12

I do not know whether Bazlo Criminale recognized me . . .

To this day, I have no idea whether – as we stood there on the cold deck of the steamer on Lake Geneva, leaning over the side like two passengers on a transatlantic liner, very probably doomed – Bazlo Criminale recognized me, or whether I was some obscure grey figure in the darkness to whom he by chance began to talk. If he had some idea who I was, he certainly showed no surprise at seeing me there. Perhaps, given that he lived in the higher realm of thought, to him one congress was so like another, one congress face so like another, maybe even one congress lover just like another, that every situation merged into one. Maybe his reaction was somewhere between the two: he knew me, and he didn’t know me; I was both satisfyingly familiar and totally obscure. He was the elephant, I was the flea – that very convenient thing, the quiet young man who was interested in him but in no way represented a rival or a threat. At any rate, there I was, a someone; he began to talk.

‘You don’t dance, I see,’ he said, wiping his sweating brow, ‘Perhaps I should admit myself I am too old for this kind of thing.’ ‘Oh, surely,’ I said. ‘You know, when I was young, sex was such a wonderful discovery,’ he said, ‘My young friend, I will tell you something important, but it will take you a long time to believe it. When you reach a certain age these things cease to be a great discovery and turn into a bad habit.’ ‘Is that possible?’ I asked. ‘These people there talk all day about the erotic,’ said Criminale, waving his hand back towards the dancing photographers, ‘They are like chefs who spend all their time thinking about food but have forgotten what it is like to eat it. But believe me, when you are over fifty, and I am quite a long way past it, sex is like meat, only worth taking if there is a certain sauce with it.’ ‘What kind of sauce?’ I asked. ‘In my case it is power,’ said Criminale, ‘The erotic for me has always something to do with power. A woman to please me must always have a certain grip on power.’

I found this bewildering. Did the bewitching Miss Belli have a certain grip on power? She didn’t seem the Jackie Kennedy or Joan Collins type to me. ‘No, sex is not so amazing,’ Criminale went on, ‘It is what we confuse ourselves with on the way to something better. It misdirects us and empties us. It is our unfortunate necessity, our incontinence, our error, our folly. Now the women don’t want it anyway.’ ‘That’s very depressing,’ I said, thinking that if this was his current state of mind it must be still more depressing for Miss Belli. ‘It is not an original observation,’ said Criminale, ‘Maybe not even quite true. But truer than I imagined when somewhere a long way from here I set out on my small life adventure.’ ‘And where was that?’ I asked, realizing that this was a chance to find out what I could. ‘A place you have never heard of, a place you will never visit,’ said Criminale. ‘Veliko Turnovo?’ I asked. He turned and looked at me. ‘You know more about me than I thought,’ he said.

‘I read some magazine articles about you,’ I said, ‘I’m not sure whether they’re true.’ ‘Most definitely not,’ he said, ‘But that is so, yes. It was a place to be born in, also a place to leave if you wished to live a significant life.’ ‘You’ve certainly done that,’ I said. ‘You think so?’ he asked, glancing at me, ‘You know, the other day a very nice young lady wrote to me and said she had read my book Homeless, and it had changed her life. I thought about it. How? I wrote it, and it did not change mine.’ ‘You’ve influenced a lot of people,’ I said, ‘Including me.’ ‘Well, it has made me famous, and rich,’ he said, ‘And I suppose one should not despise these things, although I think I do. It has even made me erotic, you know.’ ‘I suppose fame is erotic,’ I said. ‘But let me warn you, the love life of celebrities, which fills up all the newspapers, is never quite what it seems,’ said Criminale, ‘The image is a deception. The description is nothing like the reality. Celebrity is a public delusion for which the world will make you pay. And now where in the world have we got to?’

‘Where in the world?’ I asked. I thought at first he was posing me some philosophical question, but he waved his hand grandly at the lake in front of us. ‘Oh, on the lake,’ I said, ‘I think those lights must be Vevey.’ ‘Ah, yes, Vevey,’ said Criminale, ‘Once the exile home of a very great man.’ ‘Oh yes?’ I asked. ‘Charlie Chaplin,’ he said, ‘Do you know Adolf Hitler’s men had strict orders that the Führer must never watch his movies, for the fear that he might think the fool he was watching up there on the screen was himself?’ ‘No, I didn’t,’ I said. ‘Those two were born in the same year, 1889, by the way,’ he said, ‘Think of it, Hitler and Chaplin, the fascist and the clown. If you are a photographer, then you must visit the Chaplin Museum here, you know.’ ‘You’ve been there?’ I asked. ‘Of course, I opened the centennial exhibition of last year there myself,’ said Criminale, ‘I found it quite moving, by the way.’ ‘You seem to be a great traveller,’ I said, ‘I gather you go everywhere.’

‘No, no, I am not a traveller,’ said Criminale, ‘There are no travellers now, only tourists. A traveller comes to see a reality that is there already. A tourist comes only to see a reality invented for him, in which he conspires.’ ‘Yes, we live in a placeless world,’ I said. He turned and looked at me in a half-puzzled way. ‘Did I perhaps say this to you before?’ he asked. I felt he was just beginning to recognize me; in fact perhaps I was half-teasing him to do so. I thought it was time to tell him a little of the truth (all of it is more than any of us can manage) and perhaps even hint at the reasons for my interest in him. ‘Something like it,’ I said, ‘I heard you lecture the other day at Barolo.’ ‘Really, at Barolo?’ he asked, looking at me over the top of the cigar he was lighting, ‘Well, I was there. You also? So what did I lecture on?’

It seemed an odd question: was he testing me, or had he in his high-mindedness managed to forget what he said? ‘You spoke about the end of history,’ I told him. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Criminale, ‘You see, my dear young fellow, history always goes on, always takes a shape, whether we like it or not. Perhaps you misunderstood me.’ ‘That’s possible,’ I said. ‘No, no, of course, I remember it now,’ said Criminale, excitedly shaking his cigar at me, ‘What I was talking about, I think, was the end of homo historicus, the individual who finds a meaning or an intention in history. Yes?’ ‘Something like that,’ I said. ‘Oh, there are old men in China who still think history is made with the barrel of a gun,’ he said, ‘But they will go soon to their forefathers, and that will be that. And for the rest of us, well, the past embarrasses us, the future is a chaotic mystery. So we are condemned to an eternal present. We know nothing, we remember nothing. And so we cannot tell good from evil, reality from illusion. And who can guide us to another way? Perhaps you like a cigar?’

‘Thank you,’ I said, taking one from the elegant case he presented to me. I put it into my mouth, nibbling the end. ‘No, no, not like that, my friend, these are from Castro, they must be respected,’ he said, taking it back and shaping it neatly with his pocket knife, ‘You see, we have no great story for ourselves, and so we go nowhere. Isn’t it true?’ ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ I said. And so we stood there, two friendly passengers, our cigar ends glowing, staring out over the rail as the lights of Vevey and then Montreux slipped brightly by. ‘You know, I like this lake,’ he said after a moment. ‘Yes, it’s very pleasant,’ I said. ‘The lake of exiles,’ said Criminale, ‘The people who loved it most were mostly exiles, like myself. All came looking for what you can never find. Rousseau came, looking for human innocence. It was not here. Byron came seeking political liberty. Not here. Eliot came wanting a relief from the madness of the modern. No good. Nabokov came and thought he would find Russia again. He found Swiss hotels.’ He wasn’t the only one, I thought.

I looked at him sideways. One thing, I realized, was certain: whatever erotic delights this famous and fortunate man was enjoying – or perhaps not enjoying – in the warm arms of Miss Belli, they had not diminished by one jot his teacher’s unquenchable desire to instruct and explain. I was full of questions; I wanted to ask him things, to ask him everything – about his childhood, his politics, his philosophy, his experience under Karl Marx, his life, his loves. But I settled for listening, and why not? That was what you did with Bazlo Criminale. After all, in the middle of an egotistical world, very short on dignity (the photographers behind us were now turning the party raucous), he had the gift for deepening and dignifying any occasion, for adding presence and value to any thought. I found now, as I had at Barolo, that I liked the sound of his talking voice, the slow, ironic tone of his ideas, that I liked him. I liked his seriousness, his human flavour, his sense of history. He came out of confusion, but he brought a sort of order. At moments like this I knew there was nothing wrong with Criminale.

‘But the best book of this lake was Edward Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. He finished it here, a very great book. You have read it, of course?’ ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ I said. ‘Do it one day, to please me,’ said Criminale, ‘A book that shows that to all historical epochs there is a finite cycle. Also a book that began the modern reinterpretation of history. Just as I sometimes think I must someday begin the reinterpretation of philosophy.’ ‘That’s quite a project,’ I said. ‘Well, I think we were put on this earth to perform quite a project,’ said Criminale, ‘I am not like many philosophers today, who think we were put here to perform nothing at all. Of course they have a reason. All those who tried the great project in modern times have failed. Nietzsche found confusion and it drove him mad. Heidegger was deluded by those Nazis, whom he mixed up with great philosophers when they were really bully-boys, thugs. Sartre, naive like some girl with all those Stalinists, I knew those people and how they used him. But of course a philosopher is there to be used.’

‘So why do you try?’ I asked. ‘Because worse is to do nothing at all,’ said Criminale, ‘Today they tell the philosopher, be modest, you have done enough harm. But how can he be released from philosophy? I think always we need a morality, a politics, a history, a sense of self, a sense of otherness, a sense of human significance of some kind. Now we have sceptics who invent the end of humanism. I do not agree. The task of philosophy is simply always to reinvent the task of philosophy, to subject our age and our world to thought. You are a young man, we owe you ideas. And always we need a morality, a politics, a history, a sense of self, a sense of others, a sense of eternity of some kind. So how then do we invent philosophy after philosophy? That is the question I always ask myself.’ ‘And how do you answer?’ I asked.

‘Well, that there is always something to divert us,’ he said, ‘Love, money, power, celebrity, boredom. Speaking of this I must go and find my young companion. You are alone?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I see,’ he said, ‘I thought I saw you with someone. What is happening?’ The paddles were churning, the ship turning; I looked down over the side. A small pier was in view below. ‘We’re docking,’ I said, ‘We must be going ashore.’ ‘Ah, yes, Chillon,’ said Criminale, dropping his cigar carelessly over the side, ‘I must get ready to give my lecture.’ ‘You’re lecturing now, here?’ I asked. ‘I think so, that is how they plan to spoil this nice evening,’ he said, ‘Don’t you have it in your programme?’ ‘Ah, I lost it,’ I said quickly, ‘Well, I look forward to hearing you.’ ‘Never look forward to a lecture,’ said Criminale, raising his hand to me, ‘Only look back on it, if it has been worth it. Goodnight.’ He walked off along the deck. He was looking, I suppose, for Miss Belli, although the relationship between them struck me as far stranger than I had thought before.

The grim stone castle of Chillon, sad spot in the history of human misfortune, islanded in the lake, sat illuminated close to where our steamer had docked. The photographers were already streaming off the boat, onto the promenade, and, in a noisy crowd, crossing the wooden bridge that led to its keep. Criminale was among them; I could see him in the crowd, brought to attention by the bright orange dress of Miss Belli, who hung onto his arm. The person I could not see was Ildiko, and I went round the ship, looking everywhere for her. She was not on the open decks, not in the saloons; she seemed to have acquired a gift for disappearance quite as expert as Criminale’s. My life these days seemed to be a quest not for one person, but two. The ship was almost empty now, so I went ashore, and across the bridge to the castle of Chillon.

Here, in the courtyard, the congress members had gathered together. The Mayor of Montreux stood on a balcony and welcomed them, telling the story of poor old François Bonivard, who had been chained six years to a rock below the waterline in a dungeon beneath, apparently for choosing the wrong philosophy on the wrong day. Thinking has never been easy to get right. I scanned the crowd, but Ildiko was nowhere to be seen. Next we were ushered into the Great Hall, where modern chairs were laid out under modern lighting. A flamboyant chairwoman rose, and introduced the congress’s guest of honour, and speaker for the evening. It was Criminale, of course, rising to give our keynote lecture, on the topic of ‘Photography and Desire’. I sat at the back and looked carefully round the attentive audience. Ildiko was not in the room.

This rather distracted my attention from Criminale’s lecture, but it seemed to go well. The apocalyptic gloom he had shown at Barolo seemed to have gone, as had the signs of sexual boredom he had displayed to me a few minutes before on the deck of the ship. He spoke in open praise of the erotic, celebrating desire, more than desire: frankness, shockability, outrage. He refused, he said, to see the body as sign or symbol, like the modern philosophers. For him it was pure presence, flesh as flesh. The erotic self was a place of plenitude, the naked being was a place beyond culture or disguise. He assaulted old-fashioned moralists, new-fashioned semioticians; he dismissed Lacan, told Foucault just where to go. Feminists hissed and abstractionists muttered, for he was clearly going beyond the intellectual convention, the most conventional form of convention there is. But, tired by two days of theory, and keen to get to the wine to follow, the photographers reacted warmly, greeting him with loud applause.

I could hear it even from a distance, for by now I had slipped away; I wandered round the grim stone castle, looking everywhere for Ildiko. At last, down in the dungeons, I found her, holding a drink and talking warmly to Hans de Graef. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ I said. ‘You know how I don’t like lectures,’ she said. There was a flash, and I saw Hans de Graef taking our photographs. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘Now I must go upstairs for the reception.’ ‘Ildiko, I’ve had enough of this,’ I said when he had gone, ‘I think it’s time you told me just what’s going on with you and Criminale.’ ‘Nothing goes on,’ said Ildiko, ‘I don’t even see him.’ ‘You came all the way from Budapest to see him,’ I said. ‘At least I am not suspicious,’ said Ildiko, ‘Do you know that nice young man is asking many questions about you?’ ‘De Graef?’ I asked, ‘What kind of questions?’

‘About your work, your background,’ said Ildiko, ‘He says you are the first Russian he ever met who speaks no Russian at all. Maybe you should learn to be a bit more Hungarian, like me.’ ‘What did you tell him?’ I asked. ‘Nothing,’ said Ildiko, ‘I said I hardly knew you at all. Isn’t it true?’ ‘I had a long talk with Criminale,’ I said, ‘He told me how his life had been ruined by sex.’ ‘He talked about me?’ asked Ildiko. ‘No,’ I said, ‘And I told him nothing at all.’ ‘Good,’ said Ildiko, ‘With matters of this kind it is best to be a bit discreet.’ ‘Matters of what kind?’ I asked, ‘What’s going on?’ But just then a crowd of conferees, wearing their badges and carrying glasses in their hands, came down the steps to inspect the dungeon. ‘Go back there and do your mingle,’ said Ildiko, ‘We can talk on the ship. I like to look some more round this terrible place.’

So I returned to the Great Hall. The chairs had been cleared for a reception. There were drinks, drinks in plenty; there were photographs, and what photographs! After all, the greatest photographers in the world were there, all photographing one another, and, of course, Bazlo Criminale. He was where he liked to be, the centre of attention: he was surrounded. I pressed a little closer. ‘You gave such good lecture,’ a very attractive Romanian lady was saying to him, ‘Only five people fell asleep, very good. And you understand so well the erotic. I would love so much to be nude photographed by you.’ ‘Let us arrange,’ said Criminale, ‘Tomorrow?’ ‘Bazlo, caro, time you go back to the boat,’ said Miss Belli, pulling at his sleeve, ‘These people will tire you out.’ Ildiko was right, she sounded just like Sepulchra; maybe Criminale did this to people. ‘This lovely lady likes me to make her photo,’ said Criminale. ‘Don’t forget you have to go to the bank tomorrow,’ said Belli. ‘We can go any time,’ he said, ‘Why is it always time to leave when someone admires you?’ ‘Everyone blasted admires you,’ said Belli, sounding impatient; then she saw me. Recognition dawned; her eyes widened. She turned, and whispered something to Bazlo Criminale. I began now to see the point of Ildiko’s policy of discretion, and slipped away to tour the castle.

Not till I got back to the ship did I see Ildiko again. A chill squally wind had blown up to accompany our return trip to Lausanne. Hunting through the now very jovial photographers, I found her alone in the rear saloon, huddled against the cold in her/my ‘I Lausanne’ sweater, and looking extremely unhappy. ‘Time to talk, I want to know what’s going on,’ I said. ‘I too,’ said Ildiko, ‘Is Bazlo still with Belli?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘He wants to take nude photographs and she wants to get him to the bank.’ ‘When, tomorrow?’ asked Ildiko, sitting up. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘You were right, she gets more like Sepulchra every minute.’ ‘That is how Bazlo is like,’ said Ildiko, ‘He finds a nice new woman, then he loses interest. He finds he really loves the one he has lost. When he ran away with Sepulchra, he always said he loved Gertla the more.’ ‘So why did he run away with her?’ I asked. ‘Of course, because Gertla would have ruined him if he stayed,’ said Ildiko.

I looked at her. ‘Ruined him how?’ I asked. ‘She was sleeping with someone,’ said Ildiko, ‘The chief of the secret police, someone like that.’ ‘Gertla was sleeping with the chief of the security police?’ I asked, amazed, ‘I thought they were against the regime.’ ‘It is well to be on both sides with these things,’ said Ildiko, ‘Maybe she thought it helped him. There were arrangements like that in those days. But it was bad, it ruined his reputation with all his friends.’ ‘Yes, the wife of a leading radical having an affair with the boss of state security,’ I said, ‘I can see it wouldn’t help.’ ‘He had affairs too,’ said Ildiko, ‘And then he was still in love with Pia. You remember Pia, who you saw nude in Budapest?’ ‘I did?’ ‘You saw her nude, yes?’ asked Ildiko, ‘On the wall in Budapest. Pia, his wife in Berlin, the one he always said he loved the best.’

‘Why did he leave her?’ I asked. ‘Oh, she knew far too much about him,’ said Ildiko, ‘I think about his contact with Ulbricht and the DDR regime. Those were strange times for him.’ ‘So he kept on seeing her?’ I asked. ‘She died right after he left,’ said Ildiko, ‘But she was the one he talked of the most. You can tell from the photos, the ones of Pia are the best. Except for the ones of Irini.’ ‘Irini?’ I asked. ‘That one he never married,’ said Ildiko, ‘About her I know really nothing. He would not speak of her at all, about Pia all the time.’ ‘What happened to Irini?’ I asked. ‘How do I know?’ said Ildiko, ‘Except he nearly got into some very bad trouble because of her. She died also, and it was a long time before I knew him, you understand.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ I said, ‘First there was Pia, yes, who knew too much about him. Then Gertla who slept with the security chief . . .’ ‘No, you forgot the one in the middle, Irini,’ said Ildiko. ‘Oh yes, Irini who nearly got him into very bad trouble,’ I said, ‘And next?’ ‘Next Sepulchra, who was only able to possess him by what she knew about him,’ said Ildiko, ‘I like a squash.’ ‘Wait a minute,’ I said, ‘What did she know about him?’ ‘About all the others,’ she said, ‘Then about those things under the table I told you about. Maybe some other things too.’ ‘What other things?’ ‘You know she helped him write his books,’ said Ildiko, ‘Some people say that more than half his work is really Sepulchra.’ ‘I thought she just took notes,’ I said. ‘Some say Homeless is really her story,’ said Ildiko. ‘Then why is he leaving her now?’ I asked. ‘Because he thinks the world has changed, you can leave everything behind,’ Ildiko said, ‘He is wrong. The past does not go away. You cannot escape what you have been. There is always someone who remembers. There, now you know everything.’

‘Not quite,’ I said, ‘There’s someone missing in all this.’ ‘Many, I think,’ said Ildiko, ‘Criminale loved many women. He is Hungarian.’ ‘I mean you,’ I said. ‘Don’t let us talk about me,’ said Ildiko. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I want to know when you met him, when you had your affair.’ ‘It is over, that is enough,’ she said, ‘A few years ago. He needed help with his books in the West. I told you this already.’ ‘So why did he leave you?’ I asked, ‘Did you know too much about him too?’ ‘What I know is what I told you, on the train,’ said Ildiko, ‘We all knew too much about him. But now with these changes he thinks he is free, he believes none of these things exist any more, nothing has to be corrected.’ ‘Why did you follow him here?’ I asked. ‘I came with you,’ said Ildiko, ‘I liked to be with you. And now what do you do, bring me here, find me a bad hotel, leave me all the time alone.’ ‘I thought you came to see him,’ I said. ‘No, I don’t like now to see him at all,’ said Ildiko.

I stared at her. ‘I must say for a thinking man he seems to have led a very complicated sex life,’ I said. ‘You think just because he is a clever philosopher he can’t make a mess of love just like everyone else?’ asked Ildiko. ‘His complicated sex life also seems to be a complicated political life,’ I said. ‘Yes, why not?’ asked Ildiko, ‘He comes from Eastern Europe.’ ‘And a complicated money life,’ I said. ‘I told you, money, he likes it, but it is not so important to him at all,’ said Ildiko. ‘And every single one of these women he was in love with had something on him,’ I said. ‘Of course, this is called marriage,’ said Ildiko, ‘Now he likes to run away from all of it. He does not know that at last you can never run away.’ ‘Can’t run away from what?’ I asked, ‘What are these things you all know about him?’ ‘Please, I don’t like to talk any more about it,’ said Ildiko, getting up, ‘Tomorrow perhaps, another time.’ She turned and walked away through the jovial crowd.

A little later I caught a glimpse of her, dancing with young Hans de Graef. As soon as the boat docked back at Ouchy, she was off before me, running ahead for the Hotel Zwingli. By the time I reached the desk, she had collected her key from the grim receptionist and gone up to her room. Passing her door, I knocked; there was no reply. I went up two floors to my own room, and sat down on the bed. Everything had changed. Ildiko had become distant, and with dismay I felt I was losing her. But Criminale, who had been a blank, was now an excess of signs – signs of thought and sex, politics and money, fame and shame. Before I had had too little; now I felt I had almost too much. What I needed now was to find the heart of Criminale, if he really had one. Over the course of the evening my suspicions had gone, and now returned. I tried joining facts to facts, names to dates. I wanted it all to make sense, but somehow I couldn’t make it make the sense I wanted it to make.

I thought about Ildiko, and then all the women in his life. I tried to get them in order, understand where Ildiko came in. Pia and Irini, Gertla and Sepulchra, Ildiko and Belli – Criminale said he liked women with a certain grip on power, but he had found a good many who had quite a grip on him. One knew too much about him and the Ulbricht regime. Another, still obscure to me, had brought some very deep trouble to his life. Another shared a pillow with the security police, another helped write his books and possessed him with all she knew. Another was his new bid for freedom from something, his chance of a new start. Another, the one I thought I knew best, had helped him publish his books and secure his bank balance, so that he needn’t worry about money at all. Two of them were here, one not far away in Barolo. I began to understand his sexual dismay on the boat. I felt something of the same myself, but I was a journalist, and I also felt a journalist’s excitement. Lavinia had been right: the life and loves of Criminale made a strange story after all. I pulled on my jacket, slipped downstairs, tiptoeing past Ildiko’s door, and went to the lobby, wanting to call Vienna with the news.

The church bells of Lausanne were chiming. The lobby of the Hotel Zwingli had, I saw, strangely changed. The grim daughter of the house had departed her post at the desk. In her place stood a large, big-biceped man in an unsleeved black sweatshirt, who evidently ran a different kind of regime. He was freely handing out keys to two very oddly sorted couples – two dark-skinned middle-aged men, accompanied by two much younger girls – who hurried upstairs with some speed. Calvinism, it seemed, stopped sharply at midnight. I got some jetons from the muscleman at the desk, and went over to the booth in the corner. But the nightlife of Vienna was evidently just as hectic. At the Hotel de France they told me that Lavinia had left early in the morning, and had still not returned to her room.

I was just about to go upstairs again when I remembered a promise I’d made. It was not one I wanted to keep, but a promise is a promise. I put more jetons into the machine, and called Barolo. I had no real hope of getting through; the Villa Barolo was, after all, famous for protecting its distinguished guests from any outside interference. I was quite wrong: the call connected almost immediately. ‘Ja, Bruckner?’ said a voice on the other end. ‘This is Francis Jay in Lausanne,’ I said. ‘Please, you do not know who is listening,’ said Bruckner, ‘“It is your contact at your destination.” Now, is the subject at the designated location?’ ‘Well yes, he is,’ I said. ‘The female subject also?’ asked Bruckner. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Have their actions been in any way unusual?’ ‘No, very usual,’ I said, ‘They’re just attending another congress. The designated location’s very smart, by the way. I don’t know how the man affords it. Unless it’s his Western royalties.’ ‘Please?’ asked Bruckner, ‘His what did you say?’ ‘The profits from his books in the West,’ I said, ‘He keeps them here in Swiss banks.’ ‘You know this definitely?’ asked Bruckner. ‘Yes,’ I said. There was a long pause at the other end.

‘The name of your hotel?’ asked Bruckner suddenly. ‘The Zwingli at Ouchy,’ I said, ‘I don’t recommend it at all. It’s a cross between a monastery and a brothel.’ I saw the muscleman looking at me. ‘Good, stay there all day tomorrow,’ said Bruckner, ‘Do not leave, I will join you as soon as possible.’ ‘You will?’ I asked. ‘You have done your work well. I congratulate you,’ said Bruckner, ‘He has not spotted you?’ ‘Yes, I had a long talk with him,’ I said. ‘That was careless, but no matter,’ said Bruckner, ‘Arouse his suspicions no further. You have been a mine of information.’ ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘What about?’ ‘Now I have something for you,’ said Bruckner, ‘Your quarry, you understand me, has fled hurriedly to Vienna. You were right there also, he is undoubtedly a part of it.’ ‘A part of what?’ I asked. ‘We have said far too much already,’ said Cosima, ‘Do not speak to anyone. Now good-night, my friend, and expect me some time in the morning.’ I slowly put down the phone. I had the uneasy feeling it had been a big mistake to call Cosima Bruckner.

I didn’t sleep well that night. Despite the fact that I was well away from Sigmund’s Vienna, I had a dream that greatly disturbed me. I was on a television programme on the subject of the future, in which I was the expert. The television studio had a vast set and a floor that rocked back and forth. Then I found myself discussing the fortunes of an unknown Eastern European country with its ambassador, who contradicted me in every detail. A limousine then drove me, late at night, to a house in which I understood I had once lived. Now it was totally unfamiliar, and being rebuilt. In the bedroom, builders’ and decorators’ ladders stood everywhere, and as I watched a paintpot toppled and spilled over the sheets and pillows of the bed in which I had slept as a child. There was a violent noise of breaking glass, and I was awake. There was a violent noise of breaking glass: someone from the hotel was disposing of last night’s bottles in the skip in the courtyard down below. Then I remembered Ildiko, two floors down. I wished that I was with her, or she with me.

*

Early next morning, just after seven, I hurried down to her room. The door was unlocked; I looked inside. There was her luggage, clothes, shopping bags, shopping, all thrown around in the same disorganized profusion I knew from Barolo. Her trace was everywhere; of her presence, no sign. It was becoming all too familiar, all too unnerving. I hurried down to the desk; Swiss Calvinism had resumed, the night-time muscleman was gone, and the stern daughter of the house stood behind reception. I asked for Ildiko. ‘She went out, m’sieu, half an hour past,’ said the girl rebukingly, ‘Also she did not leave her key.’ ‘Did she say where she was going?’ I asked. ‘Non, m’sieu,’ she said, ‘But she asked me some questions about where are the best shops. We have very good shops in Lausanne.’ ‘Of course,’ I said, and felt in my pocket for my wallet. It was gone, naturally; then I remembered she had not given it back to me the night before at the pier. Already the good shopkeepers of Lausanne would be rubbing their hands with delight as they noted the sudden upsurge in the day’s takings.

My first reaction was to hurry up the street in pursuit of her. Then I remembered the instructions of Cosima Bruckner. I went across the street, bought an English newspaper, and brought it back to the hotel café, where I ordered coffee and rolls. I opened the paper to discover that, during my absence, the world had taken the opportunity to fall into terrible confusion. The New World Order was already becoming all too like the Old World Order. American troops, tanks and planes were being shipped into Saudi Arabia, and a large international fleet was steaming up the Persian Gulf. Saddam Hussein was crying defiance and threatening to explode a nuclear device. The beginnings of a winter famine were occurring in Soviet Russia. The CDU in what was formerly Eastern Germany was being accused of shifting 32 million deutschmarks in suitcases to Luxembourg over the previous year. There was again something wrong with a footballer called Gazza.

From time to time I checked the street, hoping to see Ildiko heaving into sight, with, I hoped, as few plastic shopping bags as possible. Once or twice I slipped upstairs to check her room. Her things were there; she was not. Coming downstairs after my third check, I noticed that a pair of black leather trousers stood at the desk, talking to the dour receptionist. I recognized them at once, of course: ‘Miss Bruckner,’ I called. ‘Remember, you have not seen me at all,’ said Cosima to the girl at the desk; then she came over to me and took me by the arm. ‘Please, names are not necessary,’ she said, ‘Ask no questions. Walk quietly outside into the street with me. There you will see a black car. Get into the back of it.’ When Cosima ordered, one somehow obeyed. I have to admit there was something rather thrilling about the world of Cosima Bruckner.

A black Mercedes waited outside the hotel, illegally parked, a severe offence in Switzerland. A driver in dark sunglasses sat behind the wheel. I got in the back; Cosima shoved in beside me. ‘Now, this bank you mentioned,’ she said, ‘The one where Criminale keeps his accounts. You know the name of it?’ ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘You said you had evidence,’ said Bruckner, ‘What do you know? It is important.’ ‘Has he done something wrong?’ I asked. ‘That does not concern you,’ said Cosima. ‘Well, I did glimpse some bank statement on his desk at Barolo,’ I said, ‘Is there something called the Bruger Zugerbank?’ ‘Ja, ja, Fräulein Bruckner,’ said the driver. ‘Ah, you know it,’ said Cosima, ‘Go there quickly, Hans.’ The car roared up the street. ‘I don’t see how there can be anything wrong with Criminale’s accounts,’ I said, ‘He’s a world-famous author.’ ‘Of course, the perfect cover,’ said Cosima Bruckner. ‘For what?’ I asked, ‘You read too many spy stories, Cosima.’

A little later, Cosima Bruckner and I sat on modernist chairs in the elegant, glass-decked offices of Herr Max Patli, manager of the evidently extensive branch of the Lausanne Bruger Zugerbank. He looked over his gold-rimmed spectacles at us. ‘I understand very well you represent the European Community,’ he said, looking at some documents Cosima had put in front of him, ‘But you know the Commission has no jurisdiction in Suisse.’ ‘I think you are aware we have certain co-operations,’ said Cosima. ‘Money is the most delicate of all matters, Fraü lein Bruckner,’ said Herr Patli, sitting there in his fine suit, ‘Here we must always preserve our fine tradition of banking secrecy. It is most precious to us. However, may I propose you try me with your questions, and I will see how I can answer.’

‘Very well,’ said Cosima Bruckner, ‘Does a Doctor Bazlo Criminale hold an account here?’ ‘An interesting question, Fräulein Bruckner,’ said Herr Patli, ‘He does not, and this I can say definitely.’ ‘You don’t need to check?’ asked Bruckner. ‘No, this is quite unnecessary,’ said Patli, ‘That is because any account he might or might not have had here was closed earlier today.’ ‘It was closed?’ asked Bruckner, ‘By Doctor Criminale himself?’ ‘No, not by the doctor himself,’ said Patli. ‘There was another signatory?’ asked Bruckner. ‘If there had happened to be an account here, which I have not admitted, I think you would find it would be of that type,’ said Patli cautiously. ‘And the name of the second signatory?’ asked Bruckner. ‘Of course I cannot give her name, Fräulein Bruckner,’ said Patli, ‘This would be quite against the tradition of banking secrecy.’ ‘But several parties do have access to this account, do they, Herr Patli?’ ‘Well,’ said Patli cautiously, ‘Only with proper authorizations. Correct procedures are always observed, even with governments outside the IMF, if you understand me.’

‘I understand you very well, Herr Patli,’ said Cosima Bruckner, ‘Only one more question. Do you know of other similar accounts in banks in Lausanne?’ ‘I am afraid I can again tell you nothing, Fräulein Bruckner,’ said Patli, ‘I can only suggest that you go to the six leading banks here and ask exactly the same questions.’ ‘Thank you, Herr Patli, you have been very helpful,’ said Cosima, getting up from her chair. ‘I hope not,’ said Patli, rising to shake her hand, ‘I should not like you to think we do anything to help external investigations. On the other hand we expect to be members of the European Community ourselves quite shortly. For that reason we are pleased to offer the Commission a little help, so long as it has not been too much. Wiedersehen, Fräulein Bruckner. Good day, sir. I wonder, may we offer you any of our services? A pension, perhaps? Remember, we are the best in the world.’ ‘No, thank you,’ I said, and we left.

‘So, a woman,’ said Cosima Bruckner very thoughtfully, as we drove back in the car towards the Hotel Zwingli, ‘A woman who somehow has access to Criminale’s special account. Who do you think? Miss Belli?’ ‘Possibly,’ I said cautiously, ‘It could be any one of dozens. Sepulchra, Gertla, Pia, Irini . . .’ ‘Who are all these people?’ asked Cosima. ‘Oh, his wives and so on,’ I said, ‘Criminale was close to a great many women. It was one of his specialities, to be honest.’ ‘So that is all you know?’ ‘That’s all,’ I said. ‘Well, you too have been very helpful,’ said Cosima, ‘Evidently we were just too late, but it is not your fault.’ ‘Anything for Europe,’ I said. ‘If you do think of anything more, if you discover anything else, please call me at the Hotel Movenpick,’ said Cosima, ‘At any time of day or night.’ ‘Of course,’ I said, getting out of the black car outside the Hotel Zwingli, ‘But I’m afraid that’s everything I know.’

But I knew, of course. I knew that when I went up the stairs Ildiko’s room would be empty, all her scattered things cleared up and gone. I knew that the shops of Lausanne would have returned by now to their usual Swiss calm and sobriety, and that Ildiko would almost certainly be somewhere quite different, probably with a large proportion of Bazlo Criminale’s Western royalties stuffed somewhere into her ever-expanding luggage. The door of her room was unlocked, so I walked in. The room was bare and unwelcoming, the bed stripped to essentials, ready for the next unfortunate guest. I walked slowly upstairs to my own room, thinking I probably knew very well what had happened, and why Ildiko had gone to such trouble to come to Lausanne. I also knew that I missed her already, and desperately wanted to see her again. I unlocked my bedroom door and went inside. In the middle of the bed a small brown object lay: my wallet. I picked it up and opened it, wondering whether not only Bazlo’s royalties but my entire credit-card collection had left town with Ildiko.

Paper showered on the floor: extraordinary paper, crisp new paper, paper in coloured rectangles, paper that was more than paper, paper in numbered denominations, that special kind of paper that we call money. I picked up the Swiss francs that lay around everywhere, stacked them, and after a moment began to count. It added up to around a hundred thousand francs, give or take a piece of paper or two. I wasn’t sure what that amounted to, but it was, I knew, a very large sum. Amid this potent paper was another paper, a folded white note, equally valuable to me. It read: ‘Francis, Something for you under the table. You see I really do like to pay you back for this shopping in the end. Also to thank you for a very nice journey, Francis. Spend this how you like, but think of me when you do it. Be lucky with your televisions programme. Criminale is more interesting than you think. I believe I am also. Take care! and please try hard now to be a little bit more Hungarian. Love + kisses, Ildiko.’

I sat on the bed and looked at both: the wad of money, Ildiko’s little note. I had lost her, and how I regretted it. It could have been my fault, but I didn’t know that; probably I had never had her in the first place. I tried to imagine what had happened at the bank that day. I had seen Ildiko clean out my own credit-card account; maybe that kind of thing was a habit with her. So had that been the point all along? When she first met me in Budapest, was she already out to trick the great philosopher, reach his Lausanne accounts, clear out his holdings? I had thought she’d truly enjoyed travelling with me, but when it came to it even I had to admit that a large secret hard-currency bank account made a much more convincing lure. She’d been his publisher, known his international accounts, maybe even set some of them up in the first place. Or perhaps it was Bazlo’s flight from Barolo that had decided her that now was the time to cut her losses and take her cut. At any rate, I had little doubt that Ildiko was, by now, far off in some safe place, shopping away to her dear heart’s content.

But if this was right, that meant the money I was holding in my hand was funny money, not the kind of money I ought to be holding in my hand at all. How much was there, what was it worth? I went down to the lobby, peered over the dour receptionist, and checked the Change board on the wall. Then I went into the terrace café and checked through my wallet again. The stuff I had in there came to more than forty thousand pounds, a vast amount more than even Ildiko could possibly have drawn on my credit-card accounts, even if just for luck you added in a high rate of interest. I glanced round, looked at it again. There lay the great wad of notes, paper that was so much more than paper; folded into them was the other note she had left there. Both paper texts were, I realized, equally hard to interrogate, decipher, deconstruct. Both of them could be read in two quite different ways. Perhaps they were both deeds of love, acts of fondness, expressions of a generosity far greater than any I had managed to show to her. Or perhaps they were gifts under the table in a rather different sense. Could it be that I was being bought off, welcomed into the same world that, I now began suspecting, Bazlo Criminale had been living in for years? Was the point that I should really learn how to be Hungarian – keep silent, ask no more questions, take my winnings, disappear home?

So what could I – a fine upstanding young man, remember – do with this suspect, perhaps poisoned chalice? Sitting there on the same terrace where I had sat with Ildiko just the evening before, I found it strangely hard to decide. I could of course go to Cosima Bruckner, apparently available either by day or night just along the promenade at the Hotel Movenpick. But that meant betraying Ildiko Hazy, and that was not something I cared to do. Or I could go along the promenade in the other direction to the Hotel Beau Rivage Palace and hand the money to Bazlo Criminale, presumably its rightful owner. But was he its rightful owner? If he was, why was Cosima Bruckner investigating his accounts with such zeal? The more I thought things over, the more I saw I’d been blind in almost every way. While I’d been conducting my small quest for Bazlo Criminale, far more serious and terrible pursuits had been happening, one of them right under my nose. As the note in my hand said, both Bazlo and Ildiko were far more interesting – their lives far more complex, obscure, and no doubt deceitful – than I had troubled, in my innocence, to imagine.

*

Later that night I walked along the promenade towards the Beau Rivage Palace, visiting its splendours for the very first time. I went into the bright downstairs brasserie, the place where the jeunesse dorée of Lausanne evidently gathered, as you could tell at once from the exotic machinery lined up outside. There they all were, the beautiful young, talking and laughing and kissing and groping each other with what, by strict Swiss standards, must surely have been the gayest abandon. I ordered a beer, then several more. Well, why not? For once I was not on a very tight budget, and could freely afford it. I wasn’t, in fact, in the least sure just what I meant to do next. But, after a while and a beer or several, I got up and walked through into the main lobby of the hotel. White-robed sheikhs passed by; a frock-coated clerk stood dignified behind the vast reception desk. There, posing as exactly what I really was, a visiting British journalist, I explained that I’d just come a long way to arrange an interview with Doctor Bazlo Criminale, who was, I understood, a guest in the hotel.

The clerk looked at me, said, ‘Un moment, m’sieu,’ and opened a thick register on the desk. Behind him on the wall was a large board, headed ‘Rates of Exchange’; I looked down it and considered the value of my wallet again. More than forty thousand pounds; for once I was entitled, entirely entitled, to be a client of the Beau Rivage Palace. ‘Doctor and Madame Criminale, oui?’ said the clerk, looking up. ‘Actually if he’s not there it doesn’t really matter,’ I murmured. ‘No, m’sieu, I am afraid you are just a little too late,’ said the clerk, ‘They checked out of the penthouse suite this afternoon. It was a little sudden, I understand.’ ‘Really,’ I said, ‘My editor will be disappointed.’ ‘Quel dommage, m’sieu,’ said the clerk. ‘I don’t suppose you know where they’ve gone?’ I asked, opening my wallet wide. The clerk glanced inside and said, ‘Well, m’sieu, I believe to India. I think if you go there you will find them somewhere.’ ‘Thank you,’ I said, handing over a note. ‘You are most gentil, m’sieu,’ said the clerk; evidently I had been extraordinarily generous. ‘It’s nothing,’ I said, and walked out of the hotel and across to the lakeside promenade.

So, I thought, leaning on the rail and looking out over the great black lake, they’d all gone: Ildiko Hazy, the beautiful Miss Belli, and the confusing, the enigmatic Bazlo Criminale. For a moment I wondered if they could all have gone together, but that made no sense, no sense at all. What I knew was that my trail had died. I might have forty thousand pounds sitting in my wallet, but I had come to the end of the quest for Bazlo Criminale. I’d asked the wrong questions. I’d found an obscure solution, and it was really no solution at all. The life, the loves, the friends, the enemies, the plot, the design – none of them had shape or sense. I was stuck, blanked out, gapped, aporia-ed, no idea what to do next. There was one thing I could do: go to Cosima Bruckner. Perhaps she would explain everything. On the other hand, she’d also doubtless relieve me of my wallet at the same time. Then I remembered the person who, in trouble, I was always supposed to turn to, the one who’d brought me here in the first place. I went back to the lobby of the Hotel Beau Rivage Palace, found a telephone, and called the Delphic oracle in Vienna.

This time Lavinia was there in her room. I could hear an operatic tape playing in the background, glasses tinkling somewhere, the sound of German chatter. I began talking; she cut me off. ‘Look, I’m afraid there’s bad news, Francis,’ she said, ‘I tried calling you at Barolo but they deny you even exist.’ ‘Of course they do,’ I said, ‘Barolo was weeks ago, I’m here in Lausanne.’ ‘You’re so damn hard to keep up with,’ said Lavinia, ‘Even when I’m sober.’ ‘All right, what bad news?’ I asked. ‘I’m sorry, Francis,’ said Lavinia, ‘But it’s all off.’ ‘What’s off?’ I asked. ‘The Criminale programme,’ said Lavinia, ‘It’s finito, kaput. We’re not doing it any more.’ ‘You don’t mean bloody old Codicil . . .’ I asked. ‘He’s nothing to do with it,’ said Lavinia, ‘He’s come back to Vienna, by the way, absolutely furious, according to dear old Franz-Josef. Isn’t that right, Franz-Josef darling?’ I could hear fond chatter at the other end; I interrupted. ‘If it’s not Codicil, who?’ I cried.

‘Eldorado TV, that’s who,’ said Lavinia, ‘They’re cancelling all their arts programming. Apparently they’ve had it up to here with Thinking in the Age of Glasnost.’ ‘They can’t have, Lavinia,’ I said, ‘This Criminale story is fantastic. It’s got secret police chiefs, obscure Swiss bank accounts, it’s got everything.’ ‘Nice try, Francis,’ said Lavinia, ‘Sorry, though, it’s just no good. Philosophy’s too far upmarket. The Eldorado franchise is up for renewal, so they’ve decided to explore the wonders of cheap television.’ ‘What wonders of cheap television?’ I asked. ‘Well, the first wonder would be if anyone was fool enough to watch it at all,’ said Lavinia, ‘Sorry, darling, but things are changing.’ ‘An era has ended,’ I said. ‘Exactly,’ said Lavinia, ‘So your work is done. Just get to the nearest airport and buy a ticket back to London. Don’t ask for any more of the recce budget, by the way, there isn’t one. Apparently quite a lot of the production costs have disappeared down the plughole in Vienna. God knows how, you know how frugal I am.’

‘You mean I’m finished again, I don’t have a job?’ I asked. ‘Well, not if I wrote your contract properly, you don’t,’ said Lavinia. ‘I bet you did, Lavinia,’ I said. ‘Believe me, I’m as sorry as you are, darling,’ she said, ‘I haven’t seen so much good opera for yonks.’ ‘Thank you very much, Lavinia,’ I said, putting down the phone. The frock-coated receptionist, watching me, bowed. Yes, it was the end. Lavinia, I knew, had written my contract properly; after all, people signed anything for Lavinia. And there I stood, no job, no income, no future, no prospects, nothing to investigate, nothing truly found out. All I had was a massive credit-card debt at home and a wallet in Lausanne stuffed with funny money. I had not found a plot, and the world seemed no better: history was in disorder, the universe was going nowhere, and the new era that had started about ten days ago already seemed to be coming rather suddenly towards its end.

I went back into the brasserie bar, among the beautiful people, sat down and ordered another beer. I felt . . . well, I felt strangely pure, as if I had suddenly grown up, emerged from something, passed from deep smart youthful wisdom into a perfect adult innocence. I had been deceived, I had been betrayed; but I also had it in my power to betray others. Perhaps I had learned something, after all, from Bazlo Criminale – that thoughts and deeds never come to us plain, pure and timeless, but are born in conflict and deception, shaped by history, grow from obscurity, misfortune and evasion. They are slippery and inexact, contradictory and subject to sudden change; they are just like life itself. In fact I never felt closer to Criminale than I did at that moment. And I began to wonder what, if he were in my circumstances, which were probably just the sort of circumstances he always had been in, he would do next.

As for what I did next . . . well, if you had tried to trace me the next morning (supposing, say, you were writing my life story, a few years from now – but why should you, I am no great philosophical elephant, only an investigative flea?), then you would have found me in the manager’s office at . . . well, let’s, for purposes of fiscal secrecy, just call it the Crédit Mauvais of Lausanne. I had entered the bank with a perfectly simple request. However, to my surprise a quiet cashier had taken me behind the counter, ushered me to a hidden glass-fronted lift, unlocked its door with a key on his chain, and ridden me up to the very top floor of the building, where I sat in a suite with splendid designer furniture and a perfect long view of the lake. Now Herr Stubli, the manager, was staring at me over his gold-rimmed half-spectacles. ‘A special numbered account?’ he enquired, ‘Then I am afraid I must ask first if you don’t mind it just a few little questions.’

‘I thought in Swiss banks it was no questions asked,’ I said. ‘We are discreet, of course, but this is no longer quite true exactly,’ said Herr Stubli, ‘I am afraid in these difficult days when banking is so political a little more is asked even of a Swiss bank. We like to be quite careful. After all we may soon join the Europe Community. This money you mention, it is all cash?’ ‘Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘And it came by you how?’ asked Herr Stubli. ‘Well, it was just a windfall,’ I said. ‘Bitte?’ asked Stubli, ‘Eine Windfalle?’ ‘A windfall is when apples fall off trees,’ I said. ‘Ah, ja, ja,’ said Herr Stubli, ‘It was an agricultural transaction. Kein problem! But I do need your identity, please. We must have a name, a signature.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, ‘It’s Francis . . . It’s Franz Kay.’

Herr Stubli stared at me over his spectacles. ‘Ja, I understand,’ he said finally. ‘Very well, I will put you down as Mr K. Willkommen to our excellent services. If you can make me one little signature here, and here, also here.’ ‘There’ll be no enquiries?’ I asked. ‘No, this is Schweiz, we are always very honest here,’ said Herr Stubli, ‘Your affairs could not be put into a safer place. Now, the guard will take you below, and you can deposit all these Windfalle you like to. And if there is anything else, if you like perhaps to start a small private company, we have some very useful arrangements of this kind.’ ‘Not just yet, I’m only just starting,’ I said, ‘Thank you very much, Herr Stubli.’ ‘And thank you also very much, Mr K.,’ said Herr Stubli, shaking my hand, ‘You will please to know you join many excellent and famous customers.’

Just a little later on that December morning, K. left the bank and walked into the Lausanne street. He looked round. All seemed normal, except that two men washing a window seemed to glance at him in a peculiar way, and a young man who oddly resembled Hans de Graef was taking photographs further down the street. Carrying his small amount of luggage, K. hurried to the railway station, where he boarded an express which took him directly to Geneva International Airport. Here he bought some cheese, a new overcoat, and a club-class ticket on the noon flight to London. He was last seen going through passport control, one of a long line of people, quite evidently no longer looking for Doctor Bazlo Criminale.