Eco: Foucalt's Pendulum (12 page)

It is easy to predict
the response of the other prisoners. If you confess, you stay
alive, though locked up, and you can wait and see what happens. If
you do not confess, or, worse, if you retract your confession, you
go to the stake. The five hundred surviving retractors retract
their retraction.

As it turns out, the
ones who repented chose wisely. In 1312 those who have not
confessed are sentenced to life imprisonment, whereas those who
confessed are pardoned. Philip is not looking for a massacre; he
just wants to dissolve the order. The freed knights, broken in mind
and body by four or five years in prison, quietly drift into other
orders. All they want is to be forgotten, and this silent
disappearance will fuel the legend of the order's underground
survival.

Molay was still asking
to be heard by the pope. Clement had convened a council in Vienne
in 1311, but Molay had not been invited. The suppression of the
order is ratified and its property turned over to the Hospitalers,
though temporarily it is to be administered by the king.

Another three years go
by, and finally an agreement is reached with the pope. On March 19,
1314, in front of Notre-Dame, Molay is sentenced to life
imprisonment. He reacts with a surge of dignity. He had expected
the pope to allow him to exculpate himself; he now feels betrayed.
He knows that if he retracts yet again he will be condemned as a
recidivist and perjurer. What does he feel in his heart as he
stands there after almost seven years awaiting judgment? Does he
regain the courage of his forebears? Or does he simply decide that,
ruined as he now is, condemned to end his days in dishonor, buried
alive, he might as well die a decent death? Because he protests in
a loud voice that he and his brothers are innocent. The Templars,
he says, committed one crime and one crime only: out of cowardice
they betrayed the Temple. He will dp so no longer.

Nogaret is overjoyed. A
public crime requires public condemnation, definitive, immediate.
Geoffroy de Charnay, the Templar preceptor of Normandy, follows
Molay's example. The king makes his decision that very day: a pyre
is erected at the tip of the lie de la Cite'. At sundown, Molay and
Charnay are burned at the stake.

Tradition has it that
before his death the grand master prophesied the ruin of his
persecutors. And, indeed, the pope, the king, and Nogaret all die
before the year is out. Once the king is gone, Marigny comes under
suspicion of embezzlement. His enemies accuse him of witchcraft and
have him hanged. Many begin to think of Molay as a martyr. Dante
himself voices widespread indignation at the persecution of the
Templars.

And that is where
history ends and legend begins. One part of the legend insists that
when Louis XVI was guillotined, an unknown man climbed onto the
block and shouted: "Jacques de Molay, you are avenged!"

That was more or less
the story I told that night at Pilade's, with constant
interruptions.

Belbo, for instance,
would ask: "Are you sure you didn't read this in Orwell or
Koestler?" Or: "Wait a minute, this is just what happened to
what's-his-name, that guy in the Cultural Revolution." And
Diotallevi kept interjecting, sententiously: "His-toria magistra
vitae." To which Belbo responded: "Come on, cabalists don't believe
in history." And Diotallevi invariably answered: "That's just the
point. Everything is repeated, in a circle. History is a master
because it teaches us that it doesn't exist. It's the permutations
that matter."

"We still haven't
answered the real question," Belbo finally said. "Who were the
Templars? At first you made them sound like sergeants in a John
Ford movie, then like a bunch of bums, then like knights in an
illuminated miniature, then like bankers of God carrying on their
dirty deals, then like a routed army, then like devotees of a
satanic sect, and finally like martyrs tt free thought. What were
they in the end?"

"Probably they were all
those things. ¡¥What was the Catholic Church?' a Martian historian
in the year 3000 might ask. ¡¥The people who got themselves thrown
to the lions or the ones who killed heretics?' All of the
above."

"But did they do those
horrible things or didn't they?"

"The funny thing is that
their followers¡Xthe neo-Templars of various epochs¡Xsay they did.
And they offer justifications. For instance, it was like fraternity
hazing. You want to be a Templar? Okay, prove you have balls, spit
on the crucifix, and let's see if God strikes you dead. If you join
this militia, you have to give yourself to your brothers heart and
soul, so let them kiss your ass. An alternative thesis is that they
were asked to deny Christ in order to see how they would behave if
the Saracens got them. Which seems idiotic, because you don't train
someone to resist torture by making him do¡Xeven if only
symbolically¡Xwhat the torturer will ask of him. A third thesis: In
the East the Templars had come into contact with Manichean heretics
who despised the Cross, regarding it as the instrument of the
Lord's torture. The Manicheans also preached renunciation of the
world and discouraged marriage and procreation. An old idea, common
to many heresies in the early centuries of Christianity. It was
later taken up by the Cathars¡Xand in fact there's a whole
tradition claiming that the Templars were steeped in Catharism. And
this would explain the sodomy¡Xalso only symbolic. Let's assume the
knights came into contact with Manichean heretics. Well, they
weren't exactlv intellectuals, so perhaps¡Xpartly out of naivete,
partly out of snobbery and esprit de corps¡Xthey invented a
personal ceremony to distinguish themselves from the other
Crusaders. They performed various ritual acts of recognition,
without bothering about their significance."

"And that Baphomet
business?"

"Many of the depositions
do mention a figure Baffometi, but this may have been an error made
by the first scribe, an error copied into all subsequent documents.
Or the records may have been tampered with. In some cases there was
talk of Mahomet (istud caput vester deus est, et vester Mahumet),
which would suggest that the Templars had created a syncretic
liturgy of their own. Some depositions say that they were also
urged to call out ¡¥Yalla,' which could be Allah. But the Moslems
didn't worship images of Mahomet, so where does the object come
from? The depositions say that many people saw carved heads, but
sometimes it was not just a head but a whole idol¡Xwooden, with
kinky hair, covered with gold, and always with a beard. It seems
that investigators did find such heads and confronted the accused
with them, but no trace of them remains. Everyone saw the heads,
and no one saw them. Like the cat: some saw a gray cat, others a
red cat, others still a black cat. Imagine being interrogated with
a red-hot iron: Did you see a cat during the initiation? Well, why
not a cat? A Templar farm, where stored grain had to be protected
against mice, would be full of cats. The cat was not a common
domestic animal in Europe back then. But in Egypt it was. Maybe the
Templars kept cats in the house, though right-minded folk looked
upon such animals with suspicion. Same thing with the heads of
Baphomet. Maybe they were reliquaries in the shape of a head; not
unknown at the time. Of course, some say Baphomet was an alchemic
figure."

"Alchemy always comes
up," Diotallevi said, nodding. "The Templars probably knew the
secret of making gold."

"Of course they did,"
Belbo said. "It was simple enough. Attack a Saracen city, cut the
throats of the women and children, and grab everything mat's not
nailed down. The truth is that this whole story is a great big
mess."

"Maybe the mess was in
their heads. What did they care about doctrinal debates? History is
full of little sects that make up then-own style, part swagger,
part mysticism. The Templars themselves didn't really understand
what they were doing. On the other hand, there's always the
esoteric explanation: They knew exactly what they were doing, they
were adepts of Oriental mysteries, and even the kiss on the ass had
a ritual meaning."

"Do explain to me,
briefly, the ritual meaning of the kiss on the ass," Diotallevi
said.

"All right. Some modern
esotericists maintain that the Templars were reviving certain
Indian doctrines. The kiss on the ass serves to wake the serpent
Kundalini, a cosmic force that dwells at the base of the spinal
column, in the sexual glands. Once wakened, Kundalini rises to the
pineal gland..."

"Descartes's pineal
gland?"

"I think it's the same
one. A third eye is then supposed to open up in the brow, the eye
that lets you see directly into time and space. This is why people
are still seeking the secret of the Templars."

"Philip the Fair should
have burned the modern esotericists instead of those poor
bastards."

"Yes, except that the
modern esotericists don't have two pennies to rub
together."

"Now you see the kind of
stories we have to listen to!" Belbo concluded. "At least I
understand why so many of my lunatics are obsessed with these
Templars."

"It's a little like what
you were saying the other day. The whole thing is a twisted
syllogism. Act like a lunatic and you will be inscrutable forever.
Abracadabra, Manel Tekel Phares, Pape Satan Pape Satan Aleppe, le
vierge le vivace et le bel au-jourd'hui. Whenever a poet or
preacher, chief or wizard spouts gibberish, the human race spends
centuries deciphering the message. The Templars' mental confusion
makes them indecipherable. That's why so many people venerate
them."

"A positivist
explanation," Diotallevi said.

"Yes," I agreed, "maybe
I am a positivist. A little surgery on the pineal gland might have
turned the Templars into Hospitalers; normal people, in other
words. War somehow damages the cerebral circuitry. Maybe it's the
sound of the cannon, or the Greek fire. Look at our
generals."

It was one o'clock.
Diotallevi, drunk on tonic water, was clearly unsteady. We all said
good night. I had enjoyed myself. So had they. We didn't yet know
that we had begun to play with fire¡XGreek fire, the kind that
burns and destroys.

Erard de Siverey said to
me: "My lord, if you think that neither I nor my heirs will incur
reproach for it, I will go and fetch you help from the Comte
d'Anjou, whom I see in the fields over there." I said to him: "My
dear man, it seems to me you would win great honor for yourself if
you went for help to save our lives. Your own, by the way, is also
in great danger."

¡XJoinville, Histoire de
Saint Louis, 46, 226

After that evening of
the Templars, I had only fleeting conversations with Belbo at
Pilade's, where I went less and less often because I was working on
my thesis.

One day there was a big
march against fascist conspiracies. It was to start at the
university, and all the left-wing intellectuals had been invited to
take part. Magnificent, police presence, but apparently the tacit
understanding was to let things take their course. Typical of those
days: the demonstration had no permit, but if nothing serious
happened, the police would just watch, making sure the marchers
didn't transgress any of the unwritten boundaries drawn through
downtown Milan (there were a lot of territorial compromises back
then). The protesters operated in an area beyond Largo Augusto; the
fascists were entrenched in Piazza San Babila and its neighboring
streets. If anybody crossed the line, there were incidents;
otherwise nothing happened. It was like a lion and a lion tamer. We
usually believe that the tamer is attacked by the lion and that the
tamer stops the attack by raising his whip or firing a blank.
Wrong: the lion was fed and sedated before it entered the cage and
doesn't feel like attacking anybody. Like all animals, it has its
own space; if you don't invade that space, the lion remains calm.
When the tamer steps forward, invading it, the lion roars; the
tamer then raises his whip, but also takes a step backward (as if
in expectation of a charge), whereupon the lion calms down. A
simulated revolution must also have its rules.

I went to the
demonstration but didn't march with any of the groups. Instead, I
stood at the edge of Piazza Santo Stefano, where reporters,
editors, and artists who had come to show their solidarity were
milling around. The whole clientele of Pilade's.

I found myself standing
next to Belbo and a woman I had often seen him with at the bar, who
I thought was his companion. (She later disappeared¡Xand now I know
why, having read about it in the file on Dr. Wagner.)

"What are you doing
here?" I asked.

"You know how it is," he
said, smiling, embarrassed. "We have to save our souls somehow.
Crede firmiter et pecca fortiter. Doesn't this scene remind you of
something?"

I looked around. It was
a sunny afternoon, one of those days when Milan is beautiful:
yellow facades and a softly metallic sky. The police, across the
square, were armored with helmets and plastic shields that gave off
glints like steel. A plainclothes officer girded with a gaudy
tricolor sash strutted up and down in front of his men. I turned
and looked at the head of the march. People weren't moving; they
were marking time. They were lined up in ranks, but the rows were
irregular, almost serpentine, and the crowd seemed to bristle with
pikes, standards, banners, sticks. Impatient groups chanted
rhythmic slogans. Along the flanks of the procession, activists
darted back and forth, wearing red kerchiefs over their faces,
motley shirts, studded belts, and jeans that had known much rain
and sun. Even the rolled-up flags that concealed the incongruous
weapons looked like dabs of color on a palette. I thought of Duty,
his gaiety. Freely associating, I went from Dufy to Guillaume
Dufay. I had the impression of being in a Flemish miniature. In the
little crowds gathered on either side of the marchers, I glimpsed
some androgynous women waiting for the great display of daring they
had been promised. But all this went through my mind in a flash, as
if I were reliving some other experience without recognizing
it.

"It's the taking of
Ascalon, isn't it?" Belbo said.

"By the lord Saint
James, my good sir," I replied, "this is truly a Crusaders' combat!
I do believe that this night some of these men will be in
paradise!"

"No doubt," Belbo said.
"But can you tell me where the Saracens are?"

"Well, the police are
definitely Teutonic," I observed, "which would make us the hordes
of Aleksandr Nevski. But I'm getting my texts mixed up. Look at
that group over there. They must be the companions of the Comte
d'Artois, eager to enter the fray, for they will brook no ofFense,
and already they head for the enemy lines, shouting threats to
provoke the infidel!"

That was when it
happened. I don't remember it that clearly. The marchers had
started moving, and a group of activists with chains and ski masks
began to force their way through the police lines toward Piazza San
Babila, yelling. The lion was on the move. The front line of police
parted and the fire hoses appeared. The first ball bearings, then
the first stones, came hurtling from the forward positions of the
demonstration. A cordon of police advanced, swinging clubs, and the
procession recoiled. At that moment, in the distance, from the far
end of Via La-ghetto, a shot was heard. Maybe it was only a tire
exploding, or a firecracker; maybe it was a popgun shot from one of
those groups that in a few years would regularly be using
P-38s.

Panic. The police drew
their weapons, trumpet blasts for a charge were heard, the march
split into two groups: one, militants, who were ready to fight, and
one, all the others, who considered their duty done. I found myself
running along Via Larga, with the mad fear of being hit by some
blunt object, such as a club. Suddenly Belbo and his companion were
beside me, running fast but without panic.

At the corner of Via
Rastrelli, Belbo grabbed me by the arm. "This way, kid," he said. I
wanted to ask why; Via Larga seemed much more spacious and peopled,
and claustrophobia overcame me in the maze of alleys between Via
Pecorari and the Archbishop's Palace. It seemed to me that where
Belbo was going there were fewer places to hide or blend in if the
police intercepted us. But he signaled me to be quiet, turned two
or three corners, and gradually slowed down. We found ourselves
walking unhurriedly, right behind the cathedral, where traffic was
normal and no echoes came from the battle taking place less than
two hundred meters away. Still silent, we walked around the
cathedral and finally came to the side facing the Galleria. Belbo
bought a bag of corn and began feeding the pigeons with seraphic
pleasure. We blended into the Saturday crowd completely; Belbo and
I were in jackets and ties, and the girl had on the uniform of a
Milanese lady: a gray turtleneck with a strand of pearls¡Xcultured,
or maybe not.

Belbo introduced us.
"This is Sandra. You two know each other?"

"By sight.
Hi."

"You see, Casaubon,"
Belbo said to me then, "you must never flee in a straight line.
Napoleon HI, following the example of the Savoys in Turin, had
Paris disemboweled, then turned it into the network of boulevards
we all admire today. A masterpiece of intelligent city planning.
Except that those broad, straight streets are also ideal for
controlling angry crowds. Where possible, even the side streets
were made broad and straight, like the Champs-Elysees. Where it
wasn't possible, in the little streets of the Latin Quarter, for
example, that's where May ¡¥68 was seen to its best advantage. When
you flee, head for alleys. No police force can guard them all, and
even the police are afraid to enter them in small numbers. If you
run into a few on their own, they're more frightened than you are,
and both parties take off, in opposite directions. Anytime you're
going to a mass rally in an area you don't know well, reconnoiter
the neighborhood the day before, and stand at the corner where the
little streets start."

"Did you take a course
in Bolivia, or what?"

"Survival techniques are
learned only in childhood, unless as an adult you enlist in the
Green Berets. I had some bad experiences during the war, when the
partisans were active around ***," he said, naming a town between
Monferrato and the Langhe. "We had been evacuated from the city in
¡¥43, a great idea, exactly the time and place to savor everything:
mass arrests, the SS, gunfire in the streets...One evening I was
going up the hill to get some fresh milk from a farm, and I heard a
sound up in the trees: frr, frr. I realized that some men on a
distant hill were machine-gunning the railroad line in the valley
behind me. My instinct was to run, or just dive to the ground. I
made a mistake: I ran toward the valley, and suddenly I heard a
chack-chack-chack in the field around me. Some of the shots were
falling short of the railroad. That's when I learned that if
they're shooting from a high hill down at a valley, then you should
run uphill. The higher you go, the higher the bullets will be over
your head. Once, my grandmother was caught in a shoot-out between
Fascists and partisans deployed on opposite sides of a cornfield.
Wherever she ran, she risked stopping a bullet. So she just flung
herself down in the middle of the field, right in the line of fire,
and lay there for ten minutes, her face in the dirt, hoping that
neither side would advance very far. She was lucky. When you learn
these things as a child, they are hardwired in your nervous
system."

"So you were in the
Resistance."

"As a spectator," he
said. I sensed a slight embarrassment in his voice. "In 1943 I was
eleven, and at the end of the war, barely thirteen. Too young to
take part, but old enough to follow everything with¡Xhow shall I
put it?¡Xphotographic attention. What else could I do? I watched.
And ran. Like today."

"You should write about
it, instead of editing other people's books."

"It's all been told,
Casaubon. If I had been twenty back then, in the fifties I'd have
written a poetic memoir. Luckily I was born too late for that. By
the time I was old enough to write, all I could do was read the
books that were already written. On the other hand, I could also
have ended up on that hill with a bullet in my head."

"From which side?" I
asked, then immediately regretted the question. "Sorry, I was just
kidding."

"No you weren't. Sure,
today I know, but what did I know then? You can be obsessed by
remorse all your life, not because you chose the wrong thing¡Xyou
can always repent, atone¡Xbut because you never had the chance to
prove to yourself that you would have chosen the right thing. I was
a potential traitor. What truth does that entitle me now to teach
to others?"

"Excuse me," I said,
"but potentially you were also a Jack the Ripper. This is
neurotic¡Xunless your remorse is based on something
specific."

"What does that mean?
But, speaking of neurosis, this evening there's a dinner party for
Dr. Wagner. Let's take a taxi at Piazza della Scala. Coming,
Sandra?"

"Dr. Wagner?" I asked,
about to take my leave of them. "In person?"

"Yes. He's in Milan for
a few days, and maybe I'll be able to persuade him to give us some
of his unpublished essays for a little volume. It would be a real
coup."

So Belbo was in contact
with Dr. Wagner even then. I wonder if that was the evening Wagner
(pronounced Vagnere) psychoanalyzed Belbo free of charge, without
either of them knowing it. But perhaps this happened
later.

In any case, that was
the first time I heard Belbo talk about his childhood in ***.
Strange, he talked about running away, investing it with a kind of
heroism, in the glorious light of memory, but the memory had come
back to him only after¡Xwith me as accomplice but also as
witness¡Xhe had unheroically, if wisely, run away again.