UMBERTO ECO : THE PRAGUE CEMETERY

by Eco, Umberto

  And in that instant I also realize I cannot let the witness to my murder leave this house. I remember the pistol that Bataille had given me, open the drawer where I had hidden it and point it at Boullan, who continues to stare at me, bewildered.

  * * *

  "My mother," she murmurs vacantly, "my mother was a Jew."

  * * *

  "I am sorry, Abbé," I tell him. "If you want to save yourself, help me dispose of this sweet body."

  "Yes, yes," he says, as if in erotic ecstasy. The dead Diana, with her tongue hanging from her mouth and her blank stare, must seem as desirable to him, in his confusion, as the naked Diana who abused me for her pleasure.

  But then, I am not entirely lucid either. As if in a dream, I wrap Diana in her cloak, give Boullan a lighted lamp, grasp the dead body by its feet and drag it along the passageway as far as your house, then down the staircase into the shop, and from there to the sewer, the corpse's head banging with a sinister thud on each step. Finally I line it up beside the remains of Dalla Piccola (the other one).

  Boullan now seems to have lost his head. He laughs. "Perhaps it's better down here than in the world out there, where Guaita is waiting for me. May I stay here with Diana?"

  "By all means, Abbé," I reply. "I could not wish for more."

  I draw the pistol and shoot, hitting him in the center of his forehead. Boullan falls crookedly, almost over Diana's legs. I have to bend down, pick him up and place him beside her. They lie together like two lovers.

  And here, at this very moment, through recounting, I have rediscovered, with troubled mind, what happened an instant before I lost my memory.

  The circle is complete. Now I know. Now, at dawn on the 18th of April, Easter Sunday, I have written what happened on the 21st of March, late at night, to the person I thought was Abbé Dalla Piccola . . .

  25

  SORTING MATTERS OUT

  Diary for 18th and 19th April 1897

  At this point, anyone looking over Simonini's shoulder to read what Dalla Piccola had written would have seen the words come to an abrupt halt, as if his hand, no longer able to hold the pen, had of its own accord drawn a long scrawl that continued beyond the paper, marking the green baize of the desk, as the writer's body slumped to the floor. And on the next sheet of paper it appeared that Captain Simonini had resumed writing.

  He had woken up dressed as a priest, wearing Dalla Piccola's wig, but now realizing, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he was Simonini. There, open on the table, he immediately saw those last pages in the handwriting of the supposed Dalla Piccola, written in a hysterical and increasingly confused hand. He sweated, his heart palpitating, as he read and recalled all that had been written up to that very moment when the abbé's handwriting stopped and he (the abbé) or rather he (Simonini) were — no, was — struck with panic, and had collapsed.

  As he regained consciousness, the cloud of confusion gradually passed and all became clear. Recovering, he realized that he and Dalla Piccola were one and the same. He was now able to recall what Dalla Piccola had written the previous evening — in other words, he could remember that it was he himself, dressed as Abbé Dalla Piccola (not the one with the protruding teeth whom he had killed, but the other he had brought back to life and impersonated for years), who had been through the terrible experience of the black mass.

  What happened then? Perhaps Diana had had time to grab his wig during the scuffle, perhaps he had needed to remove his cassock to drag her wretched body as far as the sewer and had returned, by then almost out of his wits, to his room in rue Maître- Albert, where he had reawoken on the morning of the 22nd of March, unable to find his clothes.

  The carnal contact with Diana, the revelation of her vile origins and her necessary, almost ritual death had been too much for him, and that same night he had lost his memory, or rather Dalla Piccola and Simonini had both lost their memory, and the two personalities had alternated over the course of that month. In all probability, as had happened to Diana, he must have passed from one state to the other through some form of crisis — an epileptic fit, fainting, who knows — but without being aware of it, so he awoke each time thinking he had simply fallen asleep.

  Doctor Froïde's therapy had worked (even though the doctor would never know of its success). By one self recounting to the other self those memories which he had laboriously extracted from the recesses of his mind, as if in a dream, Simonini had reached the critical point, the traumatic event, that had plunged him into a state of amnesia and transformed him into two distinct people, each of whom remembered one part of his past, without either he or that other, who was also him, being able to bring themselves back together as one, and even though each of them tried to conceal from the other the terrible, unthinkable reason for that erasure.

  Remembering had left Simonini feeling exhausted, of course, and to reassure himself that he was truly reborn into a new life, he closed his diary and decided to go out, prepared for any encounter, knowing now who he was. He was ready for a good meal, but couldn't yet allow himself any excessive indulgence that day, seeing that his senses had been so sorely tested. Like a hermit from the Thebaid, he felt the need for penitence. He went to Flicoteaux, and for thirteen sous managed to eat badly, but tolerably so.

  Returning home, he put down on paper several details that he was still piecing together. There was no reason for him to continue a diary —he had begun it as a way of recalling what he now remembered — but the diary had become a habit. Believing, for just under a month, in the existence of someone called Dalla Piccola, he had created the illusion of someone with whom he could converse, and through this conversation he realized how much he had always been alone, ever since childhood. Perhaps (the Narrator wonders) he had split his personality for that very reason — to create someone to talk to.

  It was time to accept that the Other did not exist. The diary, moreover, is a solitary entertainment. He had, however, become accustomed to this monody and decided to continue. Not that he felt any particular love for himself, but his dislike of others induced him to make the best of his own company.

  He had created Dalla Piccola — his Dalla Piccola, after he had killed the real one — when Lagrange had asked him to deal with Boullan. He thought that for many assignments a priest would arouse less suspicion than a layman. And he liked the idea of resurrecting someone he had killed.

  When he had first bought the house and shop in impasse Maubert, at a very low price, he had not used the room and its entrance from rue Maître-Albert, preferring to establish his address in impasse Maubert so he could use the shop. As soon as Dalla Piccola arrived on the scene, he furnished the room cheaply and used it as the illusory abbé's illusory address.

  Dalla Piccola had been useful not only for prying into Satanist and occultist circles, but also for deathbed appearances, when he was called by the close (or distant) relative who would later be the beneficiary of the will that Simonini had forged — and if anyone were to raise a doubt over that unexpected document, there would be the evidence of a cleric who could swear the will reflected the last wishes expressed to him on the man's dying breath. Then, with the Taxil affair, Dalla Piccola had become essential. It was he who had dealt with practically the entire scheme for over ten years.

  And Simonini's disguise proved so effective that, dressed as Dalla Piccola, he could easily meet Father Bergamaschi and Hébuterne. Dalla Piccola was beardless, blondish, with bushy eyebrows, and wore blue-tinted spectacles that concealed his gaze. As if this were not enough, he devised another style of handwriting, which was smaller and almost feminine, and altered his voice. Indeed, when he was Dalla Piccola, Simonini not only spoke and wrote differently, but thought differently, so he fell completely into that role.

  It was a shame, then, that Dalla Piccola had to disappear (the destiny of all abbés of that name), but Simonini had to wash his hands of the whole business, not just to erase the memory of those shameful events leading up to the trauma, but also because on Easter
Monday, according to the plan, Taxil was to make his public confession, and with Diana now dead, it was better to remove all evidence of the plot in case someone began asking difficult questions.

  He had only that Sunday and the following morning left. He dressed up once again as Dalla Piccola and went to meet Taxil, who had been visiting Auteuil every two or three days over the past month and had found neither Diana nor him, but just the old woman, who told him she knew nothing and feared they had been kidnapped by the Masons. He explained to Taxil that Du Maurier had finally given him the address of Diana's real family in Charleston, and he had found a way to send her back to America — just in time for Taxil to prepare for the public exposure of the fraud. He gave Taxil a five-thousand-franc advance on the seventy-five thou- sand promised and arranged to meet the following afternoon at the Société de Géographie.

  Then, still dressed as Dalla Piccola, he went to Auteuil. He was welcomed with amazement by the old woman. She too had lost sight of him and Diana for almost a month and hadn't known what to say to poor Monsieur Taxil on his frequent visits. He told her the same story: Diana had returned to America and been reunited with her family. The old hag was silenced with a generous payoff, and she gathered up her paltry rags and left that afternoon.

  That evening, Simonini burned all papers and other traces of their occupation during those years, and late that night took a case of Diana's clothes and belongings as a gift to Gaviali — a rag-and-bone man never asks questions about the goods that pass through his hands. The following morning he went to see the landlord to cancel the lease, pleading a sudden mission to distant lands, and he paid an additional six months' rent to forestall further discussion. The landlord went with him to see that all was in good order, took back the keys and closed up the house.

  All that remained was to "kill off " Dalla Piccola (for the second time). It didn't take much. Simonini removed the abbé's makeup and hung the cassock back in the corridor, and thus Dalla Piccola disappeared from the face of the earth. As a precaution he removed the prie-dieu and religious books from the apartment, taking them down to his shop as objects to sell to unlikely collectors, after which he had a perfectly ordinary pied-à-terre ready for use by some other impersonation.

  There was no trace of all that had happened, except in the memories of Taxil and Bataille. But Bataille, after his betrayal, would certainly never be seen again, and as for Taxil, the story was due to end that very afternoon.

  On the afternoon of the 19th of April, dressed in his normal attire, Simonini went to enjoy the spectacle of Taxil's retraction. Apart from Dalla Piccola, Taxil had known only Maître Fournier, the fake notary, who was beardless, with auburn hair and two gold teeth. Taxil had seen the bearded Simonini only once, when he had employed him to falsify the letters of Hugo and Blanc, but that had been fifteen years ago and he had probably forgotten the face of that amanuensis. To cover all eventualities, Simonini wore a gray beard and green glasses, which made him look like a member of the Société de Géographie, so that he could sit in the audience and enjoy the entertainment.

  News of the event had appeared in all the newspapers. The room was crowded; some people came out of curiosity, others were followers of Diana Vaughan, Masons, journalists and several representatives of the archbishop and the apostolic nuncio.

  Taxil spoke with typically southern dash and eloquence. Surprising the audience, who were there to see Diana and to hear confirmation of all that Taxil had published over the past fifteen years, he began by attacking the Catholic journalists and introduced the substance of his revelations by saying, "It is better to laugh than to cry, as the wisdom of nations goes." He described his enjoyment of hoaxes: "I wasn't born in Marseilles for nothing," he joked, to the amusement of the audience. He recounted with delight the story of the sharks at Marseilles and the submerged city in Lake Geneva, to convince the audience that he was a prankster. Nothing equaled the greatest prank in his life, however, so he told the story of his apparent conversion and how he had misled the confessors and spiritual counselors appointed to ensure the sincerity of his repentance.

  His opening was interrupted first by laughter and then by angry outbursts from several priests, who were becoming increasingly outraged. People stood up and began to leave the hall, others took hold of their seats as if to attack him. In short, there was great disorder, over which the voice of Taxil could still be heard, describing how he had decided to attack the Masons in order to please the Church after Humanum Genus."But in the end," he said, "even the Masons ought to be thankful, because my publi- cation of their rituals had some influence on their decision to suppress outmoded practices, which had become ridiculous for every Mason who was a friend of progress. As for the Catholics, I found out in the early days of my conversion that many of them are convinced that the Great Architect of the Universe — the Supreme Being of the Masons — is the devil. So all I had to do was embroider upon this conviction."

  The commotion continued. When Taxil turned to his conversation with Leo XIII (the pope had asked him, "My son, what do you wish?" and Taxil had replied, "Holy Father, to die at your feet, right now, would be my greatest happiness!"), the shouts became a chorus. One person yelled, "Respect Leo XIII. You have no right to utter his name!" Another, "Do we have to listen to this? It's disgusting!" And another, "Ah, the scoundrel! What an orgy of depravity!" The howls of laughter grew still louder.

  "And so," said Taxil, "I allowed the tree of modern Luciferianism to grow, introducing a Palladian ritual into it, fabricated entirely by me from beginning to end."

  Then he described how an old alcoholic friend had created Doctor Bataille, how he had invented Sophie Walder, or Sophia Sapho, and how he himself had written all the works by Diana Vaughan. Diana, he said, was an ordinary Protestant woman, a copy typist, the representative of an American typewriter manufacturer, an intelligent, active woman of elegant simplicity, as Protestant women generally are. He had begun to interest her in devilry; she was amused by it and became his accomplice. She took a liking to this tomfoolery, writing to bishops and cardinals, receiving letters from the private secretary of the Supreme Pontiff, informing the Vatican about Luciferian plots.

  "But," continued Taxil, "we saw even Freemasons falling for our pretenses. When Diana revealed that the Grand Master of Charleston had appointed Adriano Lemmi to be his successor as Luciferian Supreme Pontiff, some Italian Masons, including a parliamentary deputy, took the news seriously. They were annoyed that Lemmi had not informed them, and they set up three independent Palladian Supreme Councils, in Sicily, Naples and Florence, naming Miss Vaughan as an honorary member. The infamous Monsieur Margiotta wrote that he had met Miss Vaughan, whereas it was I who spoke to him about a meeting that had never taken place, and he either pretended or actually believed he remembered it. The publishers themselves were hoaxed, but they have nothing to complain about, since I gave them the opportunity to publish works that can compete with The Thousand and One Nights.

  * * *

  Diana, he said, was an ordinary Protestant woman, a

  copy typist, the representative of an American typewriter

  manufacturer, an intelligent, active woman of elegant

  simplicity, as Protestant women generally are.

  * * *

  "Gentlemen," he continued, "when you understand you have been fooled, the best thing to do is to laugh with the audience. And you, Monsieur Abbé Garnier," he said, pointing to one of his fiercest critics in the hall, "the angrier you get, the more ridiculous you become."

  "You're a scoundrel!" shouted Garnier, waving his stick, while his friends tried to calm him.

  "Then again," Taxil said with a seraphic smile, "we cannot criticize those who believed in the devils that appeared in our initiation ceremonies. Do good Christians not believe that Satan took Jesus Christ himself to a mountaintop, from which he showed him all the kingdoms of the earth? And how did Satan show him all of them if the earth is round?"

  "Quite right!" shouted some.r />
  "No need for blasphemy," shouted others.

  Taxil was reaching his conclusion. "I confess, gentlemen, that I have committed infanticide. Palladism is now dead — its father has murdered it."

  The mayhem had reached its climax. Abbé Garnier stood on a seat and tried to address the audience, but his voice was lost in the raucous laughter of some and the angry shouts of others. Taxil remained on the platform where he had been speaking, proudly watching the crowd in uproar. It was his moment of glory. If he had wanted to be crowned king of hoaxers, he had achieved his purpose.

  He gazed immovably at those protesting in front of him as they waved their fists or canes and shouted "Shame on you," looking almost as if he didn't understand. What did he have to feel ashamed of? The fact that everyone was talking about him?

  Simonini was enjoying himself more than anyone as he thought about what was in store for Taxil over the coming days.

  He would seek out Dalla Piccola for his money, but would not know where to find him. If he went to Auteuil, he'd find the house empty, or perhaps already occupied by someone else. He knew nothing about Dalla Piccola's having an address in rue Maître-Albert. He didn't know how to contact Fournier the notary, nor would he ever think of associating him with that person who, many years earlier, had falsified the Hugo letter. Boullan would be impossible to find. He had no idea that Hébuterne, whom he vaguely knew as a Masonic dignitary, had anything to do with these events, and was entirely unaware of the existence of Father Bergamaschi. In short, Taxil wouldn't know whom to ask for his money, so Simonini could pocket the whole amount (less, unfortunately, the five-thousand-franc advance) instead of just half.