Eco: Foucalt's Pendulum (68 page)

No. Lia taught me there
is more, and I have the proof: his name is Giulio, and at this
moment he is playing in a valley, pulling a goat's tail. No,
because Belbo twice said no.

The first no he said to
Abulafia, and to those who would try to steal its secret. "Do you
have the password?" was the question. And the answer, the key to
knowledge, was "No." Not only does the magic word not exist, but we
do not know that it does not exist. Those who admit their
ignorance, therefore, can learn something, at least what I was able
to learn.

The second no he said on
Saturday night, when he refused the salvation held out to him. He
could have invented a map, or used one of the maps I had shown him.
In any event, with the Pendulum hung as it was, incorrectly, that
bunch of lunatics would never have found the X marking the
Umbilicus Mundi, and even if they did, it would have been several
more decades before they realized this wasn't the one. But Belbo
refused to bow, he preferred to die.

It wasn't that he
refused to bow to the lust for power; he refused to bow to
nonmeaning. He somehow knew that, fragile as our existence may be,
however ineffectual our interrogation of the world, there is
nevertheless something that has more meaning than the
rest.

What had Belbo sensed,
perhaps only at that moment, which allowed him to contradict his
last, desperate file, and not surrender his destiny to someone who
guaranteed him a mere Plan? What had he understood¡Xat last¡Xthat
allowed him to sacrifice his life, as if he had learned everything
there was to learn without realizing it, and as if compared to this
one, true, absolute secret of his, everything that took place in
the Conservatoire was irreparably stupid¡Xand it was stupid, now,
stubbornly to go on living?

There was still
something, a link missing in the chain. I had all of Belbo's feats
before me now, from life to death, except one.

On arrival, as I was
looking for my passport, I found in one of my pockets the key to
this house. I had taken it last Thursday, along with the key to
Belbo's apartment. I remembered that day when Belbo showed us the
old cupboard that contained, he said, his opera omnia or, rather,
his juvenilia. Perhaps Belbo had written something there that
couldn't be found in Abulafia, perhaps it was buried somewhere in
***.

There was nothing
reasonable about this conjecture of mine. All the more reason to
consider it good. At this point.

I collected my car, and
I came here.

I didn't find the old
relative of the Canepas, the caretaker, or whatever she was. Maybe
she, too, had died in the meantime. There was no one. I went
through the various rooms. A strong smell of mildew. I considered
lighting the bedwarmer in one of the bedrooms, but it made no sense
to warm the bed in June. Once the windows were opened, the warm
evening air would enter.

After sunset, there was
no moon. As in Paris, Saturday night. The moon rose late, I saw
less of it now than in Paris, as it slowly climbed above the lower
hills, in a dip between the Bricco and another yellowish hump,
perhaps already harvested.

I arrived around six in
the evening. It was still light. But I had brought nothing with me
to eat. Roaming the house, I found a salami in the kitchen, hanging
from a beam. My supper was salami and fresh water: going on ten
o'clock, I think. Now I'm thirsty. I've brought a big pitcher of
water to Uncle Carlo's study and drink a glass every ten minutes.
Then I go down, refill the pitcher, and start again.

It must be at least
three in the morning. I have the light off and can hardly read my
watch. I look out the window. On the flanks of the hills, what seem
to be fireflies, shooting stars: the headlights of occasional cars
going down into the valley or climbing toward the villages on the
hilltops. When Belbo was a boy, this sight did not exist. There
were no cars then, no roads. At night there was the
curfew.

As soon as I arrived, I
opened the cupboard of juvenilia. Shelves and shelves of paper,
from elementary-school exercises to bundles of adolescent poems and
prose. Everyone has written poems in adolescence; true poets
destroy them, bad poets publish them. Belbo, too cynical to save
them, too weak to chuck them out, stuck them in Uncle Carlo's
cupboard.

I read for hours. And
for hours, up to this moment, I meditated on the last text, which I
found just when I was about to give up.

I don't know when Belbo
wrote it. There are pages where different handwritings, insertions,
are interwoven, or else it's the same hand in different years. As
if he wrote it very early, at the age of sixteen or seventeen, then
put it away, then went back to it at twenty, again at thirty, and
maybe later. Until he gave up the idea of writing altogether¡Xonly
to begin again with Abu-lafia, but not having the heart to recover
these lines and subject them to electronic humiliation.

Reading them, I followed
a familiar story: the events of *** between 1943 and 1945, Uncle
Carlo, the partisans, the parish hall, Cecilia, the trumpet. These
were the obsessive themes of the romantic Belbo, disappointed,
grieving, drunk. The literature of memory: he knew himself that it
was the last refuge of scoundrels.

But I'm no literary
critic. I'm Sam Spade again, looking for the final clue.

And so I found the Key
Text. It must represent the last chapter of the story of Belbo in
***. For, after it, nothing more could have happened.

The garland of the
trumpet was set afire, and then I saw the aperture of the dome open
and a splendid arrow of fire shoot down through the tube of the
trumpet and enter the lifeless body. The aperture then was closed
again, and the trumpet, too, was put away.

¡XJohann Valentin
Andreae, Die Chymische Hochzeit des Christian Rosencreutz,
Strassburg, Zetzner, 1616, pp. 125-126

Belbo's text had some
gaps, some overlappings, some lines crossed out. I am not so much
rereading it as reconstructing, reliving it.

It must have been toward
the end of April of 1945. The German armies were already routed,
the Fascists were scattering, and *** was firmly in the hands of
the partisans.

After the last battle,
the one Belbo narrated to us in this very house almost two years
ago, various partisan brigades gathered in ***, in order to head
for the city. They were awaiting a signal from Radio London; they
would depart when Milan was ready for the insurrection.

The Garibaldi Brigades
also arrived, commanded by Ras, a giant with a black beard, very
popular in the town. They were dressed in invented uniforms, each
one different except for the kerchiefs and the star on the chest,
red in both cases, and they were armed in makeshift fashion, some
with old shotguns, some with submachine guns taken from the enemy.
A marked contrast to the Badoglio Brigades, with their blue
kerchiefs, khaki uniforms similar to the British, and brand-new
Sten guns. The Allies assisted the Badoglio forces with generous
nighttime parachute drops, after the passage, every evening at
eleven for the past two years, of the mysterious Pippetto, a
British reconnaissance plane. Nobody could figure out what it
reconnoitered, since not a light was visible on the ground for
kilometers and kilometers.

There was tension
between the Garibaldini and the Badogli-ani. It was said that on
the evening of the battle the Badogliani had flung themselves at
the enemy, shouting "Forward, Savoy!" Well, but that was out of
habit, some said. What else could you shout when you attacked? It
didn't necessarily mean they were monarchists; they, too, knew that
the king had grave things to answer for. The Garibaldini sneered:
You could cry Savoy if you attacked with fixed bayonets in the open
field, but not darting around a corner with a Sten. The fact was,
the Badogliani had sold out to the British.

The two forces arrived,
nevertheless, at a modus vivendi; a joint command under one head
was needed for the assault on the city. The choice fell on Mongo;
he led the best-equipped brigade, was the oldest, had fought in the
First World War, was a hero, and enjoyed the trust of the Allied
command.

In the days that
followed, sometime before the Milan insurrection, I believe, they
set out to take the city. Good news arrived: the operation had
succeeded, the brigades were returning victorious to ***. There had
been some casualties, however. Rumor had it that Ras had fallen in
battle, and Mongo was wounded.

Then one afternoon the
sound of vehicles was heard, songs of victory, and people rushed
into the main square. From the highway the first units were
arriving, clenched fists upraised, flags and weapons brandished
from the windows of the cars and the running boards of the trucks.
The men had already been strewn with flowers along the
way.

Suddenly some people
shouted, "Ras, Ras!" and Ras was there, seated on the front fender
of a Dodge, his beard tangled and his sweaty, black, hairy chest
visible through his open shirt. He waved to the crowd,
laughing.

Beside Ras, Rampini also
climbed down from the Dodge. He was a nearsighted boy who played in
the band, a little older than the others; he had disappeared three
months earlier, and it was said he'd joined the partisans. And
there he was, with a red kerchief around his neck, a khaki tunic, a
pair of blue trousers¡X the uniform of Don Tico's band¡Xbut now he
had a big belt with a holster and a pistol. Through the thick
eyeglasses that had earned him so much teasing from his old
companions at the parish hall, he now looked at the girls who
crowded around him, as if he were Flash Gordon. Jacopo asked
himself if Cecilia was there, among the people.

In half an hour the
whole square was full of colorful partisans, and the people called
in loud voices for Mongo; they wanted a speech.

On a balcony of the town
hall, Mongo appeared, leaning on his crutch, pale, and with one
hand he tried to calm the crowd. Jacopo waited for the speech,
because his whole childhood, like that of others his age, had been
marked by the great historic speeches of il Duce, whose most
significant passages were memorized in school. Actually, the
students memorized whole speeches, because every sentence was a
significant declaration.

Silence. Mongo spoke in
a hoarse voice, barely audible. He said: "Citizens, friends. After
so many painful sacrifices... here we are. Glory to those who have
fallen for freedom."

And that was it. He went
back inside.

The crowd yelled, and
the partisans raised their submachine guns, their Stens, their
shotguns, their ¡¥91s, and fired festive volleys. With shell cases
falling on all sides, the kids slipped between the legs of the
armed men and civilians, because they'd never be able to add to
their collections like this again, not with the war looking like it
would end in a month, worst luck.

But there had been some
casualties: two men killed. By a grim coincidence, both were from
San Davide, a little village above ***, and the families asked
permission to bury the victims in the local cemetery.

The partisan command
decided that there should be a solemn funeral: companies in
formation, decorated hearses, the village band, the provost of the
cathedral¡Xand the parish hall band.

Don Tico accepted
immediately. Because, he said, he had always harbored anti-Fascist
sentiments. And because, as the musicians murmured, for a year he
had been making them practice two funeral marches, and he had to
have them performed sooner or later. Also because, the sharp
tongues of the village said, he wanted to make up for
"Giovinezza."

The "Giovinezza" story
went like this:

Months earlier, before
the arrival of the partisans, Don Tico's band had gone out for some
saint's feast or other, and they were stopped by the Black
Brigades. "Play ¡¥Giovinezza,' Reverend," the captain ordered,
drumming his fingers on the barrel of his submachine gun. What
could Don Tico do? He said, "Boys, let's try it; you only have one
skin." He beat time with his pitch pipe, and horrible clattering
cacophony drifted over ***. Only someone desperate to save his skin
would have agreed that the sounds heard were "Giovinezza." Shameful
for everyone. Shameful for having consented, Don Tico said
afterward, but even more shameful for having played like dogs.
Priest he was, and anti-Fascist, but, above all, damn it, he was an
artist.

Jacopo had been absent
on that day. He had tonsillitis. On the bombardons there were only
Annibale Cantalamessa and Pio Bo, and their presence, without
Jacopo, must have made a crucial contribution to the collapse of
Nazism-Fascism. But this was not what troubled Belbo, at least at
the time he was writing. He had missed'another opportunity to find
out if he would have had the courage to say no. Perhaps that is why
he died on the gallows of the Pendulum.

The funeral, anyway, was
scheduled for Sunday morning. In the cathedral square everyone was
present: Mongo with his troops, Uncle Carlo and other municipal
dignitaries, with their Great War decorations¡Xand it didn't matter
who had been a Fascist and who had not, it was a question of
honoring heroes. The clergy were there, the town band in dark
suits, and the hearses with the horses decked in trappings of
cream, black, and gold. The Automedon was dressed like one of
Napoleon's marshals, cocked hat, short cape, and great cloak, in
the same colors as the horses' trappings. And there was the parish
hall band, their visored caps, khaki tunics, and blue trousers,
brasses shining, woodwinds severe black, cymbals and drums
sparkling.

Between *** and San
Davide were five or six kilometers of uphill curves. This road was
taken, on Sunday afternoons, by the retired men; they would walk,
playing bowls as they walked, take a rest, have some wine, play a
second game, and so on until they reached the sanctuary at the
top.

A few uphill kilometers
are nothing for men who play bowls, and perhaps it's nothing to
cover them in formation, rifle on your shoulder, eyes staring
straight ahead, lungs inhaling the cool spring air. But try
climbing them while playing an instrument, cheeks swollen, sweat
trickling, breath short. The town band had done nothing else for a
lifetime, but for the boys of the parish hall it was torture. They
held out like heroes. Don Tico beat his pitch pipe in the air, the
clarinets whined with exhaustion, the saxophones gave strangled
bleats, the bombardons and the trumpets let out squeals of agony,
but they made it, all the way to the village, to the foot of the
steep path that led to the cemetery. For some time Annibale
Cantalamessa and Pio Bo had only pretended to play, but Jacopo
stuck to his role of sheepdog, under Don Tico's benedictive eye.
Compared to the town band, they made not a bad showing, and Mongo
himself and the other brigade commanders said as much: Good for
you, boys. It was magnificent.

A commander with a blue
kerchief and a rainbow of ribbons from both world wars said:
"Reverend, let the boys rest here in the town; they're worn out.
Climb up later, at the end. There'll be a truck to take you back to
***."

They rushed to the
tavern. The men of the town band, veterans toughened by countless
funerals, showed no restraint in grabbing the tables and ordering
tripe and all the wine they could drink. They would stay there
having a spree until evening. Don Tico's boys, meanwhile, crowded
at the counter, where the host was serving mint ices as green as a
chemistry experiment. The ice, sliding down the throat, gave you a
pain in the middle of your forehead, like sinusitis.

Then they struggled up
to the cemetery, where a pickup truck was waiting. They climbed in,
yelling, and were all packed together, all standing, jostling one
another with the instruments, when the commander who had spoken
before came out and said: "Reverend, for the final ceremony we need
a trumpet. You know, for the usual bugle calls. It's a matter of
five minutes."

"Trumpet," Don Tico
said, very professional. And the hapless holder of that title, now
sticky with green mint ice and yearning for the family meal, a
treacherous peasant insensitive to aesthetic impulses and higher
ideals, began to complain: It was late, he wanted to go home, he
didn't have any saliva left, and so on, mortifying Don Tico in the
presence of the commander.

Then Jacopo, seeing in
the glory of noon the sweet image of Cecilia, said, "If he'll give
me the trumpet, I'll go."

A gleam of gratitude in
the eyes of Don Tico; the sweaty relief of the miserable titular
trumpet. An exchange of instruments, like two guards.

Jacopo proceeded to the
cemetery, led by the psychopomp with the Addis Ababa ribbons.
Everything around them was white: the wall struck by the sun, the
graves, the blossoming trees along the borders, the surplice of the
provost ready to impart benediction. The only brown was the faded
photographs on the tombstones. And a big patch of color was created
by the ranks lined up beside the two graves.

"Boy," the commander
said, "you stand here, beside me, and at my order play Assembly.
Then, again at my order, Taps. That's easy, isn't it?"

Very easy. Except that
Jacopo had never played Assembly or Taps.

He held the trumpet with
his right arm bent, against his ribs, the horn at a slight angle,
as if it were a carbine, and he waited, head erect, belly in, chest
out.

Mongo was delivering a
brief speech, with very short sentences. Jacopo thought that to
emit the blast he would have to lift his eyes to heaven, and the
sun would blind him. But that was the trumpeter's death, and since
you only died once, you might as well do it right.

The commander murmured
to him: "Now." He ordered Assembly. Jacopo played only do mi sol
do. For those rough men of war, that seemed to suffice. The final
do was played after a deep breath, so he could hold it, give it
time¡XBelbo wrote¡Xto reach the sun.

The partisans stood
stiffly at attention. The living as still as the dead.

Only the gravediggers
moved. The sound of the coffins being lowered could be heard, the
creak of the ropes, their scraping against the wood. But there was
little motion, no more than the flickering glint on a sphere, when
a slight variation of light serves only to emphasize the sphere's
invariability.

Then, the dry sound of
Present Arms. The provost murmured the formulas of the aspersion;
the commanders approached the graves and flung, each of them, a
fistful of earth. A sudden order unleashed a volley toward the sky,
rat-tat-tat-a-boom, and the birds rose up, squawking, from the
trees in blossom. But all that, too, was not really motion. It was
as if the same instant kept presenting itself from different
perspectives. Looking at one instant forever doesn't mean that, as
you look at it, time passes.