Foucault's Pendulum

by Umberto Eco

  "You pique my curiosity. Would you allow me to see it?"

  "I must confess I destroyed everything: the ten pages, the map. I was frightened. You understand, don't you?"

  "You mean to tell me you destroyed a document of such importance?..."

  "I destroyed it. But, as I said, the revelation was of an absolute simplicity. The map is here," and Belbo touched his forehead. "For over ten years I've carried it with me, for over ten years I've carried the secret here," and he touched his forehead again, "like an obsession, for I fear the power that would be mine if I put forth my hand and grasped the heritage of the Thirty-six Invisibles. Now you realize why I persuaded Garamond to publish Isis Unveiled and the History of Magic. I'm waiting for the right contact." Then, more and more carried away by the role he had taken on, and to put Agliè definitively to the test, he recited, word for word, Arsène Lupin's ardent speech at the conclusion of L'Aiguille Creuse: "There are moments when my power makes my head swim. I am drunk with dominion."

  "Come now, dear friend," Agliè said. "What if you have given excessive credence to the daydreams of some fanatic? Are you sure the text was authentic? Why don't you trust my experience in these matters? If you only knew how many revelations of this sort I've heard in my life, and how many proved, with my help, to be unfounded. I can boast some expertise at least—modest, perhaps, but precise—in the field of historical cartography."

  "Dr. Agliè," Belbo said, "you would be the first to remind me that, once revealed, a mystic secret is no longer of any use. I have been silent for years; I can go on being silent."

  And he was silent. Agliè too, rogue or not, performed his role in earnest. He had spent his life amusing himself with impenetrable secrets, so he was quite convinced that Belbo's lips would be sealed forever.

  At that point Gudrun came in and told Belbo that the Bologna meeting had been set for Wednesday at noon. "You can take the morning Intercity," she said.

  "Delightful train, the Intercity," Agliè said. "But you should reserve a seat, especially at this season."

  Belbo said that even if you boarded at the last moment, you could find something, perhaps in the dining car, where they served breakfast. "I wish you luck, then," Agliè said. "Bologna. Beautiful city, but so hot in June..."

  "I'll be there only two or three hours. I have to discuss a text on ancient inscriptions. There arc problems with the illustrations." Then he fired his big gun: "I haven't had my vacation yet. I'll take it around the summer solstice. I may make up my mind to ... You understand me. And I rely on your discretion. I've spoken to you as a friend."

  "I can keep silent even better than you. In any case, I thank you, most sincerely, for your trust." And Agliè left.

  ***

  From this encounter Belbo emerged confident: total victory of his astral narrative over the wretchedness and shame of the sublunar world.

  The next day, he received a phone call from Agliè. "You must forgive me, dear friend. I have encountered a small contretemps. You know that, in a modest way, I deal in antique books. This evening I am to receive, from Paris, a dozen bound volumes, eighteenth-century, of a certain value, and I absolutely must deliver them to a correspondent of mine in Florence tomorrow. I would take them myself, but another engagement detains me here. I thought of this solution: you are going to Bologna. I'll meet you at your train tomorrow, ten minutes before you leave, and hand you a small suitcase. You put it on the rack over your seat and leave it there when you arrive in Bologna. You might wait and get off last, to be sure no one takes it. In Florence, my correspondent will board the train while it's standing in the station and collect the suitcase. It's a nuisance for you, I know, but if you could render me this service, I'd be eternally grateful."

  "Gladly," Belbo replied. "But how will your friend in Florence know where I've left the suitcase?"

  "I have taken the liberty of reserving a seat for you, seat number 45, car 8. It's reserved as far as Rome, so no one else will occupy it in Bologna or in Florence. You see, in exchange for the inconvenience I'm causing you, I make sure that you will travel comfortably and not have to make do in the dining car. I didn't dare buy your ticket, of course, not wanting you to think I meant to discharge my indebtedness in such an indelicate fashion."

  A real gentleman, Belbo thought. He'll send me a case of rare wine. To drink his health. Yesterday I wanted to dispatch him to the bowels of the earth and now I'm doing him a favor. Anyway, I could hardly refuse.

  Wednesday morning, Belbo went to the station early, bought his ticket to Bologna, and found Agliè standing beside car 8 with the suitcase. It was fairly heavy but not bulky.

  Belbo put the suitcase above seat number 45 and settled down with his bundle of newspapers. The news of the day was Berlinguer's funeral. A little later, a bearded gentleman came and occupied the seat next to his. Belbo thought he had seen the man before. (With hindsight, he thought it might have been at the party in Piedmont, but he wasn't sure.) When the train left, the compartment was full.

  Belbo read his paper, but the bearded passenger tried to strike up conversations with everybody. He began with remarks about the heat, the inadequacy of the air-conditioning, the fact that in June you never knew whether to wear summer things or between-seasons clothing. He observed that the best was a light blazer, just like Belbo's, and he asked if it was English. Belbo said yes, it was English, from Burberry's, and resumed his reading. "They're the best," the gentleman said, "but yours is particularly nice, because it doesn't have those gold buttons that are so ostentatious. And, if I may say so, it goes very well with your maroon tie." Belbo thanked him and reopened his paper. The gentleman went on talking with the others about the difficulty of matching ties with jackets, and Belbo continued reading. I know, he thought, they all think me rude, but I don't take trains to establish human relationships. I have too much of that as it is.

  Then the gentleman said to him, "What a lot of papers you read! And of every political tendency. You must be a judge or a politician." Belbo replied that he was neither, but worked for a publishing firm that specialized in books on Arab metaphysics. He said this in the hope of terrifying his adversary. And the man was obviously terrified.

  Then the conductor arrived. He asked Belbo why he had a ticket for Bologna and a seat reserved to Rome. Belbo said he had changed his mind at the last moment. "How lucky you are," the bearded gentleman said, "to be able to make such decisions, according to how the wind blows, without having to count pennies. I envy you." Belbo smiled and looked away. There, he said, now they all think I'm either a spendthrift or a bank robber.

  At Bologna, Belbo stood up and prepared to get off. "Don't forget your suitcase," his neighbor said.

  "No. A friend will collect it in Florence," Belbo said. "For that matter, I'd be grateful if you'd keep an eye on it."

  "I will," the bearded gentleman said. "Rest assured."

  Belbo returned to Milan toward evening, shut himself in his apartment with two cans of meat and some crackers, and turned on the TV. More Berlinguer, naturally. The news item about the train appeared at the end, almost as a footnote.

  Late that morning on the Intercity between Bologna and Florence, a bearded gentleman had voiced suspicions after a passenger got off in Bologna leaving a suitcase on the luggage rack. True, the passenger had said someone would pick it up in Florence, but wasn't that what terrorists always said? Furthermore, why had he reserved his seat to Rome when he was getting off in Bologna?

  A heavy uneasiness spread among the other travelers in that compartment. Finally, the bearded passenger said he couldn't bear the tension. It was better to make a mistake than to die, and he alerted the chief conductor. The chief conductor stopped the train and called the Railway Police. The train was stopped in the mountains; the passengers milled anxiously along the tracks; the bomb squad atrived.... The experts opened the suitcase and found a timer and explosive, set for the hour of arrival in Florence. Enough to wipe out a few dozen people.

  The police w
ere unable to find the bearded gentleman. Perhaps he had changed cars and got off in Florence because he didn't want to end up in the newspapers. The police were appealing to him to get in touch with them.

  The other passengers remembered, with unusual precision, the man who had left the suitcase. He must have looked suspicious at first sight. He was wearing a blue English jacket without gold buttons, a maroon necktie; he was taciturn, and seemed to want to avoid attracting attention at all costs. But he had let slip the information that he worked for a paper, or a publisher, or for something having to do (the witnesses' testimony varied) with physics, methane, or metempsychosis—but Arabs were definitely involved.

  Police stations and carabiniere headquarters had been alerted. Anonymous phone calls were already coming in and being sifted by the investigators. Two Libyan citizens had been detained in Bologna. A police artist had made a sketch, which now occupied the whole screen. The drawing didn't resemble Belbo, but Belbo resembled the drawing.

  Belbo, plainly, was the man with the suitcase. But the suitcase had contained Agliè's books. He called Agliè. There was no answer.

  It was already late in the evening. He didn't dare leave the house, so he took a pill to get some sleep. The next morning, he called Agliè again. Silence. He went out to buy the papers. Luckily the front page was still occupied by the funeral; the story about the train and the copy of the police sketch must be somewhere inside. He skulked back to his apartment, his collar turned up, then realized he was still wearing the blazer. At least he didn't have on the maroon tie.

  While he was trying once more to sort out what had happened, he received a call. A strange foreign voice, a slightly Balkan accent, mellifluous: a completely disinterested party acting out of pure kindness of heart. Poor Signor Belbo, the voice said, finding yourself compromised by such an unpleasant business. You should never agree to act as someone else's courier without first checking the contents of the package. How awful it would be if someone were to inform the police that Signor Belbo was the unidentified occupant of seat number 45.

  Of course, that extreme step could be avoided, if Belbo would only agree to cooperate. If he were to say, for example, where the Templars' map was. And since Milan had become hot, because everyone knew the Intercity terrorist had boarded the train there, it would be prudent to deal with the matter in neutral territory: for example, Paris. Why not arrange to meet at the Librairie Sloane, 3 rue de la Manticore, in a week's time? But perhaps Belbo would be better advised to set off at once, before anybody identified him. Librairie Sloane, 3 rue de la Manticore. At noon on Wednesday, June 20, he would find there a familiar face, that bearded gentleman with whom he had conversed so cordially on the train. The bearded gentleman would tell Belbo where to find other friends, and then, gradually, in good company, in time for the summer solstice, Belbo would tell what he knew, and the business would be concluded without any trauma. Rue de la Manticore, number 3: easy to remember.

  109

  Saint-Germain ... very polished and witty ... said he possessed every kind of secret....He often employed, for his apparitions, that famous magic mirror of his ... and through its catoptric effects summoned up the usual, well-known shades. His contact with the other world was unquestioned.

  —Le Coulteux de Canteleu, Les sectes et les sociétés secrètes, Paris, Didier, 1863, pp. 170–171

  Belbo was devastated. Everything was clear. Aglié believed his story, he wanted the map, he had set a trap for him, and now Belbo was in the man's power. Either Belbo went to Paris, to reveal what he didn't know (but he was the only one who knew he didn't know it, since I had gone off without leaving an address, and Diotallevi was dying), or all the police forces of Italy would be after him.

  But was it really possible that Agliè had stooped to such a sordid trick? Belbo should take that old lunatic by the collar and drag him to the police station; that was the only way to get out of this mess.

  He hailed a taxi and went to the little house near Piazza Piola. Windows closed; on the gate, a real estate agency's sign, FOR RENT. This was insane. ***Agliè was living here just last week; Belbo had telephoned him. He rang the bell of the house next door. "Oh, that gentleman? He moved out yesterday. I have no idea where he's gone, I knew him only by sight, he was such a reserved person. Always traveling, I suppose."

  The only thing left was to inquire at the agency. They had never heard of Agliè. The house had been rented by a French firm. The rent was paid regularly through a bank. The lease was canceled overnight; the firm forfeited the deposit. All their communications, by letter, had been with a certain M. Ragotgky. That was all they knew.

  It was impossible. Rakosky or Ragotgky, the colonel's mysterious visitor, wanted by De Angelis and by Interpol, and here he was going around renting houses. In our story, Ardenti's Rakosky was a reincarnation of Rachkovsky of the Okhrana, in other words, the inevitable Saint-Germain. What did he have to do with Agliè?

  Belbo went to the office, sneaking upstairs like a thief, and locked himself in his room. He had to try to think things through.

  It was enough to drive a man crazy, and Belbo suspected he had finally gone mad. There was no one he could confide in. While he was wiping the sweat from his face, and mechanically—without thinking—leafing through some manuscripts that had come in the day before, at the top of a page he suddenly saw Agliè's name.

  He looked at the title. A little work by some run-of-the-mill Diabolical, The True Story of the Comte de Saint-Germain. He read the page again. Quoting Charcornac's biography, it said that Claude-Louis de Saint-Germain had gone variously by the names of Monsieur de Surmont, Count Soltikoff, Mr. Welldone, Marchese di Belmar, Rackoczi or Ragozki, and so on, but the real family names were Saint-Martin and Marquis of Agliè, the latter from an ancestral estate in Piedmont.

  Good. Belbo could rest easy. Not only was he wanted for terrorism, not only was the Plan true, not only had Agliè disappeared in the space of two days, but, into the bargain, the count was no mythomane but the true and immortal Saint-Germain. And he had never done anything to conceal that fact. But no, the only true thing, in this growing whirlwind of falsehoods, was his name. No, even his name was false. Agliè wasn't Agliè. But it didn't matter who he really was, because he was acting, had been acting for years, like a character in the story we were to invent only-later.

  There was nothing Belbo could do. With the disappearance of Agliè, he couldn't prove to the police that Agliè had given him the suitcase. And even if the police believed him, it would come out that he had received it from a man wanted for murder, a man he had been employing as a consultant for at least two years. Great alibi.

  To grasp this whole story—melodramatic to begin with—and to make the police swallow it, another story had to be assumed, even more outlandish. Namely, that the Plan, which we had invented, corresponded in every detail, including the desperate final search for the map, to a real plan, which had already involved Agliè, Rakosky, Rachkovsky, Ragotgky, the bearded gentleman, and the Tres, not to mention the Templars of Provins. Which story in turn was based on the assumption that the colonel was right. Except that he was right by being wrong, because our Plan, after all, was different from his, and if his was true, then ours couldn't be true, and vice versa, and therefore, if we were right, why had Rakosky, ten years ago, stolen a wrong document from the colonel?

  Just reading, the other morning, what Belbo had confided to Abulafia, I felt like banging my head against the wall: to convince myself that the wall, at least the wall, was really there. I imagined how Belbo must have felt that day, and in the days that followed. But it wasn't over yet.

  Needing someone to talk to, he telephoned Lorenza. She wasn't in. He was willing to bet he would never see her again. In a way, Lorenza was a creature invented by Agliè, and Agliè was a creature invented by Belbo, and Belbo no longer knew who had invented Belbo. He picked up the newspaper again. The one sure thing was that he was the man in the police drawing. To convince him further, at that momen
t the phone rang. For him again, in the office. The same Balkan accent, the same instructions. Meeting in Paris.

  "Who are you, anyway?" Belbo shouted.

  "We're the Tres," the voice replied, "and you know more about the Tres than we do."

  Belbo took the bull by the horns and called De Angelis. At headquarters they made difficulties; the inspector, they said, was no longer working there. When Belbo insisted, they gave in and put him through to some office.

  "Ah, Dr. Belbo, what a surprise!" De Angelis said in a tone that suggested sarcasm. "You're lucky you caught mc. I'm packing my suitcases."

  "Suitcases?" Was that a hint?

  "I've been transferred to Sardinia. A peaceful assignment, apparently."

  "Inspector De Angelis, I have to talk to you. It's urgent. It's about that business...."

  "Business? What business?"

  "The colonel. And the other thing ... Once, you asked Casaubon if he'd heard any mention of the Tres. Well, I have. And I have things to tell you, important things."

  "I don't want to hear them. It's not my case anymore. And it's a little late in the day, don't you think?"

  "Yes, I admit it. I kept something from you years ago. But now I want to talk."

  "Not to me, Dr. Belbo. First of all, I should tell you that someone is surely listening to our conversation, and I want that someone to know that I refuse to hear anything and that I don't know anything. I have two children, small children. And I've been told something could happen to them. To show me it wasn't a joke, yesterday morning, when my wife started the car, the hood blew off. A very small charge, hardly more than a firecracker, but enough to convince me that if they want to, they can. I went to the chief, told him I've always done my duty, sometimes went beyond the call of duty, but I'm no hero. My life I'm willing to lay down, but not the lives of my wife and children. I asked for a transfer. Then I went and told everybody what a coward I am, and how I'm shitting in my pants. Now I'm saying it to you and to whoever's listening to us. I've ruined my career, I've lost my self-respect, I'm a man without honor, but I'm saving my loved ones. Sardinia is very beautiful, I'm told, and I won't even have to lay money aside to send the children to the beach in the summer. Good-bye."