‘Ildiko, if she’s crazy, it’s not for me,’ I said, ‘She’s interested in Bazlo Criminale. She’s been following him, apparently. She seems to think he’s involved in some kind of Euro-fraud.’ ‘And what is that, Euro-fraud?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Fraud is doing illegal things with money, smuggling it, breaking laws, cheating investors and so on,’ I said, ‘And Euro-fraud is when they do it with my taxes, when I pay them.’ ‘And you don’t think Criminale Bazlo does something like that?’ asked Ildiko. 7 don’t believe it, it’s absurd,’ I said, ‘But Cosima Bruckner does.’ ‘Then we must find him,’ said Ildiko, grabbing my arm, ‘It’s important.’ ‘Well, there’s one thing to be said for Cosima,’ I said, ‘She did tell me where he is.’ ‘She told you?’ asked Ildiko, excitedly, ‘Where?’ ‘He’s in Lausanne in Switzerland.’ ‘Of course in Switzerland,’ said Ildiko obscurely, ‘Now we must go there.’ ‘I haven’t any money,’ I said, ‘Remember the shopping?’ ‘But you must get some,’ said Ildiko, looking excited. ‘It all depends on Lavinia,’ I said, ‘I’ll go upstairs and call her. But please, please, Ildiko, don’t order anything else while I’m away.’
This is getting absolutely ridiculous, Francis,’ said Lavinia, when I reached her at her room in Vienna, ‘Criminale has hopped it again? Where’s he gone now? South America?’ ‘He’s staying at some hotel in Lausanne,’ I said. ‘What’s he doing there?’ asked Lavinia. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said, ‘Except he seems to have run off with the most beautiful girl at the congress. And maybe half the European beef mountain as well.’ ‘You’re not serious,’ said Lavinia. ‘I think the beef is probably a matter of mistaken identity,’ I said, ‘But I’m quite serious about the rest. And there’s something else I’m serious about, Lavinia. Money. I’m stuck, I haven’t any left.’ Lavinia squealed at the other end. ‘Francis, we’ve nearly spent the whole recce budget,’ she said, ‘Have you any idea what opera tickets cost in Vienna?’ ‘Speaking of Vienna,’ I said, ‘Professor Codicil’s turned up here, messing up things.’ ‘Actually the word in Vienna is that Codicil is quite a famous prick,’ said Lavinia, ‘Into all sorts of strange Habsburgian arrangements. Masonic lodges, and so on.’ ‘Who told you that, Lavinia?’ I asked. ‘Well, you remember Gerstenbacker, the little raver?’ asked Lavinia, ‘I’ve spent an evening or two with him. What he doesn’t know about Vienna isn’t worth knowing.’
A thought suddenly occurred to me. ‘Lavinia, you didn’t tell him where I was, I hope?’ ‘I could have said something,’ admitted Lavinia, ‘I have been chatting with him quite a bit.’ ‘Well, better not tell him anything else,’ I said. ‘You don’t think he leaks?’ asked Lavinia. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘But things are getting very confusing here. When you see him again, try and find out how Codicil got here.’ ‘I could give him a call now,’ said Lavinia. ‘Do, and cable me some money to the Gran Hotel Barolo,’ I said. There was a short pause at the other end. ‘Gran Hotel?’ asked Lavinia. ‘It’s a very small gran hotel, only three forks in the book,’ I said, ‘Anyway, it’s the only one here that’s open in the winter.’ ‘But I thought you were staying at a private villa,’ said Lavinia. ‘I’ve been kicked out of there,’ I said, ‘Thanks to Codicil. So talk to Gerstenbacker, find out what’s going on, and don’t forget the money. I can’t even pay the hotel bill.’
‘Francis, look, how do I know you’re spending this budget wisely?’ asked Lavinia, ‘You could be going shopping with it. Or spending it on some girl.’ ‘I hope you know me better than that, Lavinia,’ I said, ‘Do you want me to go after Criminale in Lausanne or not?’ ‘I’m not sure, darling,’ said Lavinia, ‘This is a very tight-budget show.’ I was beginning to feel desperate; like Ildiko, I could not bear the thought of giving up now, when indeed we seemed, in some obscure way, to be getting nearer the dangerous truth. ‘Lavinia, look,’ I said, ‘Believe me, this is getting really interesting. Criminale’s disappeared, Codicil’s frightened, and the European fraud squad are interested. We’ve got to go on.’ ‘I really don’t know, Francis,’ said Lavinia. ‘Look at it, Lavinia,’ I said, ‘Great Thinker of the Age of Glasnost in Italian Bimbo Scandal?’ ‘Well . . .,’ said Lavinia. ‘Heidegger Quarrel Man in Euro Meat Fraud?’ ‘Yes, Francis, it sounds great,’ said Lavinia after a dreadful moment, ‘Okay, darling, I’ll get back to London and rustle up a bit more out of Eldorado. They’ll love all that. Expect my cable soon.’
*
The cable, thank goodness, came overnight. That meant Ildiko and I were able to settle our bill (surprisingly large) at the hotel desk the next morning and still catch the hovercraft into Cano. The Villa Barolo faded into the cypresses and ilexes behind us; then, as the boat steered round a promontory, the island itself faded from view, as insubstantial as Criminale himself. In Cano we boarded a rattling bus, and found ourselves, by mid-morning, back at Milano Central railway station, where our Barolo adventure had begun. Unfortunately our departure in no way resembled our arrival; this time no marching band was there to play, no battery of cameramen to catch us as we left. Ildiko wore her ‘Up Yours, Delors!’ tee-shirt, her tight Lycra bicycling pants with the flashes, and her ‘Cleveland Pitchers’ baseball cap; but even so she found, to her intense disappointment, that she was almost invisible in the contemporary international crowd. We went through a hall of stalls, bought tickets, took the escalator to the train. Soon we were sitting, once again, opposite each other in another great trans-European express, though this time we were going north and west, to Lausanne.
Within a few moments paradise seemed to have drifted far behind us, and some new and anxious confusions lay ahead. Over the days at Barolo I had truly come to respect and value Bazlo Criminale, and I found it hard to understand his flight. I had no problem, naturally, in understanding his reason for fleeing with Miss Belli, now that I had had a few days’ experience of Sepulchra and her ways. As for Cosima Bruckner and her fevered imaginings, they seemed ridiculous. Criminale was far too dignified, too concerned with higher things, just too abstract to be bothered with the kind of mysterious Euro-fraud which seemed to be Cosima’s speciality in life. Then there was the question of what had alerted Codicil. I still felt sure someone had set him onto me – perhaps young Gerstenbacker, perhaps Monza, perhaps someone else at Barolo? But why? What difference did a television programme make to a man like Criminale? Or was Codicil worried about something completely different, something that had come my way, at Barolo, perhaps, or even when I was in Vienna? And then there was Ildiko, sitting across from me in the compartment. I could see that, probably, from her point of view, Criminale’s flight with Miss Belli must have been a betrayal. But why, then, was she so anxious to hurry after him again?
For, if I seemed gloomy, Ildiko, sitting across from me, seemed excited. ‘You don’t look happy!’ she said, leaning forward. ‘Of course not,’ I said, ‘I just feel this whole quest is going wrong.’ ‘Because of Codicil and little Miss Black Trousers?’ she asked, ‘You don’t really believe that Criminale Bazlo smuggles cows in his suitcases?’ ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Really you should not listen to this lady,’ said Ildiko, ‘She is not a good friend for you.’ ‘She’s not my friend,’ I said. ‘She knows nothing,’ she said,. ‘These people in the European Community like to interfere in everything? Criminale never even thinks about money.’ ‘That’s my impression too,’ I said. ‘Bazlo does nothing wrong,’ said Ildiko, ‘Well, except of course those things you have to do wrong to survive in a Marxist country.’ I looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, ‘What things?’ ‘You know, you are so ignorant,’ she said, ‘Those usual things.’ ‘Ildiko, what usual things?’ Ildiko was just about to speak when I put my finger to my lips. The train had stopped at Domodossola near the Swiss border, and I realized that immigration men and probably the finance police as well were coming down the coach. A moment later the door slid open and two men entered, checking our papers with what seemed peculiar care. Then they looked at each other and went. I had a feeling that, no doubt courtesy of Cosima Bruckne
r, our time of crossing the border was being logged precisely.
Then a very serious-looking Swiss, wearing glasses and a small beard, and carrying a heavy briefcase, got into the compartment. The train moved on; as paradise slipped ever further behind, the Swiss Alpine wonderland began to rise up ahead. High mountains replaced the Lombardy plain, Italian chaos began giving way to Swiss neatness, Italian noise to Swiss silence. Indeed the Swiss in our compartment twice made Ildiko dust down her seat, after he had caught her furtively eating a chocolate bar purchased at Milano Central. We wanted to talk, but the Swiss, who was reading a Geneva newspaper, cast such firm and forbidding glances at us that even conversation came to seem an offence against decency, probably subject to citizens’ arrest. At last Ildiko, ever Ildiko, grew impatient and suggested that we go along to the restaurant car. Leaving the compartment to the Swiss, we set off down the long line of corridors.
Immediately the train plunged into a great gloomy tunnel (I suppose, when I think of it, it must have been the Simplon) and we seemed to be cutting through the chilly core and fundament of the world. Through semi-darkness we groped our way down the coaches to the dining-car. Here all was comfort; white-coated waiters bearing damask napkins flitted, the brass table-lamps gleamed, the white cloths were reflected in the heavy blackness outside, bottles of good wine rattled against the window glass. ‘Steak, please,’ said Ildiko to the waiter, ‘And I think we have the best red wine.’ ‘All right,’ I said, ‘What do you mean, the things you have to do wrong to survive in a Marxist country?’ ‘You really are so ignorant,’ said Ildiko, ‘That is because you live in a country where everything is what it seems.’ ‘Britain?’ I asked, ‘I hadn’t noticed.’ ‘Oh, you British are complaining all the time, you do not like this or that, how you suffer,’ said Ildiko, ‘But at least you can live openly. You can be yourself, have your nice little private life. Nobody spies with you, nobody denounces, you do not have to treat with the regime. And of course you can shop.’
‘Please don’t mention shops,’ I said. ‘Shall I explain you Marxism?’ Ildiko asked, ‘Or did you study it at school? I know you think it is clever and complicate, but really it is very simple. Karl Marx wrote a book called Das Kapital and after that we never had any. And that is a pity because, do you know, money is freedom, Francis.’ ‘Not for everyone,’ I said. ‘Listen, do you know what is the currency in Hungary?’ ‘Yes, the forint,’ I said. ‘No, that is scrap paper, fit only to wipe yourself with in a certain place, if you don’t mind I say so,’ said Ildiko, ‘The same with the zloty, the crown, the lev, the rouble. The currency of Marxism is the American dollar. That was not explained in Marx. But that is what the Party officials at their dachas had, that is why they had their own private food and medicine, why they shopped in the dollar shop, if you don’t mind I mention just one shop. That is why when Western visitors came we stopped them on the street and said, “Change money, change money.” We had to have them, the only way to live was the dollar.’
‘You mean to travel?’ I asked. ‘Please, most of the time you could not travel,’ said Ildiko, ‘Unless you made sports, or belonged to the Party, or liked to keep a little record on your friends. No, with dollar you could live under the table where everything lived. Do you understand?’ ‘Not quite,’ I said. ‘Oh, yes, in Marxism there are always two systems, official, and unofficial,’ said Ildiko, ‘In the official world you are a Party member, or a dissident, you believe in the victory of the proletariat, what a victory, and the heroism of the state. In the unofficial world,, everyone, even the officials, they were someone else. Party members were not Party members, enemies were friends and friends were enemies. You trusted no one but you could trade with everyone. And with dollar you could buy anything: influence, dacha, a job, sex, black-market petrol, travel permit, what you liked. Nothing was what it seemed, nothing was what was said. So every story had two meanings, everyone had two faces.’ ‘Including Criminale?’ I asked.
‘I said everyone,’ said Ildiko, ‘Criminale is an honest man, but he also had to live in such a world. You saw his apartment, you know how he travelled. You read his books, how they go a bit this way, then that.’ ‘I thought so,’ I said, ‘But what did he do?’ ‘Remember, Criminale had one clever thing, the book,’ said Ildiko, ‘And the book, you know, is wonderful. A person always must stay in one place, you can even hold him there. A book can go in the pocket, be on tape, now go down a fax machine. It can change, one language to another, one meaning to another.’ ‘It’s what Roland Barthes said, the reader creates the writer.’ ‘Did Roland also say that it is always the writer who sells and the reader who buys?’ asked Ildiko, ‘You are not paid to read. Unless you are great professor, or maybe a poor publisher like me. But you are paid to write, and if you are famous, all round the world, then you make much money.’ ‘And Criminale made a lot of money?’ ‘Well, why not?’ asked Ildiko, ‘This is how the writer becomes free. Otherwise you are a state writer, that is a hack. If the state doesn’t like you, you sweep the street. You never saw Criminale sweep the street.’
There was suddenly a great burst of light, as we came out of the tunnel and into the Swiss Alpine world. Now we passed by places with names like Plug and Chug, past deep blue lakes and sharp-pointed Alps that shone with snow and ice, beside rivers that roared and plunged with winter rain, through forests that stirred with animals and grim hunting birds, through pine-covered slopes and across deep ravines, through damp clouds of mist and showers of pelting rain. We passed green pastures where the chalet chimneys steamed, dark slopes down which the gravel and boulders slid. ‘You mean Criminale made serious money?’ I asked. ‘Well, he is one of the world’s bestselling intellectual writers,’ said Ildiko, ‘What do you think?’ ‘And the state didn’t mind?’ I asked. ‘Of course, yes,’ said Ildiko, ‘But also it needed Criminale. So it was always necessary to make certain arrangements. His books had to go to the West, some money had to come from the West. There were other things. And always someone had to help him.’
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘Codicil. That’s why he’s so worried.’ Ildiko looked across the white cloth at me and laughed. ‘No, you don’t really now think that Codicil is a nice good man?’ she said, ‘That is not how you said it yesterday.’ Then I began to see. ‘It wasn’t Codicil,’ I said, ‘You were his publisher, you were his girl-friend. You could get his manuscripts out, you could probably make arrangements for his royalties . . .’ ‘I think a publisher must always help an author and the cause of art, yes?’ said Ildiko. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Even if that means working a little under the table?’ ‘Naturally there were deals with officials and so on,’ said Ildiko, ‘They knew he made very much money, so they made certain demands of him.’ ‘What kind of demands?’ I asked. ‘He had to please them with certain things, naturally,’ said Ildiko, ‘Sometimes to remain silent when it was better to speak, sometimes to speak when it was better to remain silent.’ ‘I see,’ I said. ‘But always Criminale was an honest man. Honest, but a little bit flexible. Maybe that is the best you can ever be, in such a country.’
‘But why didn’t he move to the West?’ I asked. ‘Oh, why?’ asked Ildiko, ‘Because he was a philosopher, he liked to live in a world with an idea. Of course then he found it was not such a good idea, that he wanted a new idea. What I did not tell you about Marxism, perhaps you knew it already, is it appears to be made of thinking. Unfortunately Marx said that the important thing is not to understand the world but to change it. Poor man, he got it the wrong way round. The important thing is not to change the world too much until you understand it. The human need, for one thing. I am sorry, perhaps I am too serious for you. I know the British do not like this.’ ‘I like you when you’re serious,’ I said. ‘Better than when I shop? Well, now you understand everything,’ said Ildiko, ‘Oh look, isn’t it nice?’
Ildiko pointed out of the train window; I looked, and saw rising over the high ridges the white spire of Mont Blanc. ‘We must be getting near Lausanne,’ I said, ‘You know, what
I don’t understand is why Criminale has gone there.’ Ildiko looked out of the window and said, ‘Well, tell me something, what do they have a lot of in Switzerland?’ ‘Mountains, of course,’ I said. ‘More of than mountains,’ she said. ‘Cows,’ I said. ‘Not cows,’ said Ildiko. ‘Not shops,’ J said, ‘They don’t have shops.’ ‘They do, I checked,’ said Ildiko, ‘But no, not shops.’ ‘Banks,’ I said. ‘And what is it for, a bank?’ she asked. ‘To keep your money safe,’ I said. ‘I don’t think so,’ said Ildiko, ‘If you want it safe, keep it better in your bed. You are so ignorant, now I must teach you capitalism too. Banks are to hide your money away, move it, put it through the washer . . .’ ‘Launder it?’ I said, ‘You mean Criminale’s royalties are in Swiss banks?’ ‘Of course,’ said Ildiko, ‘In a bank with no questions. Special accounts.’
‘So perhaps he’s come to collect his royalties?’ I asked. ‘Well, since the Wende, he does not have to be so cautious, in Hungary what do they mind any more?’ said Ildiko, ‘Now it is the free market, we can do with our money what we like. Even spend it all on Miss Blasted Belli.’ ‘You think that’s what he’s doing?’ I asked. ‘Well, you have seen Sepulchra, wouldn’t you?’ ‘It must be a great deal of money, if he’s the world’s bestselling intellectual novelist.’ ‘Perhaps two million dollar,’ said Ildiko. I looked at her in amazement. ‘A fortune,’ I said. ‘Well, fortunate for him,’ said Ildiko, ‘Not because he cared so much for the money. He is not like that, with him it comes and goes. What mattered was the freedom.’ Then I suddenly remembered the bank statement I had seen on Criminale’s desk in his suite at Barolo. ‘These accounts are in Lausanne,’ I said. ‘I think so,’ said Ildiko. ‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ I said. ‘Of course, I helped him put it there,’ she said. I thought about this for a moment, and then I said, ‘Maybe that’s what interests Miss Black Trousers.’ ‘I don’t know why,’ said Ildiko, ‘You were right, she is crazy. Criminale did nothing, except a few things under the table. I told you, he is honest man.’
Doctor Criminale Page 23
