Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
Ildiko looked at the plate in front of me. ‘Ugh, goulasch,’ she said, ‘Do you know what it is made of? Dead bodies from the Danube.’ ‘I don’t believe
it,’ I said. ‘Well, I lie sometimes, but only with my closest friends,’ said Ildiko, ‘Now listen, I think we must go tomorrow, or we miss the congress start. Do you like me
to go later and get us some tickets for the train?’ ‘Fine,’ I said, ‘If they say we can attend.’ ‘You have dollar?’ asked Ildiko, ‘It is best in
dollar. If you have dollar I will love you.’ ‘I do have dollar,’ I said, ‘But later.’ ‘But you will definitely take me to the West? Where they have all these
shops?’ ‘Yes, I will,’ I said. ‘Then it’s wonderful,’ said Ildiko. And that, as it happened, and that is most of what happened, is how Ildiko Hazy and I found
ourselves the next day on another international train, from Budapest to Milan, on our way to the Barolo Congress and, we hoped, to Bazlo Criminale.
One thing I’ve learned in life is that you should never take a great international literary congress too lightly. And that was certainly so with the now highly famed
Barolo Congress on the topic of ‘Literature and Power: The Changing Nineties: Writing After the Cold War’, which held its deliberations at the Villa Barolo on Lake Cano in November
Iqqo. Supported by the munificence of the great Magno Foundation (whose founder, Mrs Valeria Magno, was to attend the ceremonies), chaired by the famed Italian intellectual, Professor Massimo
Monza, Professor of Obscure Signs at the University of Nemi, and with as its guest of honour none other than Professor Bazlo Criminale, it was plainly an event of scale, significance and indeed, in
the wise gaze of history, true cultural transformation.
But I realized none of this when, encouraged by Ildiko Hazy, and supported, rather doubtfully, by Lavinia, still engaged on her obscure recce in Vienna, I sent off a cable asking permission for
myself and companion to cover the event on behalf of a British newspaper and on behalf of the Great British Public, whose concern about the cutting edge of modern literature was, I said, well
known. Much to my surprise, a cable from Barolo flew back almost immediately, signed by none other than Professor Monza himself. It declared his extreme delight that the British press should want
to do literature, and indeed himself, the honour of covering the occasion. It also issued a joint invitation to myself and my companion, and told me that joining instructions and briefings for the congress would follow almost immediately.
And so they did; and from that moment onward the whole flavour of my life changed, and the whole nature of my quest for Bazlo Criminale was transformed. An hour later I was called down from my
room at the Budapest Ramada – Ildiko happened to be with me, helping me check the contents of the mini-bar – and there in the lobby was one of those leather-coated motor-bikers whose
appearance of violence and aggression is intended to reassure us that these days trade and data always pass everywhere at the very fastest speed. He handed me an express package that had just
landed hot from the sky at Budapest airport. On it was the great logo of the Magno Foundation; it was clear that our joining and briefing instructions had come. Ildiko and I took them back upstairs
to my room, where it was definitely more comfortable, and we began to examine them. It was probably then we should have sensed the grandeur and munificence of the occasion, but I fear we did
not.
Certainly we realized at once that this was no ordinary conference, held in a cafeteria with a cooking smell in the background. The Barolo instructions impressed from the start. They explained
we should arrive on a certain day (it was the next one), at a certain time (14.30), at a certain place (Milan Central railway station), where a formal reception committee would receive all congress
members. One hundred people, the documents warned, would be attending. The Villa Barolo was far too remote, its deliberations far too demanding, its security far too intense, to allow for other
joining arrangements, and those who did not follow the instructions precisely would not be admitted. The villa was isolated, indeed islanded, and could not be reached by car; the nearest parking
space was probably ten miles away. There were also no landing facilities for personal planes, helicopters, or private yachts, other than those belonging to the members of the Magno Foundation
itself.
This didn’t greatly concern us, but we did realize that, once we had reached Barolo, a good deal would be done to ensure our intellectual strenuousness, our convenience and comfort. The
working languages of the congress were English, Italian, French and German; full interpretation facilities would be provided. Fax machines and photocopying facilities would be made available.
‘Fruit in our rooms,’ said Ildiko, seeing that Apricots and Apples would also be on offer; I explained this was computing equipment. All papers would be photocopied and made available
in advance (‘That is silly,’ said Ildiko, ‘Why go?’) and the full proceedings would later be published by a distinguished university press in the USA. In the intervals of
our deliberations, a heated pool was available for informal discussions (‘Oh, that is why go,’ said Ildiko). So would tennis, riding, boating on the lake. Guests were advised to bring
appropriate clothing for cold and wet days (the weather, unlike almost everything else, could unfortunately not be guaranteed) and stout shoes for walking the extensive private grounds. Dinner
jackets were not obligatory, but formal clothes were needed for the evening, when orders, decorations and Nobel medals could be worn.
There were also some special instructions for the press. Media attention was not encouraged, but since this was a historic and international event some coverage was permitted. To avoid
inhibiting discussion, members of the press were expected to be discreet, and observe the congressional ‘off the record’ convention, which meant all statements were unattributable.
Stories should be checked with the Secretariat before being filed. Press packs would be issued on arrival; special press badges would be worn. Accommodation for organizers and main speakers would
be provided in the Villa Barolo itself; other participants, including the members of the press, would be housed, in good comfort, in the various studios, coachhouses, watchtowers and belvederes
that lay within the confines of the extensive and beautiful grounds.
‘But I thought nobody in your West took writing seriously,’ said Ildiko, as we checked through all the documents in my room, ‘I thought all your writers starved, except of
course for Jeffrey Archer. I thought that was why your writers envied ours so much, when we were always putting them in prison.’ ‘Nobody in the West does take writing seriously,’ I said,
‘What they take seriously are conferences. That’s what hotels are for. Shall I send back a cable to say we accept?’ ‘Of course, it’s wonderful, and Criminale will be
there,’ said Ildiko, ‘Do you like me to go for some train tickets? Now may I have your dollar?’ She held out her hand; I gave her some. ‘This is not very much,’ said
Ildiko, ‘I also have to live when I get there.’ ‘It looks as though the Magno Foundation will take care of that,’ I said.
‘Really, I hope you are not going to be mean, or this will not be such a good trip,’ said Ildiko, ‘You do like to take care of me in the West? Remember I have never been
there.’ ‘Never?’ I asked. ‘No, of course,’ said Ildiko, ‘Before the change I was not allowed to travel. To travel you must be very reliable. I was not so
reliable. That is how it was in those days.’ ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘But you do please to go with me, I hope?’ ‘Of course, Ildiko,’ I said. ‘I found
you the way to Criminale, no?’ ‘You did,’ I said. ‘And I think you do like me a bit, yes?’ ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Then you let me have that
hundred-dollar note, all right?’ ‘All right,’ I said.
And so, very early the next morning, Ildiko and I were to be found, on one of the railway stations at Budapest, with our light load of luggage. Alas, it was not Gustave Eiffel’s splendid
creation, but the plastic-tiled cavern at which I had arrived a couple of days earlier. Soon we were aboard the international train that was going to take us south and west towards the great Barolo
Congress. We went through places with names like Szekesfehervar and Balatonszentgyorgy, past great long lakes and mountains that shone with snow and ice. We crossed Hungary into Yugoslavia, passed
through the mountains, came to Zagreb, quiet as a mouse then, though terrible times came since. Waiters flitted in the dining car, bottles of wine rattled against the windows. Meanwhile Ildiko and
I stood in the second-class corridor of the crowded train, and ate crusty ham baguettes grabbed through the train window from platform vendors. It was, as things turned out, the last modest meal we were to consume for quite a few more days.
And then, suddenly, our train emerged from the shadow of the Alps, and we found we had crossed not just one but several frontiers. We had moved from north to south, from east to west, from
shadow into a world of brighter light and Mediterranean noise. At Villa Opicina we crossed the Italian frontier, where immigration checked our papers and the armed financial police examined our
currency; after all, we were now entering the great new world of European Monetary Union. We stopped again in Trieste, where James Joyce and Italo Svevo wrote (and God bless both of them). Then
slowly, as if uncertain of its destination, our train dragged across the plains of the Udine, of Friuli, of Lombardy, passing through or around ancient cities, capitals of old independent states,
and crossed through ricefields, oilfields, battlefields. At one point we changed, and came, a little ahead of time, into the great central railway station in Milan, where we were hoping that
someone or other was waiting to meet us.
And indeed someone was. Even before our train had come to a total halt, there were men in dark suits running down the platform, waving signs outside the train windows that said on them, in fine
printing, ‘Barolo Congress’. As soon as we stepped down, frankly a little shamefacedly, from the second-class coach, they took our graceless baggage – Ildiko’s
bright-coloured student backpack, my carry-on bag from Heathrow, an absurdly modest offering – and put it on great luggage carts, before directing us to a conference desk in the station
concourse, where we could see a great banner waving, announcing ‘Barolo Congress’. ‘Tell them I am your secretary or something,’ murmured Ildiko, as we got closer. ‘Of
course,’ I said.
Then suddenly, as we came nearer, a battery of photographers came forward, and started flashing cameras at us. A uniformed band in the background rallied, and began blaring brassy music towards
us. When we reached the decorated desk, a small neat near-bald man, in his middle years, stood there, arms out. For some reason he wore a dark blue blazer and a British regimental tie. He listened to my name, then greeted me effusively. ‘Ah, bene, bene, bene,’ he said, tucking his arm in mine, ‘The British press are here. We are truly
honoured. You are the firsta, by the way. Oh, I am Professor Massimo Monza.’ ‘Ah, Professor Monza,’ I said, ‘I’d like to introduce my companion, Miss Ildiko
Hazy.’ Monza took one long look and then seized and kissed several of her fingers. ‘What a beauty,’ he said, ‘And if you like beauties, please meeta my excellent assistants,
Miss Belli and Miss Uccello. It is their taska to satisfy you in everything.’
Miss Belli and Miss Uccello were also standing behind the desk, behind piles of wallets and papers. They were brilliant dark-haired girls who both wore very bright smiles and very expensive
designer dresses. Gucci scarves were tucked into their extremely open cleavages; rich gold bangles clanked on their well-tanned forearms; their dark hair fell over their dark eyes. ‘Ecco,
press pack!’ cried Miss Belli, handing me a wallet. ‘Prego, lapel badge!’ cried Miss Uccello, coming forward to pin plastic labels to our breasts. ‘Now if you don’t
mind to wait only ten minute,’ said Miss Belli. ‘The main party will be arriving from the West on the blasted Euro-train,’ said Miss Uccello. ‘Then after we will go in limos
to the lago,’ said Miss Belli. ‘And you will see the great Villa Barolo, which always through history was the great home of poets,’ said Miss Uccello. ‘I think it must be
very nice there,’ said Ildiko. ‘Ah, si, si,’ cried Miss Uccello, ‘Belle, belle, molto belle.’ ‘Si, si, si, bellissima,’ added Miss Belli.
Exactly ten minutes later, a vast transcontinental express, pulled by a magnificent streamlined, snubnosed electrical monster, one of those great trains that tie the vast European Community ever
and ever more closely together, slid slowly down the platform of Milan Central station. Milan immediately responded. The men in the dark suits bustled down the platform, holding up their signs to
the compartment windows. The press photographers ran forward, jostling and fighting to capture the perfect picture. The brass band began marching down the platform, playing a rousing tune. Then,
slowly, the great writers of the world, the literary diplomats and the serious critics, the select members of the Barolo Congress that in later years would be considered so memorable and so
seminal, began to debouch onto the platform. Their great valises and folded clothes-bags were piled onto great carts and hurried away. While cameras flashed, they streamed towards us. ‘Keep a
watch for Criminale Bazlo,’ said Ildiko.
We watched them come. First came a group of American Postmodernists, not so young-looking these days; one of them was very nearly bald, another had his spectacles bricolaged together with
sticking plaster, and looked far more like a Dirty Realist, another, in a dark blue Lacoste sport shirt and white trousers, carried a set of golf clubs and waved copies of his books at the cameras.
Behind them followed a more youthful group of American feminists, with very short bristle haircuts, designer dungarees, and very upfront and affirmative expressions; by the time they reached the
end of the platform, they were ahead. Then there was a very hesitant group of young writers from Britain, wearing extremely thick coats and woollen winter scarves. All of them were peculiarly tiny,
and several of them came from the new multi-ethnic generation; when their lapel badges were affixed, they proved to have names like Mukerji, Fadoo and Ho. The French were there in force: there were
distinguished elderly academicians, wearing small honours sewn into their lapels, and then younger authors of both sexes decked out in dark sunglasses and enormous baggy four-breasted suits. There
were German writers from either side of the border that had just come down, still not comfortable with each other, though to the external eye they appeared entirely alike, all carrying small
handbags dangling from their wrists and wearing black leather jackets.