by Umberto Eco
“Yes, crosswords,” said Palatino. “Unfortunately, we have to do the kinds of crosswords that ask who ruled Germany during the Second World War.”
“It would be a small miracle if the reader were to write ‘Hitler,’” sneered Simei.
“Meanwhile the cryptic crosswords in foreign newspapers have clues that are a puzzle in themselves. Recently, in a French newspaper, I saw ‘the friend of simples,’ and the solution was ‘herbalist,’ because simples aren’t just simpletons, but also medicinal herbs.”
“That’s no use to us,” said Simei. “Our readers won’t know what simples are, nor will they know what an herbalist is or does. Stick with Hitler, or the husband of Eve, or the mother of a calf, and stuff like that.”
Maia spoke at this point, her face illuminated by an almost childlike smile, as if she were about to do something mischievous. Crosswords were fine, she said, but readers had to wait for the next issue to find out whether their answers were correct. We could also pretend that some kind of competition had been started in previous issues and the readers’ funniest answers could be published here. We could ask readers to provide the silliest answers to an equally silly question.
“At university we amused ourselves by thinking up some weird questions and answers. Like: Why do bananas grow on trees? Because if they grew on the ground, they’d be snapped up by the crocodiles. Why do skis slide on the snow? Because if they slid only on caviar, winter sports would be too expensive.”
I joined in the game: “Why was whiskey invented in Scotland? Because if it had been invented in Japan, it would be sake, and you couldn’t drink it with soda. Why is the sea so vast? Because there are too many fish, and it would make no sense to put them on the Great Saint Bernard Pass. Why does the rooster crow a hundred and fifty times? Because if it crowed thirty-three times, it would be the Grand Master of the Freemasons.”
“Hold on,” said Palatino. “Why are glasses open at the top and closed at the bottom? Because if it were the other way around, then bars would go bankrupt. Why do fingernails grow and teeth not? Because otherwise people would bite their teeth when they were nervous. Why do legs bend inward and not out? Because on airplanes it would make forced landings extremely dangerous. Why did Christopher Columbus sail west? Because if he’d sailed east, he would have discovered Naples. Why do fingers have nails? Because if they had pupils, they’d be eyes.”
The competition was now in full flow, and Fresia intervened once more: “Why are aspirins different from iguanas? Because have you tried swallowing an iguana?”
“That’s enough,” said Simei. “This is schoolboy stuff. Don’t forget, our readers aren’t intellectuals. They haven’t read about the surrealists, who used to make exquisite corpses, as they called them. Our readers would take it all seriously and think we were mad. Come on, we’re fooling around, we have work to do.”
And so the silly-question column was rejected. Too bad, it would have been fun. But this whole business had drawn Maia Fresia to my attention. Along with such wit she must have had a certain charm. And in her own way, she did. Why in her own way? I still wasn’t quite sure in what way, but I was curious.
She was obviously feeling frustrated, however, and tried to suggest something more in line with her own interests. “The Strega literary prize is coming up,” she said. “Shouldn’t we be talking about the books on the shortlist?”
“Always going on about culture, you young people. It’s a good thing you didn’t graduate, otherwise you’d be suggesting a fifty-page critical essay—”
“No, I didn’t graduate, but I do read.”
“We can’t get too involved in culture, our readers don’t read books. The most they’re going to read is La Gazzetta dello Sport. But I agree, the newspaper will have to have a page, not just on culture, but culture and entertainment. Forthcoming cultural events, however, should be reported in the form of interviews. An interview with the author is reassuring: no authors will speak badly of their books, so our readers will not be exposed to any spiteful or supercilious attacks. Then a lot depends on the questions: you shouldn’t talk too much about the book but rather concentrate on the writer, perhaps on his or her foibles and weaknesses. Signorina Fresia, you have experience with celebrity romances. Think of an interview with one of the short-listed authors. If the story is about love, get the author to describe their first love affair, and perhaps to throw a little mud at the other candidates. Turn the wretched book into something human that even a housewife will understand, so she has no regrets if she doesn’t read it, and anyway, who reads books that newspapers review? Generally speaking, not even the reviewer. We should be thankful if the book has been read by the author.”
“My God,” said Maia Fresia, turning pale, “I’ll never rid myself of the curse of celebrity romance.”
“You haven’t exactly been called here to write articles on the economy and international politics.”
“I guessed as much. Though I’d hoped I was wrong.”
“There now, don’t take it badly. Try to put something down, we all have great faith in you.”
6
Wednesday, April 15
ONE MORNING, I REMEMBER Cambria saying: “I heard on the radio that research has shown how air pollution is affecting penis size among the younger generation, and I decided that the problem doesn’t relate just to sons, but also to fathers, who are forever boasting about the size of their son’s willy. When mine was born and they took me into the room at the hospital where all the newborns were on display, I remember commenting what a fine pair of balls he had, and subsequently boasted to colleagues.”
“All newborn boys have enormous testicles,” said Simei, “and all fathers say the same thing. And then you know how labels are often mixed up, so perhaps that wasn’t your son after all—with the greatest respect to your wife.”
“But this news relates to fathers in particular, since there are also said to be harmful effects on the reproductive system of adults,” retorted Cambria. “If the idea spreads that pollution is affecting not just whales but also willies, I think we might witness sudden conversions to environmentalism.”
“Interesting,” commented Simei, “but who is suggesting that the Commendatore, or at least his circle, is concerned about reducing air pollution?”
“But it would raise the alarm, wouldn’t it, and quite rightly,” said Cambria.
“Maybe, but we’re not alarmists,” replied Simei. “That would be terrorism—you don’t want to start raising doubts over our gas pipeline, our petroleum, our iron and steel industries, do you? We’re not the Green Party newspaper. Our readers have to be reassured, not alarmed.” Then, after a moment’s reflection, he added: “Unless of course the things that affect the penis are produced by a pharmaceutical company, which the Commendatore wouldn’t mind alarming. But they’re matters to be discussed case by case. In any event, let me know if you have an idea, then I’ll decide whether or not to pursue it.”
The next day Lucidi arrived at the office with an article practically already written. The story was this. An acquaintance of his had received a letter from the Ordre Souverain Militaire de Saint-Jean de Jérusalem–Chevaliers de Malte–Prieuré Oecuménique de la Sainte-Trinité-de-Villedieu–Quartier Général de la Vallette–Prieuré de Québec, inviting him to become a knight of Malta, subject to a generous reimbursement for a framed diploma, medallion, badge, and other trinkets. Lucidi had decided to investigate the whole business of knightly orders and had made some extraordinary discoveries.
“Listen to this. I’ve dug up a police report—don’t ask me how—on various fake orders of Malta. There are sixteen of them, not to be confused with the genuine Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of Saint John of Jerusalem of Rhodes and of Malta, which is based in Rome. Each has more or less the same name with minimal variations. They all alternately recognize, then disown, one another. In 1908 some Russians establish an order in the United States, which in recent years has been led by His Royal Highness
Prince Roberto Paternò Ayerbe Aragona, Duke of Perpignan, head of the Royal House of Aragon, claimant to the throne of Aragon and the Balearics, Grand Master of the Orders of the Collar of Saint Agatha of Paternò and of the Royal Balearic Crown. But a Dane breaks away from this branch in 1934 and sets up another order, proclaiming Prince Peter of Greece and Denmark as its chancellor. In the 1960s, a defector from the Russian branch, Paul de Granier de Cassagnac, establishes an order in France and chooses the ex-king of Yugoslavia, Peter II, as its protector. In 1965 ex-king Peter II of Yugoslavia falls out with Cassagnac and founds another order, in New York, of which Prince Peter of Greece and Denmark becomes Grand Prior. In 1966 a certain Robert Bassaraba von Brancovan Khimchiacvili appears as chancellor, though he is expelled and goes off to found the Order of the Ecumenical Knights of Malta, of which Prince Enrico III Costantino di Vigo Lascaris Aleramico Paleologo del Monferrato would become Imperial and Royal Protector. This prince describes himself as heir to the throne of Byzantium, Prince of Thessaly, and would then found another order in Malta. I then find a Byzantine protectorate, created by Prince Carol of Romania, who had broken away from Cassagnac’s order; a Grand Priory of which a certain Tonna-Barthet is the Grand Bailiff, while Prince Andrew of Yugoslavia—former Grand Master of the order founded by Peter II—is Grand Master of the Priory of Russia (which would then become Grand Royal Priory of Malta and of Europe). There’s even an order created in the 1970s by a Baron de Choibert and by Vittorio Busa, otherwise known as Viktor Timur II, Metropolitan Orthodox Archbishop of Bialystok, Patriarch of the Western and Eastern Diaspora, President of the Democratic Republic of Byelorussia and Gran Khan of Tartary and Mongolia. And then there’s an International Grand Priory created in 1971 by the aforementioned Royal Highness Roberto Paternò with the Baron Marquis of Alaro, of which another Paternò would become Grand Protector in 1982—a certain Leopardi Tomassini Paternò of Constantinople, head of the imperial dynasty and heir to the Eastern Roman Empire, consecrated legitimate successor of the Apostolic Catholic Orthodox Church of the Byzantine Rite, Marquis of Monteaperto and Count Palatine of the throne of Poland. In 1971 the Ordre Souverain Militaire de Saint-Jean de Jérusalem appears in Malta (the one from which I started), from a split with that of Bassaraba, under the supreme protection of Alessandro Licastro Grimaldi Lascaris Comneno Ventimiglia, Duke of La Chastre, Sovereign Prince and Marquis of Déols, and its Grand Master is now the Marquis Carlo Stivala of Flavigny, who, on Licastro’s death, joins up with Pierre Pasleau, who assumes Licastro’s titles, as well as those of His Holiness the Archbishop Patriarch of the Catholic Orthodox Church of Belgium, Grand Master of the Sovereign Military Order of the Temple of Jerusalem and Grand Master and Hierophant of the Universal Masonic Order of the Ancient Oriental Rite and the Joint Primitive Rite of Memphis and Misraim. I forgot to mention that to be à la page one could become a member of the Priory of Sion, as a descendant of Jesus Christ, who married Mary Magdalene and founded the Merovingian dynasty.”
“The names of these characters are enough in themselves to make news,” said Simei, who had been taking notes enthusiastically. “Just think, Paul de Granier de Cassagnac, Licastro (what did you say?) Grimaldi Lascaris Comneno Ventimiglia, Carlo Stivala of Flavigny . . .”
“. . . Robert Bassaraba von Brancovan Khimchiacvili,” Lucidi repeated jubilantly.
“I think quite a number of our readers will have been taken in by propositions of this kind,” I added. “We can help protect them from these opportunists.”
Simei hesitated for a moment and said he would give it some thought. The following day he had evidently done some research and told us that our proprietor had received the title of Commendatore from the Order of Saint Mary of Bethlehem: “It turns out that the Order of Saint Mary of Bethlehem was another fake order. The real one was that of Saint Mary of Jerusalem, the Ordo Fratrum Domus Hospitalis Sanctae Mariae Teutonicorum in Jerusalem. It is recognized by the Pontifical Yearbook, though I certainly wouldn’t place my trust in that, with all that’s been going on in the Vatican, but in any event a Commendatore of the Order of Saint Mary of Bethlehem is worth about as little as that of the Mayor of Cockaigne. And do you really want to publish an article that throws a shadow of doubt, even ridicule, on the title of our Commendatore? Each to his own delusion. I’m sorry, Lucidi, but we’ll have to scrap your fine article.”
“You’re saying we have to check whether or not the Commendatore is going to like each article?” asked Cambria, our specialist in stupid questions.
“Of course,” replied Simei. “He’s our majority shareholder, as they say.”
At this point Maia plucked up the courage to mention a possible line of investigation. The story was this. In the Porta Ticinese district, in a part of the city that was becoming increasingly popular with tourists, there was a restaurant and pizzeria called Paglia e Fieno. Maia, who lives by the canals, has been walking past it for years. And for years this vast restaurant, through whose windows you could glimpse at least a hundred seats, was always depressingly empty, except for a few tourists drinking coffee at the tables outside. And it wasn’t as if the place was abandoned. Maia had once been inside, out of curiosity, and was alone, except for a small family group twenty tables farther down. She had ordered a dish of paglia e fieno, of course, with a quarter liter of white wine and some apple tart, all excellent fare and reasonably priced, with extremely polite waiters. Now, if someone runs premises as vast as that, with staff, kitchen, and so forth, and no one goes there for years, if they had any sense they would sell it off. And yet Paglia e Fieno has been open for maybe ten years, pretty well three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
“There’s something strange going on there,” observed Costanza.
“Not really,” replied Maia. “The explanation is obvious. It’s a place owned by the triads, or the Mafia, or the Camorra. It’s been bought with dirty money and it’s a good, upfront investment. But, you say, the investment is already there, it’s in the value of the building, and they could keep it shut down, without putting any more money into it. And yet no—it’s open and running. Why?”
“Yes, why?” asked Cambria again.
Her reply revealed that Maia had a smart little brain. “The premises are used, day in day out, for laundering dirty money that’s constantly flowing in. You serve the few customers who turn up each evening, but each evening you ring up a series of false till receipts as though you’d had a hundred customers. Once you’ve registered that amount, you take it to the bank—and perhaps, so as not to attract attention to all that cash, since no one’s paying by credit card, you open accounts in twenty different banks. On this sum, which is now legal, you pay all the necessary taxes, after generous deductions for operating expenses and supplies (it’s not hard to get false invoices). It’s well known that for money laundering you have to count on losing fifty percent. With this system, you lose much less.”
“But how do you prove all this?” asked Palatino.
“Simple,” replied Maia. “Two revenue officers go there for dinner, a man and woman, looking like newlyweds, and as they’re eating they look around and see there are, let’s say, just two other customers. Next day the police go and check, find that a hundred till receipts have been rung up, and I’d like to see what those people will have to say for themselves.”
“It’s not so simple,” I pointed out. “The two revenue officers go there, say, at eight o’clock, but however much they eat, they will have to leave by nine, otherwise they’ll look suspicious. Who can prove that the hundred customers weren’t there between nine and midnight? You then have to send at least three or four couples to cover the evening. Now, if they do a check the next morning, what’s going to happen? The police are thrilled to find someone’s been underdeclaring, but what can they do with someone who’s declaring too much? The restaurant can always say the machine got stuck, that it kept printing out the same thing. And what then? A second check? They’re not stupid, they’ve now figured out who the office
rs are, and when they come back they won’t ring up any false till receipts that evening. Or the police have to keep checking night after night, sending out half an army to eat pizzas, and perhaps after a year they’d manage to close them down, but it’s just as likely they’d get bored well before that, because they’ve got other things to do.”
“That’s for the police to decide,” Maia replied resentfully. “They’ll find some clever way—we just have to point out the problem.”
“My dear,” said Simei affably, “I’ll tell you what will happen if we cover this investigation. First, we’ll have the police on our backs, as you’ll be criticizing them for failing to detect the fraud—and they know how to get their revenge, if not against us then certainly against the Commendatore. And as you say yourself, we have the triads, the Camorra, the ’Ndrangheta, or whoever else, and you think they’re going to be pleased? And do we sit here as good as gold, waiting for them to bomb our offices? Finally, you know what I say? That our readers will be thrilled to eat a good cheap meal in a place that comes straight out of a detective story, so that Paglia e Fieno will be packed with morons and our only accomplishment will be that we’ve made them a fortune. So we can forget that one. Don’t you worry, just go back to your horoscopes.”