Three days later Palatino came back with some tasty nuggets. He had photographed the magistrate sitting on a park bench, nervously chain-smoking, with ten or so butts at his feet. Palatino wasn’t sure whether this could be of any interest, but Simei said yes, a man from whom we expect careful consideration and objectivity was showing signs of being neurotic, and above all a shirker who rather than sweating over files was wandering around in parks. Palatino had also photographed him through the window of a Chinese restaurant while he was eating — and with chopsticks.
“Splendid,” said Simei. “Our readers don’t go to Chinese restaurants, perhaps there aren’t any where they live, and they’d never dream of eating with chopsticks like savages. So why, our readers will ask, is this man hanging around in Chinese restaurants? If he’s a serious magistrate, why isn’t he eating minestrone or spaghetti like everybody else?”
“Not only that,” added Palatino, “he was also wearing colored socks, a sort of emerald or pea green... and sneakers.”
“Nooo! Sneakers... and emerald socks... well!” exclaimed Simei jubilantly. “This man’s a dandy, or a flower child, as they used to say. And it doesn’t take much to picture him smoking joints. Not that you will say this, readers will figure it out for themselves. So, Palatino, work up these details to create a portrait full of dark innuendo, and that will take care of him. Out of a nonstory we’ve created a story. And without lying. I’m sure the Commendatore will be pleased with you — I mean, with all of us.”
“A serious newspaper has to keep files,” Lucidi said.
“In what sense?” asked Simei.
“Like pre-obituaries. A newspaper must never find itself unprepared when news of a major death arrives at ten at night and no one’s around to piece together a proper obituary in half an hour. That’s why most obituaries are written in advance — pre-obits — so when someone dies without warning, you have a ready-made obituary and all you have to do is bring it up to date.”
“But our dummy issues aren’t being produced one day for the next,” I pointed out. “If we are working on one for such-and-such a date, all we have to do is look at the newspapers for that day and we’ve got our pre-obit.”
“Even then, we’ll only run it if, let’s say, it’s the death of a government minister or a big industrialist,” explained Simei, “and not some minor poetaster our readers have never heard of. Their only purpose is to take up space in culture sections that major newspapers fill each day with worthless news and comment.”
“Pre-obits were just an example,” said Lucidi, “but files are important for background information on a particular person in articles of all kinds. They save us last-minute research.”
“I understand,” said Simei, “but these are luxuries only large newspapers can afford. Keeping files involves tons of research, and I can’t let any of you spend all day doing research.”
“But you don’t have to,” Lucidi said, smiling. “All you need is a student, you pay him a few lire to go around to the newspaper libraries. Don’t think files contain anything new, anything that hasn’t already been published, and I’m not just talking about newspapers but the secret services as well. Not even the secret services can afford to waste time that way. A file contains press clippings, newspaper articles that say what everyone knows — everyone, that is, except for the minister or opposition leader for whom it’s intended, who’s never had time to read the newspapers and treats these things like state secrets. Files contain pieces of information that have to be recycled so that suspicions and innuendoes surface. One clipping says so-and-so was fined years ago for speeding, another that last month he visited a Boy Scout camp, and yet another that he was spotted the previous night in a discotheque. From there, you can easily go on to imply that this is someone who recklessly flouts the traffic laws to get to places where alcohol is consumed, and that he probably — I say probably, though it’s perfectly apparent — likes young boys. Enough to discredit him, all done by sticking to the simple truth. What’s more, the advantage of a file is that it doesn’t have to be seen: it’s enough for people to know it exists, and that it contains, let us say, interesting information. So-and-so learns that you have information on him, he doesn’t know what information, but everyone has some skeleton in the closet, and he is caught in a trap: the minute you put a question to him, he’ll see reason.”
“I like this idea of files,” observed Simei. “Our proprietor would be pleased to have ways of keeping tabs on people who don’t much like him, or on those he doesn’t much like. Colonna, be so kind as to compile a list of people with whom our proprietor might have dealings, find a hard-up perpetual student, and get him to prepare a dozen or so files. That should do for the moment. An excellent idea, and cheap at the price.”
“That’s how it’s done in politics,” concluded Lucidi with a knowing air.
“And you needn’t look quite so shocked, Signorina Fresia,” snorted Simei. “You mean to say your gossip magazines didn’t have their own files? Maybe they sent you off to photograph a pair of actors, or a TV showgirl and a footballer, who’d agreed to pose hand in hand, but to get them there without complaint, your editor would have told them that he would hold back more intimate revelations: perhaps the girl had been caught years earlier in a high-class brothel.”
On seeing Maia’s face, Lucidi decided to change the subject — perhaps he had a heart after all.
“I’ve brought other news today, from my own files, of course. On June 5, 1990, Marchese Alessandro Gerini leaves a large fortune to the Fondazione Gerini, an ecclesiastical body under the control of the Salesian Congregation. To this day, no one knows what happened to the money. Some suggest the Salesians received it but are keeping it under wraps for tax reasons. Most likely they haven’t yet received it, and it’s rumored that the transfer is being handled by a mysterious mediator, perhaps a lawyer, who’s claiming a commission that looks very much like a bribe. But other rumors suggest this operation is also being helped along by certain sections of the Salesian Society, so that we’re up against an illegal share-out of the cash. For the moment they’re only rumors, but I could try to get someone else to talk.”
“Try, by all means try,” said Simei, “but don’t create any bad feeling with the Salesians and the Vatican. Perhaps we could run the headline “Salesians Victims of Fraud?” — with a question mark. That way, we won’t cause any problems.”
“And if we put ‘Salesians in the Eye of the Storm’?” asked Cambria, inept as usual.
“I thought I’d made myself clear,” I butted in. “For our readers, ‘in the eye of the storm’ means someone is in trouble, and some also bring trouble on themselves.”
“Right,” said Simei. “Let’s just stick to spreading suspicion. Someone is involved in fishy business, and though we don’t know who it is, we can give him a scare. That’s enough for our purposes. Then we’ll cash in, or our proprietor can cash in, when the time is right. Well done, Lucidi, carry on. Maximum respect for the Salesians, don’t forget, but let them get a little worried, won’t do any harm.”
“Excuse me,” asked Maia timidly, “but does our proprietor... or will he be approving this policy, if we can call it that, of files and innuendo? Just so we understand each other.”