Foucault's pendulum - Umberto Eco [242]
“He’s really sick. It’s not an ideological protest,” I said.
Belbo finally understood. Concerned, he went to Diotallevi, who was leaning against the desk, apparently on the verge of fainting. “Sorry, my friend. I got carried away. You’re sure it’s not anything I said? We’ve joked together for twenty years, you and I. Maybe you do have gastritis. Look, try a Merankol tablet and a hot-water bottle. Come, I’ll drive you home. Then you’d better call a doctor, have yourself looked at.”
Diotallevi said he could take a taxi home, he wasn’t at death’s door yet. He just had to lie down. Yes, he would call a doctor, he promised. And it wasn’t the Holocaust business that had upset him; he had been feeling bad since the previous evening. Belbo, relieved, went with him to the taxi.
When he came back, he looked worried. “Now that I think about it, Diotallevi hasn’t been himself for several weeks. Those circles under his eyes....It’s not fair; I should have died of cirrhosis ten years ago, and here I am, the picture of health, whereas he lives like an ascetic and has gastritis or maybe worse. If you ask me, it’s an ulcer. To hell with the Plan. We’re not living right.”
“A Merankol will fix him up,” I said.
“Yes, and a hot-water bottle on his stomach. Let’s hope he acts sensibly.”
101
Qui operator in Cabala...si errabit in opere aut non purificatus accesserit, deuorabitur ab Azazale.
—Pico della Mirandola, Conclusiones Magicae
Diotallevi’s condition took a decided turn for the worse in late November. He called the office to say he was going into the hospital. The doctor had told him there was nothing to worry about, but it would be a good idea to have some tests.
Belbo and I somehow connected Diotallevi’s illness with the Plan, which perhaps we had carried too far. It was irrational, but we felt guilty. This was the second time I seemed to be Belbo’s partner in crime. Once, we had remained silent together, withholding information from De Angelis; and now we had talked too much. We told each other this was silly, but we couldn’t shake off our uneasiness. And so, for a month or more, we did not discuss the Plan.
Meanwhile, after he had been out for two weeks or so, Dio-tallevi dropped by to tell us, in a nonchalant tone, that he had asked Garamond for sick leave. A treatment had been recommended to him. He didn’t go into details, but it involved his reporting to the hospital every two or three days, and it would leave him somewhat weak. I didn’t see how he could get much weaker; his face now was as white as his hair.
“And forget about those stories,” he said. “They’re bad for the health, as you’ll see. It’s the Rosicrucians’ revenge.”
“Don’t worry,” Belbo said to him, smiling. “We’ll make life really unpleasant for those Rosicrucians, and they’ll leave you alone. Nothing to it.” And he snapped his fingers.
The treatment lasted until the beginning of the new year. I was absorbed by my history of magic—the real thing, serious stuff, I said to myself, not our nonsense. Garamond came by at least once a day to ask for news of Diotallevi. “And please, gentlemen, let me know if any need arises, any problem, any circumstance in which I, the firm, can do something for our admirable friend. For me, he’s like a son—more, a brother— and thank heaven this is a civilized country, whatever people may say; we have a public health system we can be proud of.”
Aglie expressed concern, asked for the name of the hospital, and telephoned its director, a dear friend (who, moreover, happened to be the brother of an SEA with whom Aglie was on excellent terms). Diotallevi would be treated with special consideration.
Lorenza showed up often to ask for news. This should have made Belbo happy, but he took it as another indication that his prognosis was not good. Lorenza was there, but still elusive, because she wasn’t there for him.
Shortly before Christmas, I’d caught a snatch of their conversation. Lorenza was saying to him: “The snow is just right, and they have charming little rooms. You can do cross-country skiing, can