Following the map we had been given, Ildiko and I walked along the path that led downwards, through the great gardens of the villa, towards the Old Boathouse, which was, as you’d think, set by the lakeside below. Looking round, I realized that Ildiko was right: paradise was no bad name for it after all. For, inside the villa and outside it, Barolo seemed a place where nothing could be faulted, except for the sheer absence of fault itself. No doubt its very confusions were intentional. The gardens we now walked through were themselves art-objects, just like the ones in the house. Every single terrace had been cultivated, every bed laboured over, every hedge and bush seemed to have been trimmed. Every tree was intentional, every rock had become a step to somewhere, and every woodland path led to some dramatic revelation – a grotto, a belvedere, a gazebo, a long view, a statue of a glancing nymph or indeed a hefty philosopher of the classical age, when they knew you thought much better naked.
Even the wilderness was tamed. Up the wooded and craggy mountainside that rose up above the formal gardens, every nook and cranny, every cleft and orifice, had been worked for some purpose – planted with ferns, turned into a grotto, shaped into a shrine, sculpted into a waterfall. The nooks and crannies, the clefts and orifices, of the great stone statues of nymphs, gods, athletes and bacchantes that stood everywhere were just as worked and crafted. Breasts and bottoms, mouths and penises, turned into spurting outlets of aquatic fecundity that sprayed into fountains, watered the fish-ponds, or fed the rivulets that coursed down the mountainside, through the gardens, and down into the lake in front of us. As for the lake, as we came to it down lighted steps, it had been carefully coloured dark magenta, and been decorated with fireflies. In a true paradise nothing is overlooked.
As for the Old Boathouse, that could not be faulted either. The ancient building had been modernly converted, into a set of comfortable suites plainly fit for the greatest of Euro-princes. The suite we entered contained a bedroom, bathroom, and a great sitting-room/study. The bed was king-sized; no, it was greater than king-sized, emperor-sized, or President-of-the-European-Community-sized, perhaps. Fine Turkish kelims were scattered on the terra cotta floor; Gobelin tapestries hung randomly on the walls. ‘And all this is just for us, why?’ asked Ildiko, poking round fascinated. ‘They’re obviously expecting a very good article,’ I said, ‘I wish I had a paper to put it in.’ ‘Oh, look, isn’t that nice,’ said Ildiko, opening an ancient wardrobe, ‘The servants have unpacked our things already. I don’t believe it, these are your clothes? You come to a great place and you dress like a dog? I thought you were a rich man.’
‘Ildiko, let’s get this quite straight,’ I said, ‘I’m not a rich man. Besides, when I started this trip I thought I was going to Vienna just for a couple of days.’ ‘Well, now you are very lucky,’ said Ildiko, ‘You see what a really nice place I have brought you to. Tomorrow we will go and shop, and make you smart. You have plenty of dollar, I hope?’ ‘Tomorrow the congress starts,’ I said, ‘We have to attend the papers.’ ‘But the congress is just a lot of announcements,’ said Ildiko. ‘Not all the time,’ I said, ‘There’ll be papers too, by all the leading writers. And I have to make contact with Bazlo Criminale. If they ever find him again.’ Ildiko lay full-length on the bed, nuzzled the pillow, and looked up at me. ‘You know, you were very clever to arrange a room with me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t actually arrange it,’ I said. ‘No?’ asked Ildiko, ‘I think you have already learned to think a little Hungarian. It’s a nice bed.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Try it,’ said Ildiko. ‘I think we’re going to have to change and go now,’ I said, ‘The reception will have started already.’ ‘If that is what you like,’ said Ildiko, ‘So very well.’
So, glancing at each other with a certain curiosity, we changed. ‘Oh, no,’ said Ildiko, when I had done, ‘It’s not nice. Here, try one of my shirts. I think it will fit, yes? Let me unbutton.’ ‘I’ll do it,’ I said, ‘It probably will fit me, actually.’ ‘Well, my body is a bit like a boy,’ said Ildiko, ‘But not too much, I hope.’ ‘Not too much at all,’ I said. ‘Try it, try it,’ said Ildiko, ‘Yes, now you are a bit pretty. You must learn to like lovely things. I know there are a lot in the West.’ ‘Are we ready?’ I asked, ‘We’d better go and see if they have found Criminale.’ ‘At least you saw him,’ said Ildiko, ‘What did you think?’ ‘He’s quite something,’ I admitted, ‘Much more impressive than I expected. In fact he’s not really what I expected at all.’ ‘Of course he is a very great man,’ said Ildiko, ‘Very difficult, not to be trusted, but of course a great man. My dress, you like it?’ ‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘I will get something better for you, one day,’ said Ildiko.
I admit that it was quite hard to leave the Old Boathouse, but soon we were walking back through the gardens again, towards the Villa Barolo. ‘The thing now is to find a way of getting close to him,’ I said as we walked. ‘Not so easy,’ said Ildiko, ‘You have the problem of Sepulchra. He only does what she says. You know he is quite devoted to her.’ ‘She’s a bit surprising,’ I said. ‘Well, she is his muse, I think,’ said Ildiko, ‘They say he worships the ground she treads on. Of course she treads on so much of it.’ ‘She’s certainly not like the woman in the photographs,’ I said. ‘In Hungary I am afraid the ladies often get very fat,’ said Ildiko, ‘That is why I do not like goulasch. I would not want at all to be that way.’ ‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘Pig, you don’t think I will really be that way?’ ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘So you really like me how I am?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Very much,’ I said. ‘You didn’t too much show it,’ she said. ‘Only because we have to be at the reception,’ I said. ‘Good,’ said Ildiko, ‘I will do for you just what you like. What do you like?’ I’m afraid I answered rather crassly. ‘First,’ I said, ‘I’d love it if you could find a way to introduce me to Bazlo Criminale.’ ‘Well, if that is all you like,’ said Ildiko.
We came to the top of the great gardens; there again was the Villa Barolo. Even in our brief absence, it had once more been transformed. A bluey night had fallen, the moon was out, torches and lamps lit our way through the grounds. More bright torches burned fierily on the terrace, where tables had been set out. The evening was chilly, but women in bright dresses and shawls, men in dark suits and formal ties, stood taking drinks and canapés from the trays of white-coated waiters. As we got nearer, I could already hear the hum and buzz of serious literary conversation: ‘My agent said fifty thousand but I told him ask for double, and he did’; ‘I said to Mailer, Mailer, I said, screw you’; ‘It had great reviews, but no sales, next time I try for the other way round’; and so on. You know.
The windows of the villa beyond glittered with light from bright chandeliers; we took drinks from the silver trays and wandered inside. In the statue-filled Salon of the Muses, where the writers were packed tight against each other, and were busily taking up their political positions, the din was deafening. ‘So many people,’ said Ildiko, ‘And nobody sings. It’s not like Budapest.’ ‘Can you see Criminale?’ Ildiko, taller than I, raised herself on tiptoe. ‘No,’ she said, ‘And no Sepulchra either. I think they are not here. Maybe they have gone to another congress.’ I looked at her. ‘But he’s the guest of honour. He’s giving the after-dinner speech tonight. And the final speech of the whole week. He can’t have gone to another congress.’ ‘You don’t think so?’ asked Ildiko, still looking round, ‘Then I think you don’t know Criminale.’
‘What do you mean, Ildiko?’ I asked, ‘You think he could just have walked out of the whole thing? How could he do that?’ Ildiko gave a fatalistic shrug. ‘Criminale is Criminale,’ she said, ‘Who understands him?’ ‘He’s your Hungarian,’ I said. ‘He is in your West,’ said Ildiko. ‘He must be here,’ I said. ‘He does what he likes,’ said Ildiko, ‘He is too big to care. If he likes something else, he goes. I know about him.’ ‘So we could have wasted our rime?’ I asked. ‘Oh, you think so?’ asked Ildiko, ‘Don’t you think we can still have very nice rime without him?’ ‘I’ve come a long way to fi
nd him,’ I said, ‘I can’t lose him now.’ ‘Oh, aren’t you happy here?’ asked Ildiko, ‘Now you have fixed up a room with me? I thought you would be.’
‘Look, we won’t quarrel about it,’ I said reasonably, ‘Let’s just go and mingle, and see if he turns up.’ ‘Mingle, what is mingle?’ asked Ildiko, pouting at me. ‘Let’s go and talk to the people and enjoy ourselves,’ I said, ‘Isn’t that what you do at parties?’ ‘I think you blame me for this,’ said Ildiko, ‘I didn’t make him go, I hope?’ ‘I don’t blame you at all,’ I said, ‘It’s just that I’ve spent days chasing this man, and the moment I find him the first thing he does is vanish on me.’ ‘You are a pig,’ said Ildiko. ‘Pig yourself,’ I said. ‘That is very nice,’ said Ildiko, ‘Go away. Mingle how you like. And I will mingle all by myself.’
So this unfortunate spat was the second Barolo confusion, which was immediately followed by the third. I set off to mingle with the writers in the room; meanwhile Ildiko, indignant, walked out onto the torchlit terrace, looking, as I have to admit, very splendid in her short blue Hungarian dress. Soon she was mingling furiously; well, what did it matter to me, I didn’t care. I put on some party charm of my own and started on a round of feckless, friendly conversations, drifting round the room from this group to that. That was when I began to discover that many of the people there were actually far from being what I had taken them to be, when I watched them come down the platform at Milan Central station. To take one example: I went over to Mr Ho from Britain, to congratulate him, properly enough, on his novel Sour Sweet, which I’d greatly relished. ‘No, no, Ho, not Mo,’ said Ho, who then explained that he was a former Junior Fellow of All Souls, Oxford, who now worked in Whitehall for the Foreign Office, and had come here for some literary light relief after working on various problems between Britain and the European Community (or the Belgian Empire, as he liked to call it).
So it went on. Miss Makesuma from Japan, who had now changed her charming pink kimono for a charming blue one, spoke scarcely any English; but I discovered from her companion that she was not, after all, an heiress to the tradition of Mishima, but an economic adviser working on long-term industrial goals for the Keifu government. When I approached one of the East European dissidents to ask him about his tricky relations with the regime, he proved to be Professor Rom Rum, Minister of what he called Strange Trade of the former People’s Republic of Slaka, which had lately overthrown its brutal hardline dictator General Vulcani and was now fallen into the hands of the free market. (I saw the other day in the paper that Rum, after some more recent coup, had become the nation’s President.) In fact very few of the writers I talked to proved to be writers at all. One of the laughing Africans, who had changed his multi-coloured tribal dress for a startling robe of pure white, was Justice Minister of his nation, while the group of deconstructionist critics from Yale proved in actual fact to be a posse from the US state Department.
In the end I did of course find some writers. I met a literary editor from Paris who was heavily into random signs; the President of the Indian Writers’ Union, who demanded my signature on some petition; a Nobel prizewinner from a small North African country in which he was, he explained, not just the most famous but the only writer. I spotted Martin Amis, an old acquaintance, across the room, talking to Günter Grass; they were soon joined by Susan Sontag and Hans Magnus Enzensberger. Gradually, working the room (Ildiko was still out on the terrace), I began to understand that the Barolo Congress was wide-ranging in several ways. Not only had its organizer, Monza, balanced West and East, Europe and Asia, the United States and the South Pacific; he had also balanced Literature and Power. And, as usual when there is an attempt at dialogue across difficult borders, there was already proof of difficulty. The half of the group who were politicos were talking only to other politicos; the half who were writers were talking only to other writers. No wonder they needed someone to bridge the difficulty, somebody of the calibre of Bazlo Criminale.
I looked round; there was still no sign of him. I gathered my courage and went over to Professor Monza. ‘What’s happened to Criminale?’ I asked him. ‘Prego, please, do not mention this mana to me,’ said Monza grimly, ‘I have servants everywhere looking for him. I depend on him for the speecha tonight. He is like some prima donna. And now Mrs Magno is not here either, I hope nothing goes wrong with her plana. Now scusi, I must make an announcament. Achtung prego!’ Monza climbed on a chair and clapped his hands; the party noise faded. ‘This is an emergency announcament!’ he said, ‘I am afraid both our guests of honour are missing, but the chef cannot delay any longer. Now we must starta to eata! Please check your places on the plana by the door, and take you places for the banquetta!’ Writers of the world, politicos of the world, we surged forward; there were some unseemly moments as one hundred people tried to read their names on a very small list. Then we moved as from turbulence into perfect calm, as we entered the noble dining-room and took our places for the opening banquet.
And so at last, in the great Lippo Lippi room of the Villa Barolo, with Michelangelo paintings on the ceiling above, I did sit down to eat with the big people. The room was perfect beyond perfection. The cloths were of real damask, the silver really was silver, the Venetian glassware shimmered and glimmered as brightly as the suit of the absent Doctor Criminale. I checked on either side to see my company. To my right was the Japanese lady economist (name badge: Chikko Makesuma, Tokyo) who worked for the Keifu government. To my left was a dark-haired German lady in shiny black leather trousers (name badge: Cosima Bruckner, Brussels). I turned first to Miss Makesuma, but she answered my questions by putting her finger delicately to her lips and smiling demurely. I then remembered she spoke almost no English. I turned to my other side, and addressed myself to Miss Cosima Bruckner.
‘Did you have a good journey here?’ I asked. ‘Nein, it was terrible,’ said Cosima Bruckner, ‘Are you also one of these writers?’ ‘A journalist,’ I said, ‘Are you a writer?’ ‘I work in the Beef Mountain of the European Community,’ she said. ‘Really, how fascinating,’ I said, ‘How do you like the villa?’ ‘Bitte?’ ‘Do you like it here?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know,’ said Bruckner, ‘Maybe.’ ‘Have you a good view?’ I asked. ‘Of what?’ asked Bruckner. ‘From your window,’ I asked, ‘Is your room nice?’ ‘It is so-so,’ said Bruckner, ‘Why do you ask me this?’ ‘It’s just small-talk,’ I said. ‘Small-talk, yes, I think so,’ said Cosima Bruckner, turning to tap her neighbour on the other side with her fork to demand his attention.
And if I was having social problems, I saw that Ildiko Hazy, seated much further down the table, was having them too. She was stuck between a grim-looking American and a grim-looking Scandinavian, and kept grimacing furiously at me. But our own small problems in bridging literature and power were as nothing compared to those of Professor Massimo Monza. I looked over and saw he was sitting in lonely state in the middle of the top table, with three empty places beside him – awaiting, presumably, the arrival of Sepulchra, Criminale, and our padrona Mrs Valeria Magno, whose plane had evidently still not landed. Servants kept rushing in to whisper messages into his ear; he waved them away irritably. A splendid meal began to be set before us; magnificent wine began to flow. Yet somehow it felt like a dinner heading towards disaster. The absences at the top table began to penetrate the entire room; it was as if all our conversation, all our congregation, was lacking one essential voice – as if we were an orchestra performing a piano concerto without just one musician, who unfortunately happened to be the solo pianist himself.
It was some time after we had consumed the delicious cucumber soup, and when we were well into the admirable Parma ham with melon, that there was a sound of disturbance in the doorway. There, with her hair drawn even higher onto her head than before, and wearing an enormous full-length kimono-style dress, stood Sepulchra. Behind her it was just possible to glimpse the much smaller figure of Bazlo Criminale. A butler hurried over to them, and brought them to their places on the top ta
ble. ‘But you started,’ we could all hear Sepulchra say as she said down. ‘A hundred people waiteda,’ said Monza, ‘Wherea were you?’ ‘Bazlo was working,’ said Sepulchra. ‘I had just a small article to write,’ said Criminale, sitting down, in a more apologetic fashion; I was later to discover that it was Miss Belli who had discovered him at last, seated in the darkness in a gazebo by the lakeshore, quietly listening to a recording of Kierkegaard’s Either/Or on his Sony Walkman.
Within minutes it was clear that Criminale’s arrival had somehow transformed the entire occasion. There was relief and pleasure on Monza’s face, and a mood of satisfaction spread through the entire room. The atmosphere suddenly eased; literature began talking to power, and vice versa. ‘Did you?’ asked Cosima Bruckner, suddenly leaving her neighbour and now tapping me with her fork. ‘Did I what?’ I asked. ‘Have also a good journey?’ she asked. ‘Yes, I did,’ I said, ‘Fine.’ ‘So you work for a paper,’ she said, ‘What is the paper?’ I told her; it proved to be an act of folly. She stared at me. ‘It doesn’t exist any more,’ she said, ‘I know, I am with the European Community. In Brussels we know everything.’ ‘I’d rather you didn’t say anything,’ I said, ‘That was just the cover for a larger project.’ ‘You are here under cover?’ asked Cosima Bruckner, ‘That is very interesting. I will talk to you later.’ Anxious, I looked down the table at Ildiko, who made a face at me, and turned laughing to her neighbour.
The meal proceeded: through pastas that were fine beyond belief, tortes beyond description, wines that were pure nectar. Then, as the plates were removed, Monza rose to his feet with a happy expression on his face, tapped his glass with his knife, and turned to look at his guest of honour. ‘Basta, enough of me,’ he said, ‘Now I like to introduce the guesta for whom you have all been waiting, we have all been waiting. I mean the leadinga thinker of our postmodern day, Dottore Bazlo Criminale, who will set our congressa in motion. I have asked him to say a fewa words about our main thema, the relation of literature and power in the changed world of today.’ There was a stir in the room as Bazlo Criminale rose to his feet, for some reason holding a tattered magazine in his hand.
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