THE ATTIC

SENSING & TELLING • BUILDING ROME • BETWEEN HEAVEN & HELL

The scene is Rome in the summer of 1590. The city is growing, shifting shape. There she is, Signora Cortese, in between earthly chaos and ethereal ideas. Her lodging house is full of men from the provinces seeking work or redemption (or both).

La Signora does not appreciate what she sees. The city is taking an unfortunate turn. The meeting with an unusual lodger ignites her imagination. She tells a different story of the city’s future, one that balances on the edge between the ordinary and the splendid. And behind the burgundy velvet curtain, someone is listening…

Rome was not built on one story. Who were the storytellers behind? Listen to Signora Cortese and give it a thought: What if we built our towns and cities - and lifes - on entirely different stories?  

INFO:

Read it or listen to it (24 minutes), then consider the questions and the imaginary exercise - and the inspirational bonus at the bottom :)

Relevance: The Attic is a sensuous story with an abundance of imagery and an unpredictable turn of events. Read it, eat it raw, then read it again, and digest carefully.

Professional relevance: A multi-layered story about how we sense, meet, and shape our surroundings, The Attic can be used as a mind-opening tool for everybody engaged in the shaping of places.

Prefer listening? We’ve prepared a recording of The Attic for you. You can hear the full story below. Remember to check out the exercise and questions at the bottom of this page.

Rome, June 1590

It was a summer of mosquitos and swollen limbs. A fever plagued the city, and signora Cortese prayed for a breeze to travel through the narrow streets and shift this air of disease, marble dust, and rot. People were everywhere, not just Romans but people from the provinces and foreigners with odd tastes and habits; people seeking work or redemption or both; people coughing blood or rolling through the alleys on miserable carts and prams; half-people with missing legs or arms or noses; women shouting in foreign tongues; a man carrying a hyaena cub and whispering of Hell’s plagues. The city was dry and dirty, and every day brought new people and swarms of mosquitoes. Signora Cortese did her best to avoid the crowds, to avoid the smell of flesh and sweat and vomit, and she already wished for autumn to arrive and for October rain to fall on her roof. She visited the market in the early mornings, and she made the sign of the cross whenever she passed the sorry head of a sinner, expertly parted from the body, and mounted on a spike for people to remember the weight of life.

Signora Cortese’s lodging house had long been full, and every day she turned away men seeking shelter. They came from the provinces, they travelled from distant shores with their tools and meager savings and outdated recommendations and dry cheeses. They all wanted to build, to work, to dive into the everyday miracle which was Rome. The city was growing, shifting shape, ridding itself from dirt and disease and embracing the geometry of God. The church was everywhere, in mind and body, transcending the darkness of alleys and sewers, hammering its glory into stone and timber from dusk till dawn. Signora Cortese listened to the young men asking for a bed and a meal; she directed them to the noblemen and patrons of their fantasies and homespun tales; she complimented their skills and courage; she let them know that Rome was no place for provincial follies. But she did not appreciate what was happening. The city – her city – was becoming an inhospitable place, only meant to be admired from a distance. Everything was becoming grandiose and magnificent. It felt as if someone had entered her kitchen to tell her that nobody cared for gobbling down cabbage soup, and that eating was a question of letting the eye behold the finest ingredients and the mind to imagine the most exquisite meals.

A fine layer of marble dust covered her home, covered her clothes, covered the lodgers’ rooms and boots, covered the onions and leeks and garlic hanging from the ceiling; she would wipe down the chairs and tables before the night, and in the morning, they would be powdery and white again.

Three carpenters arrived from the north, ragged and beaten-up. They had lost everything to thieves on the journey. She offered them a loaf of bread and send them to the lodging house of Signora Alberti although she knew that Signora Alberti would have no room. The moon was up, high above the city’s towers. Dogs fought and copulated in the alleys. She shut the door with a nod and heard the men sigh before taking off. Some people said that the Devil lurched in the muddy waters of the marshes, and that the mosquitoes were his errands, carrying his poison to the city. Signora Cortese’s right knee had become sore and swollen although the mosquitoes didn’t appreciate her blood. She heard of people suddenly suffering from strange and foreign diseases which were travelling through the dreadful stories being told by market stalls and fountains. Signora Cortese moaned. Would it be enough to just consider the swampy marshes for the poison to have effect?

She listened to the noise from the city. The lodgers would return later from whichever quarters they frequented after working hours, dusty and drunk, lively discussing the faults of the noblemen seeking favors with the church.

Signora Cortese slept in a tiny room just off the entrance. She faintly remembered her grandfather’s hounds dozing through the midday heat on the room’s cool stone, whining and growling in their sleep; sometimes she felt more animal than human herself, watching over the courtyard and house, never fully asleep until the last lodger had fumbled his way up the stairs.  

She’d kept the room bare except for her bed, a cross, and a few pieces of clothing.

She locked her door at night and dreamt of water. She woke in a sweat and felt pain shoot through her body. Watch over us, holy Mother. Guard us in our sleep.

One morning, Signora Cortese was summoned by the fountain. A neighbor girl was sent to tell her that a foreign man waited by Signora Cortese’s door. “Tell him that I have no room,” Signora Cortese said. “Tell him to go look for Signora Alberti.” “But he insists,” the girl said. “He will not leave.” “Very well,” Signora Cortese answered. “I will tell him myself.”

She found a young man by her door, disheveled and pale, clutching a goatskin bag and surrounded by children. “Shoo,” Signora Cortese said and waved the children away. “Run away.” “Thank you,” the young man said with a faint smile. “I had no more stories to tell them. I am Andrea Marcello from Venice.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Signor Marcello,” Signora Cortese said. “But I have no spare beds. The city is at boiling point. I’m sure that’s what brought you here.”

Signor Marcello had a desperate look in his eyes. “It’s urgent,” he said. “I was told to travel straight to your house before reporting for work.”

“And where will you work?” Signora Cortese asked. “I do not lack young lodgers building the future of Rome.”

“I was told to report to His Holiness upon arrival. Well, not exactly upon arrival, but directly after making my arrangements with you. You are Signora Cortese, right?”

Signora Cortese nodded and examined the young man. He looked like a bird that had fallen from the sky on its way to peaceful shores, a heron, maybe, with a watchful eye and an appetite for eels and frogs. Why would anyone send this strange creature to irritate the Papal Court?

“And you’re sure that you were to seek me?” Signora Cortese asked. “Not Signora Alberti?”

Signor Marcello nodded eagerly.

“Very well,” she sighed. “You will sleep in my room by the entrance. I will move to the attic. You pay in advance.”

Arrangements were made. Signora Cortese hardly saw Signor Marcello for days. He left before dawn and returned late at night. The room by the entrance became filled with sketches and notes, maps, geometric arrangements of stone and tile, and marble samples; but also feathers, dried berries in a cup, an insect encapsulated in a piece of amber, an animal skull, three yellow butterflies pinned to a piece of worm-ridden timber, a jar with a preserved eye floating in a milky fluid. Signora Cortese left a loaf of bread and a dried sausage on the bed and shut the door.

The attic was even tinier than the room by the entrance. Signora Cortese could barely stand erect, and there was a constant cooing and quarreling from pigeons and crows on the roof and chimneys. There were voices from the street, distant cries from market vendors, neighbors arguing, children yelling. Like a skin, Signora Cortese thought. I’ve lived in this house my whole life, but I’ve never known it was a second skin.

She had made a makeshift bed of pillows and blankets and had stripped her clothes to feel the burning embrace of the morning heat. She laid down and felt the raw floorboards under her hands. A breeze crept under the tiles with a smell of stale water and fever. She closed her eyes and felt the weight of her body, carried high above the crowded streets; the house would protect her, she thought, as it had protected generations before her.

In the early evening, Signora Cortese heard Signor Marcello enter. She hurried down the stairs with wine, olives, and a bowl of chicken broth. Signor Marcello looked even more lost and birdlike after a week in the city with his ripped jacket and stained boots, splayed out on the bed. “How is your work progressing?” Signora Cortese asked. “I trust that His Holiness is content with your plans.”

Signor Marcello shook his head. “It’s not progressing at all,” he said. “I’ve taken upon me to make plans for a square not far from the Vatican gardens, and His Holiness is personally overseeing the work. I am to report daily on my findings.”

“And why do you struggle?” Signora Cortese asked. “Surely, there must be a reason for His Holiness to have summoned you. What have you built in your splendid Venice?”

Signor Marcello looked miserable. “Nothing. I’ve built nothing. I come from a family of goldsmiths. I made a ring for a Venetian merchant’s wife, and the merchant was so pleased that he told me that I should be building the glory of Rome. I didn’t fathom the meaning of his praise until a message arrived from the court of His Holiness.”

“A goldsmith building a square,” Signora Cortese said. “We live in peculiar times. And does His Holiness approve of your sketches?”

“He will not hear of them,” Signor Marcello sighed, and Signora Cortese noticed that he was trembling. His complexion was pale. Had he been dreaming of water, too? “I never see His Holiness,” Signor Marcello said. “He remains seated behind a velvet curtain and tells me of his visions for the square and the city. His voice is gravelly and drowned by violent coughs. At times, he falls silent. I suspect he’s plagued by illness.”

“And do these visions confuse you?“ Signora Cortese asked. “Are they unclear?”

Signor Marcello sat up and rubbed his temples. His eyes were bloodshot and hazy. “Forgive me for saying this so bluntly, but I fear that His Holiness’ has lost touch with this dirty, mundane world of the living.”

“How so?” Signora Cortese asked, suddenly realizing that the chicken broth stood untouched. She gestured for Signor Cortese to eat, but he had no interest. She continued: “Is His Holiness speaking of the world of our ancestors? Or of the blissful pastures of the heavens?”

“No,” Signor Marcello answered. “His Holiness speaks of the square, but in no clear words. One day the square is to be like the feathers of a dove on its way to the olive gardens; the next day he wishes for the staircase to be like the eyelids of a sleeping horse. He asks me to tell of the fountain as if it were an ancient scarab, preserved in a pharaonic grave. And today he asked me to describe my plans for the pavement as if the stones were dried berries in the hand of a child.”

“And do you succeed?” Signora Cortese asked. “Are you able to tell His Holiness what he wants to hear?”

“I’m a goldsmith,” Signor Marcello moaned. “I make sketches and detailed drawings, but he will not look at them. He should have sent for a village fool instead of me.”

Signor Marcello coughed and fell back on the bed. Signora Cortese put the wine, bread, and broth beside him and left him for the night. She felt the pull of the summer moon, red like fish blood and round like a coin.

The following morning, Signor Marcello stayed in his room. Signora Cortese saw to him, but he would not speak. He remained pale and feverish, and he examined his sketches and drawings with a trembling hand. “It’s all here,” he mumbled. Signora Cortese examined the drawings and sketches with him; she caressed the feathers and gently lifted the animal skull. Signor Marcello watched her with bloodshot eyes. Then he coughed and crept back in bed, slowly arranging legs and arms. Like a heron in its nest, she thought, preparing for cold and slivery dreams.   

Days passed; Signor Marcello stayed in his room, and Signora Cortese brought him water, wine, bread, olives, and fried fish. His knees, elbows, and hands were swollen and sore. He mumbled in his sleep and begged for understanding. Signora Cortese watched over him, and she sternly turned away a young errand from the Papal Court, asking for Signor Marcello’s attendance that very afternoon. “I will see to it,” Signora Cortese told the errand. “But Signor Marcello is sleeping after a long night’s work. We’ll let him rest for now.”

She watched the errand disappear in the crowds, treading lightly to save his shoes from the filth of the city.

The sun crept over roofs and spires; she climbed to the attic, stripped her clothes, and laid on the floor.

In the amber light of the late afternoon, Signora Cortese got dressed and went to see His Holiness. She was escorted through anterooms and offices, through courtyards and scented gardens. Finally, she found herself in a bare room, clad in ornate mahogany panels and lit through a series of high and hidden windows. There was nothing in the room but a stool and a beautiful burgundy velvet curtain, sealing of one half of the room. She sat down and waited. She heard commotion from behind the curtain, dimmed voices, coughing, shuffling feet.

“Welcome, my child” a voice said. “Am I mistaken or has the good Signor Marcello shifted shape?”

Signora Cortese looked around. Was this voice addressing her? Then she spoke: “Signor Marcello sends his greetings. He has fallen ill. I come to tell you that his work is progressing.”

“Progressing?” the voice asked. “And you are?”

“I am Signora Cortese, Signor Marcello’s landlady.” There was a brief whispered conversation behind the curtain. Signora Cortese tried to count the number of voices but lost track.

“Thank you, Signora Cortese,” the voice said, “but we have lost faith in Signor Marcello. We’ve been very patient with him and explained our concerns in great details. We’ve offered him numerous examples and stories. We’ve invited him on a journey of building and telling, but he hasn’t shown the slightest interest in our invitation. Now, our question to you is this: Is Signor Marcello a man of minor intelligence? We’re asking this since we receive master builders from Rome and beyond, and they all offer us the most intricate stories. One will build a bridge which will be like an elephant’s trunk; another is proposing a garden that will make the visitor dream of salt; a third is proposing to drain the devilish marshes and rid us of mosquitoes and fevers with an intricate construction shaped like a hummingbird’s beak. We would gladly accept less from your Signor Marcello - we would even settle for an inferior, even childish image - but Signor Marcello offers us nothing but drawings, sketches, and marble samples. It’s no way to build the glory of Rome.”

Signora Cortese examined the burgundy curtain. Anyone could be sitting behind it: a band of unruly servants or a bored papal clerk. Still, she proceeded with her answer as if the future of her city depended on it.

“Signor Marcello has been listening to every word from His Holiness and pondering his answer. I’ve seen his collection of artefacts and have listened to his thoughts while preparing his wine and chicken broth. I’ve come today to tell you that the sketches and samples were merely introductory games; Signor Marcello has secretly been testing the humors of His Holiness and based his theories upon the many rejections and insults.”

Signora Cortese made a brief pause and listened. All was silence behind the curtain. Had the jesters taken off? Was she addressing a deserted room? Then the voice spoke: “Continue, landlady. We’re listening.”

“Very well,” Signora Cortese said. “I shall continue. Signor Marcello envisions a square unlike any in Rome. It will be made according to His Holiness’ specifications and only add to the splendor of our enchanted city.”

“Very well,” the voice said. “And what will be the nature of this square?”

“The square will be like an attic.”

Silence, then another whispered conversation. “That’s all?” the voice asked. “Just an attic? No peacocks? No suckling lion cubs? No illuminated forest lakes?”

“The square will be like an old, dusty Roman attic under the midday sun. It will provide shelter but still be given to nature. Stone will wither, water will run, colors will fade; and therein lies the beauty. It will change with the seasons, and birds will build their nests in nooks and crannies. It will cradle both young and old, rich and poor, foolish and wise. It will feel like a home in a dream, like a second skin.”

“A second skin,” the voice repeated. “And are these the words of your Signor Marcello?”

“I’m just a landlady,” Signora Cortese said. “I have no understanding of the workings of squares and buildings. I can only tell you of chicken broths and smelly workers’ boots.”

Another whispered conversation, more shuffling feet. “We’re pleased with Signor Marcello’s story,” the voice finally said. “Tell him that we’ll let him proceed with this square that will be like a Roman attic. Good evening, Signora.”

Two guards appeared to gently fold back the curtain. Signora Cortese saw a group of men exiting through a side door and suddenly smelled the mahogany, aged and polished.

Bells chimed; crows cawed. The crowds would soon fill the streets with their noises and smells, their mundane problems, their watery eyes, their rattling bones.

Signora Cortese wondered what to tell Signor Marcello. Perhaps she would tell him that his square would be like a gold ring that had been dropped in a pond and now only could be seen on certain moonlit nights.

Maybe that would be his cue. 

Credits:
Written and produced by The Empty Square
Illustration: Samuel Toi
Voice artist: Lena Fiszman

Credits:
Written and produced by The Empty Square
Illustration: Samuel Toi
Voice artist: Lena Fiszman