Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
Then from various countries of Eastern Europe there were several formerly dissident writers, in little forage caps, looking extremely confused about exactly what, these days, they were
dissenting from. From Russia came a great hulk of a writer, six foot six tall at the very least, named Davidoff. He was accompanied by a flamboyant, yellow-haired woman, as vast, generous and
capacious as the Russian steppes, as red-cheeked, bright-lipped and multi-layered as a Russian matrioshka doll, and dressed in an extraordinary electric purple, named Tatyana Tulipova. There was a
lady Japanese writer in a pink kimono. There were black African writers in multicoloured tribal robes, who laughed a lot, and a tall thin writer from Somalia who walked as over sand-dunes with the
aid of a long cleft stick. There were tanned and muscular young academics from Southern California, carrying their tennis rackets; there were mean-looking dark-clad theoretical critics from Yale,
carrying grey laptop computers and looking about nervously from side to side. There was, in fact, everything in the modern writing game except for Bazlo Criminale. Of him there was no sign.
‘Maybe he has his own train,’ said Ildiko.
So, shaking hands, chatting, laughing, frowning, embracing, renewing old congress friendships or old conference hostilities, the notable writers of the world gathered round the reception desk in
the concourse, while the citizens of Milan set aside their normal daily cares and gathered round to watch the spectacle. From small bald Professor Monza the writers received warm handshakes and
backslaps; from the laughing, ebullient Signorinas Belli and Uccello they received friendly embraces and large leather wallets. Then suddenly, leaping on his chair and clapping his hands together,
Professor Monza began shouting. ‘Attenzione! Achtung bitte! Quiet please! An announcament!’ ‘Professor Monza is the crown prince of announcements,’ said Miss Belli to me.
‘Your cars are now awaiting!’ announced Professor Monza, ‘Pleasa now follow the behinds of Misses Belli and Uccello!’ There was pleased laughter. ‘Maka your way to the
entranca! I will see you all again at the Villa Barolo! Then I will make some more announcaments! It is very importanta you listen for all announcaments!’
The writers of the world then began to march in a line through the concourse, down the escalators, towards the entrance to the station. And here a great cortège of dark limousines stood
waiting, each one with a dark-suited driver beside it. The writers piled in, group by group, nation by nation. Then, as motorcycle outriders stopped the city traffic, the grand procession began
moving through the streets of Milan, rather like some state funeral at which, however, the mourners had failed to observe the basic rule of solemnity, and were laughing, leaning out of the windows,
and waving from car to car. We passed the wonderful designer shops of Milan, in the arcaded streets; Ildiko stared out of the window entranced. ‘But I thought Italy was a very poor
country,’ she said. ‘Not any more, not since it joined the European Community,’ I said, ‘It’s one of the richest countries of Europe. At least, this part is.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Ildiko, ‘I like it. Oh, what shops!’
Probably because of our subordinate press status, we had been put in the very last car. This proved fortunate, because it meant we found ourselves in the ebullient company of Signorinas Belli
and Uccello. Fine-looking girls of a familiar, and expensive, Italian type, they flashed their eyes a lot, laughed a good deal, and happily explained to us what a whole lot of blasted fun this
whole blasted congress was going to be. ‘Professor Monza has prepared it for many month,’ said Miss Belli, ‘I suppose you have both heard of Professor Monza?’ ‘I
don’t know him,’ said Ildiko, ‘He is not known in my country.’ ‘But he is just our very best-known professor!’ cried Miss Uccello, ‘He has his own column
in
La Stampa
!’ ‘His own arts programme on Radio Italiana,
Ecco Bravo
!’ cried Miss Belli. ‘He writes experimental novels of Sicily!’ cried Miss Uccello.
‘And edits the famous magazine
Soufflé’,
you know it?’ cried Miss Belli, ‘All about literature and food!’ ‘Also he drives a Porsche,’ said
Miss Belli. ‘He has a very beautiful, very rich wife,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘Of course he keeps her at his villa in the campagna.’ ‘He has the best collection of South
American art in Italy,’ said Miss Belli. ‘In short he is very blasted famous and very blasted rich,’ said Miss Uccello.
‘And he is a professor, he teaches as well?’ asked Ildiko. Misses Belli and Uccello laughed. ‘Well, when the universities are open, he sometimes visits us,’ said Miss
Belli, ‘In Italy the universities are not open so often.’ ‘You’re his students?’ I asked. ‘Well, we make our theses with him,’ said Miss Uccello. ‘So
what do you study?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Signs, we study signs,’ said Miss Belli. ‘Mostly the film
Casablanca
, do you know it?’ asked Miss Uccello, ‘That has
very interesting signs.’ ‘We look at it from a semiotic Marxist perspective,’ said Miss Belli. ‘You mean, Professor Monza is a Marxist?’ I asked. ‘Of course, he
is a leading Italian intellectual,’ said Miss Uccello. ‘A very rich Marxist, that is the best kind to be,’ said Miss Belli, ‘Never be a Marxist and also poor.’
‘He takes us out on his yacht at the weekends and we discuss the theories of Gramsci,’ said Miss Uccello, looking at Miss Belli and giggling. ‘It’s right,’ said Miss
Belli, giggling too, ‘We call it, topless Gramsci.’
Milan was well behind us now, and we were proceeding north, back towards the slopes of the Italian Alps; the white peaks rose ahead of us, backlit with a roseate afternoon glow. Even with winter
coming, various perfumed fragrances blew in on us from the Lombardy countryside, with its red farmhouses and verdant gardens – though these were as nothing compared with the expensive musky
perfumes that wafted from the bodies of the delightful Signorinas Belli and Uccello, who sat in the seats in front of us. ‘So that’s Monza,’ I said, ‘But what happened to
Doctor Criminale? I didn’t see him at the station.’ ‘At the station, naiou,’ said Miss Belli, ‘Of course not, he is at the villa, preparing his great speech for the
close of the congress.’ ‘Has he been there a little while?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Already three, four day,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘He likes to come there often, because it
is a good place for him to write. My mount of Olympus, that is how he calls it.’ ‘He’s alone?’ I asked. Miss Belli and Miss Uccello turned to each other and laughed.
‘No, not alone,’ said Miss Belli finally, ‘La Stupenda is with him.’
‘La Stupenda?’ I asked. ‘His wife Sepulchra,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘We call her La Stupenda.’ Ildiko turned to me. ‘You remember her,’ she said,
‘I showed you her nude photographs in Budapest.’ ‘Her blasted nude photo!’ cried Miss Belli joyously, falling with tears of laughter into the arms of Miss Uccello.
‘Non possibile!’ cried Miss Ucello, wiping her eyes. ‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘You don’t know her?’ asked Miss Belli, ‘This lady is like a great
battleship.’ ‘She charges all round and fires at people all the time, always ready for the attack,’ said Miss Uccello. ‘That poor man,’ said Miss Belli, ‘Really
we feel so sorry for him.’ ‘How does such a nice man marry such a woman!’ asked Miss Uccello. ‘Oh look,’ said Miss Belli, ‘Here we are at the blasted
lake!’ ‘And now we must go on the blasted speedo!’ said Miss Uccello. The car stopped, in the long line of cars; the driver descended, and opened the doors for us; we all got
out.
We were beside a wooden pier, where three white speedboats with bright awned canvas roofs stood rocking, waiting to take us on board. Behind us lay a small Italian town, buzzing with the noise
of motorscooters; in front of us lay a great Italian lake, surrounded by ilex-covered green hillsides. Along the spread of the lake were a few small settlements, their lights twinkling in
reflection in the pearly grey water. The lake was thin and long, and made a great finger pointing north into the granite white-capped mass of the Alps, which rose up in a wall at the further end.
Behind them a purple evening light was already beginning to glow. ‘Why do we go on a boat?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Because now we go to an island, Isola Barolo,’ said Miss Belli,
‘And there you will find the villa. Let us go on board.’ The other writers were already settling in the seats, some of them wrapping themselves around with rugs. Helped on board by a
white-capped boatman, Ildiko and I went up to the prow, to be joined by Misses Belli and Uccello.
Soon we were speeding up the lake, over still grey chilly water that fizzed like champagne under our motion. Around the lake sat many fine and ancient villas, terracotta or ochre in colour,
built on small outcrops or tucked into coves; their manicured gardens were filled with statuary, and all had great boathouses, packed with yachts, cruisers, small motorboats. Hair blowing in the
wind, Misses Belli and Uccello explained to us that most of these were ancient villas, homes that had once belonged to Pliny and Vergil, to noble contessas and elegant principessas, to deposed
kings and displaced literary exiles. Now, in another order of things, they mostly belonged to Milanese furniture designers or Arab entrepreneurs, people whose bank accounts kept them going and who
only came there on occasional weekends, leaving the lake to a kind of peace it had not really enjoyed since the days of the Ghibellines and the Guelphs. ‘So now we have it nearly to
ourselves,’ said Miss Belli, ‘Now, when we turn the point, you will see Barolo.’
There was a burst of spray as our boat changed course, and there in front of us lay a long low island, rising to a sharp and craggy peak at its far end. At the base of this prominence was a
small village, with pier, promenade, an arcaded street with small shops and cafés, a few small hotels, the stone bell-tower of an ancient church. Above the village rose terrace after
terrace, garden after garden, wood after wood. Near the top, among cypresses, ilexes, jacaranda trees, was a vast pink villa, gazing out in all directions up and down the lake, and grander even
than those we had already seen. ‘Ecco, Villa Barolo,’ cried Miss Belli. ‘We go there? Really?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Si si,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘Blasted nice,
don’t you say?’ On the glassed-in terraces of the hotels, the few winter guests rose from their pasta to watch our extraordinary arrival. The writers of the world unloaded at the pier,
where several minibuses waited to shuttle us from the village itself to the remarkable world of the villa above.
We took our places in the bus, and soon came to the great iron security gates that barred the entrance to the estate; they opened by some electronic magic on our arrival. We drove up the winding
ilex-lined drive, past great gardens and ordered woods, and came at last to the formal lawn and the grand portico of the villa itself. Blue-coated servants hurried out to take the hand luggage;
white-coated butlers steered us into the fine vast hallway of the house. In the middle of the lobby stood small Professor Monza, clapping his hands, giving orders. He had somehow arrived ahead of
us, by what means it was not entirely clear, but maybe by helicopter or hologram. Talking, gazing, exclaiming, looking up at the ceiling by Tiepolo, at the statues by Canova, we surged in –
writers of the world, novelists and critics, journalists and reviewers, the leading citizens in fact of the life, which was here evidently the highlife, of contemporary literature.
Just then I noticed that Professor Monza had been quietly joined by someone else. He was a sturdy, square, bodily firm man in his early or middle sixties. I say a man; he was rather a presence.
He wore a light blue silk suit that had a fine sheen to it, like the best Venetian glassware; I imagined it had come from some tailor in Hong Kong who had spent years thoughtfully pondering every
detail of his personal measurements. There was a dark blue silk kerchief tucked into his top pocket; a Swiss gold watch shone brightly on his wrist, under the cuff of his blue silk shirt. His
cufflinks had probably come from Iran, his shoes no doubt from Gucci. The soufflé chef at Maxim’s seemed to have bouffanted his coiffed-up, elegant grey hair. In one way his appearance
seemed a little coarse; his arms were fat, his body rather squat, and a tuft of wiry chest hair stuck out over the knot of his Hermès tie. In another his appearance was highly refined: his
manner was gracious and courtly, the hand he stuck out to the people who began crowding round him in warm recognition had the suppleness of a pianist as he fondled the keys of his Bechstein. I did
not know him; and yet, of course, I did. ‘Ecce homo,’ cried Miss Belli, seizing my arm and pointing him out. ‘Oh yes, there he is, that is the one,’ said Ildiko, equally
excited, ‘Do you see him, that is Bazlo Criminale.’
From the moment he appeared, from goodness knows where, amongst us, it was immediately apparent that Bazlo Criminale had given the room the centre that, in the chaos of
arrival, it had seemed to lack. The distinguished writers, toting their hand luggage, stopped in their chatter to look. The photographers surged forward, as if at last they were now truly flashing
their cameras at something really worth the flashing. Despite the regulations about the press, it was clear that quite a few Italian journalists had been allowed to join the arriving party, and
they now left all other prey behind and began to form a great circle around him. Monza made a brief pretence of waving them away, but it was perfectly apparent that he was the one who had allowed
them into the villa in the first place. It made no difference; they were, after all, Italian.
In his sparkling blue suit, Criminale remained calm, used to all this. ‘Let them, Monza,’ I heard him say, as I pressed forward too, ‘These people must always have their little
ounces or two of flesh.’ ‘Maybe just one or two photographas!’ said Monza. ‘Radio Italiana,’ said a young man who had shoved himself forward, a recorder hanging from
his shoulder, ‘Prego, please, Dottore Criminale!’ ‘Oh, radio, I don’t think so,’ said Monza, dismissively, ‘Or do we allow him perhapsa just one minute,
hey?’ ‘Very well, very well, I will answer just one question,’ said Criminale patiently, ‘Though I like just a little silence.’ ‘Silenza, silenza!’ cried
Monza. ‘Dottore Criminale,’ asked the man from Radio Italiana, who had beautiful black hair, ‘The changes now in the Soviet Union, do you think they are totally
irreversible?’ ‘Ah,’ said Criminale, ‘The changes in Russia become incontrovertible only when the rouble becomes convertible.’ ‘Si, si,’ said the man from
Radio Italiana, ‘And so what happens now in Eastern Europe?’