by Umberto Eco
"Actually, many of its theses were picked up by Action Française. If that were the whole story, I'd be okay. I find a group that talks about synarchy and I can give it a political color. But in my reading, I've learned that in 1929 a certain Vivian Postel du Mas and Jeanne Canudo founded a group called Polaris, which was inspired by the myth of the King of the World. They proposed a synarchic project: social service opposed to capitalist profit, the elimination of the class struggle through cooperatives....It sounds like a kind of Fabian socialism, a libertarian and communitarian movement. Note that both Polaris and the Irish Fabians were accused of being involved in a synarchic plot led by the Jews. And who accused them? The Revue internationale des sociétés secrètes, which talks about a Jewish-Masonic-Bolshevik plot. Many of its contributors belonged to a secret right-wing organization called La Sapinière. And they say that all these revolutionary groups are only the front for a diabolical plot hatched by an occultist cénacle. Now you'll say: All right, Saint-Yves ended up inspiring reformist groups, but these days the right lumps everything together and sees it all as a demo-pluto-social-Judaic conspiracy. Mussolini did the same thing. But why accuse them of being controlled by an occultist cénacle? According to the little I know—take Picatrix, for example—those occultism people couldn't care less about the workers' movement."
"So it seems also to me, O Socrates. So?"
"Thanks for the Socrates. But now we're coming to the good part. The more I read on the subject, the more I get confused. In the forties various self-styled synarchic groups sprang up; they talked about a new European order led by a government of wise men, above party lines. And where did these groups meet? In Vichy collaborationist circles. Then, you say, we got it wrong; synarchy is right-wing. But hold on! Having read this far, I begin to see that there is one theme that finds them all in agreement: synarchy exists and secretly rules the world. But here comes the 'but'..."
"But?"
"But on January 24, 1937, Dmitri Navachine, Mason and Martinist (I don't know what Martinist means, but I think it's one of those sects), economic adviser of the Front Populaire, after having been director of a Moscow bank, was assassinated by the Organisation secrète d'action révolutionnaire et nationale, better known as La Cagoule, financed by Mussolini. It was said then that La Cagoule was guided by a secret synarchy and that Navachine was killed because he had discovered its mysteries. A document originating from left-wing circles during the Occupation denounced a synarchic Pact of the Empire, which was responsible for the French defeat, a pact that was a manifestation of Portuguese-style fascism. But then it turned out that the pact was drawn up by Du Mas and Canudo and contained ideas they had published and publicized everywhere. Nothing secret about it. But these ideas were revealed as secret, extremely secret, in 1946 by one Husson, who denounced a revolutionary synarchic pact of the left, as he wrote in his Synarchie, panorama de 25 années d'activité occulte, which he signed ... wait, let me find it ... Geoffroy de Charnay."
"Fine!" I said. "Charnay was a companion of Molay, the grand master of the Templars. They died together at the stake. Here we have a neo-Templar attacking synarchy from the right. But synarchy is born at Agarttha, which is the refuge of the Templars!"
"What did I tell you? You see, you've given me an additional clue. Unfortunately, it only increases the confusion. So, on the right, a synarchic pact of the left is denounced as socialist and secret, though it's not really secret; it's the same synarchic pact, as you saw, that was denounced by the left. And now we come to new revelations: synarchy is a Jesuit plot to undermine the Third Republic. A thesis expounded by Roger Mennevée, leftist. To allow me to sleep nights, my reading then tells me that in 1943 in certain Vichy military circles—Pétainist, yes, but anti-German—documents circulated that prove synarchy was a Nazi plot: Hitler was a Rosicrucian influenced by the Masons, who now have moved from hatching a Judeo-Bolshevik plot to making an imperial German one."
"So everything is settled."
"If only that were all. Yet another revelation: Synarchy is a plot of the international technocrats. This was asserted in 1960 by one Villemarest, Le 14e complot du 13 mai. The techno-synarchic plot wants to destabilize governments and, to do it, provokes wars, backs coups d'état, foments schisms in political parties, promotes internecine hatreds.... Do you recognize these synarchists?"
"My God, it's the IMS, the Imperalist Multinational State—what the Red Brigades were talking about a few years ago!"
"The answer is correct. And now what does Inspector De Angelis do if he finds a reference to synarchy somewhere? He asks the advice of Dr. Casaubon, the Templar expert."
"My answer: There exists a secret society with branches throughout the world, and its plot is to spread the rumor that a universal plot exists."
"You're joking, but I—"
"I'm not joking. Come and read the manuscripts that turn up at Manutius. But if you want a more down-to-earth explanation, it's like the story of the man with a bad stammer who complains that the radio station wouldn't hire him as an announcer because he didn't carry a party card. We always have to blame our failures on somebody else, and dictatorships always need an external enemy to bind their followers together. As the man said, for every complex problem there's a simple solution, and it's wrong."
"And if, on a train, I find a bomb wrapped in a flier that talks about synarchy, is it enough for me to say that this is a simple solution to a complex problem?"
"Why? Have you found bombs on trains that ... No, excuse me. That's really not my business. But why did you say that to me, then?"
"Because I was hoping you'd know more than I do. Because perhaps I'm relieved to see you can't make head or tail of it either. You say you have to read lunatics by the carload and you consider it a waste of time. I don't. For me, the works of your lunatics—by 'your' I'm referring to you normal people—are important texts. What a lunatic writes may explain the thinking of the man who puts the bomb on the train. Or are you afraid of becoming a police informer?"
"No, not at all. Besides, looking for things in card catalogs is my business. If the right piece of information turns up, I'll keep you in mind."
As he rose from his chair, Dc Angelis dropped the last question: "Among your manuscripts ... have you ever found any reference to the Tres?"
"What's that?"
"I don't know. An organization, maybe. I don't even know if it exists. I've heard it mentioned, and it occurred to me in connection with your lunatics. Say hello to your friend Belbo for me. Tell him I'm not keeping tabs on any of you. The fact is, I have a dirty job, and my misfortune is that I enjoy it."
As I went home, I asked myself who had come out ahead. He had told me a number of things; I'd told him nothing. If I wanted to be suspicious, I could think perhaps that he had got something out of me without my being aware of it. But if you're too suspicious, you fall into the psychosis of synarchic plots.
When I told Lia about this episode, she said: "If you ask me, he was sincere. He really did want to get it all off his chest. You think he can find anyone at police headquarters who will listen to him wonder whether Jeanne Canudo was right-wing or left? He only wanted to find out if it's his fault he can't understand it or if the whole thing is too difficult. And you weren't able to give him the one true answer."
"The one true answer?"
"Of course. That there's nothing to understand. Synarchy is God."
"God?"
"Yes. Mankind can't endure the thought that the world was born by chance, by mistake, just because four brainless atoms bumped into one another on a slippery highway. So a cosmic plot has to be found—God, angels, devils. Synarchy performs the same function on a lesser scale."
"Then I should have told him that people put bombs on trains because they're looking for God?"
"Why not?"
54
The prince of darkness is a gentleman.
—Shakespeare, King Lear, III, iv
It was autumn. One morning I went to Via Ma
rchese Gualdi, because I had to get Signor Garamond's authorization to order some color photographs from abroad. I glimpsed Agliè in Signora Grazia's office, bent over the file of Manutius authors, but I didn't disturb him, because I was late for my meeting.
When our business was over, I asked Signor Garamond what Agliè was doing in the secretary's office.
"The man's a genius," Garamond said. "An extraordinary mind, keen, learned. The other evening, I took him to dinner with some of our authors, and he made me look great. What conversation! What style! A gentleman of the old school, an aristocrat; they've thrown away the mold. What knowledge, what culture—no, more, what information! He told delightful anecdotes about characters of a century ago, and I swear it was as if he had known them personally. Do you want to hear the idea he gave me as we were going home? He said we shouldn't just sit and wait for Isis Unveiled authors to turn up on their own. It's a waste of time and effort to read when you don't even know whether the authors are willing to underwrite the expenses. Instead, we have a gold mine at our disposal: the list of all the Manutius authors of the last twenty years! You understand? We write to our old, glorious authors, or at least the ones who bought up their remainders, and we say to them: Dear sir, are you aware that we have inaugurated a series of works of erudition, tradition, and the highest spirituality? Would you, as an author of distinction and refinement, be interested in venturing into this terra incognita, et cetera, et cetera? A genius, I tell you. I believe he wants us all to join him Sunday evening. Plans to take us to a castle, a fortress—no, more, a villa in the Turin area. It seems that extraordinary things are to happen there, a rite, a sabbath, where someone will make gold or quicksilver. It's a whole world to be discovered, my dear Casaubon, even if, as you know; I have the greatest respect for science, the science to which you are devoting yourself with such passion. Indeed, I am very, very pleased with your work, and yes, there's that little financial adjustment you mentioned; I haven't forgotten it, and in due course we'll talk about it. Agliè told me the lady will also be there, the beautiful lady—or perhaps not beautiful, but attractive; there's something about her eyes—that friend of Belbo's—what's her name—?"
"Lorenza Pellegrini."
"Yes. There's something—no?—between her and our Belbo."
"I believe they're good friends."
"Ah! A gentleman's answer. Bravo, Casaubon. But I do not inquire out of idle curiosity; the fact is that I feel like a father to all of you and ... glissons, a la guerre comme a la guerre.... Good-bye, dear boy."
We really did have an appointment with Agliè in the hills near Turin, Belbo told me. A double appointment. The early hours of the evening would be a party in the castle of a very well-to-do Rosicrucian. Then Agliè would take us a few kilometers away, to a place where—at midnight, naturally—some kind of druidic rite, Belbo wasn't sure what, would be held.
"I was also thinking," Belbo added, "that we should sit down somewhere and give some thought to our history of metals, because here we keep being interrupted. Why don't we leave Saturday and spend a couple of days in my old house in ***? It's a beautiful spot; you'll see, the hills are worth it. Diotallevi is coming, and maybe Lorenza will, too. Of course you can bring along anyone you want."
He didn't know Lia, but he knew I had a companion. I said I'd come alone. Lia and I had quarreled two days before. Nothing serious; it would be forgotten in a few days, but meanwhile I wanted to get away from Milan.
So we all went to ***, the Garamond trio and Lorenza Pellegrini. At our departure, a tense moment. When it came time to get into the car, Lorenza said, "Maybe I'll stay behind, so you three can work in peace. I'll join you later with Simon."
Belbo, both hands on the wheel, locked his elbows, stared straight ahead, and said in a low voice, "Get in." Lorenza got in, and all through the trip, sitting up front, she kept her hand on the back of Belbo's neck as he drove in silence.
*** was still the town Belbo had known during the war. But new houses were few, he told us, agriculture was in decline, because the young people had migrated to the city. He pointed to hills, now pasture, that had once been yellow with grain. The town appeared suddenly, after a curve at the foot of the low hill where Belbo's house was. We got a view, beyond it, of the Monferrato plain, covered with a light, luminous mist. As the car climbed, Belbo directed our attention to the hill opposite, almost completely bare: at the top of it, a chapel flanked by two pines. "It's called the Bricco," he said, then added: "It doesn't matter if it has no effect on you. We used to go there for the Angel's lunch on Easter Monday. Now you can reach it in the car in five minutes, but then we went on foot, and it was a pilgrimage."
55
I call a theatre [a place in which] all actions, all words, all particular subjects are shown as in a public theatre, where comedies and tragedies are acted.
—Robert Fludd, Utriusque Cosmi Historia, Tomi Secundi Tractatus Primi Sectio Secunda, Oppenheim (?), 1620 (?), p. 55
We arrived at the villa. Villa—actually, a large farmhouse, with great cellars on the ground floor, where Adelino Canepa—the quarrelsome tenant who had denounced Uncle Carlo to the partisans—once made wine from the vineyards of the Covasso land. It had long been unoccupied.
In a little peasant house nearby Adelino Canepa's aunt still lived—a very old woman, Belbo told us, who tended a little vegetable garden, kept a few hens and a pig. The others were now long dead, uncle and aunt, the Canepas; only this centenarian remained. The land had been sold years before to pay the inheritance taxes and other debts. Belbo knocked at the door of the little house. The old woman appeared on the threshold, took a while to recognize the visitor, then made a great show of deference, inviting us in, but Belbo, after having embraced and calmed her, cut the meeting short.
We entered the villa, and Lorenza gave cries of joy as she discovered stairways, corridors, shadowy rooms with old furniture. As usual, Belbo played everything down, remarking only that each of us has the Tara he deserves, but he was clearly moved. He continued to visit the house, from time to time, he told us, but not often.
"It's a good place to work: cool in summer, and in winter the thick walls protect you against the cold, and there are stoves everywhere. Naturally, when I was a child, an evacuee, we lived only in two side rooms at the end of the main corridor. Now I've taken possession of my uncle and aunt's wing. I work here, in Uncle Carlo's study." There was a secretaire with little space for a sheet of paper but plenty of small drawers, both visible and concealed. "I couldn't put Abulafia here," Belbo said. "But the rare times I come, I like to write by hand, as I did then." He showed us a majestic cupboard. "When I'm dead, remember this contains all my juvenilia, the poems I wrote when I was sixteen, the sketches for sagas in six volumes made at eighteen, and so on...."
"Let's see! Let's see!" Lorenza cried, clapping her hands and advancing with exaggerated feline tread toward the cupboard.
"Stop right where you are," Belbo said. "There's nothing to see. I don't even look at it myself anymore. And, in any case, when I'm dead, I'll come back and burn everything."
"This place has ghosts, I hope," Lorenza said.
"It does now. In Uncle Carlo's day, no; it was lots of fun then. Georgie. That's why I come. It's wonderful working at night while the dogs bark in the valley."
He showed us the rooms where we would be sleeping: mine, Diotallevi's, Lorenza's. Lorenza looked at her room, touched the old bed and its great white counterpane, sniffed the sheets, said it was like being in one of her grandmother's stories, because everything smelled of lavender. Belbo said it wasn't lavender, it was mildew. Lorenza said it didn't matter, and then, leaning against the wall, her hips thrust forward as if she were at the pinball machine, she asked, "Am I sleeping here by myself?"
Belbo looked away, then at us, then away again. He made as if to leave and said: "We'll talk about it later. In any case, if you want it, you have a refuge all your own." Diotallevi and I moved off, but we heard Lorenza ask Belbo if he was ashamed
of her. He said that if he hadn't offered her the room, she would have asked him where she was supposed to sleep. "I made the first move, so you have a choice," he said. "The wily Turk," she said. "In that case, I'll sleep here in my darling little room." "Sleep where you want," Belbo said, irritated. "But the others are here to work. Let's go out on the terrace."
So we set to work on the broad terrace, where a pergola stood, supplied with cold drinks and plenty of coffee. Alcohol forbidden till evening.
From the terrace we could see the Bricco, and below it a large plain building with a yard and a soccer field—all inhabited by multicolored little figures, children, it seemed to me. "It's the Salesian parish hall," Belbo explained. "That's where Don Tico taught me to play. In the band."
I remembered the trumpet Belbo had denied himself after the dream. I asked: "Trumpet or clarinet?"
He had a moment's panic. "How did you ... Ah, yes, I told you about the dream, the trumpet. Don Tico taught me the trumpet, but in the band I played the bombardon."
"What's a bombardon?"
"Oh, that's all kid stuff. Back to work now."
But as we worked, I noticed that he often glanced at that hall. I had the impression that he talked about other things as an excuse to look at it. For example, he would interrupt our discussion and say:
"Just down there was some of the heaviest shooting at the end of the war. Here in *** there was a kind of tacit agreement between the Fascists and the partisans. Two years in a row the partisans came down from the hills in spring and occupied the town, and the Fascists kept their distance and didn't make trouble. The Fascists weren't from around here; the partisans were all local boys. In the event of a fight, they could move easily; they knew every cornfield and the woods and hedgerows. The Fascists mostly stayed holed up in the town and ventured out only for raids. In winter it was harder for the partisans to stay down in the plain: there was no place to hide, and in the snow they could be seen from a distance and picked off by a machine gun even a kilometer away. So they climbed up into the higher hills. There, too, they knew the passes, the caves, the shelters. The Fascists returned to control the plain. But that spring we were on the eve of liberation, the Fascists were still here, and they were dubious about going back to the city, sensing that the final blow would be delivered there, as it in fact was, around April 25. I believe there was communication between the Fascists and the partisans. The latter held off, wanting to avoid a clash, sure that something would happen soon. At night Radio London gave more and more reassuring news, the special messages for the Franchi brigade became more frequent: Tomorrow it will rain again; Uncle Pietro has brought the bread—that sort of thing. Maybe you heard them, Diotallevi ... Anyway, there must have been a misunderstanding, because the partisans came down and the Fascists hadn't left.