From the moment he appeared, from goodness knows where, amongst us, it was immediately apparent that Bazlo Criminale had given the room the centre that, in the chaos of arrival, it had seemed to lack. The distinguished writers, toting their hand luggage, stopped in their chatter to look. The photographers surged forward, as if at last they were now truly flashing their cameras at something really worth the flashing. Despite the regulations about the press, it was clear that quite a few Italian journalists had been allowed to join the arriving party, and they now left all other prey behind and began to form a great circle around him. Monza made a brief pretence of waving them away, but it was perfectly apparent that he was the one who had allowed them into the villa in the first place. It made no difference; they were, after all, Italian.
In his sparkling blue suit, Criminale remained calm, used to all this. ‘Let them, Monza,’ I heard him say, as I pressed forward too, ‘These people must always have their little ounces or two of flesh.’ ‘Maybe just one or two photographas!’ said Monza. ‘Radio Italiana,’ said a young man who had shoved himself forward, a recorder hanging from his shoulder, ‘Prego, please, Dottore Criminale!’ ‘Oh, radio, I don’t think so,’ said Monza, dismissively, ‘Or do we allow him perhapsa just one minute, hey?’ ‘Very well, very well, I will answer just one question,’ said Criminale patiently, ‘Though I like just a little silence.’ ‘Silenza, silenza!’ cried Monza. ‘Dottore Criminale,’ asked the man from Radio Italiana, who had beautiful black hair, ‘The changes now in the Soviet Union, do you think they are totally irreversible?’ ‘Ah,’ said Criminale, ‘The changes in Russia become incontrovertible only when the rouble becomes convertible.’ ‘Si, si,’ said the man from Radio Italiana, ‘And so what happens now in Eastern Europe?’
Criminale laughed. ‘One question is now two,’ he said. ‘Please, Dottore Criminale!’ ‘Remember, the world has changed but the people in it remain inside the same,’ said Criminale, ‘This is the problem of all revolutions. You know the old saying: never forget the past, you may need it again in the future.’ ‘Then how does this affect your meetings here?’ ‘Two questions are now three,’ said Criminale, ‘Well, the problem of Literature After the Cold War is the same problem as Literature During the Cold War, da? It is the problem to stop it being merely politics or journalism and make it become literature. It is to make history deliver the aesthetic, to make events a thing of form. It is also a problem that is never solved, because we are mortal. Enough?’ ‘Basta?’ asked Monza. ‘Wonderful, Dottore Criminale,’ said the radio reporter.
Then a girl with a spiral notebook pushed up close. She was extremely good-looking; I saw Criminale smile pleasantly at her. ‘Signor Criminale, do you speak perhaps Italian? I like your views on the works of Pliny.’ ‘It’s all righta, I translate for you,’ said Monza, ‘Si?’ ‘It is not necessary, Monza,’ said Criminale, and produced two or three sentences in graceful Italian that clearly served their turn, for there was a small burst of applause at the end. ‘Maestro, maestro, maestro!’ cried another journalist from the back of the crowd, an innocent-looking young man with long hair and glasses, who seemed something of an Italian version of myself, ‘I needa your attention! Some personal ques- tions?’ Criminale raised his head, as if disturbed. And then there was an extraordinary interruption.
‘My dearling, really, you will be much too tired,’ cried someone. I turned; we all did. A vast woman like a ship, hung with flags and trophies, her hair raised into a great decorated poop, her great handbag clanking noisily, as if it was filled with doubloons, was forging heedlessly through the crowd. ‘It’s Sepulchra,’ said Ildiko, ‘Oh, my God, hasn’t she got bigger!’ ‘Bazlo, dearling, it is time for your think,’ said Sepulchra firmly. ‘Yes, my dear,’ said Criminale, timidly, turning to her, ‘Monza, I fear all this is becoming a bit of a bore. A bit of a big noisy bore.’ ‘I’m sorry, Bazlo,’ said Monza, going a little pale. ‘May I trouble you, or perhaps one of your very kind assistants, to take me to some room or quiet place or other.’ ‘Somewhere he can write a little,’ said Sepulchra. ‘To write, now?’ asked Monza, ‘We are just beginning . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Criminale, ‘One or two thoughts on Kant and Hegel have suddenly occurred to me I had better commit down to paper at once.’ ‘If you can wait only one minute,’ said Monza, ‘I have a few important announcementas to make, and I really musta introduce you to the gatheringa. Then I personally will find you a good place to worka.’ ‘If very brief,’ said Sepulchra. ‘Quite brief,’ said Monza, ‘We must make a welcome.’ ‘Very very brief,’ said Sepulchra. ‘Attenzione! Achtung! Not so noisy prego! Can I have your attention bitte!’ cried Monza, clapping his hands over his head. Slowly the distinctive noise of chattering writers began to subside. ‘Distinguished guestsa!’ pronounced Monza, now standing on a chair, ‘My name is Massimo Monza, and I like to welcoma you to this great Barolo Congress, on the theme “Writing and Power: The Changing Nineties: Literatura After the Colda Wara!”’
‘Here he goes,’ Miss Belli whispered in my ear. ‘For an entira weeka, in these so beautiful surroundingsa, both classical and romantical, we will meeta and worka together, to discuss the most lifa and deatha questions of the modern world of today!’ ‘This is brief?’ Sepulchra could be heard saying, ‘I do not think it is brief.’ ‘Fortuna,’ said Monza, ‘has smiled often on this fantastical place. It smiles againa today. I will be making you of course many announcementsa.’ ‘Of course,’ murmured Miss Uccello. ‘But the firsta is the finesta!’ said Monza, ‘You know we have here as Guesta of Honour a man without whom all serious discussion is frankly impossible! I mean of course our maestro, Dottore Bazlo Criminale, biographer of Goethe, autore of Homeless, and truly the greatest philosopher of our tima! I ask you, pleasa welcome Dottore Criminale!’ Arm out, Monza turned on his chair, gesturing towards his guest of honour. Applause surged; then it faltered and stopped. The space in the hall to which Monza was gesturing was vacant. Somehow, without anyone quite noticing, Criminale and his spouse, who had been there only a moment before, had absented themselves: disappeared.
That was the moment when I learned a further new lesson about Bazlo Criminale. If he was a man who was difficult to find, he was also a man who was easy to lose again. I turned and looked for the Misses Belli and Uccello; they were standing round Monza, flashing their eyes as only they knew how, and waving their arms furiously in a familiar kind of Italian frenzy. ‘What’s happened to him?’ I asked Miss Belli, detaining her for a moment. ‘He has done it again, he has blasted disappeared again,’ said Miss Belli, looking frantic. ‘You mean he’s done this sort of thing before?’ I asked. ‘Of course, he does it all the blasted time,’ said Miss Uccello. ‘We are supposed to look after him, you see,’ said Miss Belli, ‘So we take him when he asks to go to the newspaper shop down in Barolo.’ ‘One minute he is there, the next he is gone,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘Then you don’t see him again for perhaps a whole day.’ ‘And he carries no money and he doesn’t know where he stays,’ said Miss Belli. ‘But usually the police find him somewhere, anywhere, and bring him back again in their van,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘But where now?’
‘Why does he do it?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘Sometimes he thinks he is in Rangoon. I don’t know why Rangoon.’ ‘He went there,’ said Miss Belli. ‘You don’t mean he’s a little . . .’ I asked, tapping my head. ‘Naiou,’ cried Miss Belli impatiently, ‘He is better sane than the rest of us.’ ‘He is just thinking,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘He is a philosopher.’ ‘But this time we hope he has not gone so far,’ said Miss Belli. ‘Tonight he must give the after-dinner speech,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘If we can’t find him this time Monza will really kill us.’ In the middle of the lobby, Monza, who had descended from his chair to give some frantic instructions to the servants, had recovered his organizational abilities and remounted his podium. ‘Prego, achtung!’ he was shouting, clapping his hands again, ‘I like to maka you a few more announcaments!’
Miss Belli groaned. ‘Announcaments!’ she said, ‘I think that is what did it. Bazlo cannot stand Monza’s announcaments.’ A moment later, I began to grasp what she meant. Things always have to be announced at conferences; Monza had chosen to make an art form of it. No doubt this was why they got him to organize great congresses; he was a world-class clapper of hands and tapper of glasses, a virtuoso of banging hard on desks and knocking knives on tables. In fact I was later to learn, as events progressed, that Monza’s conference announcements were often remembered worldwide for many years – long after the lectures, events and receptions they referred to had passed into collective oblivion.
So, gathering his wits about him, Monza announced. The world of congress had clearly begun. First he announced his future schedule of announcements. He announced he would announce his daily announcements each morning at ten, before the daily sessions began. Because without announcements no congress could function, everyone should be present, even if they chose to miss the sessions. If there should happen to be no announcements on any particular day, he would of course announce that then, though it was highly unlikely. Then he announced to us the conference schedule, the plan of daily sessions, the proposed times of relaxation, the hour of pre-lunch and pre-dinner drinks, the various pleasures that had been so thoughtfully contrived for us at various points during our stay: a tour of the lake, for instance, a trip to ancient Bergamo, a candlelit dinner midweek, a night-time concert of chamber music, which would be held at the nearby Villa Bellavecchia, just on the other side of the lake, forming a nice excursion, and so on.
After that he announced that there would be a Grand Reception this same evening in the Salon of the Muses, to be followed by a Great Opening Banquetta in the Lippo Lippi Dining Room. This would be attended by the padrona of the Magno Foundation, Mrs Valeria Magno, who would be joining us specially from the United States, once she had found a satisfactory landing slot for her private 727. Finally he announced that because, unfortunately, the announcements had somehow gone on for so long, the reception was due to start in less than half an hour. And since we would all want to change, and our rooms were scattered at wide distances all over the great grounds, we should delay no longer but hurry to the Secretariat to pick up our keys and room assignments. I looked at my watch. ‘We’re already half an hour late,’ I said to Miss Belli. ‘Only in Britain,’ said Miss Belli, ‘In Italy when you are an hour late, you are already half an hour early.’
And it was at the Secretariat, where I stood in line to collect our keys, that I discovered the first of my several Barolo confusions. Whether it was because of the brevity of my cable, international language difficulties or sheer natural Italian generosity I do not know, but Ildiko and I had been assigned to the same room. I had no real complaints about this myself (you would understand if you had seen Ildiko) but I rather thought she might have. ‘So where do we go?’ she asked, when I found her waiting for me on the terrace outside, staring delightedly at the view up the lake. ‘We’re both down in the Old Boathouse,’ I said. ‘A Boathouse?’ asked Ildiko, ‘We sleep in the water?’ ‘I don’t think we’ll actually be in the water,’ I said, ‘But they have put us together in one room. I could complain, if you like.’
Ildiko looked at me. ‘You want to complain?’ she asked. ‘Not necessarily,’ I said, ‘I thought you might want to complain.’ ‘But with officials it is always a very bad thing to complain,’ said Ildiko, ‘They can keep you for many days. No, I suppose this is the custom in the West.’ ‘Not always,’ I said, ‘But maybe in Italy. So it’s all right?’ ‘Of course all right,’ said Ildiko, ‘It is wonderful here. Just like a place for Party members, but even better. So is all the West like this?’ ‘I’m afraid not,’ I said, ‘Some of it’s pretty miserable. In fact most of it, compared with this.’ ‘So who pays all this?’ asked Ildiko. ‘An American patron,’ I said, ‘I think she made her money in planes and pharmaceuticals. So you could say this is the smiling face of American capitalism.’ ‘You mean I am looked after like this by American capitalism?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’ ‘Of course not, about time,’ said Ildiko, putting her arm through mine, ‘I think it is just like Paradise, here. So let us go and find our nice little room.’
Following the map we had been given, Ildiko and I walked along the path that led downwards, through the great gardens of the villa, towards the Old Boathouse, which was, as you’d think, set by the lakeside below. Looking round, I realized that Ildiko was right: Paradise was no bad name for it after all. For, inside the villa and outside it, Barolo seemed a place where nothing could be faulted, except for the sheer absence of fault itself. No doubt its very confusions were intentional. The gardens we now walked through were themselves art-objects, just like the ones in the house. Every single terrace had been cultivated, every bed laboured over, every hedge and bush seemed to have been trimmed. Every tree was intentional, every rock had become a step to somewhere, and every woodland path led to some dramatic revelation – a grotto, a belvedere, a gazebo, a long view, a statue of a glancing nymph or indeed a hefty philosopher of the classical age, when they knew you thought much better naked.
Even the wilderness was tamed. Up the wooded and craggy mountainside that rose up above the formal gardens, every nook and cranny, every cleft and orifice, had been worked for some purpose – planted with ferns, turned into a grotto, shaped into a shrine, sculpted into a waterfall. The nooks and crannies, the clefts and orifices, of the great stone statues of nymphs, gods, athletes and bacchantes that stood everywhere were just as worked and crafted. Breasts and bottoms, mouths and penises, turned into spurting outlets of aquatic fecundity that sprayed into fountains, watered the fish-ponds, or fed the rivulets that coursed down the mountainside, through the gardens, and down into the lake in front of us. As for the lake, as we came to it down lighted steps, it had been carefully coloured dark magenta, and been decorated with fireflies. In a true Paradise nothing is overlooked.
As for the Old Boathouse, that could not be faulted either. The ancient building had been modernly converted, into a set of comfortable suites plainly fit for the greatest of Euro-princes. The suite we entered contained a bedroom, bathroom, and a great sitting room/study. The bed was king-sized; no, it was greater than king-sized, emperor-sized, or President-of-the-European- Community-sized, perhaps. Fine Turkish kelims were scattered on the terracotta floor; Gobelin tapestries hung randomly on the walls. ‘And all this is just for us, why?’ asked Ildiko, poking round fascinated. ‘They’re obviously expecting a very good article,’ I said, ‘I wish I had a paper to put it in.’ ‘Oh, look, isn’t that nice,’ said Ildiko, opening an ancient wardrobe, ‘The servants have unpacked our things already. I don’t believe it, these are your clothes? You come to a great place and you dress like a dog? I thought you were a rich man.’
‘Ildiko, let’s get this quite straight,’ I said, ‘I’m not a rich man. Besides, when I started this trip I thought I was going to Vienna just for a couple of days.’ ‘Well, now you are very lucky,’ said Ildiko, ‘You see what a really nice place I have brought you to. Tomorrow we will go and shop, and make you smart. You have plenty of dollar, I hope?’ ‘Tomorrow the congress starts,’ I said, ‘We have to attend the papers.’ ‘But the congress is just a lot of announcements,’ said Ildiko. ‘Not all the time,’ I said, ‘There’ll be papers too, by all the leading writers. And I have to make contact with Bazlo Criminale. If they ever find him again.’ Ildiko lay full-length on the bed, nuzzled the pillow, and looked up at me. ‘You know, you were very clever to arrange a room with me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t actually arrange it,’ I said. ‘No?’ asked Ildiko, ‘I think you have already learned to think a little Hungarian. It’s a nice bed.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Try it,’ said Ildiko. ‘I think we’re going to have to change and go now,’ I said, ‘The reception will have started already.’ ‘If that is what you like,’ said Ildiko, ‘So very well.’
So, glancing at each other with a certain curiosity, we changed. ‘Oh, no,’ said Ildiko, when I had done, ‘It’s not nice. Here, try one of my shirts. I think it will fit, yes? Let me unbutton.’ ‘I’ll do it,’ I said, ‘It probably will fit me, actually.’ ‘Well, my body is a bit like a boy,’ said Ildiko, ‘But not too much, I hope.’ ‘Not too much at all,’ I said. ‘Try it, try it,’ said Ildiko, ‘Yes, now you are a bit pretty. You must learn to like lovely things. I know there are a lot in the West.’ ‘Are we ready?’ I asked, ‘We’d better go and see if they have found Criminale.’ ‘At least you saw him,’ said Ildiko, ‘What did you think?’ ‘He’s quite something,’ I admitted, ‘Much more impressive than I expected. In fact he’s not really what I expected at all.’ ‘Of course he is a very great man,’ said Ildiko, ‘Very difficult, not to be trusted, but of course a great man. My dress, you like it?’ ‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘I will get something better for you, one day,’ said Ildiko.
I admit that it was quite hard to leave the Old Boathouse, but soon we were walking back through the gardens again, towards the Villa Barolo. ‘The thing now is to find a way of getting close to him,’ I said as we walked. ‘Not so easy,’ said Ildiko, ‘You have the problem of Sepulchra. He only does what she says. You know he is quite devoted to her.’ ‘She’s a bit surprising,’ I said. ‘Well, she is his muse, I think,’ said Ildiko, ‘They say he worships the ground she treads on. Of course she treads on so much of it.’ ‘She’s certainly not like the woman in the photographs,’ I said. ‘In Hungary I am afraid the ladies often get very fat,’ said Ildiko, ‘That is why I do not like goulasch. I would not want at all to be that way.’ ‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘Pig, you don’t think I will really be that way?’ ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘So you really like me how I am?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Very much,’ I said. ‘You didn’t too much show it,’ she said. ‘Only because we have to be at the reception,’ I said. ‘Good,’ said Ildiko, ‘I will do for you just what you like. What do you like?’ I’m afraid I answered rather crassly. ‘First,’ I said, ‘I’d love it if you could find a way to introduce me to Bazlo Criminale.’ ‘Well, if that is all you like,’ said Ildiko.
We came to the top of the great gardens; there again was the Villa Barolo. Even in our brief absence, it had once more been transformed. A bluey night had fallen, the moon was out, torches and lamps lit our way through the grounds. More bright torches burned fierily on the terrace, where tables had been set out. The evening was chilly, but women in bright dresses and shawls, men in dark suits and formal ties, stood taking drinks and canapés from the trays of white-coated waiters. As we got nearer, I could already hear the hum and buzz of serious literary conversation: ‘My agent said fifty thousand but I told him ask for double, and he did’; ‘I said to Mailer, Mailer, I said, screw you’; ‘It had great reviews, but no sales, next time I try for the other way round’; and so on. You know.
The windows of the villa beyond glittered with light from bright chandeliers; we took drinks from the silver trays and wandered inside. In the statue-filled Salon of the Muses, where the writers were packed tight against each other, and were busily taking up their political positions, the din was deafening. ‘So many people,’ said Ildiko, ‘And nobody sings. It’s not like Budapest.’ ‘Can you see Criminale?’ Ildiko, taller than I, raised herself on tiptoe. ‘No,’ she said, ‘And no Sepulchra either. I think they are not here. Maybe they have gone to another congress.’ I looked at her. ‘But he’s the guest of honour. He’s giving the after-dinner speech tonight. And the final speech of the whole week. He can’t have gone to another congress.’ ‘You don’t think so?’ asked Ildiko, still looking round, ‘Then I think you don’t know Criminale.’
‘What do you mean, Ildiko?’ I asked, ‘You think he could just have walked out of the whole thing? How could he do that?’ Ildiko gave a fatalistic shrug. ‘Criminale is Criminale,’ she said, ‘Who understands him?’ ‘He’s your Hungarian,’ I said. ‘He is in your West,’ said Ildiko. ‘He must be here,’ I said. ‘He does what he likes,’ said Ildiko, ‘He is too big to care. If he likes something else, he goes. I know about him.’ ‘So we could have wasted our time?’ I asked. ‘Oh, you think so?’ asked Ildiko, ‘Don’t you think we can still have very nice time without him?’ ‘I’ve come a long way to find him,’ I said, ‘I can’t lose him now.’ ‘Oh, aren’t you happy here?’ asked Ildiko, ‘Now you have fixed up a room with me? I thought you would be.’
‘Look, we won’t quarrel about it,’ I said reasonably, ‘Let’s just go and mingle, and see if he turns up.’ ‘Mingle, what is mingle?’ asked Ildiko, pouting at me. ‘Let’s go and talk to the people and enjoy ourselves,’ I said, ‘Isn’t that what you do at parties?’ ‘I think you blame me for this,’ said Ildiko, ‘I didn’t make him go, I hope?’ ‘I don’t blame you at all,’ I said, ‘It’s just that I’ve spent days chasing this man, and the moment I find him the first thing he does is vanish on me.’ ‘You are a pig,’ said Ildiko. ‘Pig yourself,’ I said. ‘That is very nice,’ said Ildiko, ‘Go away. Mingle how you like. And I will mingle all by myself.’
So this unfortunate spat was the second Barolo confusion, which was immediately followed by the third. I set off to mingle with the writers in the room; meanwhile Ildiko, indignant, walked out onto the torchlit terrace, looking, as I have to admit, very splendid in her short blue Hungarian dress. Soon she was mingling furiously; well, what did it matter to me, I didn’t care. I put on some party charm of my own and started on a round of feckless, friendly conversations, drifting round the room from this group to that. That was when I began to discover that many of the people there were actually far from being what I had taken them to be, when I watched them come down the platform at Milan Central station. To take one example: I went over to Mr Ho from Britain, to congratulate him, properly enough, on his novel Sour Sweet, which I’d greatly relished. ‘No, no, Ho, not Mo,’ said Ho, who then explained that he was a former Junior Fellow of All Souls, Oxford, who now worked in White-hall for the Foreign Office, and had come here for some literary light relief after working on various problems between Britain and the European Community (or the Belgian Empire, as he liked to call it).
So it went on. Miss Makesuma from Japan, who had now changed her charming pink kimono for a charming blue one, spoke scarcely any English; but I discovered from her companion that she was not, after all, an heiress to the tradition of Mishima, but an economic adviser working on long-term industrial goals for the Keifu government. When I approached one of the East European dissidents to ask him about his tricky relations with the regime, he proved to be Professor Rom Rum, Minister of what he called Strange Trade of the former People’s Republic of Slaka, which had lately overthrown its brutal hardline dictator General Vulcani and was now fallen into the hands of the free market. (I saw the other day in the paper that Rum, after some more recent coup, had become the nation’s President.) In fact very few of the writers I talked to proved to be writers at all. One of the laughing Africans, who had changed his multi-coloured tribal dress for a startling robe of pure white, was Justice Minister of his nation, while the group of deconstructionist critics from Yale proved in actual fact to be a posse from the US State Department.
In the end I did of course find some writers. I met a literary editor from Paris who was heavily into random signs; the President of the Indian Writers’ Union, who demanded my signature on some petition; a Nobel prizewinner from a small North African country in which he was, he explained, not just the most famous but the only writer. I spotted Martin Amis, an old acquaintance, across the room, talking to Günter Grass; they were soon joined by Susan Sontag and Hans Magnus Enzensberger. Gradually, working the room (Ildiko was still out on the terrace), I began to understand that the Barolo Congress was wide ranging in several ways. Not only had its organizer, Monza, balanced West and East, Europe and Asia, the United States and the South Pacific; he had also balanced Literature and Power. And, as usual when there is an attempt at dialogue across difficult borders, there was already proof of difficulty. The half of the group who were politicos were talking only to other politicos; the half who were writers were talking only to other writers. No wonder they needed someone to bridge the difficulty, somebody of the calibre of Bazlo Criminale.
I looked round; there was still no sign of him. I gathered my courage and went over to Professor Monza. ‘What’s happened to Criminale?’ I asked him. ‘Prego, please, do not mention this mana to me,’ said Monza grimly, ‘I have servants everywhere looking for him. I depend on him for the speecha tonight. He is like some prima donna. And now Mrs Magno is not here either, I hope nothing goes wrong with her plana. Now scusi, I must make an announcament. Achtung prego!’ Monza climbed on a chair and clapped his hands; the party noise faded. ‘This is an emergency announcament!’ he said, ‘I am afraid both our guests of honour are missing, but the chef cannot delay any longer. Now we must starta to eata! Please check your places on the plana by the door, and take you places for the banquetta!’ Writers of the world, politicos of the world, we surged forward; there were some unseemly moments as one hundred people tried to read their names on a very small list. Then we moved as from turbulence into perfect calm, as we entered the noble dining room and took our places for the opening banquet.
And so at last, in the great Lippo Lippi Room of the Villa Barolo, with Michelangelo paintings on the ceiling above, I did sit down to eat with the big people. The room was perfect beyond perfection. The cloths were of real damask, the silver really was silver, the Venetian glassware shimmered and glimmered as brightly as the suit of the absent Doctor Criminale. I checked on either side to see my company. To my right was the Japanese lady economist (name badge: Chikko Makesuma, Tokyo) who worked for the Keifu government. To my left was a dark-haired German lady in shiny black leather trousers (name badge: Cosima Bruckner, Brussels). I turned first to Miss Makesuma, but she answered my questions by putting her finger delicately to her lips and smiling demurely. I then remembered she spoke almost no English. I turned to my other side, and addressed myself to Miss Cosima Bruckner.
‘Did you have a good journey here?’ I asked. ‘Nein, it was terrible,’ said Cosima Bruckner, ‘Are you also one of these writers?’ ‘A journalist,’ I said, ‘Are you a writer?’ ‘I work in the Beef Mountain of the European Community,’ she said. ‘Really, how fascinating,’ I said, ‘How do you like the villa?’ ‘Bitte?’ ‘Do you like it here?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know,’ said Bruckner, ‘Maybe.’ ‘Have you a good view?’ I asked. ‘Of what?’ asked Bruckner. ‘From your window,’ I asked, ‘Is your room nice?’ ‘It is so-so,’ said Bruckner, ‘Why do you ask me this?’ ‘It’s just small-talk,’ I said. ‘Small-talk, yes, I think so,’ said Cosima Bruckner, turning to tap her neighbour on the other side with her fork to demand his attention.
And if I was having social problems, I saw that Ildiko Hazy, seated much further down the table, was having them too. She was stuck between a grim-looking American and a grim-looking Scandinavian, and kept grimacing furiously at me. But our own small problems in bridging literature and power were as nothing compared to those of Professor Massimo Monza. I looked over and saw he was sitting in lonely state in the middle of the top table, with three empty places beside him – awaiting, presumably, the arrival of Sepulchra, Criminale, and our padrona Mrs Valeria Magno, whose plane had evidently still not landed. Servants kept rushing in to whisper messages into his ear; he waved them away irritably. A splendid meal began to be set before us; magnificent wine began to flow. Yet somehow it felt like a dinner heading towards disaster. The absences at the top table began to penetrate the entire room; it was as if all our conversation, all our congregation, was lacking one essential voice – as if we were an orchestra performing a piano concerto without just one musician, who unfortunately happened to be the solo pianist himself.
It was some time after we had consumed the delicious cucumber soup, and when we were well into the admirable Parma ham with melon, that there was a sound of disturbance in the doorway. There, with her hair drawn even higher onto her head than before, and wearing an enormous full-length kimono-style dress, stood Sepulchra. Behind her it was just possible to glimpse the much smaller figure of Bazlo Criminale. A butler hurried over to them, and brought them to their places on the top table. ‘But you started,’ we could all hear Sepulchra say as she sat down. ‘A hundred people waiteda,’ said Monza, ‘Wherea were you?’ ‘Bazlo was working,’ said Sepulchra. ‘I had just a small article to write,’ said Criminale, sitting down, in a more apologetic fashion; I was later to discover that it was Miss Belli who had discovered him at last, seated in the darkness in a gazebo by the lakeshore, quietly listening to a recording of Kierkegaard’s Either/Or on his Sony Walkman.
Within minutes it was clear that Criminale’s arrival had somehow transformed the entire occasion. There was relief and pleasure on Monza’s face, and a mood of satisfaction spread through the entire room. The atmosphere suddenly eased; literature began talking to power, and vice versa. ‘Did you?’ asked Cosima Bruckner, suddenly leaving her neighbour and now tapping me with her fork. ‘Did I what?’ I asked. ‘Have also a good journey?’ she asked. ‘Yes, I did,’ I said, ‘Fine.’ ‘So you work for a paper,’ she said, ‘What is the paper?’ I told her; it proved to be an act of folly. She stared at me. ‘It doesn’t exist any more,’ she said, ‘I know, I am with the European Community. In Brussels we know everything.’ ‘I’d rather you didn’t say anything,’ I said, ‘That was just the cover for a larger project.’ ‘You are here under cover?’ asked Cosima Bruckner, ‘That is very interesting. I will talk to you later.’ Anxious, I looked down the table at Ildiko, who made a face at me, and turned laughing to her neighbour.
The meal proceeded: through pastas that were fine beyond belief, tortes beyond description, wines that were pure nectar. Then, as the plates were removed, Monza rose to his feet with a happy expression on his face, tapped his glass with his knife, and turned to look at his guest of honour. ‘Basta, enough of me,’ he said, ‘Now I like to introduce the guesta for whom you have all been waiting, we have all been waiting. I mean the leadinga thinker of our postmodern day, Dottore Bazlo Criminale, who will set our congressa in motion. I have asked him to say a fewa words about our main thema, the relation of literature and power in the changed world of today.’ There was a stir in the room as Bazlo Criminale rose to his feet, for some reason holding a tattered magazine in his hand.
When people have travelled a long way to a distant conference and sat down to the fine foods and wines of the first night, they like to be given a conviction of strenuousness, to be cheered up and set to ennobling work, even though they know that over the next days they have no intention of doing it. If Criminale knew that too, he seemed that night to have no intention of satisfying the need. I knew from my reading that he was known as a maker of gadfly speeches, and that was how he set off. ‘Thank you, Professor Monza,’ he said, beginning to talk even before the microphone had been set in front of him, ‘The relationship of literature and power, well, let us settle that matter immediately. There is no proper relationship of literature and power. Power manages, and art decreates. Power seeks a monologue and art is a dialogue. Art destroys what power has constructed. So these two can never discuss properly with each other, as you will have found out already tonight if you have tried to talk to your neighbour.’
There was some nervous laughter at this, but I saw Monza looking dismayed, as well as many of the participants, who had, after all, overflown several continents in order to discuss this very topic. ‘Of course you know my renowned Hungarian colleague György Lukacs took the other view,’ said Criminale (bringing in that name again), ‘For him art was ideas, ideas construct politics, politics construct reality, and it must be the correct reality. Only if the idea was correct was the art correct. And where today are Lukacs’s correct ideas, his correct reality? Floated away down the Danube to nowhere. Today we see the end of that oppressive monologue called Marxism. Now we say we live in the age of pluralism, the age without what Hegel called an Absolute Idea. For once we are adventuring into history without an idea, and this is like trying to sail the Atlantic without a map. You can do it, but will you survive, never mind get anywhere worth going to?
‘You ask me, a philosopher, to come here, and tell you how to live in the world without an idea. Well, let me admit that Lukacs was right in one thing. Art, literature, always occurs at a certain time in history, and cannot be free of it. So let us ask, what is our time in history? In the courtyard of the Beaubourg in Paris – you know that building, it does for architecture what God could have done for us, if he had put our intestines on the outside of our bodies, instead of the other way – is a clock, the Genitron. Perhaps you have seen it, it counts down all the seconds left to the year 2000. I stand there sometimes, with all those fire-eaters, and I ask, what happens when the clock stops? Do we put on year 2001 tee-shirts and sing the “Ode to Joy”, or does the world go down the plug? And if we want an answer, who is trying to tell us? Do we have a Nietzsche, a Schopenhauer, a Hegel, a Marx? Is there perhaps a prophet somewhere?
‘Well, I found you some,’ said Criminale, standing there and waving his tattered magazine, ‘This is an airline magazine, compliments of Alitalia. I read it on the flight from, where was that?’ ‘Rangoon, dearling,’ said Sepulchra loudly. ‘Rangoon, was it really?’ said Criminale, to some laughter, ‘This magazine asked a group of thinkers, Il Papa himself was one, to tell us about the world after the year 2000. Here is one prophet, the British novelist, Anthony Burgess, I quote him. “I think we will discover new worlds, and learn to move about in the universe and carry on the great experiment of life in another dimension.” Quite good, perhaps, now we know he has read Teilhard de Chardin. But here is another view, this time the diva Tina Turner, you know her, I hope. “I want the next ten years to be full of love and music. And another book, I, Tina, will be coming out and is going to be made into a movie.” From this I deduce it takes all sorts to make a new world.’
There was more laughter, but the guests were looking at each other, wondering where Criminale was going. ‘Very well, which is true?’ said Criminale, ‘One hundred and fifty years ago, The Communist Manifesto appeared, and the first sentence read, you all remember, “A spectre haunts Europe – the spectre of Communism.” Well, no more, I think. But what spectre does haunt Europe, or the rest of the world? The spectre that haunts us is the spectre of too much and too little. It is an age of everything and nothing. It is culture as spectacle, designer life, the age of shopping. It is both Burgess floating loose in cosmic space and Turner madly in love with her smart self. So, my friends, if in a week at Barolo you can reconcile Burgess and Turner, literature and power, idea and chaos, and if by the way you can also prevent collapse at the European fringes, stop mad nationalisms, avoid collision with Islam, and solve the problems of the Third World, you will have done well and your time will not be wasted. This is all, thank you.’
There was applause, of course, when Criminale sat down. He was a famous man, and he had, in the end, turned up to grace the occasion. But I sensed a kind of dismay as I went in to coffee in the lounge next door; it was as if the philosopher had descended amongst them and had refused to be a philosopher and chosen not to think. Ildiko joined me, in an angry temper. Her dinner had not gone well; the American State Department official on one side had told her all about the Uruguay Round of the GATT talks, and the Scandinavian poet on the other had tried to delight her with photographs of his penis, and she was not sure which was the more boring. And she was not at all pleased by Criminale’s oration. ‘But why does he talk like that?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps to make us think about whether we need a great idea or not,’ I said. ‘But he attacked always the wrong things,’ said Ildiko. ‘You mean Lukacs?’ I asked. ‘No, not Lukacs, who cares any more about Lukacs?’ said Ildiko, ‘I mean shopping. What is wrong with shopping?’
ldiko was still angry when, later on, the tired conferees began saying their goodnights to each other, and we set off through the gardens to make our way down to the Boathouse. The night was not, after all, one to look forward to. We walked, apart, along the terrace, still lit by flickering torches; the moon shone, and the wind lightly shook the trees. Ildiko suddenly stopped. Beside a bare white statue of Minerva, a lone stocky human figure stood on the terrace, smoking a cigar, looking out over the black lake. ‘Criminale!’ said Ildiko, ‘Why does he do like that? Is he waiting someone?’ I looked around; there was no one else in sight. ‘Here’s your chance to go and talk to him,’ I said. ‘No, I don’t like, he is thinking,’ said Ildiko. ‘We’ve come all this way to talk to him,’ I said, ‘Now you can introduce me.’ ‘I really don’t like,’ said Ildiko; but just then Criminale turned, saw us, and waved his cigar. ‘A splendid speech, Dr Criminale,’ I called. ‘Not I think my best,’ said Criminale, looking first at me, then at Ildiko; there was no shock of recognition. ‘But not nice about shopping,’ said Ildiko, ‘This is Francis Jay from England.’
‘British, how strange,’ said Criminale, ‘I am standing here thinking why Graham Greene has never won the Nobel Prize for Literature. You know the story?’ This seemed an odd diversion, but great men must, I’m told, be humoured. ‘No,’ I said, ‘Tell me, why hasn’t Greene won the Nobel Prize for Literature?’ ‘It may not be true, but I tell it to you anyway,’ said Criminale, turning to look over the lake again, ‘Once Greene went to Sweden and he slept there with a certain woman. Why not? We all go to Sweden to be modern, no?’ ‘I suppose,’ I said agreeably. ‘The woman had a relative, a professor who belonged to the Swedish Academy, which chooses of course the Prizewinner,’ said Criminale. ‘This man was outraged, he swore an oath that as long as he lived Greene would never win the trophy.’ ‘Isn’t this romantic?’ asked Ildiko. ‘I think so,’ nodded Criminale, ‘Both men have lived and lived, to a great old age. Maybe that is what keeps them going, one cannot die before the other. The Prize has gone everywhere, Pearl Buck, Bertrand Russell, even your famous Winston Churchill, never to Greene. One of the greatest writers of our century, and he misses the Prize because one night he has a little joy with a certain woman. I was asking myself, if it was I, and if I knew what would happen, which would I choose, the Prize or the woman? A difficult question, don’t you think?’ ‘So how do you answer?’ asked Ildiko. ‘I don’t know, my dear,’ said Criminale, ‘Fame is good but love is wonderful. You sound Hungarian.’ Ildiko answered in her own language; they talked for a moment. In the villa behind us, the lights were going out. Someone, a woman, walked across the terrace and disappeared. Criminale dropped his cigar butt and ground it into the gravel. ‘Now I think we must get ready for morning, alive for another congress. A pleasure to meet you both. Enjoy your paradise,’ he said, nodding his great head. We watched him as he made his way back, in his shiny blue suit, towards the villa.
‘He didn’t recognize you,’ I said to Ildiko, as we went on down the steep lighted path towards the Old Boathouse. ‘He lives in a world up there,’ she said, ‘He doesn’t recognize anyone. Tomorrow he will not even know you.’ Ildiko’s manner had changed, and her anger appeared to have gone. ‘He seemed rather depressed, I thought.’ ‘Oh, now you have met him, you understand him completely?’ she asked. ‘You didn’t think so?’ I asked. ‘I tell you what I think,’ she said, ‘I think Criminale Bazlo is in love. I have seen him in love before,’ she said, ‘Remember, he is Hungarian, very romantic. Someone has charmed him, and now he is thinking about power and women. So, I hope I have pleased you now. I have introduced you.’ ‘I’m very pleased,’ I said. ‘And I brought you to a very nice place, no?’ said Ildiko, ‘Paradise, in fact. And we have our very nice room. And remember, in Paradise it is always all right to be naked together.’
So that is how, a little later, Ildiko and I found ourselves very naked together, in the great Euro-bed of the Old Boathouse, a vast Gobelin tapestry, packed with Bacchic revelry, hanging over our heads, moonlight coming through the curtains and falling across our bodies. Ildiko lay there, shaking out her blonde hair and looking at me with bright eyes. ‘And what about you, how would you choose?’ she asked. ‘Choose what?’ I asked. ‘If like Criminale you were choosing between the Nobel Prize and the woman.’ ‘Forget Criminale,’ I said, ‘Anyway, it would depend on the woman.’ ‘Okay, to take an example, the Nobel Prize or me.’ ‘No contest,’ I said, ‘You, of course.’ ‘Really, you would give up the Nobel Prize like that, for me?’ cried Ildiko, ‘I think you are wonderful. Not such a nasty pig after all. And you do like shopping, a bit?’ ‘A bit,’ I said. ‘Benetton, Next, New Man, River Island, you would take me to those places?’ ‘One day,’ I said. ‘More like that, oh, Paradise, Paradise, isn’t it nice?’ said Ildiko, ‘So, goodbye Nobel Prize.’
Our folded bodies had almost joined, the thrill in our skins had become intense, the Nobel Prize was almost gone for good, when a sudden violent burst of motor noise shook the quiet room and wild flashing spotlights beamed in, flaring angrily, lighting the tapestry over our heads, illuminating first this corner, then that. ‘Oh God, what is it?’ cried Ildiko, pulling her body loose from mine. ‘Stay there, I’ll go and look,’ I said, and hurried naked to the window. ‘Oh Francis, I’m frightened,’ said Ildiko, coming naked to the window too, and clutching me. Outside, offshore, and not so many yards away from us, a huge birdlike object was hovering over the stirred waters of the black lake. It spun and tilted, spotlights in its metal belly turning and probing. In front of the boathouse, on the grass meadow, cars and trucks had been parked. Their headlights illuminated a gravelled arena, where men in dark clothes ran here and there. Like some enormous dragonfly, the great machine moved slowly in off the water, suspended itself for a moment over the meadow, then sank down and came to rest on the gravel.
‘Is it police, do they want us?’ asked Ildiko, holding me tight. From under the rotors of the white helicopter two figures in overalls ran, and piled into one of the waiting cars. Then I saw, on the helicopter’s side, a giant painted symbol; it was the logo of the Magno Foundation. ‘It must be our padrona, Mrs Valeria Magno,’ I said, ‘She’s come home late to check what’s going on in her paradise,’ I said. The car drove at speed away from us, up the winding road towards the Villa Barolo. ‘Oh, I am glad you are with me,’ said Ildiko. ‘Everything’s all right,’ I said, ‘The boss is here, that’s all. Forget it, come back to bed.’ So, in the great imperial bed at the Paradise of Barolo, on the fortunate fair lake of Pliny and Vergil, in beautiful surroundings both classical and romantical, Ildiko and I held each other. She shivered and shook and then slowly we moved together again, body into body, thought into thought, and forgot, for the usual eternal short while, about power, literature, and ideas, about Monza and Nobel and Mrs Magno, even about the stocky, lonely figure of Bazlo Criminale.