Veritas (Atto Melani) by Rita Monaldi, Francesco Sorti Page A

two at the stern, similar to the cords one uses to hang washing. Only it was not clothes that were hung from them, but stones.
They were little yellow things that sparkled, and they were secured to the ropes with little pieces of string. Not being able to reach them with my hand, I screwed up my eyes, trying to make out
what material they were made of, and suddenly I realised:
    “Amber. It’s amber. Good Lord, it’s beautiful, it looks like good quality. It must cost an arm and a leg. Why on earth have they been put there . . .”
    Once again I glanced at Frosch; I could tell from his face he had no idea what purpose the stones served.
    I climbed down and examined the mysterious vessel again. The curious machine, to tell the truth, was not in the pitiful state to which a prolonged exposure to rain, wind and sun might have
reduced it. The wood was actually in good condition; it was as if, every so often, someone had rubbed it over with a protective oily varnish, like the one I had seen fishermen brush their boats
with on the Tiber in Rome. Then I noticed that the surface of the hull was not flat and smooth, like the fishing boats. It was made up of rectilinear tubes that ran the whole length from prow to
stern, as if the craft were nothing more than a bundle of pipes.
    I tapped my knuckles on one of the tubes. It sounded hollow, as did the others that I tried. The tubes had moulded openings towards the prow as if they were supposed to collect something. At the
stern – which is to say, at the tail end of these tubes – were trumpet-like openings, which appeared to be made to channel upwards – and so towards the sail that covered the whole
boat – what was collected at the prow.
    I had a look at the mast, which was still upright, at the proud prow, and at the small graceful deck. Here and there planks had been replaced, cracks patched up, loose nails fixed. Under close
inspection, the small ship did not appear damaged or derelict. It was just out of commission, as if in the Place with No Name it had found a dock where it could be fixed, and perhaps also an
attentive ship-boy to look after it.
    “It’s a small ship in every sense,” I remarked, as I stroked the keel meditatively, which was not at all worn.
    “Right, a ship of fools!” quipped the keeper with a coarse laugh.
    At those words I gave a start.

    I wanted to get away. The afternoon’s events had prostrated me. What was more, I was now on foot: Simonis had fled with the cart to take my little boy to safety. I had a
long walk ahead of me. I would come back the next day to start work. I told Frosch so, asking him to look after the chimney-sweeping tools that I had left in the cellar when I took to my heels.
    Before leaving, I gave a last look at the building we were in. As I had already noticed, it had no roof. But it was only then that I realised how enormous this space was – as broad, long
and tall as an entire palace.
    “What is . . . What is this place?” I asked in surprise.
    “The ball stadium,” answered Frosch.
    And he explained (although, I repeat, it was not always easy for me to follow his idiom) that in the days of Emperor Maximilian, the founder of the Place with No Name, the ball game imported
from Italy had become popular among the great lords. In this recreation the players faced one another with a sort of wooden sheath on their arms, with which they competed for a leather ball,
slamming it vigorously, like cannon shots, trying to get the better of their adversaries. Frosch added with a snigger that wearing your guts out over a ball was ridiculous, and unsuited to the
court of a Caesar, and a game of this sort was bound to be forgotten forever, and this, indeed, was what had happened; but in those remote times the pastime must have had quite a following, because
otherwise such a generous space would not have been set aside for it.
    Frosch was a wild-looking man with a big pear-shaped face, which was grey down to his nose