Wu Ming - 54

‘About what?’

‘About the “ style Louis XV ”. Have you ever heard anyone talk about it?’

‘To tell you the truth, no.’

‘Or maybe they skipped a number?’

‘Who?’

‘The Louis.’

‘Why would they have wanted to do that?’

‘Umm. Because fifteen is an unlucky number in France?’

‘I really don’t know.’

‘I’ve got it! Maybe the heir of Louis XIV wasn’t called Louis! It’s like popes!’

‘In what sense?’

‘In the sense that the new pope isn’t obliged to use the same name as his predecessor. Perhaps between the two “Louis” there was, I don’t know, a Jean.’

‘I fear you’ve got me there, my darling.’

‘Although I could be wrong. Louis XVI wouldn’t have been called that if there hadn’t been a number XV.’

‘What on earth are we talking about?’

‘When we have a child, you won’t want to call him “Cary”, will you?’

‘Does this seem like the right moment to. ’

‘Ok, ok, calm down. Listen, I’m going to my Zazen session, I’ll see you later.’

In Hollywood, in the Paramount studios, Cary and Betsy were watching the preparations for the magnificent, glittering final scene of To Catch a Thief : the masked ball, the night of confusion. Hitch strutted about among admiring female visitors and gigantic wigs, whalebone corsets and parrot cages on sticks, exotic masks, drapery and brocades. Betsy had asked whether the style of the costumes was Louis XIV or Louis XVI. Cary couldn’t tell, but it all struck him as very baroque, and therefore, in his opinion, more XIV than XVI. Cary was thinking about something else. He was thinking about the dreams he’d been having over the past two weeks. He was thinking about Senator McCarthy who, after accusing the Pentagon of being a hotbed of communism, had realised he was going too far. Political observers said that his career as a witch-hunter wouldn’t last beyond Christmas. Even the FBI seemed to be taken by surprise, lost for words and bereft of strategies: whatever you might say about Hoover, the army was the army. The end of a nightmare, in every sense.

Frances Farmer had come to see him. She was wearing Grace’s clothes and saying the things that Elsie had said. She called him ‘Archie’. She talked to him about McCarthy.

Today I don’t even know where I am, Archie. Somewhere in America. When people see me they nudge their friend and say, ‘Once she was a communist, now look what she’s reduced to!’ Today the friend could reply, ‘You see communists everywhere.’ It isn’t revenge, no one will ever avenge me. It’s a paradox. The knights enter Toledo and sweep away the Inquisition, but it’s too late for me: there is no longer any space between one wall and the other. The witch-hunter will lend his name to this era. On the other hand, memory of me will slide into oblivion, so much so that no medium will be able to reclaim my spirit. Not even you will be able to.

I have come to you like this many times, Archie. I have not gone to Clifford. I have not gone to people much guiltier than you. I have not gone to anyone else. I came to you because you needed me. Just like that. Fate is a skilful and ironic scriptwriter, Archie. I, the falling star, left your life just as your mother was returning to you, a comet heralding a rebirth. For one woman everyone thought was dead, coming back from the hell of the asylums, another fell into it, and now they think she’s alive.

In this world there is not an Orpheus for every Eurydice. But you are Orpheus, you are the Acrobat whose leaps enchant the wild beasts, and stop rivers and winds. You are the man who revealed the mysterious rites to the plebeians, and that is why the demons hate you, and the Maenads want to tear you to pieces. You have passed through Hell in search of my ghost, in search of yourself and your double, your double and your mother. You have done your duty in fighting the Dauber, you have run across deserts, over hills lit by the pyres of the witch-hunters, pursued by dogs, you have escaped ambushes to meet the Man of the East, and you are not even out of breath.

You are the ass that Apuleius wrote about, Archie. You are the palingenesis. You don’t have to feel guilty, not for me or for yourself or for Cary. Each man has a different task to accomplish. There are ways and ways of saving witches. ‘Things are Looking Up’. Let’s raise a toast to the end of the Inquisitor.

Bitter was my cup but no more will I be the mourner for I’ve certainly turned the corner. Oh things are looking up since love looked up at me.

Grace came out of the dressing room, ready to play the role of ‘Frances’ for the last time, happy and unaware of what was happening, imagined deaths and rebirths, metempsychoses and descents into hell.

She couldn’t get the song out of her head, or off her lips.

Chapter 41

Bologna, 29 June

Italy eliminated.

Four goals in the play-off against Switzerland. Everyone home.

Gas had been mistaken. Apart from the World Cup, there wasn’t much on television throughout the summer. They could talk about it again, more calmly, in the autumn. Or not. Melega and Bortolotti had paid him a visit. He was to find a new television, and be quick about it. They wanted to see Anche oggi è domenica .

A wretched programme. The listeners send in letters. They express wishes. Twelve of them are selected. Their wishes are granted.

An old man in his nineties had been in Rome as a boy. He had thrown a coin into the basin of the Trevi Fountain. According to legend, that gesture guarantees a return visit, but the old man had never been back. Can you resist the double temptation of saving an ancient legend and fulfilling the dream of a dying man? No. Anche oggi è domenica makes his wish reality. The old man smiles in front of the fountain. People are moved.

An Italian immigrant in the mines of Belgium is married by proxy to a Calabrian girl. He has never seen her. He hasn’t the money to pay for the journey. Who will make their meeting possible? Exactly.

A girl from Florence got a bike as a present from her dad. The same day someone stole it. Now her dad can’t afford another one. Don’t worry, little one: anche oggi è domenica . An identical bicycle is delivered to the girl beneath the smug eye of the television cameras.

Gas had had a clever plan: why don’t you lot write in? We’ve collected all our savings to buy a TV, but a thunderbolt struck the aerial and destroyed it. Now our children are crying because they can’t see your programme. Help us.

Gas had dodged a slap. ‘You write in.’

‘If you make things up they can tell,’ Bortolotti insisted. ‘And then they’ll report you.’

Gas had promised. He had gone to work. He had found someone he could palm off the television to in return for a Phonola. Not as expensive, but still a luxury item.

It was five by the kitchen clock. He would have to get a move on. He slipped his fingers into the side indentations of the great beast and struggled to lift it from the table. His sciatica was acting up.

He headed for the door.

The cat slipped between his legs in pursuit of its ball.

He lost his balance. He fell to the ground. He propped himself up on the elbow that had hit the floor.

He raised his eyes and immediately closed them again. He couldn’t look.

Bloody hell!

The screen was shattered. The fascia on the back had come away. The cat was hunting around inside for its sodding ball.

He kicked it away. He knelt down behind the set to see if the fascia could be put back. A minor problem, given the state of the screen.

For a moment he didn’t understand.