It was impossible. Rakosky or Ragotgky, the colonel’s mysterious visitor, wanted by De Angelis and by Interpol, and here he was going around renting houses. In our story, Ardenti’s Rakosky was a reincarnation of Rachkovsky of the Okhrana, in other words, the inevitable Saint-Germain. What did he have to do with Aglié?
Belbo went to the office, sneaking upstairs like a thief, and locked himself in his room. He had to try to think things through.
It was enough to drive a man crazy, and Belbo suspected he had finally gone mad. There was no one he could confide in. While he was wiping the sweat from his face, and mechanically—without thinking—leafing through some manuscripts that had come in the day before, at the top of a page he suddenly saw Agliè’s name.
He looked at the title. A little work by some run-of-the-mill Diabolical, The True Story of the Comte de Saint-Germain. He read the page again. Quoting Charcornac’s biography, it said that Claude-Louis de Saint-Germain had gone variously by the names of Monsieur de Surmont, Count Soltikoff, Mr. Welldone, Marchese di Belmar, Rackoczi or Ragozki, and so on, but the real family names were Saint-Martin and Marquis of Agliè, the latter from an ancestral estate in Piedmont.
Good. Belbo could rest easy. Not only was he wanted for terrorism, not only was the Plan true, not only had Agliè disappeared in the space of two days, but, into the bargain, the count was no mythomane but the true and immortal Saint-Germain. And he had never done anything to conceal that fact. But no, the only true thing, in this growing whirlwind of falsehoods, was his name. No, even his name was false. Agliè wasn’t Agliè. But it didn’t matter who he really was, because he was acting, had been acting for years, like a character in the story we were to invent only later.
There was nothing Belbo could do. With the disappearance of Agliè, he couldn’t prove to the police that Agliè had given him the suitcase. And even if the police believed him, it would come out that he had received it from a man wanted for murder, a man he had been employing as a consultant for at least two years. Great alibi.
To grasp this whole story—melodramatic to begin with—and to make the police swallow it, another story had to be assumed, even more outlandish. Namely, that the Plan, which we had invented, corresponded in every detail, including the desperate final search for the map, to a real plan, which had already involved Agliè, Rakosky, Rachkovsky, Ragotgky, the bearded gentleman, and the Tres, not to mention the Templars of Provins. Which story in turn was based on the assumption that the colonel was right. Except that he was right by being wrong, because our Plan, after all, was different from his, and if his was true, then ours couldn’t be true, and vice versa, and therefore, if we were right, why had Rakosky, ten years ago, stolen a wrong document from the colonel?
Just reading, the other morning, what Belbo had confided to Abulafia, I felt like banging my head against the wall: to convince myself that the wall, at least the wall, was really there. I imagined how Belbo must have felt that day, and in the days that followed. But it wasn’t over yet.
Needing someone to talk to, he telephoned Lorenza. She wasn’t in. He was willing to bet he would never see her again. In a way, Lorenza was a creature invented by Agliè, and Agliè was a creature invented by Belbo, and Belbo no longer knew who had invented Belbo. He picked up the newspaper again. The one sure thing was that he was the man in the police drawing. To convince him further, at that moment the phone rang. For him again, in the office. The same Balkan accent, the same instructions. Meeting in Paris.
“Who are you, anyway?” Belbo shouted.
“We’re the Tres,” the voice replied, “and you know more about the Tres than we do.”
Belbo took the bull by the horns and called De Angelis. At headquarters they made difficulties; the inspector, they said, was no longer working there. When Belbo insisted, they gave in and put him through to some office.
“Ah, Dr. Belbo, what a surprise!” De Angelis said in a tone that suggested sarcasm. “You’re lucky you caught me. I’m packing my suitcases.”
“Suitcases?” Was that a hint?
“I’ve been transferred to Sardinia. A peaceful assignment, apparently.”
“Inspector De Angelis, I have to talk to you. It’s urgent. It’s about that business….”
“Business? What business?”
“The colonel. And the other thing … Once, you asked Casaubon if he’d heard any mention of the Tres. Well, I have. And I have things to tell you, important things.”
“I don’t want to hear them. It’s not my case anymore. And it’s a little late in the day, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I admit it. I kept something from you years ago. But now I want to talk.”
“Not to me, Dr. Belbo. First of all, I should tell you that someone is surely listening to our conversation, and I want that someone to know that I refuse to hear anything and that I don’t know anything. I have two children, small children. And I’ve been told something could happen to them. To show me it wasn’t a joke, yesterday morning, when my wife started the car, the hood blew off.
A very small charge, hardly more than a firecracker, but enough to convince me that if they want to, they can. I went to the chief, told him I’ve always done my duty, sometimes went beyond the call of duty, but I’m no hero. My life I’m willing to lay down, but not the lives of my wife and children. I asked for a transfer. Then I went and told everybody what a coward I am, and how I’m shitting in my pants.
Now I’m saying it to you and to whoever’s listening to us. I’ve ruined my career, I’ve lost my self-respect, I’m a man without honor, but I’m saving my loved ones. Sardinia is very beautiful, I’m told, and I won’t even have to lay money aside to send the children to the beach in the summer. Good-bye.”
“Wait, I’m in trouble….”
“You’re in trouble? Good. When I asked for your help, you wouldn’t give it to me. Neither would your friend Casaubon. But now that you’re in trouble … Well, I’m in trouble, too. You’ve come too late. The police, as they say in the movies, are at the service of the citizen. Is that what you’re thinking? Then call the police, call my successor.”
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 Agliè.
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 Agliè 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 Agliè, 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 Agliè 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,
