I should freely admit that the Gran Hotel Barolo – down in the village, next to the lake, out along the promontory, charmingly overlooking the pier – was pleasant enough. In fact, with its large grounds, its glassed-in waterfront terrace, its comfortable three-star restaurant, it was delightful, especially if you had come to it afresh or from afar. Its façade was grand, its grounds well-kempt. There were boats in its boathouse; a nice old-fashioned trio played each evening in the pleasant bar. In fact it was the ideal place, even or perhaps especially out of season, for tired Milanese businessmen to bring their wives, or more usually someone else’s, for a happy night or a good weekend. But the hotel somehow looked a little different to those of us who had just spent five pure days in Paradise. To our eyes, its public rooms seemed faded and cheerless, its residents and guests drab and dull, its tablecloths dank, its silver less than silver, its menu uninspiring, its bedrooms mean and stale, by comparison with the comforts of the Villa Barolo, high up on the crag above. Nonetheless, it did possess one virtue that the villa did not. It was prepared to admit us, after we had been summarily ejaculated out of the gardens of Paradise.
This unfortunate episode happened on the morning after the great storm, which is still probably not forgotten at Barolo. When Ildiko and I woke up that morning, it was to look out on a clear, bright and faultless day. Beyond the windows of the Old Boathouse, the lake lay entirely unruffled, the mountains fresh and calm. As I walked up through the terraces for breakfast (Ildiko followed her habit and stayed in bed), I found branches and fallen trees everywhere, plants flattened, benches upturned. Still, the gardeners were at work already, repairing and perfecting the scene. So were the servants up at the villa, busily sweeping up the debris, straightening the priceless paintings. Yet somehow the storm had left its mark, and the atmosphere of the congress had subtly changed. That was clear in the breakfast room too, where the congress members sat eating their eggs and bacon in a strange and solemn silence. Then I looked round the room, and understood why. Today there was no Bazlo Criminale.
Had he still failed to return? I sat down to eat and after a few moments Sepulchra came in. ‘Such a night! I am tempest-tossed!’ she cried, high hair spun up higher than ever. We watched her go over to the sideboard and pour Criminale’s usual cup of coffee. Then she turned, looked round, and said, ‘So? Where is Bazlo?’ People shook their heads. ‘You don’t see him?’ she asked, ‘Not know where he is? You think maybe he took long walk?’ But Sepulchra did not even then appear particularly worried; she must have had half a lifetime’s experience of dealing with Criminale’s careless wanderings and obscure absences. I said nothing about the concert the previous night, and finished my breakfast in silence. At that moment it seemed to me perfectly possible that Criminale had stepped from the music to think some fresh thought, examine some statue or fine painting, or just look for a newspaper, and that Miss Belli had thoughtfully followed. If he was not here now, he would probably return shortly, perhaps led by Belli, perhaps brought home by the police in their van.
There was only half an hour left before the congress events were due to resume, so I went out into the hall, meaning to go back to the Old Boathouse, stir Ildiko, and give her the roll I had slipped into my pocket. Here, however, the butler stopped me, and very politely told me that I was summoned immediately to the upstairs suite of Mrs Valeria Magno, which I knew occupied most of the top floor of the villa. It was only as I followed his white back up the grand staircase that led the way to our padrona that I began to stir with anxious thoughts. Could it be possible that someone had been unkind enough to go to her and blow the gaff, strip my cover, and indicate that I was here on if not false then imperfect pretences? And if so, who was it? Could it be the operatic Cosima Bruckner, whose conspiratorial Euro-imaginings of the night before I found it, to be frank, almost impossible to take seriously? Or was it possibly Professor Doktor Otto Codicil, whose greeting to me the night before, when I found him with Ildiko, had been of the very frostiest, and who was, as Gerstenbacker had warned me, potentially a dangerous enemy?
The suite of Mrs Magno was, as befitted the benefactor of the entire enterprise, spacious and vast. The butler led me through a lobby, a sitting room, a gracious private dining room, and a dressing room, before at last we reached a great bedroom, into which he ushered me. A maid with a bucket was mopping up a great pool of water from beneath the windows, another deposit from last night’s storm. Mrs Magno was sitting at her dressing table, wearing flamboyant lounging pyjamas, and checking her face in the mirror, as if she was equally worried about storm damage there. Professor Monza stood in the room, wearing both his Royal Engineers tie and a strangely anxious expression on his small brown face. And, sitting weightily on a chair by the window, I saw the bulky figure of Professor Otto Codicil. ‘Lo, the outrageous impostor,’ he announced. Yes, it was bloody Codicil.
Mrs Magno turned, and looked me up and down. ‘You’re Francis Jay?’ she asked. ‘Yes, I am,’ I said. ‘Well, the prof here says you’re a phoney,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘Otto, just tell us again what he’s supposed to have done.’ ‘Well, just for a starter, this young man has completely abused your hospitality with his false pretences,’ said Codicil, ‘Plainly it is outrageous.’ ‘I fear I made a very bad mistaka,’ said Professor Monza, ‘You understanda, Signora Magno, to organize a great congress is a very demandinga business.’ ‘You do a great job, Massimo,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘Don’t worry, it’s all logged up here.’ ‘I should have checked his recorda more closely,’ said Monza. ‘I fear it is only what we must expect,’ said Professor Codicil, ‘The cunning blandishments of the media. Believe me, even I succumbed.’ ‘What do you two mean?’ asked Mrs Magno, plastering some tiny crack in her façade, ‘Is this guy some kind of journalist?’ ‘Exactly so,’ said Codicil. ‘I thought we had a policy of letting in some press,’ said Mrs Magno. ‘But in this case also an impostor, as I found out in Vienna to my cost,’ said Codicil. ‘Okay, what’s the story?’ asked Mrs Magno. ‘If you do not mind, I will not mince my words,’ said Codicil. ‘Go ahead, be my guest,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘I can take anything. I’m Californian.’
‘Very well,’ said Codicil, rising to his feet and pacing the room, ‘This man, an illiterate hack of no importance, by the way, appeared in Vienna a few days ago and solicited my assistance. He told me he was making a television show on the subject of our dear esteemed friend Bazlo Criminale.’ ‘So why come to you?’ asked Mrs Magno, adding blusher. ‘My dear lady,’ said Codicil, a little stung by this, ‘You lead a world life, so you may not know it, but I am the author of the one great study of the work of our master.’ At this point it crossed my mind to dispute him; then I thought not. I could be in enough trouble already. I was. ‘I arranged to meet the lout,’ said Codicil, ‘At once I saw he was unworthy, if not unwashed, even by peasant standards.’ ‘He is kind of brutal, isn’t he?’ said Mrs Magno, looking me up and down pensively. ‘How could a man of this type possibly make a programme about Criminale?’ demanded Codicil, ‘I was reminded of Heidegger. He, you know, rejected Öffentlichkeit, the light of publicity which obscures everything.’ ‘Didn’t he have good reason?’ asked Mrs Magno.
‘Well, even so, every assistance was offered,’ said Codicil, rather hastily, ‘Witness coffee and cakes at a first-rank Viennese café, for which incidentally I coughed up the tab. For two days I sacrificed to him the services of my invaluable servant Gerstenbacker, to make sure his every want and whim was satisfied.’ ‘Aren’t you good?’ said Mrs Magno. ‘However, from the start I was uneasy,’ Codicil went on, ‘I could not accept the project was, well, correct.’ ‘Not kosher?’ asked Mrs Magno. ‘It stank a little somewhere, to speak frankly,’ said Codicil, ‘Happily I have friends worldwide. I called a good old mate colleague in London who asked some enquiries. Within hours the whole pathetic deception was exposed. This was not some great TV company, as the lout had said. It was a front only, run by women and children. It made programmes for speculation, like some street-corner tout. It kept a postal address in a bad part of Soho, the most degenerate part of London. Perhaps you know it, though I hope not.’ ‘Only by reputation, honey, I’m afraid,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘So you mean the whole thing is some kind of scam?’ ‘I fear so,’ said Codicil, ‘And worse was to come.’
‘Do you mind if I say something?’ I asked. ‘You’ll get your turn, honey,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘I want to hear what the professor knows.’ ‘I discovered this smut-hound had hired some professional seductress to corrupt my young assistant, a youth of blameless virtue, and force him to speak calumnies about me. Well, naturally in the interests of justice and decency I attempted to stop this television adventure. I forbade it, even with the British Ambassador. All this was made totally clear. Now I come to Barolo; by the way, I am so sorry to be late, but a professor in my shoes has many demanding duties, examining students and so on . . .’ ‘Don’t worry, we weren’t expecting you,’ said Mrs Magno. ‘I come, and find that by some new imposture he has settled his backside here and is working with impunity on this forbidden business.’ ‘Can I ask a question?’ I said, ‘I’d just like to know why Professor Codicil thinks he has the authority to try to ban a serious television programme.’
‘Just a minute, kid,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘Massimo, how did this guy get here?’ ‘I fear an unfortunate error was committeda,’ said Monza, looking at me furiously, ‘I received a cable from Budapesta, from our visita here, saying he wished to write about the congressa in an importanta London newspapa. Now we find that papa does not even exista.’ ‘The paper doesn’t exista?’ said Mrs Magno, turning to me, ‘Oh, honey, looks like you’re really in the shit. So what are you doing here?’ Before I could reply, Monza interrupted. ‘In my opiniona,’ he said, ‘he is exploiting the famed wonders of Barolo to take a holiday with his foreign mistressa.’ ‘I don’t believe it, a bimbo in the story too,’ said Mrs Magno, looking at me with growing interest, ‘Okay, shall we let him talk?’ ‘Personally I would boot him away from here without a further word,’ said Codicil, ‘In the modern world there is far too much of this contempt for our privacies, I think.’
‘Okay, prof, just let me handle it,’ said Mrs Magno, looking me over, ‘Is it true you lied your way into here?’ ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I admit my paper folded. It went bankrupt a couple of weeks ago. I still thought I could publish an article.’ ‘And the TV?’ ‘The television project is perfectly real. It’s a serious arts programme in the British television series “Great Thinkers of the Age of Glasnost”,’ I said. ‘Love the title,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘And I thought Brideshead was terrific, by the way. But why lie to get here?’ ‘It seemed the best way to get close to Doctor Criminale,’ I said. ‘You see!’ cried Codicil. ‘What I’d like to know is why Professor Codicil is so opposed to this programme,’ I said, ‘Doctor Criminale is our leading philosopher. Why shouldn’t television make a good serious programme about him?’ ‘What do you say to that, prof?’ asked Mrs Magno, turning to Codicil. ‘I think the answer stands plainly before you,’ said Codicil, ‘This tout and doorstep-hopper you see there, a hack posing under the guise of gentleman, do you think he would make such a good programme? Has Bazlo given his permission for this programme? I think that is the first courtesy, no?’ ‘Well, has he?’ asked Mrs Magno.
‘Not exactly,’ I had to admit, ‘First of all we had to explore whether there really was a programme there.’ ‘You see, a back-shop operation,’ said Codicil. ‘But why don’t we ask him?’ I suggested, ‘I think Bazlo Criminale might be delighted to see his work and his wisdom brought to a much wider audience.’ At this Monza coughed and straightened his tie uncomfortably. ‘Unfortunately this is a little difficulta,’ he said to Mrs Magno after a moment, ‘I regret that Dottore Criminale has not been seena since the concerta last nighta.’ ‘You’re kidding, Massimo,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘You don’t mean you’ve lost him? You’ve lost Bazlo Criminale?’ ‘Perhaps not quite losta,’ said Monza, looking even more uncomfortable, ‘He disappears quite often, and one of my assistants could be looking after him. You remember Miss Belli?’ Mrs Magno laughed. ‘Great, I love it,’ she said, ‘You’ve lost Bazlo and the beautiful Belli?’ ‘We are doing everything to finda them,’ said Monza, ‘The policia, everything.’ ‘I think you’d better get your ass unshackled, Massimo,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘Or you won’t have too much congress left. These people only come for him.’ ‘Meanwhile may I ask what you intend to do with our arrant doorstep-hopper here?’ demanded Codicil. ‘Oh, him,’ said Mrs Magno, turning to me with with the managerial decisiveness for which she was famous, ‘You, punk, you’re out, pronto. And just don’t let me see you ever again anywhere near Barolo, okay?’ The butler reappeared beside me; in the corner Codicil smiled grimly.
The padrona was as good as her word, and, even before the morning session of the congress had started, Ildiko and I were outside the gates of the Villa Barolo. ‘They heard, and were abasht, and up they sprang’ was how John Milton put it, I remember, when he was telling a somewhat similar tale. Our luggage too had been dumped in a careless and undistinguished pile outside the well-locked villa gates; we picked it up and walked disconsolately down into the village. This was how we found ourselves, before lunchtime, unpacking in a dusty back room at the Gran Hotel Barolo, the only hotel on the island open out of season. ‘Why why why?’ I demanded bitterly, as I unloaded my socks and knickers yet again, ‘What’s wrong with making a programme about Bazlo Criminale?’ ‘Maybe you should have explained to Monza what you were making,’ said Ildiko. ‘You were the one who told me to be a little Hungarian,’ I said. ‘I hope you do not blame me,’ said Ildiko, ‘Sometimes you can be a bit too much Hungarian.’
‘You realize we’ve been expelled, booted out, no more villa,’ I said, ‘The padrona has forbidden us ever to set foot in it again. And all because of that bastard Codicil.’ ‘The professor?’ asked Ildiko, ‘He seemed quite a nice man.’ ‘He’s not a nice man,’ I said, ‘That man has decided he wants to destroy me. My comfort, my programme, my career.’ ‘Why do you think you are so important?’ asked Ildiko. ‘I’m not,’ I said, ‘He’s a professorial elephant and I’m just a flea. He ought to be not seeing his students in Vienna. So why come all this way just to get us thrown out of Barolo?’ ‘Perhaps he did not come for you at all,’ said Ildiko, ‘By the way, I do not think this is such a nice room as the other.’ ‘Why did he come, then?’ I asked, ‘Did he say anything to you last night?’ ‘Last night?’ asked Ildiko, ‘What about last night?’ ‘You were with him last night, chatting him up in the lounge when I came in, remember?’ ‘Oh, when I came back from the shopping,’ said Ildiko, ‘You want to see my shopping?’ ‘No, not really,’ I said, ‘I want to know all about Codicil.’ ‘No, you do not?’ said Ildiko, standing there with an expression of deep disappointment, ‘Pig!’ ‘All right, I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘Go ahead, show me your shopping.’
I now realized Ildiko had scarcely taken in our predicament at all; her mind was totally on other things. In fact it had plainly been wildly overstimulated, if not almost unhinged, by the excitements of her shopping trip in the West the day before, which she began to describe minutely. It seemed that she had not only visited but eternally memorized the name of almost every single store in the small town at the end of the lake, which must have wondered what had hit it when she landed off the hover-craft with my wallet and went to work. The dollars (the money, of course, that Lavinia had cabled to me in Budapest to pay for our quest for Criminale) had run out quite early in the day. But by this time she had caught on to the advantages of plastic, which apparently did very nicely if you simply wrote a reasonable facsimile of my signature on the bottom of the bill at the end of each new purchase. ‘They were so nice,’ she said. ‘You used my credit card, Ildiko?’ I asked, ‘But I don’t have any credit.’ ‘They said it was all right,’ she said. ‘Don’t you know what you did was illegal?’ ‘Well,’ said Ildiko, ‘Maybe a little Hungarian.’
‘All right,’ I said, ‘What did you spend? How much did you buy?’ ‘Ah, you want to see all these?’ she asked, opening up an Armani leather suitcase I had never seen before, and unpacking from it plastic shop bag after plastic shop bag. ‘All that?’ I asked. ‘Look,’ said Ildiko, ‘You know I only bought it all for you.’ I looked. What Ildiko had bought for me was the following: three dresses in Day-Glo colours; shoes of electric blue; anoraks of outrageous purple; racing drivers’ sunglasses; a baseball cap saying ‘Cleveland Pitchers’; skin-tight Lycra bicycling pants with startling pink flashes; Stars and Stripes knickers; Union Jack bras; a tee-shirt that said on it ‘Spandau Ballet’, and another that declared ‘Up Yours, Delors.’ ‘Do you really like them?’ she asked. ‘Frankly?’ I asked. ‘Yes, of course, frankly,’ said Ildiko. ‘Well, frankly, I like your Hungarian miniskirt much better,’ I said.
Ildiko stared at me, dismay in her eyes. ‘You like it better?’ she said, ‘But that is just from Hungary. These are from the West. They are from shopping.’ ‘Ildiko, you’ll just look like everybody else,’ I said. ‘Don’t you like me to look like everybody else?’ she asked, ‘Beside, when I go back to Budapest I will not look like everybody else.’ ‘I liked you best the way you were when I first met you,’ I said. ‘If you don’t like my clothes, that means you don’t like me,’ said Ildiko. Another passage in Henry James came to mind, about clothes and the self. ‘No, it doesn’t. You’ve only just bought them, and anyway your clothes aren’t you,’ I said, though I was not sure I believed it; Henry James, I recalled, had never seen an ‘Up Yours, Delors’ tee-shirt. ‘They are me, they are my style,’ said Ildiko, ‘I think you don’t like me any more. You are mad with me. Just because I told you I had a little affair once a long time ago with Criminale Bazlo.’ At once I felt a brute, as I was supposed to. ‘I’m not mad with you,’ I said, ‘I’ve no right to be. You had your own life to live. I don’t mind what you did with Bazlo Criminale.’
‘Then you do really like me?’ she asked. ‘Yes, I do,’ I said, ‘You know I like you, I like you a lot. I like your clothes, I like you even better when you’ve got no clothes on at all.’ ‘Okay, show me,’ she said. ‘I will,’ I said. ‘No, but wait, first I put on for you this new brazer and these pants.’ She pulled off her dress, stripped to the buff, and then strapped herself round bosom and crotch with the bright colours of the British and American red, white and blue. ‘What do you think?’ she asked. ‘Terrific,’ I said. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘For you I am British now.’ ‘Take them off,’ I said. ‘Now?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Because here we go, here we go, here we go.’ And go we did, there on an ancient, tired Italian bed in the dusty back room of the Gran Hotel Barolo. Ildiko’s shopping bags lay all around us, spilling with packaged clothes. It was, of course, a pleasing experience, a little spiked with a certain half-anger we felt for each other. But I have to admit to you that even our lovemaking itself no longer had quite the same paradisial feel as before, that our very nakedness with each other had lost some of its splendour, now that we had been expelled from the Villa Barolo. ‘They destitute and bare of all their virtue; silent and in face Confounded long they sat,’ says John Milton of very similar circumstances, and I think I know just what he means.
Only later, when we had taken lunch and were sitting on the hotel terrace over coffee, was I able to bring Ildiko’s mind to the realities of our situation. We sat staring out across the wintry lake, misted over but calm as a mirror; it had returned to its usual pearly grey, though branches floated in the water, and debris ruffled the surface everywhere. ‘I don’t think today you are in such a nice mood,’ said Ildiko. ‘No, maybe not,’ I said, ‘That’s because we can’t go back to the villa, we’ve got no money, and we’ve lost touch with Bazlo Criminale.’ ‘We could take a trip,’ said Ildiko, ‘I brought back some brochure.’ ‘Please, Ildiko,’ I said, ‘This is work, not a holiday. I have to make a programme about Criminale. And now this bastard Codicil has come along and destroyed everything.’ ‘Why would he like to do that?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Because he doesn’t want old stories raked over, because he’s afraid I’ll find out something I’m not supposed to know.’ ‘What are you not supposed to know?’ asked Ildiko. ‘That’s the trouble,’ I said, ‘I don’t know what I’m not supposed to know, and whether I know it already or whether I was about to find it out. I just know there’s something I mustn’t know. There has to be, to bring Codicil flying down here. Where did you meet him last night? Was he waiting at the villa when you came back from . . .’
‘Shopping?’ asked Ildiko, ‘No, he was just there.’ ‘Yes, I know but where’s there?’ ‘Well, first, I went shopping,’ said Ildiko, ‘Then because I had bought so much thing, I had to take taxi.’ ‘A very big taxi, I should imagine,’ I said. ‘I came to the pier for evening hovercraft, they are really very nice, those boats. And here was this big fat man in green overcoat, and hat with little feather in it, waiting there also.’ ‘So there he was, Professor Codicil,’ I said, ‘Did you already know him?’ ‘No, of course not,’ said Ildiko, ‘I had never met him before. He said he has never been in Budapest. He asked if I spoke German, I said, yes, I do. Then he asked if I knew where was the Villa Barolo, where there was a very big congress.’ ‘So nobody met him,’ I said, ‘He just turned up out of the blue.’ ‘Yes, I think from the blue,’ said Ildiko, ‘I told him I went there too, I could show him the way. I took him on the boat and we came back, just before the storm.’ ‘And on the boat you talked to him?’ ‘Yes, I am a very polite person,’ said Ildiko.
‘Did he explain all about himself?’ I asked. ‘He said he was a very important professor,’ said Ildiko. ‘I bet,’ I said. ‘Also he mentioned Monza,’ said Ildiko, ‘He said he was another very important professor and an old mate colleague.’ ‘So those two are buddies,’ I said. ‘I don’t think buddies,’ she said. ‘So who received him at the villa?’ I asked, ‘Not Monza, he was at Bellavecchia.’ ‘I think Mrs Magno,’ said Ildiko, ‘They had no room for him but he had long talk to her, and then she told the servants to find him something. Why do you ask me all these questions?’ ‘Because it’s strange,’ I said, ‘This is a closed congress, there aren’t supposed to be any extra participants. They warned us people would be turned away if they didn’t get to Milan on the first day. Codicil’s not on any of the lists. He’s not down to give a paper. The congress is more than halfway finished. Mrs Magno wasn’t expecting him. So what makes him turn up suddenly to a congress where he hasn’t been invited and no one is expecting him?’ ‘He said he was late because he had been examining his students,’ said Ildiko. ‘Oh, yes?’ I said, ‘If Codicil ever actually met one of his students, he wouldn’t know him from Schopenhauer. He’s so busy politicking around with the government he never sees his students. That’s why he has all these assistants, to do what people usually call teaching. No, someone must have tipped him off. Maybe his buddy Monza.’
‘Monza tipped him off what?’ asked Ildiko. ‘I mean, told him that I was here,’ I said, ‘That’s the only reason I can think of for him to come flying all this way.’ ‘You really think you are so important,’ said Ildiko, laughing, ‘He said he came because it was very proper he should be here. After all, Criminale was the guest of honour and he had written the great book on Criminale.’ ‘Except we know he didn’t write the great book on Criminale,’ I said, ‘And that’s strange too. Why turn up and say he had written the book, right in front of the man who actually had written it?’ ‘So who do you think wrote it?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Criminale wrote it himself,’ I said, ‘Then he got it out to Vienna, and it was published under Codicil’s name.’ ‘Who told you all this?’ asked Ildiko. ‘I thought you knew,’ I said, ‘Sandor Hollo. He took the book to Vienna.’ Ildiko began to laugh. ‘Hollo Sandor?’ she asked, ‘You don’t believe that one, I hope. He never told the truth in his life. I know him very well.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I rather thought so. But if Criminale didn’t write it, then who did?’ ‘Professor Codicil,’ said Ildiko. ‘How do you know?’ I asked. ‘He told me last night,’ she said, ‘He tried to make a contract with me to get it published in Hungary. How could he do that if it was written by Criminale?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘He said the book was a great achievement, and it had made him sweat for many years.’ ‘I still think that was the central heating,’ I said, ‘But it’s true he’d hardly come and say he’d written it in the presence of the real author. Unless he knew Criminale had gone already.’
Ildiko put down her coffee cup carefully and then stared hard at me. ‘Criminale has gone already?’ she asked. ‘Yes, he took off again last night, right in the middle of the concert at Bellavecchia.’ ‘And where is he?’ asked Ildiko. ‘I’ve no idea,’ I said, ‘But probably holed up in some hotel across the lake having a wonderful time with Miss Belli.’ ‘He is with Belli?’ asked Ildiko, looking very distressed, ‘Then we must find him.’ ‘I know,’ I said, ‘The problem is how. He seems to have disappeared in a big way this time. Even Monza is worried.’ ‘This is very bad,’ said Ildiko, ‘How did it happen?’ ‘One minute he was sitting there a few rows in front of me, listening to The Three Seasons,’ I said, ‘The next the two of them had gone completely.’ ‘And you went there?’ she asked, ‘You went to the concert without me?’ ‘Of course I went without you,’ I said, ‘I intended to go with you, but you weren’t there. You were off stripping the shelves bare in Cano.’
There was an expression of jealousy on Ildiko’s face. ‘And of course you went with someone else?’ she said, ‘Miss Uccello?’ ‘No, I didn’t go with Miss Uccello,’ I said, ‘Actually I went with Cosima Bruckner.’ ‘Who?’ she asked. ‘The lady from the European Community, beef section,’ I said, ‘Except now she tells me she’s not from the beef section at all.’ ‘The one in the black trousers?’ asked Ildiko. ‘That’s the one,’ I said. ‘Oh, and do you like them?’ asked Ildiko bitterly, ‘If you had told me you liked them all that much, I could have bought some.’ ‘I don’t like them,’ I said, ‘And no need to be jealous.’ ‘I like to be jealous,’ said Ildiko. ‘Look, Cosima Bruckner is a very strange lady,’ I said, ‘I don’t know what she’s up to here, but I know one thing, she’s been to the opera once too often.’ ‘So, you are not in love with her?’ ‘Definitely not,’ I said. ‘Well, I think she cares for you very much,’ said Ildiko. ‘I doubt it,’ I said, ‘What makes you think so?’ ‘Because she is over there on the terrace, looking for you,’ said Ildiko, ‘In the black trousers.’ I turned to look; there, standing at the further end of the hotel terrace, gazing out spiritually over the lake, was Cosima Bruckner.
Cosima noticed my glance and inclined her head just slightly, indicating that I should join her. ‘Excuse me,’ I said to Ildiko, ‘The black trousers are calling.’ ‘Pig!’ said Ildiko as I walked across the terrace. Cosima neither turned to look at me nor took her gaze away from the lake as I came to her side. ‘Do not attract any attention,’ she said, ‘You know your quarry has fled?’ ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘He has definitely debunked,’ said Cosima, ‘He has been absent from the congress all day. I thought you would like to be informed.’ ‘I knew that,’ I said. ‘And do you also know where he is?’ she asked. ‘Probably in some hotel across the lake with Miss Belli,’ I said. ‘No,’ said Cosima Bruckner, ‘He crossed the Swiss border early this morning.’ ‘He crossed the border?’ ‘It is only ten or so kilometres from here, I told you,’ said Cosima, ‘Our people watch it very carefully, of course. The time was logged very precisely. Six thirty-five to be exact.’ I stared at her in amazement. ‘Your people?’ I asked. ‘Naturally,’ said Cosima. ‘You mean it’s Criminale you’ve been watching?’ ‘Not only Criminale,’ said Cosima, ‘But we think he is a part of it.’ ‘A part of what?’ I asked. ‘Of course I cannot tell you,’ said Cosima.
‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘Do you read spy novels at all? Someone said they’d gone right out of fashion since the end of the Cold War.’ ‘I do not have time for books,’ said Cosima, ‘And do not think international problems have now ended. Many are just beginning. Now here. Do not look at it now.’ After a careful glance round, Cosima had slipped a piece of paper into my shirt pocket. ‘What’s this?’ I asked. ‘His address in Switzerland,’ said Cosima. ‘And what do I do?’ I asked, ‘Read it in the toilet and then eat it?’ ‘It will not be necessary,’ said Cosima, ‘He is staying in Lausanne at a well-known hotel. When you track him down, please to keep me informed. If anyone questions you, I ask you not to implicate me under any circumstances.’ ‘Keep you informed about what?’ I asked. ‘His companions, his movements, his intentions.’ ‘I don’t see why I should,’ I said, ‘You can’t get me ejaculated from Barolo now. I’ve been ejaculated already.’ ‘I hope you do not think I was the one who was ejaculating you,’ said Cosima Bruckner, ‘You were far too valuable to us for that. But I hope you are idealist enough to care for the future of our common Europe.’
‘I say prayers for Jacques Delors every night before I go to bed,’ I said, ‘But if you really think a world-famous philosopher of Criminale’s distinction spends his time smuggling sides of beef across the Swiss border . . .’ ‘I do not,’ said Cosima, ‘There are enough cows in Switzerland already. These are financial matters. I see you have found out very little after all.’ ‘I think you could say so,’ I said. ‘But I ask you again what I asked last night. Have you seen anything at all suspicious while you were at Barolo?’ I suddenly had one useful thought. ‘There is one thing,’ I said, ‘I think you should keep a very close eye on a man called Codicil who has just arrived.’ ‘A new arrival, very interesting,’ she said, ‘You think he is a part of it?’ ‘I’m sure he’s a part of it,’ I said, ‘He’s posing as a professor of philosophy from Vienna.’ ‘My friend, you have been very valuable,’ said Cosima gravely, ‘I will watch him while you watch Criminale. And then we will keep each other informed.’ ‘We must all do our bit for Europe,’ I said. ‘Exactly,’ said Cosima, ‘Now I must go back to the villa. Remember, this meeting has not taken place. Call me tomorrow night. And do not follow me when I leave. Just go back to your companion in a natural way.’
Frankly, I really did not know what to make of Cosima Bruckner, who seemed to have strayed into my life from some quite different type of story altogether. But there she was, or at least had been (I watched her slip away quietly through the potted palms, avoiding the hotel staff), and Paradise seemed to be slipping away from me in quite a big way. There was the mystery of the appearance of Codicil, which I had thought was enough; and now there was the mystery of the disappearance of Criminale, and just when I had begun to see him as a man above fault, a man of virtue, a man I seriously admired. I rejoined Ildiko, who had not failed to take full advantage of my absence: she had ordered herself French brandy and the most expensive ice-cream coupe on the menu. ‘I put all this on your bill,’ she said, looking at me angrily. ‘Why not?’ I asked, ‘I can’t pay for any of this anyway.’ ‘And how was Black Trousers?’ asked Ildiko, ‘Did she tell you she is really crazy for you?’
‘Ildiko, if she’s crazy, it’s not for me,’ I said, ‘She’s interested in Bazlo Criminale. She’s been following him, apparently. She seems to think he’s involved in some kind of Euro-fraud.’ ‘And what is that, Euro-fraud?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Fraud is doing illegal things with money, smuggling it, breaking laws, cheating investors and so on,’ I said, ‘And Euro-fraud is when they do it with my taxes, when I pay them.’ ‘And you don’t think Criminale Bazlo does something like that?’ asked Ildiko. ‘I don’t believe it, it’s absurd,’ I said, ‘But Cosima Bruckner does.’ ‘Then we must find him,’ said Ildiko, grabbing my arm, ‘It’s important.’ ‘Well, there’s one thing to be said for Cosima,’ I said, ‘She did tell me where he is.’ ‘She told you?’ asked Ildiko, excitedly, ‘Where?’ ‘He’s in Lausanne in Switzerland.’ ‘Of course in Switzerland,’ said Ildiko obscurely, ‘Now we must go there.’ ‘I haven’t any money,’ I said, ‘Remember the shopping?’ ‘But you must get some,’ said Ildiko, looking excited. ‘It all depends on Lavinia,’ I said, ‘I’ll go upstairs and call her. But please, please, Ildiko, don’t order anything else while I’m away.’
‘This is getting absolutely ridiculous, Francis,’ said Lavinia, when I reached her at her room in Vienna, ‘Criminale has hopped it again? Where’s he gone now? South America?’ ‘He’s staying at some hotel in Lausanne,’ I said. ‘What’s he doing there?’ asked Lavinia. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said, ‘Except he seems to have run off with the most beautiful girl at the congress. And maybe half the European beef mountain as well.’ ‘You’re not serious,’ said Lavinia. ‘I think the beef is probably a matter of mistaken identity,’ I said, ‘But I’m quite serious about the rest. And there’s something else I’m serious about, Lavinia. Money. I’m stuck, I haven’t any left.’ Lavinia squealed at the other end. ‘Francis, we’ve nearly spent the whole recce budget,’ she said, ‘Have you any idea what opera tickets cost in Vienna?’ ‘Speaking of Vienna,’ I said, ‘Professor Codicil’s turned up here, messing up things.’ ‘Actually the word in Vienna is that Codicil is quite a famous prick,’ said Lavinia, ‘Into all sorts of strange Habsburgian arrangements. Masonic lodges, and so on.’ ‘Who told you that, Lavinia?’ I asked. ‘Well, you remember Gerstenbacker, the little raver?’ asked Lavinia, ‘I’ve spent an evening or two with him. What he doesn’t know about Vienna isn’t worth knowing.’
A thought suddenly occurred to me. ‘Lavinia, you didn’t tell him where I was, I hope?’ ‘I could have said something,’ admitted Lavinia, ‘I have been chatting with him quite a bit.’ ‘Well, better not tell him anything else,’ I said. ‘You don’t think he leaks?’ asked Lavinia. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘But things are getting very confusing here. When you see him again, try and find out how Codicil got here.’ ‘I could give him a call now,’ said Lavinia. ‘Do, and cable me some money to the Gran Hotel Barolo,’ I said. There was a short pause at the other end. ‘Gran Hotel?’ asked Lavinia. ‘It’s a very small gran hotel, only three forks in the book,’ I said, ‘Anyway, it’s the only one here that’s open in the winter.’ ‘But I thought you were staying at a private villa,’ said Lavinia. ‘I’ve been kicked out of there,’ I said, ‘Thanks to Codicil. So talk to Gerstenbacker, find out what’s going on, and don’t forget the money. I can’t even pay the hotel bill.’
‘Francis, look, how do I know you’re spending this budget wisely?’ asked Lavinia, ‘You could be going shopping with it. Or spending it on some girl.’ ‘I hope you know me better than that, Lavinia,’ I said, ‘Do you want me to go after Criminale in Lausanne or not?’ ‘I’m not sure, darling,’ said Lavinia, ‘This is a very tight-budget show.’ I was beginning to feel desperate; like Ildiko, I could not bear the thought of giving up now, when indeed we seemed, in some obscure way, to be getting nearer the dangerous truth. ‘Lavinia, look,’ I said, ‘Believe me, this is getting really interesting. Criminale’s disappeared, Codicil’s frightened, and the European fraud squad are interested. We’ve got to go on.’ ‘I really don’t know, Francis,’ said Lavinia. ‘Look at it, Lavinia,’ I said, ‘Great Thinker of the Age of Glasnost in Italian Bimbo Scandal?’ ‘Well . . .’ said Lavinia. ‘Heidegger Quarrel Man in Euro Meat Fraud?’ ‘Yes, Francis, it sounds great,’ said Lavinia after a dreadful moment, ‘Okay, darling, I’ll get back to London and rustle up a bit more out of Eldorado. They’ll love all that. Expect my cable soon.’
*
The cable, thank goodness, came overnight. That meant Ildiko and I were able to settle our bill (surprisingly large) at the hotel desk the next morning and still catch the hovercraft into Cano. The Villa Barolo faded into the cypresses and ilexes behind us; then, as the boat steered round a promontory, the island itself faded from view, as insubstantial as Criminale himself. In Cano we boarded a rattling bus, and found ourselves, by mid-morning, back at Milano Central railway station, where our Barolo adventure had begun. Unfortunately our departure in no way resembled our arrival; this time no marching band was there to play, no battery of cameramen to catch us as we left. Ildiko wore her ‘Up Yours, Delors!’ tee-shirt, her tight Lycra bicycling pants with the flashes, and her ‘Cleveland Pitchers’ baseball cap; but even so she found, to her intense disappointment, that she was almost invisible in the contemporary international crowd. We went through a hall of stalls, bought tickets, took the escalator to the train. Soon we were sitting, once again, opposite each other in another great trans-European express, though this time we were going north and west, to Lausanne.
Within a few moments Paradise seemed to have drifted far behind us, and some new and anxious confusions lay ahead. Over the days at Barolo I had truly come to respect and value Bazlo Criminale, and I found it hard to understand his flight. I had no problem, naturally, in understanding his reason for fleeing with Miss Belli, now that I had had a few days’ experience of Sepulchra and her ways. As for Cosima Bruckner and her fevered imaginings, they seemed ridiculous. Criminale was far too dignified, too concerned with higher things, just too abstract to be bothered with the kind of mysterious Euro-fraud which seemed to be Cosima’s speciality in life. Then there was the question of what had alerted Codicil. I still felt sure someone had set him onto me – perhaps young Gerstenbacker, perhaps Monza, perhaps someone else at Barolo? But why? What difference did a television programme make to a man like Criminale? Or was Codicil worried about something completely different, something that had come my way, at Barolo, perhaps, or even when I was in Vienna? And then there was Ildiko, sitting across from me in the compartment. I could see that, probably, from her point of view, Criminale’s flight with Miss Belli must have been a betrayal. But why, then, was she so anxious to hurry after him again?
For, if I seemed gloomy, Ildiko, sitting across from me, seemed excited. ‘You don’t look happy!’ she said, leaning forward. ‘Of course not,’ I said, ‘I just feel this whole quest is going wrong.’ ‘Because of Codicil and little Miss Black Trousers?’ she asked, ‘You don’t really believe that Criminale Bazlo smuggles cows in his suitcases?’ ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Really you should not listen to this lady,’ said Ildiko, ‘She is not a good friend for you.’ ‘She’s not my friend,’ I said. ‘She knows nothing,’ she said, ‘These people in the European Community like to interfere in everything. Criminale never even thinks about money.’ ‘That’s my impression too,’ I said. ‘Bazlo does nothing wrong,’ said Ildiko, ‘Well, except of course those things you have to do wrong to survive in a Marxist country.’ I looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, ‘What things?’ ‘You know, you are so ignorant,’ she said, ‘Those usual things.’ ‘Ildiko, what usual things?’ Ildiko was just about to speak when I put my finger to my lips. The train had stopped at Domodossola near the Swiss border, and I realized that immigration men and probably the finance police as well were coming down the coach. A moment later the door slid open and two men entered, checking our papers with what seemed peculiar care. Then they looked at each other and went. I had a feeling that, no doubt courtesy of Cosima Bruckner, our time of crossing the border was being logged precisely.
Then a very serious-looking Swiss, wearing glasses and a small beard, and carrying a heavy briefcase, got into the compartment. The train moved on; as Paradise slipped ever further behind, the Swiss Alpine wonderland began to rise up ahead. High mountains replaced the Lombardy plain, Italian chaos began giving way to Swiss neatness, Italian noise to Swiss silence. Indeed the Swiss in our compartment twice made Ildiko dust down her seat, after he had caught her furtively eating a chocolate bar purchased at Milano Central. We wanted to talk, but the Swiss, who was reading a Geneva newspaper, cast such firm and forbidding glances at us that even conversation came to seem an offence against decency, probably subject to citizen’s arrest. At last Ildiko, ever Ildiko, grew impatient and suggested that we go along to the restaurant car. Leaving the compartment to the Swiss, we set off down the long line of corridors.
Immediately the train plunged into a great gloomy tunnel (I suppose, when I think of it, it must have been the Simplon) and we seemed to be cutting through the chilly core and fundament of the world. Through semi-darkness we groped our way down the coaches to the dining car. Here all was comfort; white-coated waiters bearing damask napkins flitted, the brass table-lamps gleamed, the white cloths were reflected in the heavy blackness outside, bottles of good wine rattled against the window glass. ‘Steak, please,’ said Ildiko to the waiter, ‘And I think we have the best red wine.’ ‘All right,’ I said, ‘What do you mean, the things you have to do wrong to survive in a Marxist country?’ ‘You really are so ignorant,’ said Ildiko, ‘That is because you live in a country where everything is what it seems.’ ‘Britain?’ I asked, ‘I hadn’t noticed.’ ‘Oh, you British are complaining all the time, you do not like this or that, how you suffer,’ said Ildiko, ‘But at least you can live openly. You can be yourself, have your nice little private life. Nobody spies with you, nobody denounces, you do not have to treat with the regime. And of course you can shop.’
‘Please don’t mention shops,’ I said. ‘Shall I explain you Marxism?’ Ildiko asked, ‘Or did you study it at school? I know you think it is clever and complicated, but really it is very simple. Karl Marx wrote a book called Das Kapital and after that we never had any. And that is a pity because, do you know, money is freedom, Francis.’ ‘Not for everyone,’ I said. ‘Listen, do you know what is the currency in Hungary?’ ‘Yes, the forint,’ I said. ‘No, that is scrap paper, fit only to wipe yourself with in a certain place, if you don’t mind I say so,’ said Ildiko, ‘The same with the zloty, the crown, the lev, the rouble. The currency of Marxism is the American dollar. That was not explained in Marx. But that is what the Party officials at their dachas had, that is why they had their own private food and medicine, why they shopped in the dollar shop, if you don’t mind I mention just one shop. That is why when Western visitors came we stopped them on the street and said, “Change money, change money.” We had to have them, the only way to live was the dollar.’
‘You mean to travel?’ I asked. ‘Please, most of the time you could not travel,’ said Ildiko, ‘Unless you made sports, or belonged to the Party, or liked to keep a little record on your friends. No, with dollar you could live under the table where everything lived. Do you understand?’ ‘Not quite,’ I said. ‘Oh, yes, in Marxism there are always two systems, official, and unofficial,’ said Ildiko, ‘In the official world you are a Party member, or a dissident, you believe in the victory of the proletariat, what a victory, and the heroism of the state. In the unofficial world, everyone, even the officials, they were someone else. Party members were not Party members, enemies were friends and friends were enemies. You trusted no one but you could trade with everyone. And with dollar you could buy anything: influence, dacha, a job, sex, black-market petrol, travel permit, what you liked. Nothing was what it seemed, nothing was what was said. So every story had two meanings, everyone had two faces.’ ‘Including Criminale?’ I asked.
‘I said everyone,’ said Ildiko, ‘Criminale is an honest man, but he also had to live in such a world. You saw his apartment, you know how he travelled. You read his books, how they go a bit this way, then that.’ ‘I thought so,’ I said, ‘But what did he do?’ ‘Remember, Criminale had one clever thing, the book,’ said Ildiko, ‘And the book, you know, is wonderful. A person always must stay in one place, you can even hold him there. A book can go in the pocket, be on tape, now go down a fax machine. It can change, one language to another, one meaning to another.’ ‘It’s what Roland Barthes said, the reader creates the writer.’ ‘Did Roland also say that it is always the writer who sells and the reader who buys?’ asked Ildiko, ‘You are not paid to read. Unless you are great professor, or maybe a poor publisher like me. But you are paid to write, and if you are famous, all round the world, then you make much money.’ ‘And Criminale made a lot of money?’ ‘Well, why not?’ asked Ildiko, ‘This is how the writer becomes free. Otherwise you are a state writer, that is a hack. If the state doesn’t like you, you sweep the street. You never saw Criminale sweep the street.’
There was suddenly a great burst of light, as we came out of the tunnel and into the Swiss Alpine world. Now we passed by places with names like Plug and Chug, past deep blue lakes and sharp-pointed Alps that shone with snow and ice, beside rivers that roared and plunged with winter rain, through forests that stirred with animals and grim hunting birds, through pine-covered slopes and across deep ravines, through damp clouds of mist and showers of pelting rain. We passed green pastures where the chalet chimneys steamed, dark slopes down which the gravel and boulders slid. ‘You mean Criminale made serious money?’ I asked. ‘Well, he is one of the world’s bestselling intellectual writers,’ said Ildiko, ‘What do you think?’ ‘And the state didn’t mind?’ I asked. ‘Of course, yes,’ said Ildiko, ‘But also it needed Criminale. So it was always necessary to make certain arrangements. His books had to go to the West, some money had to come from the West. There were other things. And always someone had to help him.’
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘Codicil. That’s why he’s so worried.’ Ildiko looked across the white cloth at me and laughed. ‘No, you don’t really now think that Codicil is a nice good man?’ she said, ‘That is not how you said it yesterday.’ Then I began to see. ‘It wasn’t Codicil,’ I said, ‘You were his publisher, you were his girlfriend. You could get his manuscripts out, you could probably make arrangements for his royalties . . .’ ‘I think a publisher must always help an author and the cause of art, yes?’ said Ildiko. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Even if that means working a little under the table?’ ‘Naturally there were deals with officials and so on,’ said Ildiko, ‘They knew he made very much money, so they made certain demands of him.’ ‘What kind of demands?’ I asked. ‘He had to please them with certain things, naturally,’ said Ildiko, ‘Sometimes to remain silent when it was better to speak, sometimes to speak when it was better to remain silent.’ ‘I see,’ I said. ‘But always Criminale was an honest man. Honest, but a little bit flexible. Maybe that is the best you can ever be, in such a country.’
‘But why didn’t he move to the West?’ I asked. ‘Oh, why?’ asked Ildiko, ‘Because he was a philosopher, he liked to live in a world with an idea. Of course then he found it was not such a good idea, that he wanted a new idea. What I did not tell you about Marxism, perhaps you knew it already, is it appears to be made of thinking. Unfortunately Marx said that the important thing is not to understand the world but to change it. Poor man, he got it the wrong way round. The important thing is not to change the world too much until you understand it. The human need, for one thing. I am sorry, perhaps I am too serious for you. I know the British do not like this.’ ‘I like you when you’re serious,’ I said. ‘Better than when I shop? Well, now you understand everything,’ said Ildiko, ‘Oh look, isn’t it nice?’
Ildiko pointed out of the train window; I looked, and saw rising over the high ridges the white spire of Mont Blanc. ‘We must be getting near Lausanne,’ I said, ‘You know, what I don’t understand is why Criminale has gone there.’ Ildiko looked out of the window and said, ‘Well, tell me something, what do they have a lot of in Switzerland?’ ‘Mountains, of course,’ I said. ‘More of than mountains,’ she said. ‘Cows,’ I said. ‘Not cows,’ said Ildiko. ‘Not shops,’ I said, ‘They don’t have shops.’ ‘They do, I checked,’ said Ildiko, ‘But no, not shops.’ ‘Banks,’ I said. ‘And what is it for, a bank?’ she asked. ‘To keep your money safe,’ I said. ‘I don’t think so,’ said Ildiko, ‘If you want it safe, keep it better in your bed. You are so ignorant, now I must teach you capitalism too. Banks are to hide your money away, move it, put it through the washer . . .’ ‘Launder it?’ I said, ‘You mean Criminale’s royalties are in Swiss banks?’ ‘Of course,’ said Ildiko, ‘In a bank with no questions. Special accounts.’
‘So perhaps he’s come to collect his royalties?’ I asked. ‘Well, since the Wende, he does not have to be so cautious, in Hungary what do they mind any more?’ said Ildiko, ‘Now it is the free market, we can do with our money what we like. Even spend it all on Miss Blasted Belli.’ ‘You think that’s what he’s doing?’ I asked. ‘Well, you have seen Sepulchra, wouldn’t you?’ ‘It must be a great deal of money, if he’s the world’s bestselling intellectual novelist.’ ‘Perhaps two million dollar,’ said Ildiko. I looked at her in amazement. ‘A fortune,’ I said. ‘Well, fortunate for him,’ said Ildiko, ‘Not because he cared so much for the money. He is not like that, with him it comes and goes. What mattered was the freedom.’ Then I suddenly remembered the bank statement I had seen on Criminale’s desk in his suite at Barolo. ‘These accounts are in Lausanne,’ I said. ‘I think so,’ said Ildiko. ‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ I said. ‘Of course, I helped him put it there,’ she said. I thought about this for a moment, and then I said, ‘Maybe that’s what interests Miss Black Trousers.’ ‘I don’t know why,’ said Ildiko, ‘You were right, she is crazy. Criminale did nothing, except a few things under the table. I told you, he is honest man.’
The train had by now emerged from the mountain passes, and we were moving along beside the spread of Lake Geneva: the waters of Léman, by which some have sat down and wept, and many, many others have sat down and written. There was the castle-prison of Chillon, standing in the lake; then the esplanades of Montreux, where Vladimir Nabokov – God bless him – had written and had died. Very soon there was Vevey, where Charlie Chaplin had died, been buried, and, if I remembered rightly, also been exhumed again, for profit. Then there was a lattice of vineyards, stretching up and down the slopes on either side of the train, not a scrap of space wasted, in the good Swiss way. ‘Lausanne, City of Banking and Culture,’ said the advertisements on the station platform, as we drew in. ‘You see, it is the right place,’ said Ildiko, pointing them out to me as we lifted our luggage down from the train: looking once more for honest, if flexible, Bazlo Criminale.