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

sure the marchersdidn't transgress any of the unwritten boundaries drawn throughdowntown Milan (there were a lot of territorial compromises backthen). The protesters operated in an area beyond Largo Augusto; thefascists were entrenched in Piazza San Babila and its neighboringstreets. If anybody crossed the line, there were incidents;otherwise nothing happened. It was like a lion and a lion tamer. Weusually believe that the tamer is attacked by the lion and that thetamer stops the attack by raising his whip or firing a blank.Wrong: the lion was fed and sedated before it entered the cage anddoesn't feel like attacking anybody. Like all animals, it has itsown space; if you don't invade that space, the lion remains calm.When the tamer steps forward, invading it, the lion roars; thetamer then raises his whip, but also takes a step backward (as ifin expectation of a charge), whereupon the lion calms down. Asimulated revolution must also have its rules.

I went to thedemonstration but didn't march with any of the groups. Instead, Istood at the edge of Piazza Santo Stefano, where reporters,editors, and artists who had come to show their solidarity weremilling around. The whole clientele of Pilade's.

I found myself standingnext to Belbo and a woman I had often seen him with at the bar, whoI thought was his companion. (She later disappeared¡Xand now I knowwhy, having read about it in the file on Dr. Wagner.)

"What are you doinghere?" I asked.

"You know how it is," hesaid, smiling, embarrassed. "We have to save our souls somehow.Crede firmiter et pecca fortiter. Doesn't this scene remind you ofsomething?"

I looked around. It wasa sunny afternoon, one of those days when Milan is beautiful:yellow facades and a softly metallic sky. The police, across thesquare, were armored with helmets and plastic shields that gave offglints like steel. A plainclothes officer girded with a gaudytricolor sash strutted up and down in front of his men. I turnedand looked at the head of the march. People weren't moving; theywere marking time. They were lined up in ranks, but the rows wereirregular, almost serpentine, and the crowd seemed to bristle withpikes, standards, banners, sticks. Impatient groups chantedrhythmic slogans. Along the flanks of the procession, activistsdarted back and forth, wearing red kerchiefs over their faces,motley shirts, studded belts, and jeans that had known much rainand sun. Even the rolled-up flags that concealed the incongruousweapons looked like dabs of color on a palette. I thought of Duty,his gaiety. Freely associating, I went from Dufy to GuillaumeDufay. I had the impression of being in a Flemish miniature. In thelittle crowds gathered on either side of the marchers, I glimpsedsome androgynous women waiting for the great display of daring theyhad been promised. But all this went through my mind in a flash, asif I were reliving some other experience without recognizingit.

"It's the taking ofAscalon, isn't it?" Belbo said.

"By the lord SaintJames, my good sir," I replied, "this is truly a Crusaders' combat!I do believe that this night some of these men will be inparadise!"

"No doubt," Belbo said."But can you tell me where the Saracens are?"

"Well, the police aredefinitely Teutonic," I observed, "which would make us the hordesof Aleksandr Nevski. But I'm getting my texts mixed up. Look atthat group over there. They must be the companions of the Comted'Artois, eager to enter the fray, for they will brook no ofFense,and already they head for the enemy lines, shouting threats toprovoke the infidel!"

That was when ithappened. I don't remember it that clearly. The marchers hadstarted moving, and a group of activists with chains and ski masksbegan to force their way through the police lines toward Piazza SanBabila, yelling. The lion was on the move. The front line of policeparted and the fire hoses appeared. The first ball bearings, thenthe first stones, came hurtling from the forward positions of thedemonstration. A cordon of police advanced, swinging clubs, and theprocession recoiled. At that moment, in the distance, from the farend of Via La-ghetto, a shot was heard. Maybe it was only a tireexploding, or a firecracker; maybe it was a popgun shot from one ofthose groups that in a few years would regularly be usingP-38s.

Panic. The police drewtheir weapons, trumpet blasts for a charge were heard, the marchsplit into two groups: one, militants, who were ready to fight, andone, all the others, who considered their duty done. I found myselfrunning along Via Larga, with the mad fear of being hit by someblunt object, such as a club. Suddenly Belbo and his companion werebeside me, running fast but without panic.

At the corner of ViaRastrelli, Belbo grabbed me by the arm. "This way, kid," he said. Iwanted to ask why; Via Larga seemed much more spacious and peopled,and claustrophobia overcame me in the maze of alleys between ViaPecorari and the Archbishop's Palace. It seemed to me that whereBelbo was going there were fewer places to hide or blend in if thepolice intercepted us. But he signaled me to be quiet, turned twoor three corners, and gradually slowed down. We found ourselveswalking unhurriedly, right behind the cathedral, where traffic wasnormal and no echoes came from the battle taking place less thantwo hundred meters away. Still silent, we walked around thecathedral and finally came to the side facing the Galleria. Belbobought a bag of corn and began feeding the pigeons with seraphicpleasure. We blended into the Saturday crowd completely; Belbo andI were in jackets and ties, and the girl had on the uniform of aMilanese lady: a gray turtleneck with a strand of pearls¡Xcultured,or maybe not.

Belbo introduced us."This is Sandra. You two know each other?"

"By sight.Hi."

"You see, Casaubon,"Belbo said to me then, "you must never flee in a straight line.Napoleon HI, following the example of the Savoys in Turin, hadParis disemboweled, then turned it into the network of boulevardswe all admire today. A masterpiece of intelligent city planning.Except that those broad, straight streets are also ideal forcontrolling angry crowds. Where possible, even the side streetswere made broad and straight, like the Champs-Elysees. Where itwasn't possible, in the little streets of the Latin Quarter, forexample, that's where May