Doctor Criminale

by Malcolm Bradbury

  ‘No, I just called on the telephone,’ I said. ‘Oh, how?’ asked Ildiko, turning to me, ‘In my room there is not a telephone. Also no shower, no toilet. I have to walk half a kilometre just to make a little pee.’ ‘You just go down to the booth in the lobby,’ I said, Then you get a little counter from the desk.’ To pee?’ asked Ildiko. To telephone,’ I said. ‘So you called Bazlo?’ asked Ildiko,. ‘How is he? Is his room very nice? Is toilet included?’ ‘I didn’t actually talk to him,’ I said, The Beau Rivage looks after its guests very carefully.’ ‘How wonderful,’ she said. ‘Apparently some Middle East talks are going on over there,’ I said, The place is full of Arab potentates with their own security guards. You have to answer all these questions about who you are.’ ‘And did you know?’ asked Ildiko, ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘I told them I was a close friend of Criminale’s Hungarian publisher,’ I said. ‘You did that?’ asked Ildiko, furiously, ‘Well, you are not. I do not want him to know I am here.’ ‘Why not?’ I asked, ‘An hour ago you wanted to share a hotel corridor with him.’ ‘Because he is with Belli,’ said Ildiko. There was no doubt about it; Ildiko, as I’d noticed before, was a mass of Hungarian contradictions.

  ‘Is Belli really with him?’ she now asked, looking up at me. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘He’d left instructions with the desk not to be disturbed. He said he was in the middle of some very important congress.’ ‘Yes, you see, with Belli,’ said Ildiko. ‘Not that sort of congress,’ I said, ‘They said he was attending some big conference here. And you know the more I think about that, the less it makes sense.’ ‘Well, you don’t understand anything, I think,’ said Ildiko, ‘Why doesn’t it make sense?’ ‘Look, here’s Criminale,’ I said, ‘He breaks with his previous life, he runs away from his wife, he comes to Lausanne with this wonderful designer bimbo . . .’’You think she is wonderful?’asked Ildiko, ‘She is the one you really like?’ ‘It’s not a question of whether I like her,’ I said, ‘Criminale likes her. He’s changed his life because of her.’ ‘If you think so,’ said Ildiko. ‘Why else would he run away from Barolo?’ I asked, ‘He comes to Lausanne where no one can find him. And then what does he do? He collects his royalties, books in at one of the world’s best hotels, sticks a badge on his lapel and goes straight off to another congress.’

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ asked Ildiko, ‘I think I would like a very big ice-cream.’ ‘Isn’t it a bit cold for that?’ I asked. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll survive,’ said Ildiko, waving at the miserable waiter who stood halfheartedly in the doorway, ‘You know, really you do not understand a single thing about Bazlo Criminale.’ That’s very likely,’ I said, ‘In fact he baffles me completely. One minute he’s the world most famous philosopher, the next he’s off screwing around.’ ‘He is a philosopher, he has to do something with himself when he’s not thinking,’ said Ildiko, ‘Also he has to do something with his mind when he is not screwing. And this is his life today, congress after congress. You do not have to give up one for the other. Or maybe you do, but not Criminale Bazlo.’ ‘But if you were on the run, would you show up on the platform at a congress?’ I asked. ‘Why do you say he is on the run?’ said Ildiko, ‘Only because you listen too much to your nice little Miss Black Trousers.’ ‘No, I don’t,’ I said. ‘She is crazy, didn’t I tell you?’ asked Ildiko, ‘What is Criminale supposed to have done wrong? Why is he always a crook? Why do you like to accuse him?’

  ‘I’m not saying he’s done something wrong,’ I said, ‘I think the stuff about fraud is nonsense.’ ‘Good,’ said Ildiko, accepting her ice-cream from the waiter. ‘I’m saying it’s no way to spend a dirty weekend. When he’s out at his congress what happens to poor Miss Belli?’ ‘Oh, listen to him now,’ said Ildiko, ‘So thoughtful about other women. At least he shares his room with her. What about your dirty weekend with me?’ ‘We can enjoy ourselves when we’ve caught up with him,’ I said, ‘Anyway, after we’ve had some dinner, why don’t we go and have a drink over at the Beau Rivage Palace.’ Ildiko looked at me. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Because I thought you’d like it,’ I said, ‘And because we might get a glimpse of Criminale and Belli.’ ‘I don’t think so,’ said Ildiko, as contradictory as ever, ‘Maybe it is a bad idea. He will not expect to see us.’ ‘We have to get nearer to him somehow,’ I said. ‘Why?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Because I’m making a programme about him,’ I said, ‘It’s either that or going round the banks and asking some questions.’ ‘I don’t think so,’ said Ildiko, ‘In Switzerland the banks do not like to be asked questions. Maybe they will throw you out of the country.’

  ‘So what do you suggest we do, then?’ I asked. ‘I know, tomorrow you go to his congress,’ said Ildiko, ‘What is the name of it?’ ‘That’s the problem,’ I said, ‘When I asked the clerk at the Beau Rivage, he couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me.’ ‘It is not hard,’ said Ildiko, ‘I don’t suppose there are so many congresses in Lausanne.’ ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ I said, ‘Lausanne is chock-full of congresses. It must be the conference centre of the world. Every second person in this city must be going around in a lapel badge.’ ‘Maybe this is what they do instead of sex,’ said Ildiko. ‘If you think people go to congresses instead of having sex, you can’t have been to many congresses,’ I said. ‘Now he is an expert on sex,’ said Ildiko, ‘Why don’t you get a list of these congresses?’ ‘There’s one in the weekly guidebook,’ I said, showing her, ‘And just look at it, congresses everywhere. There’s a winemakers’ congress, a crime-writers’ congress. There’s a gastronomy congress, there’s a gastro-enteritis con­gress. There’s a volleyball congress, an investment bankers’ congress, I bet that one’s hard to find, there’s a pipesmokers’ congress. And a ballet congress, a watchmakers’ congress. An Olympics congress, an Esperanto congress. It’s the perfect place for a man like Criminale to disappear, if you ask me. We’ll never find him.’

  Ildiko licked her fingers and took the guidebook from me. ‘You are hopeless again, let me see it,’ she said, ‘If you were just a little bit clever, you would know at once which one it is.’ ‘All right, which one is it?’ I asked. ‘That one,’ said Ildiko, putting her finger against one of the entries. I looked, and saw at once that, as the French say, Ildiko had reason. She was pointing to the entry for an International Congress on Erotics in Postmodern Photography, held under the auspices of the Musée Cantonal de l’Elysée, from the day previous to our arrival to a couple of days forward. ‘You’re brilliant, do you know that?’ I said. ‘And you are not, do you know that?’ asked Ildiko, pouting, and then sucking furiously at her ice-cream again, ‘So all you must do tomorrow is get yourself included in the congress on erotic photography.’ ‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Tomorrow I like to do some other things,’ she said. ‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘Not shopping.’ ‘No, I must call my office and tell them I am not there.’ ‘Surely they’d notice,’ I said. ‘Well, you don’t notice when I am not there,’ said Ildiko.

  Clearly my punishment was not yet complete. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘How do I get myself included in a congress on eroticism and photography?’ ‘Well, I can tell you, you will not get in on the eroticism side,’ said Ildiko, ‘Maybe if you bought a camera? You know, with the wallet?’ ‘I don’t think the people who come to international conferences on photography are snapshot types,’ I said, ‘Some of them are way out beyond the camera altogether. They’re into the chaos of the sign and the randomness of signification. And parodic intertextuality and contrived depthlessness and photographing their own urine.’ ‘Well, if you only have to talk cowshit, you can do that very easy,’ said Ildiko. ‘And when I find him, what do I say to him?’ I asked. ‘You say, oh my dear Doctor Criminale, how nice to see you again. I just happened to pass by and saw you in a congress, and look, here you are with your nice new mistress, Miss Blasted Belli. What a coincidence! And by the way, do you still smuggle all those cows?’

  And it was then a strange thing happened. ‘Speaking of coincidence, just look at that,’ I said, pointing acro
ss the Place General Guisan. Ildiko lifted her head from her ice-cream and looked round idly. ‘The girl in the Porsche?’ she asked, ‘No, you wouldn’t like her, tits too big for you, I think.’ ‘No, not the girl in the Porsche,’ I said, ‘Look over at the promenade. You see that crowd of people walking towards the pier? All dressed up and somewhere to go?’ Ildiko checked on what I had seen: a largish group of people all dressed up to the top of their best, and carrying what looked like conference wallets, walking towards the park in front of the pier. ‘Okay, what about them?’ asked Ildiko. ‘You see the man walking along in the middle of them, with a girl in an orange dress?’ I asked, ‘Wouldn’t you say that was Bazlo Criminale?’

  ‘I don’t have my contacts,’ said Ildiko, with what seemed to me a strange lack of enthusiasm. ‘I didn’t know you wore any,’ I said, ‘It is, I’m sure of it.’ ‘So?’ asked Ildiko. ‘So come on, let’s go,’ I said. ‘Why do we go?’ asked Ildiko, spooning in ice-cream. ‘To catch up with them,’ I said. ‘And then?’ asked Ildiko. ‘We’ll work it out,’ I said, pulling her up by the hand, ‘Quick, before we lose them.’ I dropped some Swiss francs onto the table. ‘Amazing, he pays,’ said Ildiko, following me across the square, between the Porsches and the Audis. We passed another grand hotel, the Château d’Ouchy, also a place where diplomats gathered and treaties were signed. ‘This also is very nice,’ said Ildiko, looking inside. ‘Quick, or they’ll disappear,’ I said. ‘I do not think this is such a very good idea,’ said Ildiko, ‘What do you say to him when you see him?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘Let’s just catch them first.’

  The party ambled on somewhere ahead of us, going through the park. They were an obvious congress group, headed for an evening out. ‘Where do you think they go?’ asked Ildiko. I pointed ahead: the white lake steamer we had seen earlier at the pier was in steam, black smoke pouring out of its funnel. ‘Oh, they make a trip on the lake, how nice,’ said Ildiko, ‘They will not let us on, of course.’ By now the forward battalions from the congress were already passing through the turnstiles and onto the pier, then mounting the gangplank of the white lakeboat. Among them I could now clearly see the impressive, grey-haired, stocky bulk of Bazlo Criminale, clad in one of his shining suits and wearing, of course, his yachting-cap. I could also see more clearly the girl in a bright orange dress who was holding his arm and steering him up the plank. ‘I was right,’ I said, ‘He is with Miss Belli.’ ‘How wonderful,’ said Ildiko.

  Ildiko was right too. At the entrance to the pier, a sign said ‘Privé,’ and a sailor taking rickets guarded the gate. ‘It’s a charter,’ I said, ‘It must be a special trip just for the congress. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow.’ But Ildiko’s mood seemed to change; evidently she was now taken up by the thrill of the chase. ‘You know you are hopeless?’ she said, ‘If you want to get on, you must think a little Hungarian. Wait, and give me your wallet.’ ‘My wallet?’ I asked. ‘If you want to catch him, it will cost you something,’ she said, ‘Do you want it or not?’ I handed her my wallet, and Ildiko ran off, disappearing into the mêlée at the pier entrance. For a few terrible seconds it occurred to me that I had been very foolish: maybe that would be the last I would see of both of them, and that the small supply of funds Lavinia had sent me would soon be making its merry way round the stores of Lausanne. This was, it seemed, an unworthy thought. A few moments later Ildiko re-emerged, running towards me, and carrying a large conference briefcase.

  ‘How did you get that?’ I asked. ‘Very easy,’ she said, ‘It cost a hundred Swiss francs from one of the delegates. I hope you don’t mind I spend some of your very precious money?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘But what did you do?’ ‘Of course, I asked if anyone there was Russian,’said Ildiko, ‘I found one and he sold his briefcase to me. Those people will sell you anything.’ ‘Ildiko, sometimes you are absolutely wonderful,’ I said. Ildiko had opened the wallet and was looking inside. ‘And sometimes you are a true pig,’ said Ildiko, taking out a conference lapel badge and pinning it onto me, ‘But now you are a quite different pig, a pig called Dr Pyotr Ignatieff. Take this, before they move away the plank. Then walk through there with me on your arm as if you really belonged to a photo congress, yes?’ We went through the turnstile and up the gangplank of the waiting ship. Moments later, the ship’s whistle sounded shrilly, the sea­gulls, or lakegulls, fluttered and fled, the great metal armatures of the ship’s well-oiled engines began to lever and turn, the paddle-wheels churned the grey water into a thick white foam. Soon our ship was backpaddling out into the misty lake; we stood on the deck and watched Lausanne and the port of Ouchy standing off on the shore. In the middle of the shoreline stood the great illuminated façade of the Beau Rivage Palace; somewhere out of sight round the corner was the hidden low frontage of the Hotel Zwingli, which I now conceded deserved its want of stars in the local guide. Bells clanged, the saloons were bright with a crowd of happy people. Thanks to Ildiko, we were now, for the moment, members of the Lausanne International Congress on Erotics in Postmodern Photography, and I was Dr Pyotr Ignatieff of Leningrad: quite a change of life.

  *

  By this stage I was beginning to learn a good deal about congresses and conferences, as anyone would whose task was to follow in the footsteps of Doctor Bazlo Criminale. I had certain half-formed thoughts on the subject which might in fact have made quite a good paper, if they ever decided to hold a conference on the topic of conferences (and I’ve no doubt that sooner or later they will). In one sense all congresses are like each other: they all have lapel badges and briefcases, banquets, trips, announcements, lectures in the congress hall, intimate liaisons in the bar. In another sense every congress, like every love affair (and the two are often closely connected), is different. There is a new mix of people, a new surge of emotion, a new state of the state of the art, a new set of ideas and chic philosophies, a changed order of things. There are congresses of politics and congresses of art, congresses of intellect and congresses of pleasure, congresses of reason and congresses of emotion.

  In this simple scale of things, the Lausanne International Con­gress on Erotics in Postmodern Photography, which, standing in the entrance of the ship’s saloon, we began to inspect, was pretty clearly a congress of art, pleasure, and emotion. At Barolo, now seemingly so far away, we had been a group of paper-giving introverts. The photographers of Lausanne, who numbered about eighty strong and had come from every­where, were clearly a group of ego-fondling extroverts. Writ­ers are sometimes inclined to let their work do the talking; photographers have to let their talking do much of the work. Helped by waiters who served them Dole, and Pendant, and various of the local Vaudois vintages, they had quickly turned the ship into a noisy babble. They stood close to each other, pawing and fussing and fluttering and flapping. They chatted and embraced and laughed and shouted; they kissed and gasped and flirted and posed.

  Yes, they were a flamboyant crowd. One woman was barebreasted. One man wore a Napoleonic uniform. Many had crossdressed: several of the men had on what looked like chiffon bedroom wear, and several of the women were clad in ties, tweeds or dress shirts and dinner-jackets. They had a band on board, so they began to dance. There was a bar on board, so they began to drink. There was finger-food on board, so they began to snack. There were celebrities on board, so they started celebrating. There were evidently illegal substances on board, so they began to dream. There were lips and breasts and buttocks on board, so they began to neck and fondle and nuzzle and suck. They were beautiful people, and they knew they were, so they started to do beautiful and outrageous and infinitely photographable things. They also photographed themselves doing them, making their circle of unreality complete.

  But amid all this glitzy excitement there was one small pool of calm, sanity and metaphysical reason. It surrounded, of course, Bazlo Criminale. We wandered round the ship – the chilly top deck, the back of the lower deck, the front saloon, the rear saloon – and at first we couldn’t find him. Then there he was, sitting sto
ckily at a table in a corner of the rear saloon. His great erotic adventure – and, looking at Miss Belli, who sat beside him, it surely must have been a great erotic adventure seemed to have changed him a little. His humour seemed much brighter, and the air of domesticity had gone. He wore a bright Ralph Lauren sports shirt under his fine suit, and his hairstyle was no longer bouffanted in the style of Romanian dictators but had been slicked firmly down in the style of a Thirties seducer. Belli, beside him in her bright orange dress, chattered, laughed, flirted, and constantly touched him on the arm. And in a crowd of flamboyant celebrities, he seemed somehow to be the true celebrity, as perhaps the constant flash of cameras insisted. I saw now how Criminale and People magazine could somehow go together.

  But he was still the hardy philosopher. As at Barolo, a crowd had gathered round, small at first, but growing all the time, listening to what he was saying. I stood on the fringes and caught some of it. ‘I read in the newspaper today a very interesting thing,’ he was remarking. ‘Always first in the morning when he wakes he reads the newspapers,’ explained Miss Belli. ‘I see the Japanese have now invented a special new toilet, the Happy Stool,’ said Criminale, ‘It takes what you drop in the bowl each morning and at once makes a medical diagnosis of it.’ ‘Bazlo, caro, you are disgusting,’ said Belli. ‘In goes your effluent, out from a slot in the wall comes your health report,’ said Criminale, ignoring this, ‘Too much vodka last night, sonny, now look what you have done with your cholesterol. Maybe even a needle comes into your rump and puts the matter right.’ ‘Bazlo caro, eat something,’ said Miss Belli, pushing forward a tray of canapés, ‘All this blasted lovely food and you don’t take any!’ ‘After I read this, how can I eat something?’ asked Criminale, ‘You see what it means, there is no secret anywhere any more.’