Numero Zero (6 page)

As for the pitiful denial about Philippi, I have my notebook in front of me where it is clearly recorded that Signor Perniketti did not say “We will meet again at Philippi's office” but “We will meet again at Philippi.”

I can give the same assurance regarding words threatening to Julius Caesar. The notes in my notebook, which I have before me, distinctly say, “appt ass. t. o. get rid of tr. bl. Julius Caesar.” These attempts to show that black is white and to play around with words are no way to avoid such weighty responsibility, or to gag the press.

“It is signed by Veruccio Veriti. So, what's the point of this denial of a denial? Point number one, that the newspaper has received the information from sources close to Signor Perniketti. This always works. The sources aren't given, but it implies the newspaper has confidential sources, perhaps more reliable than Perniketti. Use is then made of the journalist's notebook. No one will ever see the notebook, but the idea of an actual record tends to inspire confidence in the newspaper and suggests that there is evidence. Lastly, insinuations are made that are meaningless in themselves but throw a shadow of suspicion over Perniketti. Now, I don't say all denials have to take this form—this is just a parody—but keep in mind the three fundamental elements for a denial of a denial: other sources, notes in the reporter's notebook, and doubts about the reliability of the person making the denial. Understood?”

“Very good,” they replied in chorus. And the following day, each brought examples of rather more credible denials, along with denials of denials less grotesque but equally effective. My five students had understood the lesson.

Maia Fresia proposed: “‘We take note of the denial but point out that what we have reported appears in the official record of the investigating magistrates, namely in the preliminary notification to the accused.' What readers don't know is that the magistrates then decided not to proceed against Perniketti. They don't know that the official record was a confidential document, nor is it clear how it was obtained, or how genuine it was. I've done what you asked, Dottor Simei, but if you'll allow me, this seems a pretty lousy trick.”

“My dear,” replied Simei, “it would be even more lousy for the newspaper to admit it hadn't checked its sources. But I agree that rather than giving out information someone would be able to check, it's better to limit yourself to insinuation. Insinuation doesn't involve saying anything in particular, it just serves to raise a doubt about the person making the denial. For example: ‘We are happy to note the explanation, but we understand that Signor Perniketti'—always keep to Signor, rather than Onorevole or Dottor; Signor is the worst insult in our country—‘has sent dozens of denials to countless newspapers. This must indeed be a full-time compulsion.' This way, readers become convinced he is paranoid. You see the advantage of insinuation: by saying that Perniketti has written to other newspapers, we are simply telling the truth, which can't be denied. The most effective insinuation is the one that gives facts that are valueless in themselves, yet cannot be denied because they are true.”

With these recommendations clear in our minds, we began what Simei termed a brainstorming session. Palatino reminded us that he had previously worked on a puzzle magazine, and he suggested the newspaper include half a page of games, along with television schedules, weather, and horoscopes.

“Horoscopes, of course!” Simei said. “Great that you reminded us, they're the first things our readers will be looking for! Yes, of course, this is your first task, Signorina Fresia. Go read a few newspapers and magazines that publish horoscopes, and take some of the recurring themes. But keep to optimistic predictions—people don't like being told that next month they're going to die of cancer. And give predictions that will apply to everyone, by which I mean that a woman of sixty isn't going to be interested in the prospect of meeting the young man of her life, whereas the prediction, let's say, that some event in the coming months will bring this Capricorn lasting happiness will suit everybody—adolescents (if they ever read it), aging spinsters, and office clerks waiting for a pay raise. But let's address the games, my dear Palatino. What do you suggest? Crosswords?”

“Yes, crosswords,” said Palatino. “Unfortunately, we have to do the kinds of crosswords that ask who ruled Germany during the Second World War.”

“It would be a small miracle if the reader were to write ‘Hitler,'” sneered Simei.

“Meanwhile the cryptic crosswords in foreign newspapers have clues that are a puzzle in themselves. Recently, in a French newspaper, I saw ‘the friend of simples,' and the solution was ‘herbalist,' because simples aren't just simpletons, but also medicinal herbs.”

“That's no use to us,” said Simei. “Our readers won't know what simples are, nor will they know what an herbalist is or does. Stick with Hitler, or the husband of Eve, or the mother of a calf, and stuff like that.”

Maia spoke at this point, her face illuminated by an almost childlike smile, as if she were about to do something mischievous. Crosswords were fine, she said, but readers had to wait for the next issue to find out whether their answers were correct. We could also pretend that some kind of competition had been started in previous issues and the readers' funniest answers could be published here. We could ask readers to provide the silliest answers to an equally silly question.

“At university we amused ourselves by thinking up some weird questions and answers. Like: Why do bananas grow on trees? Because if they grew on the ground, they'd be snapped up by the crocodiles. Why do skis slide on the snow? Because if they slid only on caviar, winter sports would be too expensive.”

I joined in the game: “Why was whiskey invented in Scotland? Because if it had been invented in Japan, it would be sake, and you couldn't drink it with soda. Why is the sea so vast? Because there are too many fish, and it would make no sense to put them on the Great Saint Bernard Pass. Why does the rooster crow a hundred and fifty times? Because if it crowed thirty-three times, it would be the Grand Master of the Freemasons.”

“Hold on,” said Palatino. “Why are glasses open at the top and closed at the bottom? Because if it were the other way around, then bars would go bankrupt. Why do fingernails grow and teeth not? Because otherwise people would bite their teeth when they were nervous. Why do legs bend inward and not out? Because on airplanes it would make forced landings extremely dangerous. Why did Christopher Columbus sail west? Because if he'd sailed east, he would have discovered Naples. Why do fingers have nails? Because if they had pupils, they'd be eyes.”

The competition was now in full flow, and Fresia intervened once more: “Why are aspirins different from iguanas? Because have you tried swallowing an iguana?”

“That's enough,” said Simei. “This is schoolboy stuff. Don't forget, our readers aren't intellectuals. They haven't read about the surrealists, who used to make exquisite corpses, as they called them. Our readers would take it all seriously and think we were mad. Come on, we're fooling around, we have work to do.”

And so the silly-question column was rejected. Too bad, it would have been fun. But this whole business had drawn Maia Fresia to my attention. Along with such wit she must have had a certain charm. And in her own way, she did. Why in her own way? I still wasn't quite sure in what way, but I was curious.

She was obviously feeling frustrated, however, and tried to suggest something more in line with her own interests. “The Strega literary prize is coming up,” she said. “Shouldn't we be talking about the books on the shortlist?”

“Always going on about culture, you young people. It's a good thing you didn't graduate, otherwise you'd be suggesting a fifty-page critical essay—”

“No, I didn't graduate, but I do read.”

“We can't get too involved in culture, our readers don't read books. The most they're going to read is
La Gazzetta dello Sport
. But I agree, the newspaper will have to have a page, not just on culture, but culture and entertainment. Forthcoming cultural events, however, should be reported in the form of interviews. An interview with the author is reassuring: no authors will speak badly of their books, so our readers will not be exposed to any spiteful or supercilious attacks. Then a lot depends on the questions: you shouldn't talk too much about the book but rather concentrate on the writer, perhaps on his or her foibles and weaknesses. Signorina Fresia, you have experience with celebrity romances. Think of an interview with one of the short-listed authors. If the story is about love, get the author to describe their first love affair, and perhaps to throw a little mud at the other candidates. Turn the wretched book into something human that even a housewife will understand, so she has no regrets if she doesn't read it, and anyway, who reads books that newspapers review? Generally speaking, not even the reviewer. We should be thankful if the book has been read by the author.”

“My God,” said Maia Fresia, turning pale, “I'll never rid myself of the curse of celebrity romance.”

“You haven't exactly been called here to write articles on the economy and international politics.”

“I guessed as much. Though I'd hoped I was wrong.”

“There now, don't take it badly. Try to put something down, we all have great faith in you.”

6

O
NE MORNING, I REMEMBER
Cambria saying: “I heard on the radio that research has shown how air pollution is affecting penis size among the younger generation, and I decided that the problem doesn't relate just to sons, but also to fathers, who are forever boasting about the size of their son's willy. When mine was born and they took me into the room at the hospital where all the newborns were on display, I remember commenting what a fine pair of balls he had, and subsequently boasted to colleagues.”

“All newborn boys have enormous testicles,” said Simei, “and all fathers say the same thing. And then you know how labels are often mixed up, so perhaps that wasn't your son after all—with the greatest respect to your wife.”

“But this news relates to fathers in particular, since there are also said to be harmful effects on the reproductive system of adults,” retorted Cambria. “If the idea spreads that pollution is affecting not just whales but also willies, I think we might witness sudden conversions to environmentalism.”

“Interesting,” commented Simei, “but who is suggesting that the Commendatore, or at least his circle, is concerned about reducing air pollution?”

“But it would raise the alarm, wouldn't it, and quite rightly,” said Cambria.

“Maybe, but we're not alarmists,” replied Simei. “That would be terrorism—you don't want to start raising doubts over our gas pipeline, our petroleum, our iron and steel industries, do you? We're not the Green Party newspaper. Our readers have to be reassured, not alarmed.” Then, after a moment's reflection, he added: “Unless of course the things that affect the penis are produced by a pharmaceutical company, which the Commendatore wouldn't mind alarming. But they're matters to be discussed case by case. In any event, let me know if you have an idea, then I'll decide whether or not to pursue it.”

The next day Lucidi arrived at the office with an article practically already written. The story was this. An acquaintance of his had received a letter from the Ordre Souverain Militaire de Saint-Jean de Jérusalem–Chevaliers de Malte–Prieuré Oecuménique de la Sainte-Trinité-de-Villedieu–Quartier Général de la Vallette–Prieuré de Québec, inviting him to become a knight of Malta, subject to a generous reimbursement for a framed diploma, medallion, badge, and other trinkets. Lucidi had decided to investigate the whole business of knightly orders and had made some extraordinary discoveries.

“Listen to this. I've dug up a police report—don't ask me how—on various fake orders of Malta. There are sixteen of them, not to be confused with the genuine Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of Saint John of Jerusalem of Rhodes and of Malta, which is based in Rome. Each has more or less the same name with minimal variations. They all alternately recognize, then disown, one another. In 1908 some Russians establish an order in the United States, which in recent years has been led by His Royal Highness Prince Roberto Paternò Ayerbe Aragona, Duke of Perpignan, head of the Royal House of Aragon, claimant to the throne of Aragon and the Balearics, Grand Master of the Orders of the Collar of Saint Agatha of Paternò and of the Royal Balearic Crown. But a Dane breaks away from this branch in 1934 and sets up another order, proclaiming Prince Peter of Greece and Denmark as its chancellor. In the 1960s, a defector from the Russian branch, Paul de Granier de Cassagnac, establishes an order in France and chooses the ex-king of Yugoslavia, Peter II, as its protector. In 1965 ex-king Peter II of Yugoslavia falls out with Cassagnac and founds another order, in New York, of which Prince Peter of Greece and Denmark becomes Grand Prior. In 1966 a certain Robert Bassaraba von Brancovan Khimchiacvili appears as chancellor, though he is expelled and goes off to found the Order of the Ecumenical Knights of Malta, of which Prince Enrico III Costantino di Vigo Lascaris Aleramico Paleologo del Monferrato would become Imperial and Royal Protector. This prince describes himself as heir to the throne of Byzantium, Prince of Thessaly, and would then found another order in Malta. I then find a Byzantine protectorate, created by Prince Carol of Romania, who had broken away from Cassagnac's order; a Grand Priory of which a certain Tonna-Barthet is the Grand Bailiff, while Prince Andrew of Yugoslavia—former Grand Master of the order founded by Peter II—is Grand Master of the Priory of Russia (which would then become Grand Royal Priory of Malta and of Europe). There's even an order created in the 1970s by a Baron de Choibert and by Vittorio Busa, otherwise known as Viktor Timur II, Metropolitan Orthodox Archbishop of Bialystok, Patriarch of the Western and Eastern Diaspora, President of the Democratic Republic of Byelorussia and Gran Khan of Tartary and Mongolia. And then there's an International Grand Priory created in 1971 by the aforementioned Royal Highness Roberto Paternò with the Baron Marquis of Alaro, of which another Paternò would become Grand Protector in 1982—a certain Leopardi Tomassini Paternò of Constantinople, head of the imperial dynasty and heir to the Eastern Roman Empire, consecrated legitimate successor of the Apostolic Catholic Orthodox Church of the Byzantine Rite, Marquis of Monteaperto and Count Palatine of the throne of Poland. In 1971 the Ordre Souverain Militaire de Saint-Jean de Jérusalem appears in Malta (the one from which I started), from a split with that of Bassaraba, under the supreme protection of Alessandro Licastro Grimaldi Lascaris Comneno Ventimiglia, Duke of La Chastre, Sovereign Prince and Marquis of Déols, and its Grand Master is now the Marquis Carlo Stivala of Flavigny, who, on Licastro's death, joins up with Pierre Pasleau, who assumes Licastro's titles, as well as those of His Holiness the Archbishop Patriarch of the Catholic Orthodox Church of Belgium, Grand Master of the Sovereign Military Order of the Temple of Jerusalem and Grand Master and Hierophant of the Universal Masonic Order of the Ancient Oriental Rite and the Joint Primitive Rite of Memphis and Misraim. I forgot to mention that to be
à la page
one could become a member of the Priory of Sion, as a descendant of Jesus Christ, who married Mary Magdalene and founded the Merovingian dynasty.”