“But what’s in it for you if you then write down all you’ve been doing to help along the Commendatore’s blackmail?”
“Don’t use the word ‘blackmail.’ We publish news. As the New York Times says, ‘All the news that’s fit to print.’”
“And maybe a little more.”
“I see we understand each other. If the Commendatore then uses our dummy issues to intimidate someone, or wipes his butt with them, that’s his business, not ours. But the point is, my book doesn’t have to tell the story of what decisions were made in our editorial meetings. I wouldn’t need you for that — a tape recorder would do. The book has to give the idea of another kind of newspaper, has to show how I labored away for a year to create a model of journalism independent of all pressure, implying that the venture failed because it was impossible to have a free voice. To do this, I need you to invent, idealize, write an epic, if you get my meaning.”
“The book will say the opposite of what actually happened. Fine. But you’ll be proved wrong.”
“By whom? By the Commendatore, who would have to say no, the aim of the project was simple extortion? He’d be happier to let people think he’d been forced to quit because he too was under pressure, that he preferred to kill the newspaper so it didn’t become a voice controlled by someone else. And our news team? Are they going to say we’re wrong when the book presents them as journalists of the highest integrity? It’ll be a betzeller that nobody will be able or willing to attack.”
“All right, seeing that both of us are men without qualities — if you’ll excuse the allusion — I accept the terms.”
“I like dealing with people who are loyal and say what they think.”
3
Tuesday, April 7
First meeting with the editorial staff. Six, that should do.
Simei had told me I wouldn’t have to traipse around doing bogus investigations, but was to stay in the office and keep a record of what was going on. And to justify my presence, this is how he started: “So gentlemen, let’s get to know each other. This is Dottor Colonna, a man of great journalistic experience. He will work beside me, and for this reason we’ll call him assistant editor; his main task will be checking all of your articles. Each of you comes from a different background, and it’s one thing to have worked on a far-left paper and quite another to have experience of, let’s say, the Voice of the Gutter, and since, as you see, we are a spartan few, those who have always worked on death notices may also have to write an editorial on the government crisis. It’s therefore a question of uniformity of style and, if anyone is tempted to write ‘palingenesis,’ then Colonna will tell you not to, and will suggest an alternative word.”
“Deep moral renewal,” I said.
“There. And if anyone is tempted to describe a dramatic situation by saying we’re in the ‘eye of the storm,’ I imagine Dottor Colonna will be just as quick to remind you that according to all scientific manuals, the ‘eye of the storm’ is the place where calm reigns while the storm rages all around.”
“No, Dottor Simei,” I interrupted. “In such a case I’d say you should use ‘eye of the storm’ because it doesn’t matter what science says, readers don’t know, and ‘eye of the storm’ gives exactly the idea of finding yourself in the middle of it. This is what the press and television have taught them.”
“Excellent idea, Dottor Colonna. We have to talk on the same level as the reader, we don’t want the sophisticated language of eggheads. Our proprietor once said that his television audience had an average mental age of twelve. That’s not the case with us, but it’s always useful to put an age on your readers. Ours ought to be over fifty, they’ll be good, honest, middle-class folk, eager for law and order but desperate to read gossip and revelations about other people’s misfortunes. We’ll start off from the principle that they’re not what you’d call great readers, in fact most of them won’t have a book in the house, though, when they have to, they’ll talk about the latest book that’s selling millions of copies around the world. Our readers may not read books, but they are fascinated by great eccentric painters who sell for billions. Likewise, they’ll never get to see the film star with long legs and yet they want to know all about her secret love life. Now let’s allow the others to introduce themselves. We’ll start with the only female... Signorina, or Signora...”
“Maia Fresia. Unmarried, single, or spinster, take your choice. Twenty-eight. I nearly graduated in literature but had to stop for family reasons. I worked for five years on a gossip magazine. My job was to go around the entertainment world and sniff out who was having an affair with whom and to get photographers to lie in wait for them. More often I had to persuade a singer or actress to invent a flirtation with another celebrity, and I’d take them to the appointment with the paparazzi, the two walking hand in hand, or taking a furtive kiss. I enjoyed it at first, but now I’m tired of writing such drivel.”
“And why, my dear, did you agree to join our venture?”
“I imagine a daily newspaper will be covering more serious matters, and I’ll have a chance to make a name for investigations that have nothing to do with celebrity romance. I’m curious, and think I’ll be a good sleuth.”
She was slim and spoke with cautious gaiety.
“Excellent. And you?”
“Romano Braggadocio.”
“Strange name, where’s it from?”
“Ha, that’s one of the many crosses I have to bear in life. Apparently it has a pretty unattractive meaning in English, though not in other languages. My grandfather was a foundling, and you know how surnames in such cases used to be invented by a public official. If he was a sadist, he could even call you Ficarotta, but in my grandfather’s case the official was only moderately sadistic and had a certain learning. As for me, I specialize in digging for dirt, and I used to work for What They Don’t Tell Us, one of our own publisher’s magazines. I was never taken on full-time, they paid me per article.”
As for the other four, Cambria had spent his nights in casualty wards and police stations gathering the latest news — an arrest, a death in a high-speed pileup on the highway — and had never succeeded in getting any further; Lucidi inspired mistrust at first glance and had worked on publications that no one had ever heard of; Palatino came from a long career in weekly magazines of games and assorted puzzles; Costanza had worked as a subeditor, correcting proofs, but newspapers nowadays had too many pages, no one could proof everything before it went to press, and even the major newspapers were now writing “Simone de Beauvoire,” or “Beaudelaire,” or “Roosvelt,” and the proofreader was becoming as outmoded as the Gutenberg press. None of these fellow travelers came from particularly inspiring backgrounds — a Bridge of San Luis Rey — and I have no idea how Simei had managed to track them down.
Once the introductions were over, Simei outlined the different aspects of the newspaper.
“So then, we’ll be setting up a daily newspaper. Why Domani? Because traditional papers gave (and still give) the previous evening’s news, and that’s why they called them Corriere della Sera, Evening Standard, or Le Soir. These days we’ve already seen yesterday’s news on the eight o’clock television news the previous evening, so the newspapers are always telling you what you already know, and that’s why sales keep falling. Domani will summarize the news that now stinks like rotten fish, but it will do so in one small column that can be read in a few minutes.”