Eco: Foucalt's Pendulum by eco foucault (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

"How dramatic this is,"Lorenza said. "Go on. Don't keep us on pins andneedles."

"But I had to findsomebody to take my place on the bombardon. Work out something, DonTico said. So I worked out something. Now I must tell you, dearchildren, that in those days there lived in ***, a couple ofwretches, classmates of mine, though they were two years older thanI, and this fact tells you something about their mental ability.These two brutes were named Annibale Cantalamessa and Pio Bo.Asterisk: Historical fact."

"What?" Lorenzaasked.

I explained, smugly:"When Salgari, in his adventure stories, includes a true event, orsomething he thinks is true¡Xlet's say that, after Little Big Horn,Sitting Bull eats General Custer's heart¡Xhe always puts anasterisk and a footnote that says: Historical fact."

"Yes, and it's ahistorical fact that Annibale Cantalamessa and Pio Bo really hadthose names, but the names were the least of it. A real pair ofsneaks: they stole comic books from the newsstand, shell cases fromother boys' collections. And they would think nothing of parkingtheir greasy salami sandwich on your prized Christmas book, adeluxe volume of tales of the high seas. Cantalamessa calledhimself a Communist, Bo, a Fascist, but they were both ready tosell themselves to the enemy for a slingshot. They told storiesabout their sexual prowess, with erroneous anatomical information,and argued over who had masturbated more the night before. Herewere two villains ready for anything; why not the bombardon? So Idecided to seduce them. I sang the praises of the band uniform, Itook them to public performances, I held out hopes of amatorytriumphs with the Daughters of Mary...They fell for it. I spent mydays in the theater with a long stick, as I had seen in illustratedpamphlets about missionaries; I rapped them on the knuckles whenthey missed a note. The bombardon has only three keys, but it's theembouchure that matters, as I said. I won't bore you any further,my little listeners. The day came, after long sleepless afternoons,when I could introduce to Don Tico two bombardons¡XI won't sayperfect, but at least acceptable. Don Tico was convinced; he putthem in uniform and moved me to the trumpet. Within the space of aweek, for the feast of Our Lady Help of Christians, for the openingof the theatrical season with They Had to See Paris, there beforethe curtain, in the presence of the authorities, I was standing toplay the opening bars of ¡¥Good Start.' "

"Oh, joyous moment,"Lorenza said, making a face of tender jealousy. "AndCecilia?"

"She wasn't there. Maybeshe was sick. I don't know. But she wasn't there."

He raised his eyes andsurveyed the audience, and at that moment he was bard¡Xor jester.He calculated the pause. "Two days later, Don Tico sent for me andtold me that Annibale Cantalamessa and Pio Bo had ruined theevening. They wouldn't keep time, their minds wandered when theyweren't playing, they joked and never came in at the right place.¡¥The bombardon,' Don Tico said to me, ¡¥is the backbone of theband, its rhythmic conscience, its soul. The band, it is a flock;the instruments are the sheep, the bandmaster the shepherd, but thebombardon is the faithful snarling dog that keeps the flocktogether. The bandmaster looks first to the bombardon, for if thebombardon follows him, the sheep will follow. Jacopo, my boy, Imust ask of you a great sacrifice: to go back to the bombardon. Youhave a good sense of rhythm, you will keep those other two in timefor me. I promise, as soon as they can play on their own, I'll letyou play the trumpet.' I owed everything to Don Tico. I said yes.And on the next holy day the trumpets rose to their feet and playedthe opening of ¡¥Good Start' in front of Cecilia, once more in thefirst row. But I was in the darkness, a bombardon among bombardons.As for those two wretches, they never were able to play on theirown, and I never went back to the trumpet.

The war ended, Ireturned to the city, abandoned music, the brass family, and nevereven learned Cecilia's last name."

"Poor boy," Lorenzasaid, hugging him from behind. "But you still have me."

"I thought you likesaxophones," Belbo said. Then he turned and kissed her hand. "But,to work," he said, serious again. "We're here to create a story ofthe future, not a remembrance of things past.''

That evening, thelifting of the ban on alcohol was much celebrated. Jacopo seemed tohave forgotten his elegiac mood and competed with Diotallevi inimagining absurd machines¡Xonly to discover, each time, that themachines had already been invented. At midnight, after a full day,we all decided it was time to experience what it was like sleepingin the hills.

On my bed the sheetswere even damper than they had been in the afternoon. Jacopo hadinsisted that we use a "priest": an oval frame that kept the coversraised and had a place for a little brazier with embers¡Xhe wantedto make sure we tasted all the pleasures of rural life. But whendampness is inherent, a bed-warmer encourages it: you feel welcomewarmth, but the sheets remain humid. Oh, well. I lit a lamp, thekind with a fringed shade, where the mayflies flutter until theydie, as the poet says, and I tried to make myself sleepy by readingthe newspaper.

For an hour or two Iheard footsteps in the corridor, an opening and closing of doors,and the last closing was a violent slam. Lorenza Pellegrini puttingBelbo's nerves to the test.

I was half-asleep when Iheard a scratching at the door, my door. I couldn't tell whether itwas an animal or not (I had seen neither dogs nor cats in thehouse), but I had the impression that it was an invitation, arequest, a trap. Maybe Lorenza was doing it because she knew Belbowas spying on her. Maybe not. Until then, I had considered LorenzaBelbo's property¡Xat least as far as I was concerned¡Xand besides,now that I was living with Lia, other women didn't interest me. Thesly glances, often conspiratorial, that Lorenza gave me in theoffice or in a bar when she was teasing Belbo, as if seeking anally or a witness, were part¡XI had always