Foucault's Pendulum

by Umberto Eco

  They had re-created the pendulum that the Templars first experimented with, half a millennium before Foucault. To allow it to sway freely, they had removed some ribs and supporting beams, turning the amphitheater of the choir into a crude symmetrical antistrophe marked out by the lanterns.

  I asked myself how the Pendulum could maintain its constant oscillation, since the magnetic regulator could not be beneath it now, in the floor. Then I understood. At the edge of the choir, near the diesel engines, stood an individual ready to dart like a cat to follow the plane of oscillation. He gave the sphere a little push each time it came toward him, a precise light tap of the hand or the fingertips.

  He was in tails, like Mandrake. Later, seeing his companions, I realized that he was indeed a magician, a prestidigitator from Le Petit Cirque of Madame Olcott; he was a professional, able to gauge pressures and distances, possessing a steady wrist skilled in working within the infinitesimal margins necessary in legerdemain. Perhaps through the thin soles of his gleaming shoes he could sense the vibrations of the currents, and move his hands according to the logic of both the sphere and the earth that governed it.

  His companions—now I could see them as well. They moved among the automobiles in the nave, they scurried past the draisiennes and the motorcycles, almost tumbling in the shadows. Some carried a stool and a table covered with red cloth in the vast ambulatory in the rear, and some placed other lanterns. Tiny, nocturnal, twittering, they were like rachitic children, and as one went past me I saw mongoloid features and a bald head. Madame Olcott's Freaks Mignons, the horrible little monsters I had seen on the poster in the Librairie Sloane.

  The circus was there in full force: the staff, guards, choreographers of the rite. I saw Alex and Denys, les Gents d'Avalon, sheathed in armor of studded leather. They were giants indeed, blond, leaning against the great bulk of the Obeissante, their arms folded as they waited.

  I didn't have time to ask myself more questions. Someone had entered with solemnity, a hand extended to impose silence. I recognized Bramanti only because he was wearing the scarlet tunic, the white cape, and the miter I had seen on him that evening in Piedmont. He approached the brazier, threw something on it, a flame shot up, then thick, white smoke rose and slowly spread through the room. As in Rio, I thought, at the alchemistic party. And I didn't have an agogo. I held my handkerchief to my nose and mouth, as a filter. Even so, I seemed to see two Bramantis, and the Pendulum swayed before me in several directions at once, like a merry-go-round.

  Bramanti began chanting: "Alef bet gimel dalet he vav zain het tet yod kaf lamed mem mun samck ayin pe sade qof resh shin tau!"

  The crowd responded, praying: "Pamersiel, Padiel, Camuel, Aseliel, Barmiel, Gediel, Asyriel, Maseriel, Dorchtiel, Usiel, Cabariel, Raysiel, Symiel, Armadiel..."

  Bramanti made a sign, and someone stepped from the crowd and knelt at his feet. For just an instant I saw the face. It was Riccardo, the man with the scar, the painter.

  Bramanti questioned him, and Riccardo answered, reciting from memory the formulas of the ritual.

  "Who are you?"

  "I am an adept, not yet admitted to the higher mysteries of the Tres. I have prepared myself in silence and meditation upon the mystery of the Baphomet, in the knowledge that the Great Work revolves around six intact seals, and only at the end will we know the secret of the seventh."

  "How were you received?"

  "Through the perpendicular of the Pendulum."

  "Who received you?"

  "A Mystical Envoy."

  "Would you recognize him?"

  "No, for he was masked. I know only the knight of the rank higher than mine, and he knows only the naometer of the rank higher than his, and each knows only one other. And so I wish it to be."

  "Quid facit Sator Arepo?"

  "Tenet Opera Rotas."

  "Quid facit Satan Adama?"

  "Tabat Amata Natas. Mandabas Data Amata, Nata Sata."

  "Have you brought the woman?"

  "Yes, she is here. I have delivered her to the person, as I was ordered. She is ready."

  "Go, but remain ready."

  The dialog proceeded in bad French, on both sides. Then Bramanti said: "Brothers, we are gathered here in the name of the One Order, the Unknown Order, to which Order, until yesterday, you did not know that you belonged, and yet you have always belonged to it! Let us swear. Anathema on all profaners of the Secret. Anathema on all sycophants of the occult. Anathema on all those who have made a spectacle of the Rites and Mysteries!"

  "Anathema!"

  "Anathema on the Invisible College, on the bastard children of Hiram and the Widow, on the operative and speculative masters of the lie of the Orient and the Occident, Ancient, Accepted, or Revised, on Mizraim and Memphis, on the Philalethes and the Nine Sisters, on the Strict Observance and on the Ordo Templi Orientis, on the Illuminati of Bavaria and of Avignon, on the Kadosh Knights, on the Elus Cohen, on the Perfect Friendship, on the Knights of the Black Eagle and of the Holy City, on the Rosicrucians of Anglia, on the cabalists of the Rose + Cross of Gold, on the Golden Dawn, on the Catholic Rosy Cross of the Temple and of the Grail, on the Stella Matutina, on the Astrum Argentinum and Thelema, on Vril and Thule, on every ancient and mystical usurper of the name of the Great White Fraternity, on the Guardians of the Temple, on every college and priory of Zion and of Gaul!"

  "Anathema!"

  "Whoever out of ingenuity, submission, conversion, calculation, or bad faith has been initiated into any lodge, college, priory, chapter, or order that illicitly refers to obedience to the Unknown Superiors or to the Masters of the World, must this night abjure that initiation and implore total restoration in spirit and body to the one and true observance, the Tres, Templi Resurgentes Equites Synarchici, the triune and trinosophic mystical and most secret order of the Synarchic Knights of Templar Rebirth!"

  "Sub umbra alarum tuarum!"

  "Now enter the dignitaries of the thirty-six highest and most secret degrees."

  As Bramanti called the elect, they appeared in liturgical vestments, wearing the insigne of the Golden Fleece on their chest.

  "Knight of the Baphomet, Knight of the Six Intact Seals, Knight of the Seventh Seal, Knight of the Tetragrammaton, Knight Executioner of Florian and Dei, Knight of the Athanor ... Venerable Naometer of the Turris Babel, Venerable Naometer of the Great Pyramid, Venerable Naometer of the Cathedrals, Venerable Naometer of the Temple of Solomon, Venerable Naometer of the Hortus Palatinus, Venerable Naometer of the Temple of Heliopolis..."

  As Bramanti recited the titles, those named entered in groups, so I was unable to assign to each his individual dignity, but among the first twelve I saw De Gubernatis, the old man from the Librairie Sloane, Professor Camestres, and others I had met that evening in Piedmont. And I saw Signor Garamond, I believe as Knight of the Tetragrammaton, composed and hieratic, very much absorbed in his new role, with hands that trembled as they touched the Fleece on his chest. Meanwhile, Bramanti went on: "Mystical Legate of Karnak, Mystical Legate of Bavaria, Mystical Legate of the Barbelognostics, Mystical Legate of Camelot, Mystical Legate of Montsegur, Mystical Legate of the Hidden Imam ... Supreme Patriarch of Tomar, Supreme Patriarch of Kilwinning, Supreme Patriarch of Saint-Martin-des-Champs, Supreme Patriarch of Marienbad, Supreme Patriarch of the Invisible Okhrana, Supreme Patriarch in partibus of the Rock of Alamut..."

  The patriarch of the Invisible Okhrana was Salon, still gray-faced but, without his smock, now resplendent in a yellow tunic edged in red. He was followed by Pierre, the psychopomp of the Eglise Luciferienne, who wore on his chest, instead of the Golden Fleece, a dagger in a gilded sheath. Meanwhile, Bramanti went on: "Sublime Hierogam of the Chemical Wedding, Sublime Rodostauric Psychopomp, Sublime Referendarium of the Most Arcane Arcana, Sublime Steganograph of the Hieroglyphic Monad, Sublime Astral Connector Utriusque Cosmi, Sublime Keeper of the Tomb of Rosencreutz ... Imponderable Archon of the Currents, Imponderable Archon of the Hollow Earth, Imponderable Archon of the Mystic Po
le, Imponderable Archon of the Labyrinths, Imponderable Archon of the Pendulum of Pendula..." Bramanti paused, and it seemed to me that he uttered the last formula with reluctance: "And the Imponderable Archon of Imponderable Archons, the Servant of Servants, Most Humble Secretary of the Egyptian Oedipus, Lowest Messenger of the Masters of the World and Porter of Agarttha, Last Thurifer of the Pendulum, Claude-Louis, Comte de Saint-Germain, Prince Rackoczi, Comte de Saint-Martin, and Marchese di Agliè, Monsieur de Surmont, Mr. Welldone, Marchese di Monferrato, of Aymar, and of Belmar, Count Soltikoff, Knight Schoening, Count of Tzarogy!"

  As the others of the elect took their places in the ambulatory facing the Pendulum, and the faithful stood in the nave, Agliè entered, pale and drawn, wearing a blue pinstripe suit. He led by the hand, as if escorting a soul along the path of Hades, Lorenza Pellegrini, also pale, and dazed, as if drugged; she was dressed only in a white, semitransparent tunic, and her hair fell loose over her shoulders. I saw her in profile as she went by, as pure and languid as a Pre-Raphaelite adulteress. Too diaphanous not to stir, once again, my desire.

  Agliè led Lorenza to the brazier, near the statue of Pascal; he caressed her vacant face and made a sign to the Géants d'Avalon, who came and stood on either side of her, supporting her. Then he went and sat at the table, facing the faithful, and I could see him very well as he drew his snuffbox from his vest and stroked it in silence before speaking.

  "Brothers, knights. You are here because in these past few days the Mystic Legates have informed you of the news, and therefore you all know the reason for our meeting. We should have met on the night of June 23, 1945. Some of you were not even born then—at least not in your present form. We are here because after six hundred years of the most painful error we have found one who knows. How he came to know—and to know more than we—is a disturbing mystery. But I trust that among us there is one ... You could not fail to be here, could you, mystical friend already too curious on one occasion?...I trust, as I said, that in our presence there is one who can shed light on this matter. Ardenti!"

  Colonel Ardenti—yes, it was he, raven-haired as before, though now doddering—made his way among the others and stepped forward before what seemed to be turning into a tribunal, but he was kept at a distance by the Pendulum, which marked a space that could not be crossed.

  "We have not seen each other for some time, brother." Agliè was smiling. "I knew that you would be unable to resist coming. Well? You have been informed what the prisoner said, and he says he learned it from you. So you knew and you kept silent."

  "Count," Ardenti said, "the prisoner is lying. It is humiliating for me to say this—but honor above all. The story I confided to him is not the story the Mystic Legates told me. The interpretation of the message—it's true, I came into possession of a message, but I didn't hide that from you, years ago, in Milan—the interpretation is different....I wouldn't have been capable of reading it as the prisoner has read it, and so, at that time, I sought help. And, I must say, I received no encouragement, only distrust, defiance, and threats...." Perhaps he was going to say more, but as he stared at Agliè, he stared also at the Pendulum, which was acting on him like a spell. As if hypnotized, he sank to his knees and said only, "Forgive me, because I do not know."

  "You are forgiven, because you know you do not know," Agliè said. "And so, brothers, the prisoner has knowledge that none of us has. He knows even who we are; in fact, we learned who we are through him. We must proceed: it will soon be dawn. While you remain here in meditation, I will withdraw once more, to wrest the revelation from him."

  "Ah non, monsieur le comte!" Pierre stepped into the hemicycle, his pupils dilated. "For two days you have talked with him, tête-à-tête, and he has seen nothing, said nothing, heard nothing, like the three monkeys. What more do you wish to demand, this night? No, no. Let it be here. Here, before all of us!"

  "Calm yourself, my dear Pierre. I have had brought here, this night, a woman I consider the most exquisite incarnation of the Sophia, the mystic bond between the world of error and the Superior Ogdoad. Do not ask me how or why, but in her presence the man will speak. Tell them who you are, Sophia."

  And Lorenza, like a somnambulist, as if it were an effort to utter the words, said: "I am ... the saint and the prostitute."

  "Ah, that is to laugh," Pierre said. "We have here the crème de l'initiation and we call in a pute. No; the man must be brought immediately before the Pendule!"

  "Let's not be childish," Agliè said. "Give me an hour. What makes you think he would speak here, before the Pendulum?"

  "He will speak as he is undone. Le sacrifice humain!" Pierre shouted to the nave. And the nave, in a loud voice, repeated: "Le sacrifice humain!"

  Salon stepped forward. "Count, our brother is not childish. He is right. We are not the police...."

  "You of all people say this," Agliè quipped.

  "We are not the police," Salon said, "and it is not fitting for us to proceed with ordinary methods of inquiry. On the other hand, I do not believe that sacrifices to the forces of the underground will be efficacious either. If they had wanted to give us a sign, they would have done so long ago. Another one knows, besides the prisoner, but he has disappeared. This evening, we have the possibility of confronting the prisoner with those who knew..." He smiled, staring at Agliè, his eyes narrowing beneath their bushy brows. "And to make them also confront us..."

  "What do you mean, Salon?" Agliè asked, in a voice that showed uncertainty.

  "If Monsieur le Comte permits. I will explain," a woman said. It was Madame Olcott: I recognized her from the poster. Livid, in an olive garment, her hair, black with oil, tied at the nape. The hoarse voice of a man. In the Librairie Sloane I had recognized that face, and now I remembered: she was the Druidess who had run toward us in the clearing that night in Piedmont. "Alex, Denys, bring the prisoner here."

  She spoke in an imperious tone. The murmuring in the nave expressed approval. The two giants obeyed, trusting Lorenza to two Freaks Mignons. Agliè's hands gripped the arms of his throne; he had been outvoted.

  Madame Olcott signaled to her little monsters, and between the statue of Pascal and the Obeissante three armchairs were placed. On them three individuals were seated. The three were dark-skinned, small of stature, nervous, with large white eyes. "The Fox triplets. You know them well, Count. Theo, Leo, Geo, ready yourselves."

  At that moment the giants of Avalon reappeared, holding Jacopo Belbo by the arms, though he barely came up to their shoulders. My poor friend was ashen, with several days' growth of beard; his hands were bound behind his back and his shirt was open. Entering the smoky arena, he blinked. He didn't seem surprised by the collection of hierophants he saw before him; after the past few days, he was probably prepared for anything.

  He was surprised, though, to see the Pendulum in its new position. The giants dragged him to face Agliè's seat. The only sound was the swish of the Pendulum as it grazed his back.

  Briefly, Belbo turned, and he saw Lorenza. Overwhelmed, he started to call her, and tried to free himself. But Lorenza, though she stared at him dully, seemed not to recognize him.

  From the far end of the nave, near the ticket desk and the bookstall, a roll of drums was heard, and the shrill notes of some flutes. Suddenly, the doors of four automobiles opened, and four creatures emerged. I had seen them before, too, on the poster for Le Petit Cirque.

  Wearing fezlike felt hats and ample black cloaks buttoned to the neck, Les Derviches Hurleurs stepped from the automobiles like the dead rising from the grave, and they squatted at the edge of the magic circle. In the background a flute now played sweet music, and the four gently put their hands on the floor and bowed their heads.

  From the fuselage of Breguet's plane, a fifth Derviche leaned out like a muezzin from a minaret and began to chant in an unknown tongue, moaning and lamenting as the drums began again, increasing in intensity.

  Crouched behind the Brothers Fox, Madame Olcott whispered words of encourageme
nt to them. The three were slumped in their chairs, their hands clutching the arms, their eyes closed. They began to sweat, and all the muscles of their faces twitched.

  Madame Olcott addressed the assembly of dignitaries. "My excellent little brothers will now bring into our midst three people who knew." She paused, then said: "Edward Kelley, Heinrich Khunrath, and..." Another pause. "Comte de Saint-Germain."

  For the first time, I saw Agliè make a wrong move. Out of control, he sprang from his seat, flung himself toward the woman, narrowly avoiding the trajectory of the Pendulum, as he cried: "Viper, liar, you know that cannot be...." Then, to the nave: "It's an imposture! A lie! Stop her!"

  But no one moved except Pierre, who went up and sat on the throne. "Proceed, madame," he said.

  Agliè, recovering his sangfroid, stood aside, mingling with the others. "Very well," he challenged. "Let's see, then."

  Madame Olcott moved her arm as if signaling the start of a race. The music grew shrill, dissonant; the drumbeats lost their steady rhythm; the dancers, who had already begun swaying back and forth, right and left, as they squatted, got up now, threw off their cloaks, and held out their arms wide, rigid, as if they were about to take flight. A moment of immobility, and they began to spin in place, using the left foot as a pivot, faces upraised, concentrated, vacant, and their pleated tunics belled out as they pirouetted, making them look like flowers caught in a hurricane.

  Meanwhile, the mediums, breathing hoarsely, seemed to knot up, their faces distorted, as if they were straining, unsuccessfully, to defecate. The light of the brazier dimmed. Madame Olcott's acolytes turned off the lanterns on the floor, and now the church was illuminated only by the glow from the nave.

  And the miracle began to take place. From Theo Fox's lips a whitish foam trickled, a foam that seemed to thicken. A similar substance issued from the lips of his brothers.

  "Come, brothers," Madame Olcott murmured, coaxed, "come, come. That's right, yes...."