Doctor Criminale

by Malcolm Bradbury

  It was the thought that certain other covers were coming off that excited and worried me. It was not easy to be back in the strange, conspiratorial world of Fräulein Bruckner, with her gift for making a mystery out of everything, of finding plots where I hadn’t. I was not sure (I’m still not) whether I believed a word she ever said. But I had to admit her version of what happened in Lausanne did have a strange consistency. I liked Ildiko greatly (I still do), and I think she liked me; but I could see how likely it was she had teased and used me. I admired Criminale deeply (I still do), and found his absences and wanderings consistent with his life in a high mode of thought; but his actions also fitted the life of a man who was being pursued and persecuted. I couldn’t quite accept the world of Cosima Bruckner, but I couldn’t quite deny it either. After all, she had been remarkably shrewd about myself, and I wasn’t off the hook yet either.

  ‘I can’t believe it, Cosima,’ I said, when the waiters had gone, ‘Surely Criminale was far above money.’ ‘Oh yes, they paid him to be,’ said Cosima, sitting there in her bib. ‘Why would the Communists want to put their money in the West?’ I asked. ‘Naturally, it was the only way Communism could survive in the East,’ said Cosima. ‘Come on, you’re not telling me capitalism was handing out mortgages to Communism,’ I said. ‘Why not?’ asked Cosima, ‘Communism never had a proper economy, Lenin forgot to invent one. It all worked by bribes, barter, and black market. If you made some money, would you keep it in a Russian bank? The Party people needed the West to be their bankers. And to get it here they needed people like Criminale.’

  ‘In that case, why did we need a Cold War?’ I asked. ‘How else could we have unified Europe?’ said Cosima, ‘It was the Russians who did it for us.’ ‘All right, then, why was there détente?’ I asked. ‘Why not?’ asked Cosima, ‘Maybe it is okay to nuke another country, but a bit crazy to bomb your own bank account, I think.’ ‘You certainly have an original vision of modern history,’ I said, ‘How is it I only hear these conspiracy theories when I talk to you?’ ‘It is because you are not European,’ said Cosima, ‘The North Sea is a big problem for you, I think. Don’t you realize West Germany paid to keep the DDR in existence?’ ‘It did what?’ I asked. ‘Of course,’ said Cosima, ‘And when the DDR needed money, it picked up some political prisoners and sold them for hard currency to the West. You see there was always unification, even before there was unification.’

  ‘But why keep all this money in the West?’ ‘Why?’ asked Cosima, ‘Many reasons. For one, economic espionage. The Stasi had a whole division devoted to economic blackmail. They had to have patents, buy forbidden military technologies, weapons and computers, yes? Then to pay all the agents. Remember, half the middle-aged secretaries in the Bundestag found a little romance by selling photocopies to the East. But the money went everywhere, for blackmail, for influence. To politicians, businessmen, Western bureaucrats, even some in this room.’ ‘Oh, come on, Cosima,’ I said, poking at my lobster anxiously. ‘Of course the money was there for other reasons also,’ said Cosima, ‘All those Eastern Party officials needed their nice little accounts in the West. Maybe they liked a German car or a villa in Cannes, or just liked to feel safe when things changed. Maybe they are keeping it there to pay for a coup one day. Some was just for good investment, some of them had very nice portfolios, you know. So money was coming here all the time.’

  ‘And it was coming in through the accounts of Criminale?’ I asked. ‘Oh, there were many ways, many accounts,’ said Cosima, ‘But we traced quite a lot of things to him.’ ‘He knew all about it, then?’ I asked. ‘It would not be necessary,’ said Cosima, ‘It was more useful if he just did his philosophy and let his accounts be used by some others. He had his freedom, they had their way to the West.’ ‘And Ildiko was the bag lady?’ I asked. ‘She was a publisher, she moved book money around, she had access to those accounts, you saw that very well,’ said Cosima. ‘So she was working all the time for the Communist Party,’ I said, ‘And Hollo too.’ ‘It’s possible,’ said Cosima, ‘But these things were much more complicated.’ I’ll say,’ I said. ‘She could be on that side, or the other,’ said Cosima.

  ‘What other?’ I asked. ‘Naturally since the Wende everyone has been after this money,’ said Cosima, ‘It still comes in, and it is billions, you know.’ ‘Billions?’ ‘Like the Nazi billions after the war, you remember. Everyone wants it. The Party people say it is theirs. The new regimes say it was robbed from the people and really it is theirs. The apparatchiks who hid it want it back to pay for their nice villas or start up new lives. There are those in the West who smuggled it, and like their share. There are politicians and people in governments who need it hidden, now the security files are opening in the East. Then there are the fraud investigators who want to know what has been hidden, how it was used.’ ‘So a lot of people are fighting over the same cash,’ I said. ‘Yes, and you saw quite a lot of them at Barolo,’ said Cosima.

  I looked up. ‘At Barolo’?’ I asked, The great congress on Literature and Power in the Age of Glasnost?’ ‘Where we first met, you remember,’ said Cosima. ‘Of course I remember,’ I said, ‘But what had that got to do with it? Those people were writers, politicians.’ ‘Not all of them were what they seemed,’ said Cosima. ‘Oh, come on,’ I said, ‘Susan Sontag? Martin Amis? You’re not saying they were in on these fancy games?’ ‘No, we think those two were almost who they say they are,’ said Cosima, ‘It was the others you know very well.’ ‘What others?’ I asked. ‘You saw the Russians were there?’ ‘What, Tatyana Tulipova?’ I asked. ‘Did you ever see a word she wrote in her life?’ asked Cosima, ‘The Americans too. Those critics from Yale.’ ‘Please, Cosima,’ I said. ‘Professor Massimo Monza, he lives a little too nicely, don’t you think?’ ‘I don’t believe it,’ I said. ‘And of course your Otto Codicil. Oh, how is the lobster, by the way?’

  The lobster? Oh, fine,’ I said, ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘Because I like you to enjoy it,’ said Cosima, ‘I wished to give you a nice reward.’ ‘Reward for what?’ I asked. ‘Because I discovered so much of this from you,’ said Cosima. ‘How could you?’ I asked, ‘I’m not a part of it, Cosima, really. I told you, I knew nothing at all. I thought Ildiko was a girl-friend, I thought Criminale was a philosopher. The whole thing is news to me. In fact I’m not sure I believe any of it.’ ‘Yet you did your work well,’ said Cosima. ‘What work?’ I asked, ‘What did I do that was worth the death of one poor old lobster?’ ‘You pointed out to us Professor Otto Codicil,’ said Cosima, The key of it all, the missing link of our chain. He was the mastermind, as you warned us. And once we had realized this, all the other things were clear.’

  ‘I hate to tell you this, Cosima,’ I said, though I didn’t hate it at all, ‘I think you’ve got the wrong man. I only fingered Codicil because he was trying to destroy my television programme. I know nothing about him, nothing at all. Except he eats too much cake and never sees his students. Apart from that he’s probably as white as the driven snow.’ ‘No, he is part of it,’ said Cosima. ‘I just hope you can prove that,’ I said, ‘Because that man is a friend of ministers. He has lawyers hanging off his shirt-tails. He’s a nasty enemy, believe me. He’ll have you fired or in jail, if you aren’t careful.’ Then you didn’t know?’ asked Cosima. ‘Didn’t know what?’ I asked. ‘Codicil tried to fled the coop,’ she said. ‘He tried to do what?’ I asked. ‘Flee the coop,’ said Cosima, They picked him up at Frankfurt airport as he tried to fly to South America.’

  ‘No, this is too much,’ I said, The rest is possible, this I don’t believe. Was he dressed in women’s clothes as well?’ ‘No, a red wig,’ said Cosima. ‘Otto Codicil in a red wig?’ I said, ‘Cosima, don’t you think a red wig is a bit over the top, as it were?’ ‘He had also a false passport,’ said Cosima, ‘And a false-bottom suitcase with two hundred thousand Deutschmark.’ ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Now he is held in Germany and he is singing like a canary,’ said Cosima, ‘He has told us nearly everything. He was rec
ruited after the war, when Vienna was the runnel of East and West.’ ‘I always thought he was more the SS officer type,’ I said. ‘Earlier,’ said Cosima. ‘But you’re absolutely certain?’ The report was delivered in my office today,’ said Cosima, ‘Don’t you like to know why he was going to South America?’

  The remains of the lobster were taken away. The second fine Sauvignon gave way to two pungent old Armagnacs. ‘I suppose he was going to join Martin Bormann and Ronald Biggs,’ I said, ‘And one day they’ll all come back as a football team and win the World Cup.’ ‘He was expected to collect the money from the Criminale accounts and take it to the right people,’ said Cosima, ‘However your Hungarian agent got a lot of it first.’ ‘Good for her,’ I said, and then a thought began to strike me, ‘Where in South America? Who was he taking them to?’ ‘I think you begin to understand,’ said Cosima. ‘Yes, well,’ I said, swirling my brandy thoughtfully, ‘I suppose it does cost a lot of money to run a big hacienda in Argentina. What with 130 per cent inflation and a very unreliable rate of exchange.’ ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Cosima Bruckner.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘Codicil and Gertla, those two are old friends?’ ‘I thought this is what you came to Brussels to tell me,’ said Cosima, ‘Then perhaps we could slip the last piece into place.’ ‘No, that wasn’t why,’ I said, ‘It was something else, but you probably know it anyway.’ ‘Tell me, please,’ said Cosima, ‘I like to know everything.’ ‘I can see that,’ I said, ‘Gertla simply told me she got Bazlo working for the Hungarian secret police back in 1956. All the time he was travelling in the West he was reporting to her. She passed it on to the authorities. And if it got to the Hungarians it certainly must have reached the Russians.’ ‘Oh, that is all,’ said Cosima. ‘All?’ I said, ‘This a man who was seeing Reagan, Bush, Genscher, Thatcher, everyone. He must have had access to enormous information. If this got out it would destroy his entire reputation.’

  ‘Well, in this world there are few reputations you cannot destroy,’ said Cosima, ‘You know that very well, you are a journalist.’ ‘As a journalist, let me ask you, is it true? Can you confirm it? You know everything?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Cosima, ‘But did you never ask why he was allowed so much to travel?’ ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘But surely not everyone who travelled worked for the regime.’ ‘They generally made their arrangements,’ said Cosima, ‘In that world to get one thing you gave another. That was understood, the regime used you, you used the regime. Everyone had a file. Go to Prague now and look. Doctors had code names, archbishops had official ranks in the secret police. If you managed these things cleverly, you could lead the charmed life. And I think Criminale always managed to lead the charmed life.’

  ‘A great philosopher,’ I said. ‘Even a great philosopher lives in history,’ said Cosima. ‘So what Gertla said was really true?’ I asked. ‘I cannot tell you, I only say it would not be surprising. But I think anyone in the West who was wise would know that.’ ‘You mean anyone except me,’ I said. ‘He could go where diplomats could not,’ said Cosima, ‘He could make deals and pass information both ways. I expect both sides used him. He was too big to waste on little things.’ ‘It would still destroy him,’ I said, ‘And why would Gertla want to? It damages her reputation too.’ ‘You don’t know?’ asked Cosima. ‘No, Cosima, I don’t know,’ I said, ‘I don’t know anything. Please enlighten me.’

  ‘It happened before, in Germany in 1945, in France after collaboration, in Hungary in 1956, in Russia always,’ said Cosima, ‘It happens now, it will happen again. The files that were shut come open, so everyone runs for cover. To protect themselves, they settle scores with others. Those old Party people are bitter these days. They were promised history for ever. They made their deals and bought their houses and now they feel cheated. But they mean to survive, to start again. They know the world cannot live without them. All they must do is show they know too much. For this they must sacrifice a few. Why not a famous man, up there on his pedestal? He has had his charmed life, they helped him make it. Well, it is not so hard for them to take it away again. He was no worse than others, maybe no better either. So do you think you will help them? Do you publish your article?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, ‘His work’s too important. He’s been a great influence. His ideas will die too.’ ‘He impresses you,’ said Cosima. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I suppose he’s a friend.’ ‘And for a friend you would keep silent,’ said Cosima. ‘If I thought it was important, yes,’ I said. ‘And then, if in twenty years they write the life of Francis Jay, what do you think they say of you?’ asked Cosima, ‘He knew the truth and kept it quiet.’ ‘I’m not important enough,’ I said, ‘Anyway, the world doesn’t have to know everything.’ ‘And you are a journalist?’ asked Cosima. ‘Even journos can be human,’ I said, ‘Some of them, anyway.’ ‘And are you silent also over the others?’ asked Cosima, ‘Gertla, Monza, Codicil?’ I’ll just stick to the book pages,’ I said. ‘And life and crimes have nothing to do with the book pages?’ asked Cosima.

  I looked at her. ‘I’m not sure whose side you’re on,’ I said. ‘Oh, poor Francis,’ said Cosima, ‘He has stumbled on things he cannot understand. I think the world is a bit stranger place than you imagined.’ ‘You know, Cosima,’ I said, ‘you could really be very attractive, if you didn’t speak all the time in that sonorous sort of way.’ ‘I do not think I speak all the time in a sonorous sort of a way,’ said Cosima, and I saw with surprise she was blushing a little, ‘Unless you mean because I am German my English is not the best.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant you make everything seem so conspiratorial, all so plotted and planned. You turn the world into a spy story. Whenever I talk to you, everything is conspiracies and scams and treacheries and tricks. I’m not even sure there was a plot.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cosima, ‘The world is full of them. Don’t you think our postwar world has been often a spy story? Don’t you know that when the Eastern European files were opened, people everywhere asked that they be shut again, because so many Western careers would be finished? What kind of story do you like it to be?’ ‘I suppose a more philosophical story, a more humane story,’ I said, ‘Closer to the way most things really are.’ ‘And you know how they really are?’ asked Cosima, ‘Then maybe you should not have got so interested in Bazlo Criminale. If you had asked no questions, you would not have found these answers you don’t like.’ ‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘And you would not be here with me in La Rochette,’ she said. ‘That’s true too,’ I said. ‘And I would not have found out so much about you,’ said Cosima Bruckner, ‘I think our stories are not so different after all.’

  Just then Armand appeared, bearing a folded paper on a silver tray. ‘Time to pay,’ said Cosima, ‘Europe will get it, Francis.’ I watched Cosima take out some Euro-credit card and put it on the tray. ‘Thank you, Cosima,’ I said, ‘An excellent meal.’ ‘We like you to be satisfied,’ said Cosima, ‘Now, where is your hotel?’ ‘Hotel?’ I asked, ‘I don’t have one yet.’ ‘Didn’t I tell you to book a hotel, when I gave you your instructions?’ asked Cosima, ‘Brussels has a very bad problem of hotels.’ ‘You didn’t, Cosima,’ I said, ‘I’d better call round before it’s too late.’ ‘I think already it is too late,’ said Cosima, glancing at her watch, ‘Brussels is full just now. The European Ministers meet. The NATO generals meet. There is a big fashion show, the Rolling Stones are in town.’ ‘Wonderful,’ I said, ‘An evening out at one of Europe’s great restaurants, then a night on a bench at the railway station.’ ‘Oh no,’ said Cosima, ‘You have been very helpful. Europe is going to find you something.’

  We went out to the lobby, where I exchanged my excellent tie for my graceless anorak. ‘My dear Mam’selle Bruckner, you are charmante as usual,’ said someone behind us. There stood the small, bird-eyed man who Cosima had said was Deputy-President of the European Commission. ‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Villeneuve,’ said Cosima. ‘I had no idea you dined in such
expensive restaurants,’ said Villeneuve, ‘You know, I can hardly afford them myself ‘I need to make certain investigations, you understand,’ said Cosima. ‘Really?’ asked Villeneuve, ‘And you are tête-à-tête, I see.’ ‘Ah, ja, this is Francis Jay, a journalist from London,’ said Cosima. ‘Enchante, monsieur, Jean-Luc Villeneuve,’ said Villeneuve, ‘You are from Britain? Not, I hope, another piece about the faceless bureaucrats of Brussels. As you see, my dear fellow, Mam’selle Bruckner and I do have quite interesting faces, when you get to know us a little better.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Villeneuve,’ I said. ‘Monsieur Villeneuve,’ said Villeneuve, ‘I am afraid, you know, that you in Britain have never understood the great dream that is Europe. Yes, we must be bureaucrats, we live in a bureaucratic age, but we can be idealists too, I hope.’ ‘I hope so too,’ I said. ‘Look round here, and what do you see?’ said Villeneuve, ‘Luxe et volupté. When I come here and see such things, I always ask myself, how can there be such luxe et volupté, unless there is also rêve et desir? I am European, but also French, you know.’ ‘I know,’ I said. ‘And we French are just a little bit philosophe,’ said Villeneuve, ‘We are the land of Pascal and Montaigne and Descartes and Rousseau, after all.’ ‘And Foucault and Derrida,’ I said. ‘Those also,’ said Villeneuve unenthusiastically, ‘And we believe in thought and dreams, rêve et desir, ideals and purpose. N’est-ce pas, Mam’selle Bruckner?’ ‘Oui, Monsieur Villeneuve,’ said Cosima.