Doctor Criminale

by Malcolm Bradbury

  Our car stopped at last, in some great boulevard of large, late-nineteenth-century apartment blocks, not far from the Square of the Heroes, which once, they told me, held a statue of Stalin, long gone. Ildiko got out, and we followed her, I gladly, Hollo reluctantly. We went into a courtyard hung about with washing and filled with the noise of radio folk music from the windows above. There was an entrance with a grilled doorway, and beside it a set of name cards, with some of the names scrawled over and replaced. None of the names was that of Bazlo Criminale. Ildiko rang a bell; we waited, a long time. In a society of functionaries, the person who holds the key or controls a door evidently has, if only for a moment, true power; no wonder a door takes so long to get through, a key so long to find. But at last a small elderly woman, clad in a blue nylon overall above dirty black trousers, unlocked the door slowly and pulled it cautiously back. Ildiko began to speak to her, and then Hollo turned triumphantly to me: ‘I told you,’ he said, ‘He is gone away.’

  I turned to leave, but suddenly the old woman came over to me and seized me firmly by the arm. ‘She says wait,’ said Ildiko, ‘If you have come all this way from Europe, at least you must see his apartment. If you give her time, she will let us in.’ The woman smiled and nodded at me. ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I would like to.’ The woman disappeared into a small office, and hunted through more keys. Then she returned and took us to an old slow lift, with open grille sides. We rose, past dusty stairwells, dirty concrete landings, blackened old apartment doors. On the top floor, we got out, more keys were turned, and then we were in the apartment of Bazlo Criminale; large, airy, and fine, with big french windows and a view of the park on one side and the Buda hills on the other, a world away from the world outside. There was old furniture, good pictures, a grand piano. On the piano were many silver-framed photographs: of children, adults, young women, older women, and a good many of Criminale himself, with this person or that.

  ‘Criminale and Brecht,’ said Hollo, pointing. ‘Criminale and Stalin,’ said Ildiko, ‘Criminale and Nixon.’ ‘Criminale and Madonna!’ cried Hollo. ‘And these are his wives,’ said Ildiko, picking up some of the photographs, ‘You see he had quite a few of them.’ She showed me a picture of a small slim waif: ‘Pia, the first wife, German, I think, very nice,’ she said. ‘Of course she died quite a long time ago,’ said Hollo. ‘And this is Gertla,’ said Ildiko, showing me a fair-haired, strong-faced woman, ‘She was the second, I think, yes.’ ‘Yes, the second,’ said Hollo, ‘And she helped him a very big lot.’ ‘One I don’t know,’ said Ildiko, picking up a street portrait, a snapshot, on the hop, of a tall, fair-haired and fur-hatted young girl. ‘Remember somewhere there was another one, Irini, no?’ asked Hollo. ‘Another wife?’ I asked. ‘Not exactly wife, but important,’ said Hollo, ‘She died also, I am afraid he was not so lucky.’ Then Ildiko showed me a large photo of a big beautiful woman: ‘Here, look, this one is Sepulchra, his wife now, when she was younger.’ ‘Quite a lot younger,’ said Hollo, ‘And over here, see she is again. Such thighs, yes?’

  He pointed to the wall. On it, hung between great shelves filled with books in French, Russian and German, English and Hungarian, were many photographs I now recognized; they were Criminale’s famous erotic nudes. ‘Are all these his wives too?’ I asked. ‘Well, some I don’t recognize,’ said Ildiko, ‘Maybe with clothes on I would. But yes, look, there is Gertla, see.’ There is Irini,’ said Hollo, ‘Very nice, ja?’ ‘And here Sepulchra, there and there and again,’ said Ildiko. I looked along the row, at the sequence of amazing, oily-looking bodies, angled and shaped. Some looked plainly at the camera, some hid their faces, some had no faces in view at all. Criminale’s tastes were certainly frank, and much of a kind; there were many models, but most were young and blonde. One even looked a little like Ildiko. ‘Quite something, yes?’ said Hollo, leaning over my shoulder, ‘Now you see Criminale did not only spend his time thinking. He liked to do some things as well.’

  Then the old woman took me by the arm again, and led me through into another room. ‘His study,’ said Ildiko, ‘Oh, by the way, do not think we all live like this. Criminale is a famous academician and has a special arrangement.’ Here many more books, of art, philosophy, economics, mathematics, science, stood on the shelves. Everything was tidy and neat, like the room of a monk in a monastery. There was a locked glass case with loose-leaf folders inside. Hollo glanced in; ‘His stamp collection,’ he said, ‘Everyone in Hungary likes to collect stamps.’ Then there was a wide bookcase filled to capacity with the works – originals and translations, some in Western hardback, others in loose East European bindings – of Criminale’s own indefatigable industry: the Goethe life and Homeless in twenty languages, the works of aesthetic theory and political economy, the works of classical history and modern psychopathology, the feuilletons and magazine articles, clipped and in binders, the theoretical journals, American, British, German and Russian, to which he had contributed in a profusion greater than I had imagined. Hollo looked round, to see if the old woman was watching, and then pointed to one book: ‘The Codicil,’ he said, ‘The work he said he could never acknowledge. But you see here it is. Maybe now you believe me.’

  The desk was tidy too, with everything put away except for some scattered papers covered in handwriting, and looking like an unfinished student essay. Perhaps it was something he had been working on, only to be interrupted when he went away. I moved closer to try and read; the old lady waved her finger at me. ‘She says you may look, but you may not touch,’ Ildiko said. ‘Would you ask her for me where he’s gone, whether there’s any way I could find him?’ I asked her. Ildiko and the old lady began a long and excited conversation. Meanwhile Hollo opened another door, and summoned me over with his finger. ‘His boudoir,’ he said. There was a large bedroom, in it a big bed with wooden head and foot. The walls were all covered either with modern paintings or erotic line drawings; there were also more of his photographs. ‘Quite something,’ said Hollo, ‘You know for one who thinks he lives a little well. Not quite a monk in a cloister, I think.’

  ‘She know nothing,’ said Ildiko, coming over, ‘He is gone away for a long time on some projects. Well, you will not see him, but at least you see what he sees.’ She pointed out of the window: at the park, the Buda hills, the long boulevard below, running back toward Pest. ‘In 1956 he would see the Russian tanks come up this street. Then the times after, good and bad, the times of compromise, as Kadar called them. And always when he was here he slept at this bed, and wrote at that desk. So now you have not seen him, but nearly.’ ‘I certainly feel I know him a bit better,’ I said. ‘Okay, enough,’ said Hollo, ‘Let’s go. I think maybe you give that lady a little something. Money, cigarettes, I don’t know.’ I held out some money, but the old lady sharply refused. ‘She doesn’t take anything,’ said Ildiko, ‘She says she is proud to show you the home of a great man from our country. She hopes you have learned a little.’ ‘I have,’ I said.

  Not much later, the Ultimate Driving Machine zigzagged across the bridge to Margaret Island and dropped me at my hotel. I thanked Sandor Hollo and said I hoped we would use his services one day; I said goodbye, with an embrace, to Ildiko Hazy. Back in my room, I picked up the phone and rang Lavinia in Vienna. ‘I was just eating almond tart in the shower,’ she said, ‘You missed a brilliant opera. All the Japanese were there, recording it so they could actually listen to it when they got back home.’ ‘You found someone to go with?’ I asked. ‘Yes, of course, Franz-Josef Gerstenbacker,’ said Lavinia, ‘He’s quite a little raver, isn’t he, that one. So how’s wherever you are now?’ ‘I’m in Budapest,’ I said, ‘And listen, I almost met Doctor Criminale.’ ‘You did what?’ asked Lavinia, ‘You mean you’ve found him at last?’ ‘Not quite,’ I said, ‘He’s been here, he has an apartment, but he’s gone again.’ ‘Then find him, Francis,’ said Lavinia, ‘And when you do, nestle in his bosom like a viper.’ ‘I tried,’ I said, ‘He’s gone abroad again, on some project. His caretaker do
esn’t know where, he could be anywhere.’

  ‘Now look, there must be someone who knows where he is,’ said Lavinia, ‘His mother, his mistress, the man at the post office. Don’t lose him now. Leave no stone unturned.’ ‘You’d like me to take another couple of days?’ I asked. ‘Why not?’ said Lavinia, ‘You’re not doing anything else. Oh, by the way, you must have really upset old Codicil. Gerstenbacker says he’s told everyone in Vienna not to talk to you. And he cabled the London office and now his lawyer’s slapping some injunction on the programme.’ ‘So what happened?’ I asked. ‘Ros cabled back and told him to go to hell. He’s talking through his professorial hat. How’s your room in Bucharest?’ ‘Budapest,’ I said, ‘Oh, it’s great, a glorious view over the Danube.’ ‘Really?’ said Lavinia, ‘That means it’s costing too much.’ ‘It’s where all the film companies stay,’ I said. ‘What?’ said Lavinia, ‘That means it really 15 costing too much. Don’t eat any more meals, Francis, just have snacks. We’re on a very tight budget.’ ‘Sorry, Lavinia, I’m just on my way down to dinner,’ I said. ‘Now darling . . .’ Lavinia began, but I put down the phone.

  I went down to the bar and ordered a drink. The Hungarian beauties were there again, perched up on their barstools, chatting excitedly and looking over at me. I went across to the maître d’ and asked for a table. ‘I have tables for Peat Marwick,’ he said, running his finger down the list, ‘Also Dun and Bradstreet, Price Waterhorse, Cooper Lybrand. Or perhaps you are Adam Smith Institute?’ Evidently the film companies were out on the town tonight. ‘No, I’m not with a party, I’m on my own,’ I said. ‘No one should have to eat all on his own, it is too sad,’ said . the Hungarian beauty from last night, joining me again, ‘You have dollars tonight? If you have dollars I will love you really.’ ‘For two, sir,’ said the maître d’. ‘No, I’d like to eat on my own,’ I said. ‘Are you a queer person?’ asked the Hungarian beauty. ‘No, a philosopher,’ I said, ‘I just want to do some thinking.’ ‘Very well,’ said the girl, ‘You can always find me later, if you change your mind.’

  So I went and sat alone in the dining-room, watching the other tables fill up with laughing accountants from London and New York, gaily spreading the delights of the free market and the international marketplace ever further eastward, even as their colleagues were beginning to feel the pinch of recession, retreat and redundancy back home. I had just ordered the goulasch I had been avoiding for two days when another Hungarian beauty in a miniskirt came over to the table and said, ‘Oh dear, are you all alone?’ ‘Yes, I rather prefer it,’ I said. ‘Really, I didn’t think so,’ she said. I looked up, and saw that she was Ildiko Hazy, standing there in her blue dress, smiling at me. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘Please sit down.’ ‘You thought I was one of those who would charge you something?’ she asked, sitting down, ‘Well, I am not.’ ‘Of course not,’ I said, ‘Have dinner with me.’ ‘I hate to interrupt you, when you are so happy at yourself,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not,’ I said, handing her the menu, ‘Have something, please.’

  ‘Lunch, and now dinner,’ said Ildiko Hazy, taking the menu and looking at it, ‘You know, it is just like an affair. Do you like to know why I came?’ ‘Because you thought you’d like to see me again,’ I suggested. ‘Because I know where is Criminale,’ said Ildiko, ‘Now, what shall I have? I think anything but goulasch.’ I stared at her; she smiled back at me. ‘Say that again,’ I said, ‘You know where is Criminale?’ ‘This old lady at the apartment, she told me everything,’ said Ildiko, ‘But I didn’t like to explain it to you while Hollo Sandor was there. I do not trust him.’ ‘But you’re going to tell me now?’ I asked. ‘Well, I have first a condition,’ said Ildiko, ‘That means, if you don’t accept, then I don’t tell you, yes?’ ‘What’s the condition?’ I asked. ‘When you go there to find him, I want to go with you,’ said Ildiko, ‘I also want to find him for myself.’

  ‘Do you?’ I asked, ‘Why?’ ‘Because I want him to make me a contract for his new book before he sells it to some other house here,’ said Ildiko, ‘You know it is very hard for us now, here in the free market. Once we belonged to the state, now we must try to be more private. But you know how is capitalism. Everything is money, then money and more money. Nothing is friendship, nothing is trust. But I promise if you say yes I will trust you. You will buy me a ticket, and we will both go there. Is it yes?’ I looked at her, at her blonde hair and her bright smiling face. I had to admit the idea was seriously tempting. ‘Wait a minute,’ I said, ‘It depends how far we have to go.’ ‘You are a very rich man,’ she said. ‘I am not a very rich man,’ I said, ‘I’m a television researcher on a very tight budget. I have this really mean producer.’ ‘I think I will have the smoked salmon,’ said Ildiko to the waiter, looking at me defiantly, ‘I did not think you were mean.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I said, ‘I’m just like everyone else in the free market. I have to satisfy my employer.’ ‘Yes, everyone has something to keep them in place,’ said Ildiko, ‘Sometimes the secret policemen, sometimes a boss and a mortgage. Well, okay, don’t worry. It’s not so far really.’ ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘It is not Japan, not South America,’ said Ildiko, ‘So is that all right? Don’t you love to take me?’ ‘It’s outside Hungary?’ I asked. Ildiko nodded. ‘In the West?’ She nodded again. ‘How far west?’ I asked. ‘Okay, I tell you this,’ said Ildiko, ‘It is in north Italy, not so very far at all. You know, Hollo Sandor would love to take me there, in his Ultimate Machine. And he can get me Western currency easy, with all his fixes. Don’t you feel a bit lucky I like better to go there with you?’ ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘Okay, north Italy, that’s not so bad. Let’s go! We’ll eat our dinner and then I’ll call Vienna and get them to cable us some money.’

  The West, the West, he takes me to the West,’ said Ildiko, delighted, ‘Oh, by the way, just one little problem. How to get invited. He is at the Villa Barolo on Lake Cano. Maybe you know it, they say it is the best place in the world to go and write. But it belongs to an American foundation, with some great heiress.’ ‘What’s Criminale doing there?’ I asked. ‘Oh, they are holding some great international congress there, on literature and power,’ said Ildiko, ‘Of course they need Criminale.’ ‘Then how could we get in?’ I asked. ‘They would not invite me, of course,’ said Ildiko, ‘But you are an important British journalist, yes? You work on a newspaper?’ ‘Well, I did,’ I said, ‘But the newspaper I work for just closed down.’ Ildiko looked at me. ‘But do they know that at Barolo?’ she asked. ‘Come to think of it, they probably don’t,’ I said. That’s right,’ said Ildiko, approvingly, ‘Just think a little Hungarian. Say you are writing an important piece about it, send them a cable, yes?’ ‘All right, I will,’ I said, ‘When we’ve eaten this.’

  Ildiko looked at the plate in front of me. ‘Ugh, goulasch,’ she said, ‘Do you know what it is made of? Dead bodies from the Danube.’ ‘I don’t believe it,’ I said. ‘Well, I lie sometimes, but only with my closest friends,’ said Ildiko, ‘Now listen, I think we must go tomorrow, or we miss the congress start. Do you like me to go later and get us some tickets for the train?’ ‘Fine,’ I said, ‘If they say we can attend.’ ‘You have dollar?’ asked Ildiko, ‘It is best in dollar. If you have dollar I will love you.’ ‘I do have dollar,’ I said, ‘But later.’ ‘But you will definitely take me to the West? Where they have all these shops?’ ‘Yes, I will,’ I said. Then it’s wonderful,’ said Ildiko. And that, as it happened, and that is most of what happened, is how Ildiko Hazy and I found ourselves the next day on another international train, from Budapest to Milan, on our way to the Barolo Congress and, we hoped, to Bazlo Criminale.

  7

  Never take an international literary conference lightly . . .

  One thing I’ve learned in life is that you should never take a great international literary congress too lightly. And that was certainly so with the now highly famed Barolo Congress on the topic of ‘Literature and Power: The Changing Nineties: Writing Aft
er the Cold War’, which held its deliberations at the Villa Barolo on Lake Cano in November 1990. Supported by the munificence of the great Magno Foun­dation (whose founder, Mrs Valeria Magno, was to attend the ceremonies), chaired by the famed Italian intellectual, Professor Massimo Monza, Professor of Obscure Signs at the University of Nemi, and with as its guest of honour none other than Professor Bazlo Criminale, it was plainly an event of scale, significance and indeed, in the wise gaze of history, true cultural transformation.

  But I realized none of this when, encouraged by Ildiko Hazy, and supported, rather doubtfully, by Lavinia, still engaged on her obscure recce in Vienna, I sent off a cable asking permission for myself and companion to cover the event on behalf of a British newspaper and on behalf of the Great British Public, whose concern about the cutting edge of modern literature was, I said, well known. Much to my surprise, a cable from Barolo flew back almost immediately, signed by none other than Professor Monza himself. It declared his extreme delight that the British press should want to do literature, and indeed himself, the honour of covering the occasion. It also issued a joint invitation to myself and my companion, and told me that joining instructions and briefings for the congress would follow almost immediately.

  And so they did; and from that moment onward the whole flavour of my life changed, and the whole nature of my quest for Bazlo Criminale was transformed. An hour later I was called down from my room at the Budapest Ramada – Ildiko happened to be with me, helping me check the contents of the mini-bar – and there in the lobby was one of those leather-coated motorbikers whose appearance of violence and aggression is intended to reassure us that these days trade and data always pass everywhere at the very fastest speed. He handed me an express package that had just landed hot from the sky at Budapest airport. On it was the great logo of the Magno Foundation; it was clear that our joining and briefing instructions had come. Ildiko and I took them back upstairs to my room, where it was definitely more comfortable, and we began to examine them. It was probably then we should have sensed the grandeur and munificence of the occasion, but I fear we did not.