When people have travelled a long way to a distant conference and sat down to the fine foods and wines of the first night, they like to be given a conviction of strenuousness, to be cheered up and set to ennobling work, even though they know that over the next days they have no intention of doing it. If Criminale knew that too, he seemed that night to have no intention of satisfying the need. I knew from my reading that he was known as a maker of gadfly speeches, and that was how he set off. ‘Thank you, Professor Monza,’ he said, beginning to talk even before the microphone had been set in front of him, ‘The relationship of literature and power, well, let us settle that matter immediately. There is no proper relationship of literature and power. Power manages, and art decreates. Power seeks a monologue and art is a dialogue. Art destroys what power has constructed. So these two can never discuss properly with each other, as you will have found out already tonight if you have tried to talk to your neighbour.’
There was some nervous laughter at this, but I saw Monza looking dismayed, as well as many of the participants, who had, after all, overflown several continents in order to discuss this very topic. ‘Of course you know my renowned Hungarian colleague György Lukacs took the other view,’ said Criminale (bringing in that name again), ‘For him art was ideas, ideas construct politics, politics construct reality, and it must be the correct reality. Only if the idea was correct was the art correct. And where today are Lukacs’s correct ideas, his correct reality? Floated away down the Danube to nowhere. Today we see the end of that oppressive monologue called Marxism. Now we say we live in the age of pluralism, the age without what Hegel called an Absolute Idea. For once we are adventuring into history without an idea, and this is like trying to sail the Atlantic without a map. You can do it, but will you survive, never mind get anywhere worth going to?
‘You ask me, a philosopher, to come here, and tell you how to live in the world without an idea. Well, let me admit that Lukacs was right in one thing. Art, literature, always occurs at a certain time in history, and cannot be free of it. So let us ask, what is our time in history? In the courtyard of the Beaubourg in Paris – you know that building, it does for architecture what God could have done for us, if he had put our intestines on the outside of our bodies, instead of the other way – is a clock, the Genitron. Perhaps you have seen it, it clocks down all the seconds left to the year 2000. I stand there sometimes, with all those fire-eaters, and I ask, what happens when the clock stops? Do we put on year 2001 tee-shirts and sing the “Ode to Joy”, or does the world go down the plug? And if we want an answer, who is trying to tell us? Do we have a Nietzsche, a Schopenhauer, a Hegel, a Marx? Is there perhaps a prophet somewhere?
‘Well, I found you some,’ said Criminale, standing there and waving his tattered magazine, ‘This is an airline magazine, compliments of Alitalia, I read it on the flight from, where was that?’ ‘Rangoon, dearling,’ said Sepulchra loudly. ‘Rangoon, was it really?’ said Criminale, to some laughter, ‘This magazine asked a group of thinkers, II Papa himself was one, to tell us about the world after the year 2000. Here is one prophet, the British novelist, Anthony Burgess, I quote him. “I think we will discover new worlds, and learn to move about in the universe and carry on the great experiment of life in another dimension.” Quite good, perhaps, now we know he has read Teilhard de Chardin. But here is another view, this time the diva Tina Turner, you know her, I hope. “I want the next ten years to be full of love and music. And another book, /, Tina, will be coming out and is going to be made into a movie.” From this I deduce it takes all sorts to make a new world.’
There was more laughter, but the guests were looking at each other, wondering where Criminale was going. ‘Very well, which is true?’ said Criminale, ‘150 years ago, The Communist Manifesto appeared, and the first sentence read, you all remember, “A spectre haunts Europe – the spectre of Communism.” Well, no more, I think. But what spectre does haunt Europe, or the rest of the world? The spectre that haunts us is the spectre of too much and too little. It is an age of everything and nothing. It is culture as spectacle, designer life, the age of shopping. It is both Burgess floating loose in cosmic space and Turner madly in love with her smart self. So, my friends, if in a week at Barolo you can reconcile Burgess and Turner, literature and power, idea and chaos, and if by the way you can also prevent collapse at the European fringes, stop mad nationalisms, avoid collision with Islam, and solve the problems of the Third World, you will have done well and your time will not be wasted. This is all, thank you.’
There was applause, of course, when Criminale sat down. He was a famous man, and he had, in the end, turned up to grace the occasion. But I sensed a kind of dismay as I went in to coffee in the lounge next door; it was as if the philosopher had descended amongst them and had refused to be a philosopher and chosen not to think. Ildiko joined me, in an angry temper. Her dinner had not gone well; the American State Department official on one side had told her all about the Uruguay Round of the GATT talks, and the Scandinavian poet on the other had tried to delight her with photographs of his penis, and she was not sure which was the more boring. And she was not at all pleased by Criminale’s oration. ‘But why does he talk like that?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps to make us think about whether we need a great idea or not,’ I said. ‘But he attacked always the wrong things,’ said Ildiko. ‘You mean Lukacs?’ I asked. ‘No, not Lukacs, who cares any more about Lukacs?’ said Ildiko, ‘I mean shopping. What is wrong with shopping?’
Ildiko was still angry when, later on, the tired conferees began saying their goodnights to each other, and we set off through the gardens to make our way down to the Boathouse. The night was not, after all, one to look forward to. We walked, apart, along the terrace, still lit by flickering torches; the moon shone, and the wind lightly shook the trees. Ildiko suddenly stopped. Beside a bare white statue of Minerva, a lone stocky human figure stood on the terrace, smoking a cigar, looking out over the black lake. ‘Criminale!’ said Ildiko, ‘Why does he do like that? Is he waiting someone?’ I looked around; there was no one else in sight. ‘Here’s your chance to go and talk to him,’ I said. ‘No, I don’t like, he is thinking,’ said Ildiko. ‘We’ve come all this way to talk to him,’ I said, ‘Now you can introduce me.’ ‘I really don’t like,’ said Ildiko; but just then Criminale turned, saw us, and waved his cigar. ‘A splendid speech, Dr Criminale,’ I called. ‘Not I think my best,’ said Criminale, looking first at me, then at Ildiko; there was no shock of recognition. ‘But not nice about shopping,’ said Ildiko, ‘This is Francis Jay from England.’
‘British, how strange,’ said Criminale, ‘I am standing here thinking why Graham Greene has never won the Nobel Prize for Literature. You know the story?’ This seemed an odd diversion, but great men must, I’m told, be humoured. ‘No.’ I said, ‘Tell me, why hasn’t Greene won the Nobel Prize for Literature?’ ‘It may not be true, but I tell it to you anyway,’ said Criminale, turning to look over the lake again, ‘Once Greene went to Sweden and he slept there with a certain woman. Why not? We all go to Sweden to be modern, no?’ ‘I suppose,’ I said agreeably. ‘The woman had a relative, a professor who belonged to the Swedish Academy, which chooses of course the Prizewinner,’ said Criminale. ‘This man was outraged, he swore an oath that as long as he lived Greene would never win the trophy.’ ‘Isn’t this romantic?’ asked Ildiko. ‘I think so,’ nodded Criminale, ‘Both men have lived and lived, to a great old age. Maybe that is what keeps them going, one cannot die before the other. The Prize has gone everywhere, Pearl Buck, Bertrand Russell, even your famous Winston Churchill, never to Greene. One of the greatest writers of our century, and he misses the Prize because one night he has a little joy with a certain woman. I was asking myself, if it was I, and if I knew what would happen, which would I choose, the Prize or the woman? A difficult question, don’t you think?’ ‘So how do you answer?’ asked Ildiko. ‘I don’t know, my dear,’ said Criminale, ‘Fame is good but love is wonderful. You sound Hungarian.’ Ild
iko answered in her own language; they talked for a moment. In the villa behind us, the lights were going out. Someone, a woman, walked across the terrace and disappeared. Criminale dropped his cigar butt and ground it into the gravel. ‘Now I think we must get ready for morning, alive for another congress. A pleasure to meet you both. Enjoy your paradise,’ he said, nodding his great head. We watched him as he made his way back, in his shiny blue suit, towards the villa.
‘He didn’t recognize you,’ I said to Ildiko, as we went on down the steep lighted path towards the Old Boathouse. ‘He lives in a world up there,’ she said, ‘He doesn’t recognize anyone. Tomorrow he will not even know you.’ Ildiko’s manner had changed, and her anger appeared to have gone. ‘He seemed rather depressed, I thought.’ ‘Oh, now you have met him, you understand him completely?’ she asked. ‘You didn’t think so?’ I asked. ‘I tell you what I think,’ she said, ‘I think Criminale Bazlo is in love. I have seen him in love before,’ she said, ‘Remember, he is Hungarian, very romantic. Someone has charmed him, and now he is thinking about power and women. So, I hope I have pleased you now. I have introduced you.’ ‘I’m very pleased,’ I said. ‘And I brought you to a very nice place, no?’ said Ildiko, ‘Paradise, in fact. And we have our very nice room. And remember, in Paradise it is always all right to be naked together.’
So that is how, a little later, Ildiko and I found ourselves very naked together, in the great Euro-bed of the Old Boathouse, a vast Gobelin tapestry, packed with Bacchic revelry, hanging over our heads, moonlight coming through the curtains and falling across our bodies. Ildiko lay there, shaking out her blonde hair and looking at me with bright eyes. ‘And what about you, how would you choose?’ she asked. ‘Choose what?’ I asked. ‘If like Criminale you were choosing between the Nobel Prize and the woman.’ ‘Forget Criminale,’ I said, ‘Anyway, it would depend on the woman.’ ‘Okay, to take an example, the Nobel Prize or me.’ ‘No contest,’ I said, ‘You, of course.’ ‘Really, you would give up the Nobel Prize like that, for me?’ cried Ildiko, ‘I think you are wonderful. Not such a nasty pig after all. And you do like shopping, a bit?’ ‘A bit,’ I said. ‘Benetton, Next, New Man, River Island, you would take me to those places?’ ‘One day,’ I said. ‘More like that, oh, paradise, paradise, isn’t it nice?’ said Ildiko, ‘So, goodbye Nobel Prize.’
Our folded bodies had almost joined, the thrill in our skins had become intense, the Nobel Prize was almost gone for good, when a sudden violent burst of motor noise shook the quiet room and wild flashing spotlights beamed in, flaring angrily, lighting the tapestry over our heads, illuminating first this corner, then that. ‘Oh God, what is it?’ cried Ildiko, pulling her body loose from mine. ‘Stay there, I’ll go and look,’ I said, and hurried naked to the window. ‘Oh Francis, I’m frightened,’ said Ildiko, coming naked to the window too, and clutching me. Outside, offshore, and not so many yards away from us, a huge birdlike object was hovering over the stirred waters of the black lake. It spun and tilted, spotlights in its metal belly turning and probing. In front of the boathouse, on the grass meadow, cars and trucks had been parked. Their headlights illuminated a gravelled arena, where men in dark clothes ran here and there. Like some enormous dragonfly, the great machine moved slowly in off the water, suspended itself for a moment over the meadow, then sank down and came to rest on the gravel.
‘Is it police, do they want us?’ asked Ildiko, holding me tight. From under the rotors of the white helicopter two figures in overalls ran, and piled into one of the waiting cars. Then I saw, on the helicopter’s side, a giant painted symbol; it was the logo of the Magno Foundation. ‘It must be our padrona, Mrs Valeria Magno,’ I said, ‘She’s come home late to check what’s going on in her paradise,’ I said. The car drove at speed away from us, up the winding road towards the Villa Barolo. ‘Oh, I am glad you are with me,’ said Ildiko. ‘Everything’s all right,’ I said, The boss is here, that’s all. Forget it, come back to bed.’ So, in the great imperial bed at the paradise of Barolo, on the fortunate fair lake of Pliny and Vergil, in beautiful surroundings both classical and romantical, Ildiko and I held each other. She shivered and shook and then slowly we moved together again, body into body, thought into thought, and forgot, for the usual eternal short while, about power, literature, and ideas, about Monza and Nobel and Mrs Magno, even about the stocky, lonely figure of Bazlo Criminale.
9
The Villa Barolo has long been associated with writing . . .
As I found over the next busy, happy days, our Literature and Power congress was far from being the first major literary event to occur on the Isola Barolo. From the Age of Antiquity on, the guidebooks told me, Barolo had always been associated with the satisfaction of life’s most gratifying act, which, according to writers, is writing. Vergil, exiled here, had written an eclogue or two and pronounced the place the home of humanism. Pliny, spotting that Barolo lay midpoint in a five-armed lake, had felicitously called it the fecund crotch of the world. Dante had found it purgative; Boccaccio had a tale or two to tell about it. In the age of Romanticism travellers from the chill north – Madame de Stael, Goethe, and Byron and Shelley, the terrible travelling twins – had come, swum in the lake, fallen in love with its romantic beauties, and written verse on the subject, none of it very good.
Our congress group was not by a long way the first to settle here, though earlier visitors would not have enjoyed the modern delights we had. Villas had graced the spot for centuries, but this one was nineteenth-century, raised by the Kings of Savoy, a.k.a. ‘Gatekeepers to the Alps’, in their heyday. When that heyday became a low day, it declined with the family. By Mussolini’s Thirties it was neglected, in the postwar disorder it turned into a ruin. That would have been that but for Mrs Valeria Magno, California socialite, heiress to several fortunes in cosmetics, oil, and weaponry. Following the old rule of American dynasties, she had married an Italian count, who inherited the villa. He died, she remarried, divorced, remarried, in the familiar Californian ritual. But she never forgot Barolo. She came back and back, restored it, made it splendid. She flew in designers from here, art historians from there; she repurchased or replaced its fine furniture, rehung its paintings, summoned back the gardeners, brought it back to life.
What for, though? She had many houses and a California beach life to think about. But in those days before the politically correct, American heiresses still did courses in Western literature. She remembered Vergil and Pliny and Byron and Lawrence, and decided to make it, again, a place of writing and humanism. Barolo would become a great-study and congress centre, where the world’s great scholars and authors could come to work. To promote the highest levels of creation, no expense was spared. The halls were filled with Cellini statues, Canaletto paintings, Gobelin tapestries, on a scale to mortify a Medici. In the rooms of the villa the walls gleamed with mirrors, the furniture with gold leaf. Even the fourposter beds had six posts. The modern scholar, coming on a Guggenheim or a McArthur ‘Genius’ grant, got everything: power showers and Jacuzzis, electronic typewriters and computer interfaces, fax facilities to keep inspiration in close contact with the office or home. Mrs Magno loved famous men around her, the geniuses of the age. No wonder Criminale became one of her prize specimens.
So when the press couldn’t find him, politicians lost track of him, this is where he was. Where could be better? The house-rule was that everyone should be able to work without interruption. Critics were bumrushed from the door, pressmen flushed out of the shrubbery. Telephone calls were blocked at the exchange, visitors kept on the far side of high walls and electric fences. Nowhere could have done more to nourish thought,and art. When the great scholars and writers woke in the morning, a lake lay in view of every window, framed by cypresses, backed by lush green hills. White doves flitted in the trees, white-sailed yachts sailed through the vista, fishermen plied their ancient trade in ancient waters. The scholars had small studios in the grounds – a classical belvedere, a romantic gazebo, each with a computer t
erminal. Fragrant perfumes blew from the gardens, distant churchbells on the hillsides tolled out the hours of the hardthinking day. Sixteen invisible gardeners worked like set-designers to ensure the grounds were perfect for each new dawn. Above the gardens, where the island came to its craggy peak, were wild woods. But here too nature had been turned to culture – every tree shaped, every cave refined, to form pleasing grottoes where scholars could retire to meditate or, in the softer moments even scholars have, engage in drip-threatened dalliance with some fellow meditator.
So the great scholars came, for one month, two. In perfect paradise, they produced. They produced avant-garde novels, speculative, disjunctive poems in projective verse, atonal musical compositions, studies of the defeat of the bourgeoisie, the end of humanism, the death of narrative, the disappearance of the self. Then, after a good morning of postmodern literary labour or hard deconstructive thought, they gathered for drinks on the terrace or, if wet, in the indoor bar, before taking a lunch of rare pastas served by the most civil of servants. Afterwards, if tennis or boating did not beckon, they went back to the chaotic delights of their speculations, until it was time, again, for evening drinks, followed by a rare dinner, where the wit flowed as free as the select Italian wine, and the wine as the wit, and another day of contemporary authorship and scholarship came towards its close. Even then, Barolo’s work was not yet done. In the Magno queendom it was as important to refine the night as the day. After dinner, as Italian darkness fell, the hills would resound with the sound of music, as some small chamber orchestra came by to play, or one of the American atonal composers offered his newest work. The guests down at the Gran Hotel Barolo, usually transient tourists who had tripped in by the hydrofoil for a day or two, would stop entranced over the tortellini to listen. Often you could see them peering in at the security gates of the villa, staring in a homage to pure wisdom and beauty, until the uniformed guards moved them on.
Doctor Criminale Page 17
