UMBERTO ECO : THE PRAGUE CEMETERY by Umberto Eco
Bronte was, for Simonini, just a simpleton with whom he could pass a few winter evenings. Of more immediate interest was another figure, a hirsute man who at first kept to himself, but when he heard Simonini asking the landlord about the recipes for various dishes, he joined the conversation and turned out to be a fellow gastronome. Simonini told him how to make agnolotti alla piemontese, while he revealed the secrets of caponata; Simonini described tartare all'albese until his mouth watered, and he expounded on the alchemy of marzipan.
This man, Master Ninuzzo, spoke something approaching Italian, and hinted that he'd also traveled abroad. And then, after describing his great devotion to the various effigies in the local sanctuaries, and expressing his respect for Simonini's ecclesiastical dignity, Ninuzzo confessed his curious situation. He had been an explosives expert with the Bourbon army — not an ordinary soldier but the keeper of a nearby powder magazine. Garibaldi's men had driven back the Bourbon army and seized the munitions and powder, but instead of dismantling the bunker, they'd kept Ninuzzo in their service to guard the place, in the pay of the military authorities. And there he was, getting bored, awaiting orders, resentful of the northern occupiers, faithful to his king, dreaming of rebellion and insurrection.
"I could blow up half of Palermo if I wanted to," Ninuzzo whispered, as soon as he understood that neither was Simonini on the side of the Piedmontese. And he described how, to his amazement, the usurpers had failed to realize that beneath the magazine was a vault containing more kegs of gunpowder, grenades and other weaponry. These were to be kept for the imminent counterattack, seeing that resistance groups were organizing themselves in the hills to make life difficult for the Piedmontese invaders.
* * *
Everyone called him Bronte, and in fact it seems
he had escaped from the Bronte massacres.
* * *
His face gradually lit up as he talked about explosives, and his pug-nosed features and gloomy eyes became almost handsome. Then one day he took Simonini to his bunker and, reappearing from an exploration of the vault, showed him some blackish granules in the palm of his hand.
"Ah, most reverend Father," Ninuzzo said, "there's nothing more beautiful than fine-quality powder. Look at that slate-gray color. The granules don't crumble when pressed between the fingers. If you had a piece of paper and put the powder on it and ignited it, it would burn without touching the paper. They used to make it with seventy-five parts of saltpeter, twelve of charcoal and twelve of sulfur. Then they moved on to what they called the English blend, which was fifteen parts charcoal and ten of sulfur, and that's how you lose wars, because your grenades don't explode. Today we experts (though unfortunately, or thank God, there are few of us) use Chilean nitrate instead of saltpeter, and that's quite another thing."
"Better?"
"It's the best. You see, Father, they're inventing new explosives every day, and each is worse than the other. One of the king's officials (by which I mean the real king) appeared to know everything and told me I should use a brand-new invention, pyroglycerine. He didn't understand that it only works on impact. It's difficult to detonate because you have to be there banging it with a hammer, and you'd be the first to blow up. Let me tell you, if you ever want to blow someone up, old-fashioned gunpowder's the only thing. And it makes a fine show."
Master Ninuzzo seemed overjoyed, as if there were nothing more beautiful in the world. At the time, Simonini didn't attach much importance to his ramblings. But later, in January, he thought about it again.
Mulling over ways of getting his hands on the expedition's account books, he reasoned as follows: Either the accounts are here in Palermo or they will be back in Palermo when Nievo returns from the north. Nievo will then have to take them back to Turin by sea. Therefore it's pointless to follow him night and day, as that won't get me near the secret safe, and even if I do get near the safe, I won't be able to open it. If I did get there and open it, there'd be a scandal, Nievo would report the disappearance of the accounts, and my masters in Turin might be blamed. Nor could I keep the matter quiet even if I surprised Nievo with the accounts and knifed him in the back. The dead body of someone like Nievo would always be a cause for embarrassment. They told me in Turin that the accounts had to go up in smoke. But Nievo ought to go up in smoke with them, so when he disappears (in a way that seems accidental and natural), the disappearance of the accounts will fade into the background. Therefore, why not burn down or blow up the revenue offices? Too obvious. The only other solution is for Nievo to disappear, along with his accounts, while he's sailing from Palermo to Turin. If fifty or sixty people lost their lives in a disaster at sea, nobody would think it was done to destroy a few scruffy account books.
It was a bold and imaginative idea. Simonini was apparently growing older and wiser, and this was no longer the time for silly games with a few university friends. He had seen war, he was used to seeing death (fortunately that of others), and he was most anxious to avoid ending up in the dungeons of those fortresses described by Negri di Saint Front.
Simonini had, of course, thought long and hard about this project, not least because he had nothing else to do. Meanwhile, he spent time with Master Ninuzzo, offering him excellent lunches.
"Master Ninuzzo, you ask why I am here, and I can tell you that I've come on the orders of the Holy Father, to reestablish the kingdom of our sovereign of the Two Sicilies."
"Then I'm at your service, Father. Tell me what to do."
"On a certain date — I don't yet know when — a steamship will sail from Palermo to the mainland. It will carry a safe containing orders and plans designed to destroy forever the authority of the Holy Father and humiliate our king. Before it reaches Turin, this steamer must go down with every soul on board."
"Nothing could be simpler, Father. You could use a very recent discovery, apparently developed by the Americans. It's called a coal torpedo, a bomb that looks like a lump of coal. You hide this lump under the heaps of coal used to fuel the ship, and once it's in the furnace, the torpedo heats up and explodes."
"Not bad. But the piece of coal has to be thrown into the furnace at the right moment. The ship mustn't explode too early or too late — in other words, as it's leaving or just about to dock — otherwise it would be too obvious. It has to explode halfway through the journey, far from prying eyes."
"That's more difficult. You can't bribe a stoker, since he'd be the first victim, so you'd have to calculate the exact time when a certain quantity of coal is to be put into the furnace. Not even the Witch of Benevento could predict something like that."
"And so?"
"And so, dear Father, the only solution that never fails is once again a keg of gunpowder with a good fuse."
"But who's going to stay on board to light a fuse knowing the whole thing's going to explode?"
"No one, unless he's an expert. There are — thank God or unfortunately —still a few of us left. The expert can work out the length of the fuse. Fuses were once just pieces of straw filled with black gunpowder, or a sulfur-coated touch-paper, or a string soaked in saltpeter and tarred. You never knew how long they'd take to reach the charge. But for thirty years or so, thank God, the slow-burning fuse has been available, of which, as it happens, I have a few meters in the crypt."
"And with that?"
"With that you can work out how long it will take from the moment the fuse is lit to when the flame reaches the powder, and you can calculate the time according to the length of the fuse. So if the artificer, having lit the fuse, knows he can reach a point in the ship's course where someone is waiting for him with a boat lowered into the water, and the ship blows up when they are a good distance away, then I reckon all would be perfect, a work of art!"
"Master Ninuzzo, there's just one problem . . . Let's imagine there's a storm that evening and no one can lower a boat. Would an artificer like you run such a risk?"
"To be honest, Father, no."
No one could ask Master Ninuzzo to go to his
At the end of January, Nievo returned from Milan to Naples, where he stayed for a fortnight, perhaps gathering documents there too. He was then ordered to return to Palermo, collect all his account books (thus indicating that he'd left them there) and take them to Turin.
His meeting with Simonini was affectionate and brotherly. Nievo indulged in a few sentimental reflections upon his journey in the north, about that impossible love which had been disastrously, or marvelously, rekindled during the brief visit . . . Simonini's eyes seemed tearful as he listened to his friend's elegiac stories, but in truth all he could think of was how the account books would make their way to Turin.
Finally, Nievo told him. In early March he would be leaving Palermo for Naples aboard the Ercole,and from Naples would continue on to Genoa. The Ercolewas a respectable twin-paddlewheel steamship of English construction, with a crew of fifteen and room for several dozen passengers. It had been sailing for many years, but its days were not over; it was still a decent vessel. Simonini was eager to know more. He discovered where her captain, Michele Mancino, was lodging, and with the help of the sailors he was able to get an idea about the layout of the ship below decks.
Then, having donned his cassock and resumed his priestly air, he returned to Bagheria and took Bronte to one side.
"Bronte," he told him, "a ship is about to leave Palermo for Naples with Nino Bixio on board. Now is the moment for us, the last defenders of the Throne, to avenge ourselves for what he did to your town. You have the honor of taking part in his execution."
"Tell me what I have to do."
"Here is a fuse. Its duration has been calculated by someone who knows more about it than you or I. Wrap it around your waist. One of our men, Captain Simonini, an officer of Garibaldi's but secretly loyal to our king, will have loaded on board a chest containing secret military documents, with instructions that the hold is to be kept under constant guard by one of his trusted men, which is you. The chest is, of course, full of gunpowder. Simonini will be boarding with you. When you arrive at a certain point, within sight of the island of Stromboli, you will be ordered to take out the fuse, lay it and light it. In the meantime he will lower a boat into the sea. The length and thickness of the fuse will allow you to climb out of the hold and reach the stern. Simonini will be waiting for you there, and you will have plenty of time to get away from the ship before she blows up, and that accursed Bixio along with her. But you're not to look for this Simonini, nor must you talk to him if you see him. Ninuzzo will take you to the ship by cart. When you reach the gangplank, you'll find a sailor called Almalò. He'll take you to the hold, and you'll remain there quietly until Almalò comes to tell you to do what I've just told you."
Bronte's eyes lit up, but he wasn't entirely stupid. "And if the sea's rough?" he asked.
"If you feel the ship rocking while you're in the hold, don't worry. The ship's dinghy is large and well built, it has a mast and sail, and land will not be far away. And then, if Captain Simonini decides the waves are too high, he won't want to risk his life. You won't receive the order, and he'll kill Bixio another time. But if you receive the order, it's because someone who knows more about the sea than you do has decided you'll arrive safe and sound at Stromboli."
Enthusiasm and full agreement from Bronte. Long deliberations with Master Ninuzzo to set up the infernal machine. At the appropriate moment, dressed in almost funereal fashion, as people imagine spies and secret agents look, Simonini went to see Captain Mancino with a document of safe conduct covered with stamps and seals, from which it appeared that by order of His Majesty Vittorio Emanuele II he was required to transport a large chest containing top-secret material to Naples. It had to be deposited in the hold so as to blend in with the other cargo and remain inconspicuous, but one of Simonini's trusted men must remain beside it day and night. He was to be received by the sailor Almalò, who had on previous occasions carried out important missions for the army, and the captain must otherwise take no interest in the matter. At Naples an infantry officer would arrive to take care of the chest.
The plan was simple, and the operation would not have been noticeable to anyone, especially Nievo, who was more interested in looking after his own chest of account books.
The Ercole was expected to weigh anchor around one in the afternoon, and the voyage to Naples would last fifteen or sixteen hours. It would be best to blow up the ship when it had reached Stromboli, whose volcano in continual eruption shoots out flames of fire at night, so even at the first glimmer of dawn the explosion would pass unobserved.
Naturally, Simonini had met Almalò some time earlier. He seemed the most venal of the crew, was purchased for a handsome sum and given the essential instructions. He was to wait for Bronte on the quay and stow him in the hold, along with the chest. "Then," Simonini told him, "toward evening, whatever the state of the sea, look out for the fires of Stromboli on the horizon, climb down to the hold, and tell that man, 'The captain says now's the hour.' Don't worry what he says or does. It's no business of yours. All you need to know is that in the chest he has to find a bottle with a message and throw it from the porthole. Someone will be close by with a boat to recover the bottle and take it to Stromboli. All you have to do is return to your cabin and forget all about it. So, repeat what you have to tell him."
"The captain says now's the hour."
"Well done."
At the moment of departure, Simonini was on the quay to say goodbye to Nievo. It was a touching farewell. "My dearest friend," said Nievo, "you've been my companion for so long, I've bared my soul to you. We may not see each other again. Once I've handed over my accounts in Turin, I'll return to Milan, and there . . . we shall see. I'll think about my novel. Goodbye, let me embrace you. Long live Italy."
"Goodbye, my dear Ippolito. I'll always remember you," said Simonini, managing to shed a tear or two, as his role required.
Nievo had a heavy box unloaded from his carriage, and followed his assistants as they lugged it aboard, careful not to lose sight of it. Shortly after he'd climbed the ship's gangplank, two friends of his, whom Simonini didn't recognize, arrived and urged him not to leave with the Ercole, which, they said, was unseaworthy. A better ship, the Elettrico, was due to set sail the following morning. Simonini had a moment's anxiety, but Nievo shrugged his shoulders, saying that the sooner his documents reached their destination, the better. Before long the Ercole left the waters of the harbor.
To suggest that Simonini passed the next hours in cheerful spirits would be to give him too much credit for his cool-headedness. Indeed he passed the whole day and evening anxiously awaiting the event that he could not have witnessed even from the summit of Punta Raisi outside Palermo. He reckoned it would all be over by nine in the evening. He wasn't sure whether Bronte would be able to carry out the orders precisely. He imagined his sailor sighting Stromboli and going down to give the order, and the poor fellow bent down inserting the fuse into the chest, setting light to it and running fast up to the stern to find no one there. Perhaps he would realize he'd been tricked and rush down to the hold like a madman (for what else was he?) to snuff out the fuse. But it would be too late, and the explosion would have caught him as he returned.
Simonini felt such relief that his mission had been accomplished that he dressed once again in his ecclesiastical garb and returned to the tavern at Bagheria to indulge in a substantial dinner of pasta con le sardeand piscistocco alla ghiotta (dried cod soaked in cold water for two days and cut into fillets, an onion, a stalk of celery, a carrot, a glass of olive oil, chopped tomatoes, pitted black olives, pine nuts, sultanas, a pear, desalted capers, salt and pepper).
Then he thought about Master Ninuzzo . . . It wasn't a good idea to let such a dangerous witness wander free. He climbed back on his mule and returned to the powder magazine. Ninuzzo was by the entrance, smoking an old pipe, and welcomed him with a broad smile. "You think it's done, Father?"
Who was to know when the body would be found, seeing that no one passed that way. In the highly unlikely event of the police or anyone else tracing Ninuzzo's movements back to the tavern at Bagheria, they would find he had spent many evenings over the previous months with a priest who enjoyed his food. But the priest would be nowhere to be found, since Simonini was about to leave for the mainland. As for Bronte, no one would be much concerned about his disappearance.
Simonini returned to Turin around mid-March, eager to see his paymasters —it was time for them to settle the account. Bianco appeared one afternoon in his office, sat down and said: "You never do anything right, Simonini."
"What do you mean?" Simonini protested. "You wanted the accounts to go up in smoke, and I challenge you to find them!"
"That's right, but Colonel Nievo also went up in smoke, and that's more than we intended. There's far too much talk about the disappearance of this ship, and I don't know whether we'll be able to keep things quiet. It will be hard to keep the secret service out of this whole business. We'll no doubt work it out in the end, but the only weak link in the chain is you. Sooner or later someone's going to remember you were Nievo's friend at Palermo and — surprise, surprise — that you were working down there for Boggio.Boggio, Cavour, government . . . Good Lord, I'd hate to think what unsavory gossip would follow. So you must disappear."
* * *
He reckoned it would all be over by nine in the evening.
* * *
"To the fortress?" Simonini asked.