolò conceals his pleasure with irony. “I wasn’t aware I had that power, but I’ll gladly act as a cure if it pleases His Excellency.”
“What illness does she have that you can heal?”
“You know how we Tuscans enjoy good conversation; I suppose that for her ladyship I am something of a toy or companion animal.”
Niccolò brings her book with him.
Night is falling fast. They walk down roads that Niccolò has never seen before. The secretary insisted that he wear the bear fur, under orders of Torrella, who told them all about the envoy’s illness. Niccolò duly obeyed. He must have looked like an odd animal: short, with skinny legs, wrapped in that enormous fur. It did keep him warm, though, and the air was bitterly cold.
A large stately home sits at the end of the road: the façade is under construction and two new lateral wings are also being built. Everything is covered by a tangle of scaffolding. So this is the construction site that Ramiro de Lorqua pointed out to him from high above. It will be the future royal palace, where Cesare intends to bring his court. Seen from the ground, it is far more impressive than from the stronghold above.
Geraldini explains to Niccolò that one wing is already livable and His Excellency has moved into it; he wants to keep an eye on the work personally, convinced that the men need to watched carefully, every single day, and that only by living in the palace will he discover what needs to be modified and how. To make the palace even larger, the duke purchased thirty adjoining buildings to the loud jingle of coins. All of them were consequently demolished. The duke is now having his workers move walls and open up a courtyard in the palace where before there was an intricate warren of rooms on different floors.
In the vast foyer, support poles hold up the vaulted ceilings and the scaffolding is teeming with workers. There’s rubble on the floor, dust in the air, and it feels like they’re entering a forest thick with fog.
They come to a slight clearing: the ambassadors of Ferrara and Mantua sit waiting in a corner. Also with them is a fifty-year-old man with a pockmarked face that Niccolò doesn’t recognize.
He asks Geraldini who the man is.
Geraldini tells him it’s the ambassador from Pisa.
Pisa? What’s he doing there?
The secretary is silent.
The three ambassadors are annoyed at having to wait for an audience in such conditions. Valentino must be enjoying this thoroughly, Niccolò thinks. The workers definitely are: they shout and yell from high above and make bits of paint and plaster fall just to see how those snooty, well-dressed gentlemen react.
The ambassadors take out their irritation on Niccolò and his fur coat. As he walks by, the Pisan ambassador comments loudly that the envoy from Florence looks like a furry animal that has come down from the mountains.
On the second floor, men are busy painting the walls. On the third, women are scrubbing the tiles. After climbing the stairs to the fourth floor, they make their way down a long corridor with a window at the end, through which Niccolò sees even more scaffolding. It’s warm, so while they are walking, Niccolò removes the heavy fur and folds it over his arm.
A young pageboy, practically still a child, with long straight red hair, appears out of nowhere and asks if he can carry the fur. Niccolò gladly hands it to him.
The secretary stops in front of a door on the right that leads to a large room that is being decorated as a study. Two husky carpenters are building a bookshelf that takes up an entire wall. “His Excellency would like you to do your writing in here. The room will be ready by this evening.”
Niccolò nods. “Where is the duke’s study?”
Geraldini points to a room a bit farther on. “He wanted you nearby.”
And where is his private archive, Niccolò wonders to himself. Will it be in the prince’s rooms, not far from his bedchamber, as it was in Imola? Dianora will surely know.
They continue to the end of the corridor and stop in front of a large door on the left. Geraldini nods to the pageboy, who knocks on the door.
Dianora turns to look at him and smiles widely. Perhaps too widely. She is clearly pleased to see him. Dressed in crimson and white, she sits on a large chair in front of a broad window, her hair gathered at the nape of her neck. “You’re better! What a relief. The duke and I were so worried about you.”
“Thank you, Milady. I am indeed now well. Greetings, Sister Sebastiana . . . ”
The nun steps out of a small room on the left, in which he catches a glimpse of a bed. “Salutations, Envoy,” she says irritably and suspiciously.
Niccolò is aware that their secret may be more evident in the light of day. He feigns interest in the room, the rugs, and the pieces of furniture. He feels Sister Sebastiana’s eyes on him.
He makes banal comments to reassure her and speaks at length about the construction of the imposing palace. The Dominican nun does not reply.
Dianora does. She also offers vague and general thoughts on the building that’s going up around them, where, as usual when His Excellency is involved, the work is accomplished swiftly and well.
Sister Sebastiana remains silent; she watches them closely and then sits down nearby.
Dianora realizes that Niccolò has brought her book of poems with him and so she gestures at him to take a seat across from her.
“Did you read any of the poems?” she asks, her hand automatically reaching up to the back of her neck. She’s happy because they’re about to enter a space that is theirs alone. All the same, she fears Niccolò’s judgement.
He nods. He has reflected at length on what to say so the words come easily, so that his comments are clear and strong. He praises her work not with flattery but by analyzing it carefully. He uses terms that comment on the qualities of her writing without ignoring its weaknesses, because both share the same creative force.
He opens the book, runs his finger across the words of the poem he’s talking about, and it is as if he’s touching her skin. They look at each other now and then; the conversation carries them forward and yet they are also careful not to reveal their emotions. They feel closer than ever before, they’re sharing something much greater than both of them, something that Dianora has evoked in her writing and which now exists outside of her, in her words, which have also taken hold of Niccolò.
Sister Sebastiana stares at them. She realizes that an understanding exists between them but she is not suspicious. After all, they’re only talking about poetry, an innocuous subject; she doesn’t think for a minute that they might feel the same explosion of passion that she feels when she thinks about the Lord, how she gets drunk on prayer, both when she’s alone and also when she is with her sisters. Actually, she even starts to get a little bored of all their talk about technical aspects and rhyming schemes.
Consequently, Dianora and Niccolò are free to worship the god that unites them. It’s not her Christian one, nor his doubtful one, but the power of writing. It hides itself in what it seeks to show, and makes that which is invisible apparent.
Trusting in this power, Dianora looks at Niccolò, bows her head gracefully, and tells him that two days earlier she started composing a new sonnet but that she hasn’t gotten beyond the first lines. She asks if he might help her with the rhymes.
Her request, which comes as he is handing her back the book, is a surprise. He enthusiastically agrees, although he confesses that he doubt he will be much help.
“I think you will. After all, you too are a poet,” Dianora replies.
“I try to be,” he says lightly, holding back the emotions that her words have triggered inside.
She smiles and is both moved and unsettled, realizing that it is lucky that she is seated with her back to the nun, otherwise she would have given herself away.
“Come, let us go sit at the desk together. I started with a memory of my home in Forlì,” she says by way of invitation.
He takes a seat next to her, breathing in her perfume and feeling the warmth of her presence.
Dianora picks up a piece of paper that rests with others on the table and reads four lines that rhyme in -ordo and -ura. They express how memories take her back to her life within those walls (mura), how she was born into a safe and protected world (nacque sicura), and how strong and indissoluble those memories are (più non scordo).
The sound of her voice overwhelms him. No other music could touch him quite as deeply.
That’s as far as she got, she says. She would like to continue recreating the sense of tranquility that existed in those rooms but does not know what to write next.
He looks at her calligraphy, so orderly and harmonious, and feels a burst of shared emotion. He knows that words offer a direct path to her soul and he wants to tread carefully.
The pain. Those lines were born of pain. Is he able to her offer some consolation? Of course that’s not the purpose of writing. Writing is not meant to hide the hardship of things. But if he created lies for Valentino, why can’t he offer her words of comfort?
He does not want to let her down but he’s not entirely sure he can go through with this. The friction he feels generates a line with an -ura ending: in her father’s house there was no sense of fear (paura).
What feelings and memories do his words waken in Dianora? The same ones that he imagined when visiting her home in Forlì? It would appear so, because her eyes fill with a veil of tears as she thinks back to those chambers and the great hall where she spent her time, coming up with a new line to add to the preceding ones, this time with an -ordo ending . . . A voi ripenso in questo gel ch’io mordo (I think back to all of you in this biting cold).
He notices how devastated she is. How can he possibly compensate for what she has lost? He chases back the knot he feels in his throat and decides to oppose the biting cold she has mentioned with a warmth (la calura) that banishes the cold, how the energy of life can overcome all tragedies.
Dianora nods.
He has reminded her of how important it is to hold onto life. She goes back to feeling hopeful. She smiles. She recalls how, in the thick of night, when everyone else was fast asleep, she would listen to the gushing fountain outside her window. Back then the city was calm, everything was peaceful, and night was her friend.
Niccolò looks at her and imagines that fountain, he imagines himself with Dianora in that gentle night, and wishes he could laugh gaily with her.
While the lines of the poem may soon end, while they may speak lies, while their consolatory power may merely be a deception, for as long as they have a hold over the two of them, they are welcome.
The voice of the nun stops them short. What’s the matter? Why do you have that expression on your face? Is there a problem? Is something wrong?
That’s just how writing is, Sister Sebastiana, Niccolò says. People experience emotions that do not really exist as if they were real. Is there nothing to drink here? Some water? So much talking makes a person thirsty.
The nun points grumpily at a pitcher and glasses. Niccolò fills two and hands one to Dianora. While they drink, they return to the composition and reread what they have written; they are no longer two separate people, a woman and man, but one unit.
The peaceful rooms in Forlì become—without saying as much explicitly—the very room in which they find themselves. Here, too, night can be a gentle friend.
So they write about the glow and serenity of the beautiful moon and the silence that surrounds them.
Che molto in alto va liberamente
Sopra ogni cosa dove più le piace.19
They, like the moon, wish they could go wherever they wanted, they wish they were free to love each other.
Together they come up with the final two lines of the sonnet, which express both the hope and an assignation.
Ogni dolore cancella dalla mente
la notte e dona la sospirata pace.20
At night. They will see each other at night. When that wretched man and the nun are fast asleep. They’re certain of it, even without saying as much. They do not know how or when, but they know they will.
He is deeply moved by her sigh, and a shiver of joy overcomes him. He feels as though he’s on the verge of tears. He stops himself. A man cannot cry. He looks away and crosses the astute gaze of Sister Sebastiana.
Has she figured out what’s going on between them?
“Forgive me, but I don’t feel well. It may be that my illness has not completely passed. I must take my leave,” he says in a hurried voice.
The nun relaxes.
Dianora nods and looks at him with bright eyes. She understands.