We were beside a wooden pier, where three white speedboats with bright awned canvas roofs stood rocking, waiting to take us on board. Behind us lay a small Italian town, buzzing with the noise of motorscooters; in front of us lay a great Italian lake, surrounded by ilex-covered green hillsides. Along the spread of the lake were a few small settlements, their lights twinkling in reflection in the pearly grey water. The lake was thin and long, and made a great finger pointing north into the granite white-capped mass of the Alps, which rose up in a wall at the further end. Behind them a purple evening light was already beginning to glow. ‘Why do we go on a boat?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Because now we go to an island, Isola Barolo,’ said Miss Belli, ‘And there you will find the villa. Let us go on board.’ The other writers were already settling in the seats, some of them wrapping themselves around with rugs. Helped on board by a white-capped boatman, Ildiko and I went up to the prow, to be joined by Misses Belli and Uccello.
Soon we were speeding up the lake, over still grey chilly water that fizzed like champagne under our motion. Around the lake sat many fine and ancient villas, terra cotta or ochre in colour, built on small outcrops or tucked into coves; their manicured gardens were filled with statuary, and all had great boathouses, packed with yachts, cruisers, small motor boats. Hair blowing in the wind, Misses Belli and Uccello explained to us that most of these were ancient villas, homes that had once belonged to Pliny and Vergil, to noble contessas and elegant principessas, to deposed kings and displaced literary exiles. Now, in another order of things, they mostly belonged to Milanese furniture designers or Arab entrepreneurs, people whose bank accounts kept them going and who only came there on occasional weekends, leaving the lake to a kind of peace it had not really enjoyed since the days of the Ghibellines and the Guelphs. ‘So now we have it nearly to ourselves,’ said Miss Belli, ‘Now, when we turn the point, you will see Barolo.’
There was a burst of spray as our boat changed course, and there in front of us lay a long low island, rising to a sharp and craggy peak at its far end. At the base of this prominence was a small village, with pier, promenade, an arcaded street with small shops and cafes, a few small hotels, the stone belltower of an ancient church. Above the village rose terrace after terrace, garden after garden, wood after wood. Near the top, among cypresses, ilexes, jacaranda trees, was a vast pink villa, gazing out in all directions up and down the lake, and grander even than those we had already seen. ‘Ecco, Villa Barolo,’ cried Miss Belli. ‘We go there? Really?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Si si,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘Blasted nice, don’t you say?’ On the glassed-in terraces of the hotels, the few winter guests rose from their pasta to watch our extraordinary arrival. The writers of the world unloaded at the pier, where several minibuses waited to shuttle us from the village itself to the remarkable world of the villa above.
We took our places in the bus, and soon came to the great iron security gates that barred the entrance to the estate; they opened by some electronic magic on our arrival. We drove up the winding ilex-lined drive, past great gardens and ordered woods, and came at last to the formal lawn and the grand portico of the villa itself. Blue-coated servants hurried out to take the hand luggage; white-coated butlers steered us into the fine vast hallway of the house. In the middle of the lobby stood small Professor Monza, clapping his hands, giving orders. He had somehow arrived ahead of us, by what means it was not entirely clear, but maybe by helicopter or hologram. Talking, gazing, exclaiming, looking up at the ceiling by Tiepolo, at the statues by Canova, we surged in – writers of the world, novelists and critics, journalists and reviewers, the leading citizens in fact of the life, which was here evidently the highlife, of contemporary literature.
Just then I noticed that Professor Monza had been quietly joined by someone else. He was a sturdy, square, bodily firm man in his early or middle sixties. I say a man; he was rather a presence. He wore a light-blue silk suit that had a fine sheen to it, like the best Venetian glassware; I imagined it had come from some tailor in Hong Kong who had spent years thoughtfully pondering every detail of his personal measurements. There was a dark-blue silk kerchief tucked into his top pocket; a Swiss gold watch shone brightly on his wrist, under the cuff of his blue silk shirt. His cufflinks had probably come from Iran, his shoes no doubt from Gucci. The soufflé chef at Maxim’s seemed to have bouffanted his coiffed-up, elegant grey hair. In one way his appearance seemed a little coarse; his arms were fat, his body rather squat, and a tuft of wiry chest hair stuck out over the knot of his Hermes tie. In another his appearance was highly refined: his manner was gracious and courtly, the hand he stuck out to the people who began crowding round him in warm recognition had the suppleness of a pianist as he fondled the keys of his Bechstein. I did not know him; and yet, of course, I did. ‘Ecce homo,’ cried Miss Belli, seizing my arm and pointing him out. ‘Oh yes, there he is, that is the one,’ said Ildiko, equally excited, ‘Do you see him, that is Bazlo Criminale.’
8
Criminale gave the room the centre it seemed to lack . . .
From the moment he appeared, from goodness knows where, amongst us, it was immediately apparent that Bazlo Criminale had given the room the centre that in the chaos of arrival, it had seemed to lack. The distinguished writers toting their hand luggage, stopped in their chatter to he photographers surged forward, as if at last they were now truly flashing their cameras at something really worth the flashing. Despite the regulations about the press, it was clear that quite a few Italian journalists had been allowed to join the arriving party, and they now left all other prey behind and began to form a great circle around him. Monza made a brief pretence of waving them away, but it was perfectly apparent that he was the one who had allowed them into the villa in the first place. It made no difference; they were, after all, Italian.
In his sparkling blue suit, Criminale remained calm, used to ‘Let them, Monza,’ I heard him say, as I pressed forward too These people must always have their little ounces or two flesh.’ ‘Maybe just one or two photographas!’ said Monza. ‘Radio Italiana,’ said a young man who had shoved himself forward, a recorder hanging from his shoulder, ‘Prego, please, Dottore Criminale!’ ‘Oh, radio, I don’t think so,’ said Monza, dismissively, ‘Or do we allow him perhapsa just one minute, hey?’ ‘Very well, very well, I will answer just one question,’ said Criminale patiently, ‘Though I like just a little silence.’ ‘Silenza, silenza!’ cried Monza. ‘Dottore Criminale,’ asked the man from Radio Italiana, who had beautiful black hair, ‘The changes now in the Soviet Union, do you think they are totally irreversible?’ ‘Ah,’ said Criminale, The changes in Russia become incontrovertible only when the rouble becomes convertible.’ ‘Si, si,’ said the man from Radio Italiana, ‘And so what happens now in Eastern Europe?’
Criminale laughed. ‘One question is now two,’ he said. ‘Please, Dottore Criminale!’ ‘Remember, the world has changed but the people in it remain inside the same,’ said Criminale, ‘This is the problem of all revolutions. You know the old saying: never forget the past, you may need it again in the future.’ ‘Then how does this affect your meetings here?’ ‘Two questions are now three,’ said Criminale, ‘Well, the problem of Literature After the Cold War is the same problem as Literature During the Cold War, da? It is the problem to stop it being merely politics or journalism and make it become literature. It is to make history deliver the aesthetic, to make events a thing of form. It is also a problem that is never solved, because we are mortal. Enough?’ ‘Basta?’ asked Monza. ‘Wonderful, Dottore Criminale,’ said the radio reporter.
Then a girl with a spiral notebook pushed up close. She was extremely good-looking; I saw Criminale smile pleasantly at her. ‘Signer Criminale, do you speak perhaps Italian? I like your views on the works of Pliny.’ ‘It’s all righta, I translate for you,’ said Monza, ‘Si?’ ‘It is not necessary, Monza,’ said Criminale, and produced two or three sentences in graceful Italian that clearly served their turn, for there was a small burst of applause at
the end. ‘Maestro, maestro, maestro!’ cried another journalist from the back of the crowd, an innocent-looking young man with long hair and glasses, who seemed something of an Italian version of myself, ‘I needa your attention! Some personal questions?’ Criminale raised his head, as if disturbed. And then there was an extraordinary interruption.
‘My dearling, really, you will be much too tired,’ cried someone. I turned; we all did. A vast woman like a ship, hung with flags and trophies, her hair raised into a great decorated poop, her great handbag clanking noisily, as if it was filled with doubloons, was forging heedlessly through the crowd. ‘It’s Sepulchra,’ said Ildiko, ‘Oh, my God, hasn’t she got bigger!’ ‘Bazlo, dearling, it is time for your think,’ said Sepulchra firmly. ‘Yes, my dear,’ said Criminale, timidly, turning to her, ‘Monza, I fear all this is becoming a bit of a bore. A bit of a big noisy bore.’ ‘I’m sorry, Bazlo,’ said Monza, going a little pale. ‘May I trouble you, or perhaps one of your very kind assistants, to take me to some room or quiet place or other.’ ‘Somewhere he can write a little,’ said Sepulchra. ‘To write, now?’ asked Monza, ‘We are just beginning . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Criminale, ‘One or two thoughts on Kant and Hegel have suddenly occurred to me I had better commit down to paper at once.’ ‘If you can wait only one minuta,’ said Monza, ‘I have a few important announcementas to make, and I really musta introduce you to the gatheringa. Then I personally will find you a good place to worka.’ ‘If very brief,’ said Sepulchra. ‘Quite brief,’ said Monza, ‘We must make a welcome.’ ‘Very very brief,’ said Sepulchra. ‘Attenzione! Achtung! Not so noisy prego! Can I have your attention bitte!’ cried Monza, clapping his hands over his head. Slowly the distinctive noise of chattering writers began to subside. ‘Distinguished guestsa!’ pronounced Monza, now standing on a chair, ‘My name is Massimo Monza, and I like to welcoma you to this great Barolo Congress, on the thema “Writing and Power: The Changing Nineties: Literatura After the Colda Wara!”
‘Here he goes,’ Miss Belli whispered in my ear. ‘For an entira weeka, in these so beautiful surroundingsa, both classical and romantical, we will meeta and worka together, to discuss the most lifa and deatha questions of the modern world of today!’ ‘This is brief?’ Sepulchra could be heard saying, ‘I do not think it is brief.’ ‘Fortuna’ said Monza ‘has smiled often on this fantastical place. It smiles againa today. I will be making you of course many announcementsa.’ ‘Of course,’ murmured Miss Uccello. ‘But the firsta is the finesta!’ said Monza, ‘You know we have here as Guesta of Honour a man without whom all serious discussion is frankly impossible! I mean of course our maestro, Dottore Bazlo Criminale, biographer of Goethe, autore of Homeless, and truly the greatest philosopher of our tima! I ask you, pleasa welcome Dottore Criminale!’ Arm out, Monza turned on his chair, gesturing towards his guest of honour. Applause surged; then it faltered and stopped. The space in the hall to which Monza was gesturing was vacant. Somehow, without anyone quite noticing, Criminale and his spouse, who had been there only a moment before, had absented themselves: disappeared.
That was the moment when I learned a further new lesson about Bazlo Criminale. If he was a man who was difficult to find, he was also a man who was easy to lose again. I turned and looked for the Misses Belli and Uccello; they were standing round Monza, flashing their eyes as only they knew how, and waving their arms furiously in a familiar kind of Italian frenzy. ‘What’s happened to him?’ I asked Miss Belli, detaining her for a moment. ‘He has done it again, he has blasted disappeared again,’ said Belli, looking frantic. ‘You mean he’s done this sort of thing before?’ I asked. ‘Of course, he does it all the blasted time,’ said Miss Uccello. ‘We are supposed to look after him, you see,’ said Miss Belli, ‘So we take him when he asks to go to the newspaper shop down in Barolo.’ ‘One minute he is there, the next he is gone,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘Then you don’t see him again for perhaps a whole day.’ ‘And he carries no money and he doesn’t know where he stays,’ said Miss Belli. ‘But usually the police find him somewhere, anywhere, and bring him back again in their van,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘But where now?’
‘Why does he do it?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘Sometimes he thinks he is in Rangoon. I don’t know why Rangoon.’ ‘He went there,’ said Miss Belli. ‘You don’t mean he’s a little . . .,’1 asked, tapping my head. ‘Naiou,’ cried Miss Belli impatiently, ‘He is better sane than the rest of us.’ ‘He is just thinking,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘He is a philosopher.’ ‘But this time we hope he has not gone so far,’ said Miss Belli. ‘Tonight he must give the after-dinner speech,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘If we can’t find him this time Monza will really kill us.’ In the middle of the lobby, Monza, who had descended from his chair to give some frantic instructions to the servants, had recovered his organizational abilities and remounted his podium. ‘Prego, achtung!’ he was shouting, clapping his hands again, ‘I like to maka you a few more announcaments!’
Miss Belli groaned. ‘Announcaments!’ she said, ‘I think that is what did it. Bazlo cannot stand Monza’s announcaments.’ A moment later, I began to grasp what she meant. Things always have to be announced at conferences; Monza had chosen to make an art form of it. No doubt this was why they got him to organize great congresses; he was a world-class clapper of hands and tapper of glasses, a virtuoso of banging hard on desks and knocking knives on tables. In fact I was later to learn, as events progressed, that Monza’s conference announcements were often remembered worldwide for many years – long after the lectures, events and receptions they referred to had passed into collective oblivion.
So, gathering his wits about him, Monza announced. The world of congress had clearly begun. First he announced his future schedule of announcements. He announced he would announce his daily announcements each morning at ten, before the daily sessions began. Because without announcements no congress could function, everyone should be present, even if they chose to miss the sessions. If there should happen to be no announcements on any particular day, he would of course announce that then, though it was highly unlikely. Then he announced to us the conference schedule, the plan of daily sessions, the proposed times of relaxation, the hour of pre-lunch and pre-dinner drinks, the various pleasures that had been so thoughtfully contrived for us at various points during our stay: a tour of the lake, for instance, a trip to ancient Bergamo, a candlelight dinner midweek, a night-time concert of chamber music, which would be held at the nearby Villa Bellavecchia, just on the other side of the lake, forming a nice excursion, and so on.
After that he announced that there would be a Grand Reception this same evening in the Salon of the Muses, to be followed by a Great Opening Banquetta in the Lippo Lippi Dining-Room. This would be attended by the padrona of the Magno Foundation, Mrs Valeria Magno, who would be joining us specially from the United States, once she had found a satisfactory landing slot for her private 727. Finally he announced that because, unfortunately, the announcements had somehow gone on for so long, the reception was due to start in less than half an hour. And since we would all want to change, and our rooms were scattered at wide distances all over the great grounds, we should delay no longer but hurry to the Secretariat to pick up our keys and room assignments. I looked at my watch. ‘We’re already half an hour late,’ I said to Miss Belli. ‘Only in Britain,’ said Miss Belli, ‘In Italy when you are an hour late, you are already half an hour early.’
And it was at the Secretariat, where I stood in line to collect our keys, that I discovered the first of my several Barolo confusions. Whether it was because of the brevity of my cable, international language difficulties or sheer natural Italian generosity I do not know, but Ildiko and I had been assigned to the same room. I had no real complaints about this myself (you would understand if you had seen Ildiko) but I rather thought she might have. ‘So where do we go?’ she asked, when I found her waiting for me on the terrace outside, staring delightedly at the view up the lake. ‘
We’re both down in the Old Boathouse,’ I said. ‘A Boathouse?’ asked Ildiko, ‘We sleep in the water?’ ‘I don’t think we’ll actually be in the water,’ I said, ‘But they have put us together in one room. I could complain, if you like.’
Ildiko looked at me. ‘You want to complain?’ she asked. ‘Not necessarily,’ I said, ‘I thought you might want to complain.’ ‘But with officials it is always a very bad thing to complain,’ said Ildiko, ‘They can keep you for many days. No, I suppose this is the custom in the West.’ ‘Not always,’ I said, ‘But maybe in Italy. So it’s all right?’ ‘Of course all right,’ said Ildiko, ‘It is wonderful here. Just like a place for Party members, but even better. So is all the West like this?’ ‘I’m afraid not,’ I said, ‘Some of it’s pretty miserable. In fact most of it, compared with this.’ ‘So who pays all this?’ asked Ildiko. ‘An American patron,’ I said, ‘I think she made her money in planes and pharmaceuticals. So you could say this is the smiling face of American capitalism.’ ‘You mean I am looked after like this by American capitalism?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’ ‘Of course not, about time,’ said Ildiko, putting her arm through mine, ‘I think it is just like Paradise, here. So let us go and find our nice little room.’
Doctor Criminale Page 15