Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
Criminale laughed. ‘One question is now two,’ he said. ‘Please, Dottore Criminale!’ ‘Remember, the world has changed but the people in it remain inside the
same,’ said Criminale, ‘This is the problem of all revolutions. You know the old saying: never forget the past, you may need it again in the future.’ ‘Then how does this
affect your meetings here?’ ‘Two questions are now three,’ said Criminale, ‘Well, the problem of Literature After the Cold War is the same problem as Literature During the
Cold War, da? It is the problem to stop it being merely politics or journalism and make it become literature. It is to make history deliver the aesthetic, to make events a thing of form. It is also
a problem that is never solved, because we are mortal. Enough?’ ‘Basta?’ asked Monza. ‘Wonderful, Dottore Criminale,’ said the radio reporter.
Then a girl with a spiral notebook pushed up close. She was extremely good-looking; I saw Criminale smile pleasantly at her. ‘Signor Criminale, do you speak perhaps Italian? I like your
views on the works of Pliny.’ ‘It’s all righta, I translate for you,’ said Monza, ‘Si?’ ‘It is not necessary, Monza,’ said Criminale, and produced
two or three sentences in graceful Italian that clearly served their turn, for there was a small burst of applause at the end. ‘Maestro, maestro, maestro!’ cried another journalist from
the back of the crowd, an innocent-looking young man with long hair and glasses, who seemed something of an Italian version of myself, ‘I needa your attention! Some personal ques-
tions?’ Criminale raised his head, as if disturbed. And then there was an extraordinary interruption.
‘My dearling, really, you will be much too tired,’ cried someone. I turned; we all did. A vast woman like a ship, hung with flags and trophies, her hair raised into a great decorated
poop, her great handbag clanking noisily, as if it was filled with doubloons, was forging heedlessly through the crowd. ‘It’s Sepulchra,’ said Ildiko, ‘Oh, my God,
hasn’t she got bigger!’ ‘Bazlo, dearling, it is time for your think,’ said Sepulchra firmly. ‘Yes, my dear,’ said Criminale, timidly, turning to her,
‘Monza, I fear all this is becoming a bit of a bore. A bit of a big noisy bore.’ ‘I’m sorry, Bazlo,’ said Monza, going a little pale. ‘May I trouble you, or
perhaps one of your very kind assistants, to take me to some room or quiet place or other.’ ‘Somewhere he can write a little,’ said Sepulchra. ‘To write, now?’ asked
Monza, ‘We are just beginning . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Criminale, ‘One or two thoughts on Kant and Hegel have suddenly occurred to me I had better commit down to paper at once.’ ‘If you can wait only one
minute,’ said Monza, ‘I have a few important announcementas to make, and I really musta introduce you to the gatheringa. Then I personally will find you a good place to worka.’
‘If very brief,’ said Sepulchra. ‘Quite brief,’ said Monza, ‘We must make a welcome.’ ‘Very very brief,’ said Sepulchra. ‘Attenzione! Achtung!
Not so noisy prego! Can I have your attention bitte!’ cried Monza, clapping his hands over his head. Slowly the distinctive noise of chattering writers began to subside. ‘Distinguished
guestsa!’ pronounced Monza, now standing on a chair, ‘My name is Massimo Monza, and I like to welcoma you to this great Barolo Congress, on the theme “Writing and Power: The
Changing Nineties: Literatura After the Colda Wara!”’
‘Here he goes,’ Miss Belli whispered in my ear. ‘For an entira weeka, in these so beautiful surroundingsa, both classical and romantical, we will meeta and worka together, to
discuss the most lifa and deatha questions of the modern world of today!’ ‘This is brief?’ Sepulchra could be heard saying, ‘I do not think it is brief.’
‘Fortuna,’ said Monza, ‘has smiled often on this fantastical place. It smiles againa today. I will be making you of course many announcementsa.’ ‘Of course,’
murmured Miss Uccello. ‘But the firsta is the finesta!’ said Monza, ‘You know we have here as Guesta of Honour a man without whom all serious discussion is frankly impossible! I
mean of course our maestro, Dottore Bazlo Criminale, biographer of Goethe, autore of
Homeless
, and truly the greatest philosopher of our tima! I ask you, pleasa welcome Dottore
Criminale!’ Arm out, Monza turned on his chair, gesturing towards his guest of honour. Applause surged; then it faltered and stopped. The space in the hall to which Monza was gesturing was
vacant. Somehow, without anyone quite noticing, Criminale and his spouse, who had been there only a moment before, had absented themselves: disappeared.
That was the moment when I learned a further new lesson about Bazlo Criminale. If he was a man who was difficult to find, he was also a man who was easy to lose again. I turned and looked for
the Misses Belli and Uccello; they were standing round Monza, flashing their eyes as only they knew how, and waving their arms furiously in a familiar kind of Italian frenzy. ‘What’s
happened to him?’ I asked Miss Belli, detaining her for a moment. ‘He has done it again, he has blasted disappeared again,’ said Miss Belli, looking frantic. ‘You mean
he’s done this sort of thing before?’ I asked. ‘Of course, he does it all the blasted time,’ said Miss Uccello. ‘We are supposed to look after him, you see,’
said Miss Belli, ‘So we take him when he asks to go to the newspaper shop down in Barolo.’ ‘One minute he is there, the next he is gone,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘Then you
don’t see him again for perhaps a whole day.’ ‘And he carries no money and he doesn’t know where he stays,’ said Miss Belli. ‘But usually the police find him
somewhere, anywhere, and bring him back again in their van,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘But where now?’
‘Why does he do it?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘Sometimes he thinks he is in Rangoon. I don’t know why Rangoon.’ ‘He went
there,’ said Miss Belli. ‘You don’t mean he’s a little . . .’ I asked, tapping my head. ‘Naiou,’ cried Miss Belli impatiently, ‘He is better sane
than the rest of us.’ ‘He is just thinking,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘He is a philosopher.’ ‘But this time we hope he has not gone so far,’ said Miss Belli.
‘Tonight he must give the after-dinner speech,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘If we can’t find him this time Monza will really kill us.’ In the middle of the lobby, Monza, who
had descended from his chair to give some frantic instructions to the servants, had recovered his organizational abilities and remounted his podium. ‘Prego, achtung!’ he was shouting,
clapping his hands again, ‘I like to maka you a few more announcaments!’
Miss Belli groaned. ‘Announcaments!’ she said, ‘I think that is what did it. Bazlo cannot stand Monza’s announcaments.’ A moment later, I began to grasp what she
meant. Things always have to be announced at conferences; Monza had chosen to make an art form of it. No doubt this was why they got him to organize great congresses; he was a world-class clapper
of hands and tapper of glasses, a virtuoso of banging hard on desks and knocking knives on tables. In fact I was later to learn, as events progressed, that Monza’s conference announcements
were often remembered worldwide for many years – long after the lectures, events and receptions they referred to had passed into collective oblivion.
So, gathering his wits about him, Monza announced. The world of congress had clearly begun. First he announced his future schedule of announcements. He announced he would announce his daily
announcements each morning at ten, before the daily sessions began. Because without announcements no congress could function, everyone should be present, even if they chose to miss the sessions. If
there should happen to be no announcements on any particular day, he would of course announce that then, though it was highly unlikely. Then he announced to us the conference schedule, the plan of
daily sessions, the proposed times of relaxation, the hour of pre-lunch and pre-dinner drinks, the various pleasures that had been so thoughtfully contrived for us at various points during our
stay: a tour of the lake, for instance, a trip to ancient Bergamo, a candlelit dinner midweek, a night-time concert of chamber music, which would be held at the nearby Villa Bellavecchia, just on
the other side of the lake, forming a nice excursion, and so on.
After that he announced that there would be a Grand Reception this same evening in the Salon of the Muses, to be followed by a Great Opening Banquetta in the Lippo Lippi Dining Room. This would
be attended by the padrona of the Magno Foundation, Mrs Valeria Magno, who would be joining us specially from the United States, once she had found a satisfactory landing slot for her private 727.
Finally he announced that because, unfortunately, the announcements had somehow gone on for so long, the reception was due to start in less than half an hour. And since we would all want to change,
and our rooms were scattered at wide distances all over the great grounds, we should delay no longer but hurry to the Secretariat to pick up our keys and room assignments. I looked at my watch.
‘We’re already half an hour late,’ I said to Miss Belli. ‘Only in Britain,’ said Miss Belli, ‘In Italy when you are an hour late, you are already half an hour
early.’
And it was at the Secretariat, where I stood in line to collect our keys, that I discovered the first of my several Barolo confusions. Whether it was because of the brevity of my cable,
international language difficulties or sheer natural Italian generosity I do not know, but Ildiko and I had been assigned to the same room. I had no real complaints about this myself (you would
understand if you had seen Ildiko) but I rather thought she might have. ‘So where do we go?’ she asked, when I found her waiting for me on the terrace outside, staring delightedly at
the view up the lake. ‘We’re both down in the Old Boathouse,’ I said. ‘A Boathouse?’ asked Ildiko, ‘We sleep in the water?’ ‘I don’t think
we’ll actually be in the water,’ I said, ‘But they have put us together in one room. I could complain, if you like.’
Ildiko looked at me. ‘You want to complain?’ she asked. ‘Not necessarily,’ I said, ‘I thought you might want to complain.’ ‘But with officials it is
always a very bad thing to complain,’ said Ildiko, ‘They can keep you for many days. No, I suppose this is the custom in the West.’ ‘Not always,’ I said, ‘But
maybe in Italy. So it’s all right?’ ‘Of course all right,’ said Ildiko, ‘It is wonderful here. Just like a place for Party members, but even better. So is all the West
like this?’ ‘I’m afraid not,’ I said, ‘Some of it’s pretty miserable. In fact most of it, compared with this.’ ‘So who pays all this?’ asked
Ildiko. ‘An American patron,’ I said, ‘I think she made her money in planes and pharmaceuticals. So you could say this is the smiling face of American capitalism.’
‘You mean I am looked after like this by American capitalism?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’ ‘Of course not, about
time,’ said Ildiko, putting her arm through mine, ‘I think it is just like Paradise, here. So let us go and find our nice little room.’
Following the map we had been given, Ildiko and I walked along the path that led downwards, through the great gardens of the villa, towards the Old Boathouse, which was, as you’d think,
set by the lakeside below. Looking round, I realized that Ildiko was right: Paradise was no bad name for it after all. For, inside the villa and outside it, Barolo seemed a place where nothing
could be faulted, except for the sheer absence of fault itself. No doubt its very confusions were intentional. The gardens we now walked through were themselves art-objects, just like the ones in
the house. Every single terrace had been cultivated, every bed laboured over, every hedge and bush seemed to have been trimmed. Every tree was intentional, every rock had become a step to
somewhere, and every woodland path led to some dramatic revelation – a grotto, a belvedere, a gazebo, a long view, a statue of a glancing nymph or indeed a hefty philosopher of the classical
age, when they knew you thought much better naked.
Even the wilderness was tamed. Up the wooded and craggy mountainside that rose up above the formal gardens, every nook and cranny, every cleft and orifice, had been worked for some purpose
– planted with ferns, turned into a grotto, shaped into a shrine, sculpted into a waterfall. The nooks and crannies, the clefts and orifices, of the great stone statues of nymphs, gods,
athletes and bacchantes that stood everywhere were just as worked and crafted. Breasts and bottoms, mouths and penises, turned into spurting outlets of aquatic fecundity that sprayed into
fountains, watered the fish-ponds, or fed the rivulets that coursed down the mountainside, through the gardens, and down into the lake in front of us. As for the lake, as we came to it down lighted
steps, it had been carefully coloured dark magenta, and been decorated with fireflies. In a true Paradise nothing is overlooked.
As for the Old Boathouse, that could not be faulted either. The ancient building had been modernly converted, into a set of comfortable suites plainly fit for the greatest of Euro-princes. The
suite we entered contained a bedroom, bathroom, and a great sitting room/study. The bed was king-sized; no, it was greater than king-sized, emperor-sized, or President-of-the-European-
Community-sized, perhaps. Fine Turkish kelims were scattered on the terracotta floor; Gobelin tapestries hung randomly on the walls. ‘And all this is just for us, why?’ asked Ildiko,
poking round fascinated. ‘They’re obviously expecting a very good article,’ I said, ‘I wish I had a paper to put it in.’ ‘Oh, look, isn’t that nice,’
said Ildiko, opening an ancient wardrobe, ‘The servants have unpacked our things already. I don’t believe it, these are your clothes? You come to a great place and you dress like a dog?
I thought you were a rich man.’
‘Ildiko, let’s get this quite straight,’ I said, ‘I’m not a rich man. Besides, when I started this trip I thought I was going to Vienna just for a couple of
days.’ ‘Well, now you are very lucky,’ said Ildiko, ‘You see what a really nice place I have brought you to. Tomorrow we will go and shop, and make you smart. You have
plenty of dollar, I hope?’ ‘Tomorrow the congress starts,’ I said, ‘We have to attend the papers.’ ‘But the congress is just a lot of announcements,’ said
Ildiko. ‘Not all the time,’ I said, ‘There’ll be papers too, by all the leading writers. And I have to make contact with Bazlo Criminale. If they ever find him again.’
Ildiko lay full-length on the bed, nuzzled the pillow, and looked up at me. ‘You know, you were very clever to arrange a room with me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t actually arrange
it,’ I said. ‘No?’ asked Ildiko, ‘I think you have already learned to think a little Hungarian. It’s a nice bed.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Try
it,’ said Ildiko. ‘I think we’re going to have to change and go now,’ I said, ‘The reception will have started already.’ ‘If that is what you like,’
said Ildiko, ‘So very well.’