Foucault's pendulum - Umberto Eco [272]
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 drai-siennes 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, chores ographers of the rite. I saw Alex and Denys, les Geants d’Ava-lon, 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 nun samek 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.