Pierre sat down beside his wife who was pretending to listen while sipping on her Manhattan. She fished the cherry out with two fingers and, leaning tenderly towards him, placed it gently in his mouth; he blushed and glanced awkwardly at the others, but they appeared too absorbed in their discussion to have noticed the charming gesture of conjugal intimacy. They were talking politics: for the news of the events sweeping across Europe to have disturbed the tranquillity of their ivory towers, it must have been very grim indeed. The Englishman tried to be reassuring: he reminded them of Hitler’s speech at the end of the Nuremberg Congress, wherein he renounced, in exchange for the annexation of the Sudetenland, all claims to other western frontiers. The little Russian prophesied that, after the Sudetenland, it would be the turn of the Czechs and, after that, the Poles. Lippi asked Pierre what he thought, which was not much because he detested offering opinions outside his sphere of expertise. His mind wandered. He wondered, looking at Prokosch, if he had come to the symposium to reveal who really killed Little Red Riding Hood and who had given a soporific to Sleeping Beauty. As they were clearly expecting a reply, and he tended to share the view of the Oxford professor, he took refuge in a quotation:
‘“The wolf makes war with the sheep. The wolf does not make war with the lion.”’ And, looking at Lippi, he added: ‘Fénelon.’
‘Telemachus,’ replied the professor. ‘But please allow me to disagree: “The animals are perpetually at war; each species is born to devour another.”’
‘Well played,’ conceded Pierre. ‘Machiavelli?’
‘Voltaire,’ declared the Italian, triumphantly marking a point.
Prokosch regarded them with amazement, and the Englishman – unable to recall a quotation from Shakespeare that was just on the tip of his tongue – blushed in confusion.
‘It’s just as easy to predict Chancellor Hitler’s next moves,’ announced Lippi in a peremptory tone, ‘as it is to infer from the prologue of a tragedy the events that will follow, “plausibly and necessarily” as Aristotle said.’
‘How so?’
‘Quite simply by considering that History, with a capital H, is constructed in the same way as a story, which one may consequently read as a fiction; in the same way – reciprocally – a fiction may be read as a historical reality. That’s what I was explaining just now to friend Garnier here. The reader of a romantic novel is led by the functioning of the mechanics of the story to suspend his disbelief and collaborate in the construction of a universe with its own internal coherence. By the same token, he is led to believe in it by virtue of the celebrated formula: “All that is rational is real.”’
‘All right,’ said the Oxford professor, wriggling in his seat. ‘I haven’t got a cut-and-dried opinion on the subject: “It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury.” Shakespeare,’ he added modestly.
‘But it is a story, my dear Harvey, even if it’s told by an idiot,’ retorted Lippi. He made a dismissive gesture at the sound of the name Shakespeare, for he reproached the bard for having scorned Aristotle’s precepts. ‘Nevertheless, to please you and to try to avoid a confusion which, although it can sometimes be pleasant and innocent, would in this case turn out to be a tragic cause for concern, I propose to distinguish between natural fiction and artificial fiction, while keeping in mind that, since the beginning of time, both have obeyed the same laws.
‘Thus any account I might produce of tonight’s conversation would only differ from the same account written by a novelist by the trivial fact that in the one case it actually did happen, and in the other the writer is trying to make believe it really happened. But the result is exactly the same.’
‘That doesn’t hold water,’ retorted Harvey, whom Pierre suspected of Platonist leanings. ‘You’re confusing the being and the appearance, the true and the false, the real and the illusory. Every thinking man is capable of making the distinction, and I don’t need to pinch myself to know that I’m not a character in a novel!’
‘You “don’t like belonging to another person’s dream,” my friend,’ said Lippi delicately, which Pierre translated for the benefit of Prokosch, who clearly hadn’t understood.
‘Ah, yes!’ replied the Russian, ‘Alice Through the Looking Glass.’ And he added timidly: ‘I think Professor Lippi is right. The child hearing a fairytale projects the Ogre and Tom Thumb into his world, and, because of mimesis – the imitation of nature – to cite Aristotle again, feels the same fear and the same pity as if they really existed.’
‘And it is not I but one of your compatriots,’ continued Lippi, looking hard at Harvey, ‘who said that the most painful event of his life was the death of one of Balzac’s heroes.’
‘Oscar Wilde. Damned Irishman,’ growled the Englishman, gritting his teeth; at which point Pierre, sensing that the discussion was taking an ugly turn, decided to intervene.
‘Could we get back to your ideas about Adolf Hitler?’
Lippi, clearly exultant, flashed a ferocious smile.
‘Now there’s a perfect example of a character from natural fiction! Not only can we understand, we can even predict all this fellow’s historical events in terms of what I call a readable text. It is only politicians and blind men that imagine that History makes no sense – I’m not talking about you, dear boy – and no one can see what’s going to happen.’
‘I would very much like to know,’ interjected Harvey scornfully, ‘just what you make of it all.’
‘Very simply,’ announced Lippi with an amiable firmness, ‘by attributing a fictional existence to this – alas, very real – person. Imagine that an author of detective fiction invents a character that he calls X or Y – or Hitler, for that matter. In the first few pages, this character divulges his motives, announces the crimes he intends to commit and how he plans to operate. No reader will believe it, for the simple reason that he will discount anything presented to him as evidence and he knows that no real criminal would behave that way. The reader will only think about how the criminal will conceal himself and what insidious means he will employ to commit his crimes – methods so ingenious that the reader will only discover them at the end. Well, nobody believed it probable or possible that Hitler would spell out his projects in a book, under the eyes of the whole world, so as to reduce the chances of anyone ever guessing what he intended to do. But in my case, thanks to my theory, the more I read Mein Kampf, the more I was convinced that the author, in order to conceal his plans, had recourse to the deftest of expedients, namely to hide them in plain sight.
‘Now, once we admit that our little corporal – a term often applied to Napoleon, even though he never was one – as I was saying, if we admit that our little corporal is a fictional character and that History itself unfolds as a novel, then I am in a position to expound – .’
Harvey groaned.
‘Some other time. You’ve been expounding the whole evening.’
‘I am in a position to expound,’ the Italian continued, ‘on the narrative model on which his development is based. History is an eternal and, I grant you, confused, tragic-comedy where only the roles and the masks change but the actors and the events stay the same….’
‘Have you noticed the fat man at the next table?’ Solange had placed her hand on her husband’s arm and was now whispering in his ear: ‘He hasn’t stopped looking at me.’
Pierre took a discreet look and saw a corpulent individual in his fifties. It was too dark for him to see the man properly, but when he leaned forward for several seconds to light a cigar, the candle on the table illuminated heavy features with a snub nose, a lantern jaw and pale beady eyes that stared at Solange from behind steel-rimmed spectacles. Pierre felt as if a spider was lying in wait in a dark corner, and a shiver ran down his spine.
‘He looks like the driver of the Mercedes,’ he whispered back. ‘I think he’s recognised you.’
‘Do you think so?’ breathed Solange.
In fact, as far as Pierre could remember, at the moment of overt
aking the driver hadn’t even turned his head.
The man must have sensed he was being observed because he changed position and exchanged a few words with the blonde woman sitting beside him, who was holding a glass of champagne with an absent-minded air. Opposite them sat a tall, thin young man of an obviously weak constitution, but with a surprisingly sensual mouth.
‘I’m sure,’ murmured Pierre. And, to reassure her, he added:
‘I hope the fat thug will come over and apologise.’
But in that he was wrong, as will be seen later. Lippi had loosened his dinner jacket and was continuing his discourse, rocking back and forth on his chair, his hands clasped together on his false shirt-front. Pierre felt that he was going to great lengths to dress up in scholarly terms and tortuous reasoning the old adage that History is constantly repeating itself.
‘So,’ proclaimed the professor in too loud a voice, as if in a pulpit, ‘every great despot who sees himself as master of his own destiny is actually living a tale in which it’s the historical myth that is the driving force for all his acts and decisions. Everything repeats itself, the crimes as well as the battles, the victories and the defeats, and each leader’s destiny follows that of the one before. Caesar is a transcription of Alexander, Napoleon is a pleonasm of Caesar and even of Charlemagne, Napoleon III is an inferior copy of his uncle and our beloved Duce Mussolini follows in the footsteps of that same Caesar who, well before him, also marched on Rome. As for the illustrious Reichsführer, his story is so inextricably tied to that of the great Napoleon that one may predict without risk every step of his career, from his ascension to his decline, and from his decline into the inevitable fall….’
He paused and looked at each of his listeners in turn. Harvey was calmly filling his pipe. Prokosch, in the candlelight, wore an expression at once courteous and Mephistophelean, as if he knew more than he had let on, and was biding his time.
‘Do you understand? We have before us a readable text. Now, if you’re interested to hear what I’ve read….’
‘It’s what interests me as well,’ announced a new voice.
Pierre hadn’t seen the man approach, even though he had heard a chair at the next table scraping the floor. Perhaps it was the arrival of a stranger that surprised them. Or maybe it was his voice, harsh and imperious, with guttural undertones. In any case, they all turned to look at him. The man kept out of the light. His outfit, austerely military in style but luxurious in the choice of material, was too tight for him. He spoke again in formal, rather pedantic, tones:
‘You must excuse me, my dear sirs,’ he said, ignoring Solange, ‘but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I would like to ask a question of the celebrated professor.’
‘Well?’ asked Lippi, coldly.
‘Do you not believe,’ continued the newcomer, taking a gloved hand out of his pocket to point at him, ‘in the determining role played by the Great Men of world history and the inspiring example of their values? That they are the chosen ones, the heroes, the leaders, the true creators of History and that they bend men and events to their will?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Lippi, rudely. ‘Do you?’
‘I believe so, since the day the great Thinker and Visionary arose in Germany whose thoughts, formulated first in words and then in deeds, have made of him the guide whom we are all happy to obey blindly.’
This insane declaration acted on the group like a log exploding on a peaceful fire. It was getting late. A sudden gust of wind blew out most of the candles. On the dance floor the band had stopped playing and the guests were starting to leave the tables. The little group hardly noticed. Harvey cleared his throat and Prokosch looked about uncertainly.
‘Listen, Lippi,’ intervened Pierre, who sensed the almost palpable fear that had seized his wife, ‘this fellow is off his rocker. Why don’t we….’ And he made a sign to the waiter that they were leaving.
‘Let the professor speak before making a decision,’ retorted the stranger.
Lippi looked at him with sarcastic irony.
‘As you wish. But before I do, perhaps you will do us the honour of introducing yourself?’
With his gloved left hand, the man extracted from his pocket a visiting card bearing a clearly visible crest. On it, Pierre could read: Baron Karl Hoenig in gothic script and, below that, Doktor der Kriminalwissenschaft.
Lippi burst out laughing.
‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘I guessed as much. So you’re a criminologist? I suppose you’ve come to talk to us about the crimes of your beloved Führer?’
The man stood rigidly still, except for the muscles in his jaw, which transformed his mouth into a contemptuous arc.
‘Now may I hear the rest of your dissertation?’
‘With pleasure,’ replied Lippi unexpectedly. ‘Allow me to be brief, as we are all anxious to eat.
‘Just as a mediocre playwright, never having read Aristotle, unwittingly applies the rules of Poetics, your brilliant Adolf Hitler will be forced to follow, by the divine pressure of the story – and I haven’t got time to enter into detail – the overall scheme of the tragedy of Napoleon. As of now we’re only at the prologue, in other words the introductory stage. The confrontation, may I say conflict, will inevitably follow. It will start with lightning victories. The Führer has already started to push the French into war and he’s preparing to use the methods used to such good effect by Napoleon in Italy: forced marches straight to the target without worrying about the enemy’s strategy, destruction of all means of communication, and combined cavalry and artillery operations. The Italian campaign lasted one year. With the rapidity possible with modern arms and combined operations between tanks and aeroplanes, I’ll bet you anything you like that the Wehrmacht will be in Paris in less than three months.’
‘Hold on a second,’ protested Pierre. ‘The French army is the most powerful in the world.
‘So was the Austrian army. But, you see, all the campaigns will be repeated. The French are going to try and restart the 1914-1918 war, and the Germans will reproduce the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. You’ll see they’ll repeat the breakthrough at Sedan. Once France is liquidated –.’
‘Ach!’ exclaimed Hoenig, swelling with pride.
‘Don’t rejoice too soon. Conquering Europe isn’t enough if England is still standing. Napoleon, to invade, masses his troops at Boulogne. Hitler, copying him slavishly, does the same. But, since proud Albion is mistress of the seas, the result is the same fiasco.’
‘Good show, old boy,’ said Harvey. ‘Keep it up.’
‘Both turn to Russia, with the major inconvenience that neither have been able to avoid: having to fight on two fronts at once. They are both in a hurry to finish. In both cases, a furious assault up to the gates of Moscow. Then, just as in our well-ordered story, a dramatic reversal of the situation. In other words: Berezina.’ He sneered. ‘Would you like me to go on?’
‘That would be pointless,’ growled the German. ‘Napoleon was a charlatan with an Italian temperament and French boastfulness. His work was only a rough sketch, an unfinished work that our Führer will finally complete!’
He straightened up, and for a moment Pierre thought he was going to click his heels and give the Nazi salute.
‘I bid you goodnight, my dear sirs. My respects, Herr Professor! Tomorrow morning I shall have the pleasure of attending your lecture.’
They were starting to get up and leave their table, when Hoenig, who was on the point of reaching his, changed his mind and, to Pierre’s surprise, planted himself in front of Solange. He bowed stiffly from the waist and, fixing her with his glacial stare, muttered two or three rapid phrases in German. She replied briefly in the same language. Her face was like marble and it was impossible to read the slightest emotion, but it seemed to Pierre that she blanched.
***
‘What did he say to you?’ he asked her once they were in the omnibus taking them back to Locarno. And he added: ‘I didn’t know you spoke Germ
an.’
‘Come, come, darling,’ she replied, frowning. ‘You know I spent part of my youth in Berlin.’
‘So what did he say to you,’ he insisted.
‘Nothing. He apologised for the intrusion and politely invited me to attend his lecture.’
‘The man’s mad,’ repeated Pierre. ‘What’s the topic?’
He turned to Lippi who, no doubt exhausted from having talked too much, was slumped down in his seat, his eyes closed.
‘I don’t really know,’ he replied, yawning. ‘I seem to recall from the programme that he’s talking about criminal women or some such thing.’
‘I’m dying for something to eat,’ sighed Solange.
Pierre didn’t feel the same way. Even though he had eaten nothing since the lunch at midday, he wasn’t hungry at all. Already the illuminated mass of the Grand Hotel loomed over them, dominating the town from its elevated position. And they could see, behind the great bay windows, the crystal chandeliers of the dining room.
II
Thursday 22 September
Professor Lippi’s lecture was due to start at 10.30 in the morning. The large room in the Albergo was full at least an hour ahead of time. The local newspapers had given the session wide publicity and the public eagerly awaited the moment the speaker would mount the podium. He was delayed, however, by the customary and lengthy speech of the president who, in his introduction, announced that all lectures and debates would be in French, a language in which any self-respecting foreign academic should be completely at ease. He went on to congratulate himself for having, in such troubled times of international tension, managed to assemble so many eminent representatives of the elite European cultural establishment in an atmosphere of collaboration and peace, and he elaborated at great length on that theme. One of the attendees, seated near Pierre, interrupted the speech to ask whether it was true that Arthur Carter Gilbert, the celebrated writer of detective fiction whose participation had been announced with a fanfare, had declined the invitation, as was rumoured. The speaker stiffened and stammered that Sir Arthur was temporarily indisposed, but there was every hope he would recover in time. As the audience appeared far from satisfied, he cut his speech short and made a hasty sign to Lippi, who was sitting in the front row, not far from Pierre and Harvey. ‘Professor Lippi, the floor is yours.’
The Riddle of Monte Verita Page 3
