Foucault's pendulum - Umberto Eco [263]
Belbo hung up. Wonderful: they had even prevented him from turning to the one policeman who might have believed him.
Then it occurred to him that Signor Garamond, with all his acquaintances—prefects, police chiefs, high officials—could lend a hand. He rushed to him.
Garamond listened to his story affably, interrupting him with polite exclamations like “You don’t say,” “Of all things,” “Why, it sounds like a novel.” Then he clasped his hands, looked at Belbo with profound understanding, and said: “My boy, allow me to call you that, because I could be your father— well, perhaps not your father, because I’m still a young man, more, a youthful man, but your older brother, yes, if you’ll allow me. I’ll speak to you from the heart. We’ve known each other for so many years. It seems to me that you’re overexcited, at the end of your tether, nerves shot, more, tired. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it; I know you give body and soul to the Press, and one day this must be considered also in what I might call material terms, because that never does any harm. But, if I were you, I’d take a vacation.
“You say you find yourself in an embarrassing situation. To be frank, I might say—not to dramatize—but it would be unpleasant for Garamond Press, too, if one of its editors, its best editor, were involved in any kind of dubious business. You tell me that someone wants you to travel to Paris. It’s not necessary to go into details; I believe you, naturally. So go to Paris. Isn’t it best to clear things up at once? You say you find yourself— how shall I put it?—on conflictual terms with a gentleman like Count Aglie. I don’t want to know the details, or what happened between the two of you, but I wouldn’t brood too much on that similarity of names you mentioned. The world is full of people named German, or something similar. Don’t you agree? If Aglie sends you word to come to Paris and we’ll clear everything up, well then, go to Paris. It won’t be the end of the world. In human relationships, it’s always best to be straightforward, frank. Go to Paris, and if you have anything on your chest, don’t hold it back. What’s in your heart should be on your lips. What do all these secrets matter!
“Count Aglie, if I’ve understood correctly, complains because you don’t want to tell him where some map is, some paper or message or whatever, something you have and are making no use of, whereas maybe our good friend Aglie needs it for some scholarly reason. We’re in the service of culture, aren’t we? Or am I wrong? Give it to him, .this map, this atlas, this chart—I don’t even want to know what it is. If it means so much to him, he must have his reasons, surely worthy of respect; a gentleman is always a gentleman. Go to Paris, shake hands, and it’s done. All right? And don’t worry more than necessary. You know I’m always here.” Then he pressed the intercom: “Signora Grazia... ah, not there. She’s never around when you need her. You have your troubles, my dear Belbo, but if you only knew mine. Good-bye now. If you see Signora Grazia in the corridor, send her to me. And get some rest: don’t forget.”
Belbo went out. Signora Grazia wasn’t in her office, but on her desk he saw that the red light of Garamond’s personal line was on: Garamond was calling someone. Belbo couldn’t resist (I believe it was the first time in his life he committed such an indelicacy); he picked up the receiver and listened in on the conversation. Garamond was saying: “Don’t worry. I think I’ve convinced him. He’ll come to Paris... Only my duty. We belong to the same spiritual knighthood, after all.”
So Garamond, too, was part of the secret. What secret? The one that only he, Belbo, could reveal. The one that did not exist.
It was evening by then. He went to Pilade’s, exchanged a few words with someone or other, drank too much. The next morning, he sought out the only friend he had left, Diotallevi. He went to ask the help