Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
The building Gerstenbacker took me to was the famous Secession Building (motto: ‘To the age its art, and to art its freedom’); sure enough, it did indeed have a kind of
cabbage-shaped metal dome on the top of it. We walked inside, to see the place where, in the 1890s, Viennese baroque met Viennese modernism, and an art of the new, now already beginning to look
like an art of the old, was born. ‘What about Professor Codicil?’ I asked as we looked round, ‘Does he see much of Criminale?’ ‘I think perhaps not any more, I think
he no more comes so often,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Do you like to know who paid for all this?’ ‘Yes, who did?’ I asked. ‘Wittgenstein’s father,’ said
Gerstenbacker. ‘So where does he spend most of his time these days?’ ‘In the tomb, I think. He is dead,’ said Gerstenbacker.
‘Now please, Gerstenbacker, not Wittgenstein’s father,’ I said sharply, ‘I’m trying to talk to you about Doctor Criminale.’ ‘But how can I tell you
these things, really I have no idea,’ said Gerstenbacker innocently, ‘Did you know that Ludwig Wittgenstein and Adolf Hitler went to the same school?’ ‘No idea at
all?’ I asked, ‘Wittgenstein and Hitler went to the same
school
?’ ‘Yes, in Linz,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘If only Adolf Hitler had had a bit better marks, he
might today be professor of philosophy at your University of Cambridge.’ ‘That’s quite a thought,’ I said, ‘If Wittgenstein had had worse ones, he could have been up
there telling the Nuremberg rallies that the limits of our language are the limits of our world.’ For a moment Gerstenbacker considered this gravely. ‘Perhaps it is theoretically
possible,’ he said at last, ‘I do not think it is likely. But he would not have gone to Cambridge and you would have had no Viennese philosophy at all.’
When we went into the street outside the Secession Building, Gerstenbacker started again. ‘So now I think you would like to see an opera house with cats.’ ‘What is an opera
house with cats?’ I asked. ‘You don’t know cats?’ he asked, ‘Cats are by Andrew Lloyd Webber.’ By now I thought I had taken the point. Gerstenbacker was a
perfectly nice young man, but the task assigned to him by Codicil was plainly to get me as far away from Criminale as possible. ‘You’re very kind, Mr Gerstenbacker,’ I said,
‘But really I don’t want to see any more Imperial Vienna, any more Baroque Vienna, any more Secession Vienna, any more Freudian Vienna. I especially don’t want to see Andrew Lloyd
Webber’s Vienna. What I want to see is Criminale’s Vienna.’ ‘But it doesn’t exist,’ he said. ‘No?’ I asked. ‘After the Second World War when he
came there really was no Vienna.’ ‘At least you admit he came,’ I said, ‘But what do you mean there was no Vienna?’ ‘Well, there were four Viennas,’ said
Gerstenbacker, ‘There were four zones, Russian, American, British, French, yes? And now I think you must go to see the Blue Danube.’ ‘It’s not necessary,’ I said.
‘But of course,’ said Gerstenbacker, shocked, ‘You cannot come to Vienna and never see the Blue Danube. We will go to Nussdorf.’
So we went on a tram to Nussdorf, where we stood on the end of a decrepit pier and did not see the Blue Danube. For the Blue Danube, as you probably know all too well already, since we live in
an age of travel, is not actually blue. That is probably why the Viennese, quite some time ago, considerately moved the Danube right out of the city altogether and put it in a concrete cutting in a
far suburb, where it would not constantly be checked, and they could go on singing about it without embarrassment. We stood on the pier and stared down at a dirty brown flow as it passed
nervelessly by; nearby a group of dispirited Japanese tourists refused even to uncap their cameras, despite the urgings of their dirndled guide. ‘It’s brown,’ I said,
‘It’s brown and muddy.’ ‘Yes,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘But it is also going blue in certain lights.’ ‘Gerstenbacker,’ I said, as we turned and
walked back into Nussdorf, ‘have you ever actually
seen
the Blue Danube when it was blue?’ ‘No, but I come from Graz,’ said Gerstenbacker. ‘Have any of your
friends or relatives seen the Blue Danube when it was blue?’ I asked. ‘No,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘But in Vienna we know it is blue.’
‘You mean it’s blue for the tourists,’ I suggested. ‘No, it is blue for us also,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘And now I think you would like to try the Heurige, the
new wine. I know a very good place in Heiligen where we can try some special growths.’ ‘Gerstenbacker,’ I said, as we got into a taxi, ‘am I right in thinking that one of
your jobs as a great professor’s small assistant is to make sure I find out nothing at all about Doctor Criminale?’ ‘It’s possible,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Now I
know you will like this place very much and after we have tasted some wines I will explain if you like why the Blue Danube is blue.’ ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Oh by the way,
this wine is quite strong,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Really we should eat a little pig with it, if your religion permits it.’ I looked at him. ‘My religion?’ I asked,
‘Oh, you mean the Jane Fonda diet? Yes, I’m allowed to eat pig.’ ‘Good,’ he said, ‘I think we will have a very nice evening.’
Gerstenbacker was quite right. In Heiligen we went into one of those large village inns where they advertise the new wines have arrived with a bunch of twigs outside; we sat down on hard wooden
benches in a vast, folksy winehall, where a peasant band in leather knickerbockers drew music from a strange array of tubas, trumpets, logs and woodsaws; Gerstenbacker called over the apple-cheeked
waitress, her purse hung like an economic pregnancy beneath her apron, and gave her a list of vintages. In wine as all else (except the matter of Bazlo Criminale), young Gerstenbacker was a
fountain of knowledge; he talked of villages and vineyards and varieties, making me take a glass of this, share a flagon of that, and the more we tasted, the more expansive grew his talk.
‘Yes, why the Blue Danube is blue,’ he said, ‘Perhaps you don’t know it, but when Strauss wrote that music we had just lost a battle with Germans and our power was in
decline. So for us the Danube became blue.’ ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Then was Sarajevo, when the Archduke was shot by Princip, then 1918, when we lost our empire, our borders, our
pride. You will understand this very well, I think, because you are British.’ ‘Yes, we do share some things in common,’ I said. ‘But it was not really the same,’ said
Gerstenbacker, ‘We lost everything, our meaning, our history, our reality. All we had was music, dreams, illusions.’ ‘And the Blue Danube became even bluer,’ I said.
Gerstenbacker nodded. ‘Then there was 1945, we had lost again,’ he said, ‘Now we were nothing at all, an occupied country. We had to forget war, forget history. The Blue Danube is
blue because we say it is blue. In Vienna, after what happened, do not expect too much reality. Now there is another wine we must try.’
After a further half-hour, Gerstenbacker’s wing collar had come awry, he wore his spectacles at an angle, and he had grown wildly talkative. ‘Tell me please, do you know this place
Castle Howard?’ I nodded. ‘It is very nice, yes? I would really like to go there, for my thesis. Also Penshurst, Garsington, Charleston, Cliveden, where there was a set.’
‘Very nice,’ I said, ‘It sounds a splendid subject for a thesis.’ ‘You see, most of your great philosophers were aristocrats, Earl of Russell, G.E. Moore and so
on,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘That is why they had time for strange questions, do I mean what I say when I say what I mean, is the moon made of green cheese, and so on. Wittgenstein loved
this.’ ‘And you do too,’ I said, ‘Well, if you want any help in arranging a visit . . .’ ‘It’s possible, you think so?’ asked Gerstenbacker, staring
at me eagerly through his twisted spectacles, ‘Maybe you will speak to your Ambassador when you see him at a party?’ ‘Maybe not the Ambassador,’ I said, ‘I don’t
move that much in diplomatic circles. But we could probably get you over on this television project. If you were able to give us some leads on Bazlo Criminale.’
Gerstenbacker’s face visibly fell. ‘I am sorry, it is really true,’ he said, ‘Even if Codicil did let me help you, I know nothing about Bazlo Criminale.’ I knew I
had better press home my advantage. ‘You’re the great professor’s assistant,’ I said. ‘Only his assistant,’ he said. ‘But you work closely with him,’
I said. ‘Well, a bit,’ he said. ‘So what does an assistant actually do?’ I asked. ‘Well, I examine Professor Codicil’s students and mark their papers,’
said Gerstenbacker, ‘When he is not there, I teach his classes.’ ‘How often is that?’ I asked. ‘Quite often, because he is not there quite often,’ he said,
‘Naturally an important professor must travel abroad in many places. Sometimes I give his lectures, sometimes I write his books . . .’ ‘I stared at him in amazement. ‘You
write his
books
?’ I said, surprised. Gerstenbacker stared back owlishly through his spectacles, clearly surprised by my surprise. ‘Professor Codicil is a very busy man,’ he
explained, ‘He has to advise ministers, travel to many foreign congresses, sit on many very important committees. He does not have so very much time to write his books.’
In the background, the peasant band was reaching a point of overstimulation. Its members were hitting logs with axes; next they turned to slapping themselves and then each other, in a form of
syncopated grievous bodily harm. ‘Oh, listen, this is very typical,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Not all our music is Mozart and Strauss.’ ‘So I see,’ I said, getting
excited myself, ‘So what you’re telling me is that you write the books, and Codicil signs them?’ ‘Only if he agrees with them,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘If not I
would have to begin all over again. Sometimes I review them for the newspapers also.’ ‘Isn’t it rather an odd system?’ I asked, ‘You do all the work and he takes all
the credit?’ ‘Oh no,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Because one day I will myself receive a call and become an important professor. Then I will have many assistants, and they will
write my books for me.’ ‘It all works out in the end,’ I said. ‘Of course,’ he said, looking round for the waitress, ‘Now I remember another very good wine you
must try . . .’ ‘No, just a minute,’ I said, ‘One more very important question. Did you happen to write the book on Bazlo Criminale?’
‘Did I?’ asked Gerstenbacker, surprised, ‘No, of course not. As I told, I know nothing of Criminale. The book of his I write is on British . . .’ ‘Empirical
Philosophy and the English Country House,’ I said, ‘I know. So who did write the book on Criminale?’ ‘I don’t imagine,’ he said. ‘Well, guess,’ I
said, ‘Was it Codicil himself?’ ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘I don’t think Codicil ever wrote any of his books.’ ‘Another
assistant?’ I asked, ‘Does he have a lot of assistants?’ ‘Quite a few,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘But that book was five years ago. Five years ago I was still in
Graz.’ And probably, I thought, still in short trousers; young Gerstenbacker, his formal clothes now looking more like a fancy dress costume at a bad party, was growing younger before my eyes
by the minute. ‘But this could explain everything,’ I said. ‘Codicil’s book isn’t by Codicil at all. That’s why he’s not giving me his help with the
Criminale project. He doesn’t want me to find out.’
Gerstenbacker looked puzzled. ‘Find out what? The book is his. It has his name on it. Also it was written by his assistant to his instructions, in his office with his files, using only his
approach and his methods, and following his advice and corrections. This is not why he will not help you.’ ‘Why won’t he help me, then?’ I asked. ‘He will not help you
because you are too young and too English, and he thinks you cannot possibly understand such a man as Bazlo Criminale. Beside he does not believe in the light of publicity. Also many bad things are
said about Austria these days. We have attacks on our President for his past, and so on.’ ‘Yes, I see,’ I said, ‘I can’t possibly understand why the Blue Danube is
blue.’ Gerstenbacker looked at me, smiled, and nodded. ‘You cannot understand how it was here, because you were not here. Your country has been lucky, your lives have been simple, you
have not suffered from our history, lived with our politics and philosophies. Codicil cannot even understand why the British should be interested in such a man as Criminale. He is not at all in
your tradition of do I mean what I say when I say what I mean.’
‘Well, you could say the British are learning to be more European,’ I said. ‘No,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘You are building a Channel Tube but I do not think you will
ever understand the Europe on the other end of it. Here we have been through everything. We understand how it is, and remember how it was.’ ‘So I see,’ I said. ‘We have a
respect for those for whom life has been difficult. Those who are older than us have lived in terrible times. Perhaps you do not know what it is like to be in a world where history changes all the
time, where to have an idea or a side is one day right and the next day wrong, where every choice, every thought, is a gamble that maybe you win or maybe lose, where what is patriotic now is
treachery then.’ ‘Perhaps I can’t,’ I said, ‘But you can?’ ‘Of course,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘In my country we have led many lives. We have been
Austrian, German, Russian, American, French and British. People have had to learn how to live in many different ways. Do you know what a strange place Vienna was in 1947?’ ‘1947,’
I said, ‘That was the time when Criminale came here from Eastern Europe.’
Gerstenbacker stared at me. ‘But he did not come here from Eastern Europe,’ he said. ‘I thought he did,’ I said, ‘You said so.’ ‘No, he did not, because
Vienna itself was part of Eastern Europe, don’t you remember?’ ‘No, I don’t, I wasn’t even born,’ I said. ‘If you were here you would remember,’ said
Gerstenbacker, ‘He could come here easily because it was still in the East.’ ‘But it was also the border with the West,’ I said. ‘Yes,’ said Gerstenbacker,
‘For example, in the first district, where is the university, the occupation changed every month. When it was the Russian turn, many people moved into hotels in the other zones. You know the
Russians, how they liked to pick people up.’ ‘So you could move from zone to zone,’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘You could go in the front door of a building and
still be in Russia. But if you had a key to the back door you could walk out and now be in America.’ ‘So perhaps Criminale found the key to the back door,’ I said, ‘In fact
he could have been on both sides.’ ‘Many people were on both the sides,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘As I told you, in Vienna we learned from experience it is wise to live in many
different ways. Now you see why perhaps we are not so pleased with your questions. We have learned how to remember but also how to forget.’