When Summer started, she was off again. ‘What could be better than an international congress for passing illicit traffic?’ she murmured. ‘These are all famous international scholars and writers,’ I murmured back. ‘Exactly, people from all over the world that no one would suspect,’ whispered Cosima. ‘I don’t believe it,’ I whispered back. I saw the conductor turn and look at us with irritation. ‘Listen, I will trust you,’ hissed Cosima Bruckner, ‘I require your helps.’ know nothing about these things,’ I hissed back. ‘You would be wise to consider,’ susurrated Cosima Bruckner, ‘Remember, I could have you ejaculated from this congress entirely. You understand?’ ‘What do you want, then?’ I susurrated back. ‘Have you see anything at all suspicious, at Barolo?’ asked Cosima Bruckner, ‘Financial transactions, unexpected contacts?’ ‘Nothing like that,’ I said. ‘Nothing at all that is unusual?’ asked Cosima. The movement came to its sprightly end. I looked again at the front row, wondering how things were with Bazlo Criminale. It was then that I realized that, somewhere during the course of Summer, he and Miss Belli had both disappeared.
*
Autumn began, and midway through it the heavens opened. A tempestuous downpour clattered violently on the tiles above us, and by the end of the movement rainwater was swilling over the marble floors of the salle de reception and lapping around our feet. When the music ceased, Monza rose and had a few words with the conductor, who then stepped forward. ‘Grazie, thank you very much, The Three Seasons,’ he said. The applause that followed was undeservedly brief, for Monza was up there again, clapping for attention. ‘Now may I ask you to returna to the boata! These storms can sometimes go on all through the nighta, so I think we must returna to Barolo quickly.’ We hurried out of the hall and to the boat through the classical gardens. Rain tumbled down and Mars and Venus dripped and spurted from every cleft, orifice and protuberance. Water filled the gunwales of our waiting speedboat, and we huddled in the cabin. I looked round for Criminale and Miss Belli. There was no sign of them, but no one except myself and Cosima Bruckner seemed to care.
We set sail quickly towards the Isola Barolo. The lake had fallen into a strange calm. To the north, where the Alps rose up, the view was magnificent and terrible. Wild lightning flashes lit the mountain tops, disclosing vast ranges of snow-covered ridges we had never seen before. Rushing clouds skittered over their tops; the trees below the tree-line were dipping under rushing wind and then rising again. Thunder echoed from mountainside to mountainside, with the racket of an enormous military barrage. Then in the lightning flashes we could see that, from the top end of the lake, a ruffle of violent wind was moving along, tearing at the still surface of the water. Only Cosima Bruckner seemed to be without fear; she stood up in the front of the boat and shouted ‘Storm, go away!’ The rest of us huddled in the cabin as the boatman made the engine surge, and we drove for the Barolo pier.
The storm was striking Barolo now; the trees began to dip and crack, the crag above the village was garishly backlit, the villa itself illuminated in a sudden son et lumière. I thought about Ildiko, hoping hard that she had safely returned from her shopping on the evening boat. It was only by moments that we ourselves outran the windstorm that swept down Lake Cano that night. Even as our boat tied up at the pier, the waves began leaping violently, and the water spumed and boiled. We ran through the pouring rain to the minibuses that had come down to collect us, and by the time we reached the gates of the villa it was clear something had happened to paradise. Water swept down the drive as if it had turned into a riverbed; the branches of trees were bending, twisting, snapping to the ground.
At the villa, when we had skidded and splashed up the flooded drive, the lights were flickering, the outside shutters banging wildly against the walls. The dark-jacketed servants ran out with umbrellas, which themselves strained and gusted as they hurried us inside. In the lobby the tapestries flapped on the walls, and wind flurried through the corridors, upturning lamps and toppling priceless vases. I went through the downstairs rooms, looking for Ildiko. At last I found her, in the drawing-room; it was half-dark, lit by some strange emergency lighting. She sat on a sofa, surrounded by bags of shopping. ‘Whoever invented the umbrella undoubtedly had a mind of genius,’ someone on the sofa opposite was saying to her, To put a moving roof that folds on a stick we can carry without difficulty, this I must call thinking.’ For a moment I thought her companion was Bazlo Criminale. But then I moved closer and realized we had a new visitor, someone who must have come in on the same boat as Ildiko. It was, I saw, Professor Otto Codicil.
10
The Gran Hotel Barolo was pleasant enough . . .
I should freely admit that the Gran Hotel Barolo – down in the village, next to the lake, out along the promontory, charmingly overlooking the pier – was pleasant enough. In fact, with its large grounds, its glassed-in waterfront terrace, its comfortable three-star restaurant, it was delightful, especially if you had come to it afresh or from afar. Its façade was grand, its grounds well-kempt. There were boats in its boathouse; a nice old-fashioned trio played each evening in the pleasant bar. In fact it was the ideal place, even or perhaps especially out of season, for tired Milanese businessmen to bring their wives, or more usually someone else’s, for a happy night or a good weekend. But the hotel somehow looked a little different to those of us who had just spent five pure days in paradise. To our eyes, its public rooms seemed faded and cheerless, its residents and guests drab and dull, its tablecloths dank, its silver less than silver, its menu uninspiring, its bedrooms mean and stale, by comparison with the comforts of the Villa Barolo, high up on the crag above. Nonetheless, it did possess one virtue that the villa did not. It was prepared to admit us, after we had been summarily ejaculated out of the gardens of paradise.
This unfortunate episode happened on the morning after the great storm, which is still probably not forgotten at Barolo. When Ildiko and I woke up that morning, it was to look out on a clear, bright and faultless day. Beyond the windows of the Old Boathouse, the lake lay entirely unruffled, the mountains fresh and calm. As I walked up through the terraces for breakfast (Ildiko followed her habit and stayed in bed), I found branches and fallen trees everywhere, plants flattened, benches upturned. Still, the gardeners were at work already, repairing and perfecting the scene. So were the servants up at the villa, busily sweeping up the debris, straightening the priceless paintings. Yet somehow the storm had left its mark, and the atmosphere of the congress had subtly changed. That was clear in the breakfast-room too, where the congress members sat eating their eggs and bacon in a strange and solemn silence. Then I looked round the room, and understood why. Today there was no Bazlo Criminale.
Had he still failed to return? I sat down to eat and after a few moments Sepulchra came in. ‘Such a night! I am tempest-tossed!’ she cried, high hair spun up higher than ever. We watched her go over to the sideboard and pour Criminale’s usual cup of coffee. Then she turned, looked round, and said, ‘So? Where is Bazlo?’ People shook their heads. ‘You don’t see him?’ she asked, ‘Not know where he is? You think maybe he took long walk?’ But Sepulchra did not even then appear particularly worried; she must have had half a lifetime’s experience of dealing with Criminale’s careless wanderings and obscure absences. I said nothing about the concert the previous night, and finished my breakfast in silence. At that moment it seemed to me perfectly possible that Criminale had stepped from the music to think some fresh thought, examine some statue or fine painting, or just look for a newspaper, and that Miss Belli had thoughtfully followed. If he was not here now, he would I probably return shortly, perhaps led by Belli, perhaps brought home by the police in their van.
There was only half an hour left before the congress events were due to resume, so I went out into the hall, meaning to go back to the Old Boathouse, stir Ildiko, and give her the roll I had slipped into my pocket. Here, however, the butler stopped me, and very politely told me that I was summoned immediately to the upstairs suite of
Mrs Valeria Magno, which I knew occupied most of the top floor of the villa. It was only as I followed his white back up the grand staircase that led the way to our padrona that I began to stir with anxious thoughts. Could it be possible that someone had been unkind enough to go to her and blow the gaff, strip my cover, and indicate that I was here on if not false then imperfect pretences? And if so, who was it? Could it be the operatic Cosima Bruckner, whose conspiratorial Euro-imaginings of the night before I found it, to be frank, almost impossible to take seriously? Or was it possibly Professor Doktor Otto Codicil, whose greeting to me the night before, when I found him with Ildiko, had been of the very frostiest, and who was, as Gerstenbacker had warned me, potentially a dangerous enemy?
The suite of Mrs Magno was, as befitted the benefactor of the entire enterprise, spacious and vast. The butler led me through a lobby, a sitting-room, a gracious private dining-room, and a dressing-room, before at last we reached a great bedroom, into which he ushered me. A maid with a bucket was mopping up a great pool of water from beneath the windows, another deposit from last night’s storm. Mrs Magno was sitting at her dressing-table, wearing flamboyant lounging pyjamas, and checking her face in the mirror, as if she was equally worried about storm damage there. Professor Monza stood in the room, wearing both his Royal Engineers tie and a strangely anxious expression on his small brown face. And, sitting weightily on a chair by the window, I saw the bulky figure of Professor Otto Codicil. ‘Lo, the outrageous impostor,’ he announced. Yes, it was bloody Codicil.
Mrs Magno turned, and looked me up and down. ‘You’re Francis Jay?’ she asked. ‘Yes, I am,’ I said. ‘Well, the prof here says you’re a phoney,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘Otto, just tell us again what he’s supposed to have done.’ ‘Well, just for a starter, this young man has completely abused your hospitality with his false pretences,’ said Codicil, ‘Plainly it is outrageous.’ ‘I fear I made a very bad mistaka,’ said Professor Monza, ‘You understanda, Signora Magno, to organize a great congress is a very demandinga business.’ ‘You do a great job, Massimo,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘Don’t worry, it’s all logged up here.’ ‘I should have checked his recorda more closely,’ said Monza. ‘I fear it is only what we must expect,’ said Professor Codicil, ‘The cunning blandishments of the media. Believe me, even I succumbed.’ ‘What do you two mean?’ asked Mrs Magno, plastering some tiny crack in her façade, ‘Is this guy some kind of journalist?’ ‘Exactly so,’ said Codicil. ‘I thought we had a policy of letting in some press,’ said Mrs Magno. ‘But in this case also an impostor, as I found out in Vienna to my cost,’ said Codicil. ‘Okay, what’s the story?’ asked Mrs Magno. ‘If you do not mind, I will not mince my words,’ said Codicil. ‘Go ahead, be my guest,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘I can take anything. I’m Californian.’
‘Very well,’ said Codicil, rising to his feet and pacing the room, ‘This man, an illiterate hack of no importance, by the way, appeared in Vienna a few days ago and solicited my assistance. He told me he was making a television show on the subject of our dear esteemed friend Bazlo Criminale.’ ‘So why come to you?’ asked Mrs Magno, adding blusher. ‘My dear lady,’ said Codicil, a little stung by this, ‘You lead a world life, so you may not know it, but I am the author of the one great study of the work of our master.’ At this point it crossed my mind to dispute him; then I thought not. I could be in enough trouble already. I was. ‘I arranged to meet the lout,’ said Codicil, ‘At once I saw he was unworthy, if not unwashed, even by peasant standards.’ ‘He is kind of brutal, isn’t he?’ said Mrs Magno, looking me up and down pensively. ‘How could a man of this type possibly make a programme about Criminale?’ demanded Codicil, ‘I was reminded of Heidegger. He, you know, rejected Öffentlichkeit, the light of publicity which obscures everything.’ ‘Didn’t he have good reason?’ asked Mrs Magno.
‘Well, even so, every assistance was offered,’ said Codicil, rather hastily, ‘Witness coffee and cakes at a first-rank Viennese café, for which incidentally I coughed up the tab. For two days I sacrificed to him the services of my invaluable servant Gerstenbacker, to make sure his each want and whim was satisfied.’ ‘Aren’t you good?’ said Mrs Magno. ‘However from the start I was uneasy,’ Codicil went on, ‘I could not accept the project was, well, correct.’ ‘Not kosher?’ asked Mrs Magno. ‘It stank a little somewhere, to speak frankly,’ said Codicil, ‘Happily I have friends worldwide. I called a good old mate colleague in London who asked some enquiries. Within hours the whole pathetic deception was exposed. This was not some great TV company, as the lout had said. It was a front only, run by women and children. It made programmes for speculation, like some street-corner tout. It kept a postal address in a bad part of Soho, the most degenerate part of London. Perhaps you know it, though I hope not.’ ‘Only by reputation, honey, I’m afraid,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘So you mean the whole thing is some kind of scam?’ ‘I fear so,’ said Codicil, ‘And worse was to come.’
‘Do you mind if I say something?’ I asked. ‘You’ll get your turn, honey,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘I want to hear what the professor knows.’ ‘I discovered this smut-hound had hired some professional seductress to corrupt my young assistant, a youth of blameless virtue, and force him to speak calumnies about me. Well, naturally in the interests of justice and decency I attempted to stop this television adventure. I forbade it, even with the British Ambassador. All this was made totally clear. Now I come to Barolo; by the way, I am so sorry to be late, but a professor in my shoes has many demanding duties, examining students and so on . . .’ ‘Don’t worry, we weren’t expecting you,’ said Mrs Magno. ‘I come, and find that by some new imposture he has settled his backside here and is working with impunity on this forbidden business.’ ‘Can I ask a question?’ I said, ‘I’d just like to know why Professor Codicil thinks he has the authority to try to ban a serious television programme.’
‘Just a minute, kid,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘Massimo, how did this guy get here?’ ‘I fear an unfortunate error was committeda,’ said Monza, looking at me furiously, ‘I received a cable from Budapesta, from our visita here, saying he wished to write about the congressa in an importanta London newspapa. Now we find that papa does not even exista.’ ‘The paper doesn’t exista?’ said Mrs Magno, turning to me, ‘Oh, honey, looks like you’re really in the shit. So what are you doing here?’ Before I could reply, Monza interrupted. ‘In my opiniona,’ he said, ‘he is exploiting the famed wonders of Barolo to take a holiday with his foreign mistressa.’ ‘I don’t believe it, a bimbo in the story too,’ said Mrs Magno, looking at me with growing interest, ‘Okay, shall we let him talk?’ ‘Personally I would boot him away from here without a further word,’ said Codicil, ‘In the modern world there is far too much of this contempt for our privacies, I think.’
‘Okay, prof, just let me handle it,’ said Mrs Magno, looking me over, ‘Is it true you lied your way into here?’ ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I admit my paper folded. It went bankrupt a couple of weeks ago. I still thought I could publish an article.’ ‘And the TV?’ ‘The television project is perfectly real. It’s a serious arts programme in the British television series “Great Thinkers of the Age of Glasnost”,’ I said. ‘Love the title,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘And I thought Brideshead was terrific, by the way. But why lie to get here?’ ‘It seemed the best way to get close to Doctor Criminale,’ I said. ‘You see!’ cried Codicil. ‘What I’d like to know is why Professor Codicil is so opposed to this programme,’ I said, ‘Doctor Criminale is our leading philosopher. Why shouldn’t television make a good serious programme about him?’ ‘What do you say to that, prof?’ asked Mrs Magno, turning to Codicil. ‘I think the answer stands plainly before you,’ said Codicil, ‘This tout and doorstep-hopper you see there, a hack posing under the guise of gentleman, do you think he would make such a good programme? Has Bazlo given his permission for this programme? I think that is the first courtesy, no?’ ‘Well, has he?’ asked Mrs Magno.
‘Not exactly,’ I had to admit, ‘First of all we had t
o explore whether there really was a programme there.’ ‘You see, a backshop operation,’ said Codicil. ‘But why don’t we ask him?’ I suggested, ‘I think Bazlo Criminale might be delighted to see his work and his wisdom brought to a much wider audience.’ At this Monza coughed and straightened his tie uncomfortably. ‘Unfortunately this is a little difficulta,’ he said to Mrs Magno after a moment, ‘I regret that Dottore Criminale has not been seena since the concerta last nighta.’ ‘You’re kidding, Massimo,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘You don’t mean you’ve lost him? You’ve lost Bazlo Criminale?’ ‘Perhaps not quite losta,’ said Monza, looking even more uncomfortable, ‘He disappears quite often, and one of my assistants could be looking after him. You remember Miss Belli?’ Mrs Magno laughed. ‘Great, I love it,’ she said, ‘You’ve lost Bazlo and the beautiful Belli?’ ‘We are doing everything to finda them,’ said Monza, ‘The policia, everything.’ ‘I think you’d better get your ass unshackled, Massimo,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘Or you won’t have too much congress left. These people only come for him.’ ‘Meanwhile may I ask what you intend to do with our arrant doorstep-hopper here?’ demanded Codicil. ‘Oh, him,’ said Mrs Magno, turning to me with with the managerial decisiveness for which she was famous, ‘You, punk, you’re out, pronto. And just don’t let me see you ever again anywhere near Barolo, okay?’ The butler reappeared beside me; in the corner Codicil smiled grimly.
Doctor Criminale Page 21
