Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
I watched: the thinker was dealing with the world. Next he would turn to the book reviews. He seemed especially fond of the bestseller lists (‘
Hip and Thigh Diet
doing well
again,’ he would say, ‘Why is it only fatties who read?’), perhaps because he was quite frequently on them, though he showed no great vanity about the many mentions of his own
name. Afterwards it would be the financial pages, which he read like some old man in a café, running his fine fat finger down lists of share prices, checking on bids and takeovers, frauds
and scandals. ‘Insider trader put inside,’ he would say, ‘Isn’t it coals to Newcastle? What else? Drugs money laundered, offshore accounts seized, bankers jailed, junk bonds
worthless, of course, or they wouldn’t be junk. What a wonderful world, money. All the sins of the world are there. How lucky we have philosophy.’ ‘You can say this of money
because you have some,’ Sepulchra would observe, sitting in the chair beside him, combing her hair and reading some glossy magazine. ‘Marxist,’ Criminale would say. ‘Same of
you,’ Sepulchra would say.
Lastly Criminale would turn to the advertisement pages, which for some reason seemed to give him the greatest delight. ‘Sale at Bloomingdales,’ he would suddenly announce,
‘Sepulchra, look, a big deal on bras I think would very much interest you.’ Sepulchra, in the chair beside him, would look up and say, ‘I have enough of those thing to last at
least two lifetime.’ ‘Not like these,’ he would say, ‘Ah, special offer on garden recliners.’ ‘No garden,’ Sepulchra would say. ‘Ninety-nine cents
off tin of peas,’ he would say, ‘Life of Michael Dukakis reduced. Ah, shopping, shopping, shopping.’ ‘You seem very interested in shopping,’ I risked saying once,
looking up from some article on the growing Gulf crisis that I was reading. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘At the theoretical level only.’ ‘He never buys a thing,’ said
Sepulchra. ‘You see, now sexual eroticism is exhausted, this is the one eroticism we have left.’ ‘You think sexual eroticism is exhausted?’ I asked. ‘Naturally,’
said Criminale, turning over the pages, ‘Women are upping their ante, isn’t that what you say, and in any case we know so much about the body now it has nothing else left to give. But
shopping, now that is different.’
‘How is it different?’ I asked. ‘I read the other day a book,
Postmodernism, Consumer Culture, and Global Disorder
, described as an account of the joys and sorrows of
the contemporary consumer in an age of world crisis. Half the people of the world starve or fight each other. Meanwhile where is the new life conducted? In the shopping mall. On the one hand,
crisis and death, on the other the joys of the meat counter, the sorrows of the pants department. When we reach a certain point of wealth, everyone asks, where do I find myself? The answer? Hanging
on a peg in the clothes store, newest fashion, designer label, for you reduced by thirty per cent. Why is there trouble in Russia? Because they have not yet invented the store.’ ‘Never
mind the thing to put inside it,’ said Sepulchra, reaching in her jangling handbag for some powder compact or other. ‘They have not even discovered money,’ said Criminale,
‘They still barter goods for goods. That is why they want to become American. They too like to be born to shop.’
I felt somewhat baffled. At times like this Criminale and Sepulchra looked not like great philosopher and mate, but like some semi-geriatric couple, two fond old-timers on a holiday cruise. They
bickered, spatted and then agreed, in what seemed almost a mockery of connubial bliss. For a trendy world thinker, a man endlessly snapped with one arm round some chic topless model or world
leader, this seemed extremely odd. I remembered my treatment, thirty sparkling pages that everyone believed in and nobody had read. In this, the erotic adventures and mysterious loves of Bazlo
Criminale appeared crucially. Nothing in all I had read and thought prepared me for anything like Sepulchra, who, sitting there jangling, would suddenly begin tapping at her watch: ‘Dearling,
time for congress,’ she would say. ‘Oh, really, time for congress?’ Criminale would say, infinitely mild, ‘So do I go today, or do I don’t?’ ‘Of course you
go, my dearling,’ Sepulchra would say, heaving him up, ‘People have come right across world to hear you.’ ‘I don’t think so, it is free tickets they like,’
Criminale would say, ‘Very well, very well, I know my duty. You always teach me my duty. See you, little sexpot. I just go up to the room a minute.’ The only odd thing was that, after
all this fuss, when we all began gathering in the upstairs conference room, Criminale would always prove absent.
We would go in, sit down. Five-channel interpretation headsets waited for us in wooden boxes as we entered. On the wide tables, small national flags, nameplates, notepads and pencils, bottles of
mineral water and colas, stood ready. So did a panoply of video recorders, overhead projectors and other technological facilities; no modern conference can function without them, and there was
nothing of which Barolo was short. The day’s business was about to begin. The writers would gather on one side of the room, chatting together with that spirit of mutual suspicion which is so
often their stock-in-trade, and makes the idea of an international republic of letters such an absurd notion. The politicians would gather on the other – ministers of culture, financial
advisers, representatives of international cultural commissions, all embracing each other across vast political frontiers with such a warmth of diplomatic civility that it made the very idea of
modern war and conflict seem ever more absurd. If we want world peace, the great mistake we make is letting our leaders back into their own countries. The smart thing would be to keep them at
conferences, permanently abroad.
Now Monza would enter, clapping his hands at the top of the table, and we would be off once more into his world of announcaments. Then he would extol the virtues of dialoga – it was for
dialoga we had come, our dialoga was now going very well – and introduce, and then constantly interrupt, the various speakers lined up for our pleasure. We sat in our headsets, which hummed
with multilinguality; imported translators sat in glass boxes and rendered the proceedings pan-European. The papers started, first one by a writer, then one by a politician. Monza would listen
birdlike, check them all with his stopwatch (‘One more minuta!’), as if this were some Olympic event in speed paper-giving, then halt the flow and demand that we all immediately
engage in our ‘great common dialoga’.
But wait a minute: where was the man I had come for? Had he disappeared yet again? I would glance anxiously out of the windows, and there he’d be – sitting outside huddled in some
gazebo, his great ship Sepulchra beside him. What was he doing? Dictating; he was talking rapidly, she was taking it down in a notebook. If anyone approached – a gardener, a butler with
coffee – she would stand up, like some farmer’s wife, and flap at them, as if shooing away geese. Criminale would keep talking on; you would see her scrabbling again for her notebook,
then writing furiously. Maybe that said what this marriage was all about: prophet and amanuensis, master and slave. Then I noticed I was not the only one in the conference room looking up from some
statement about the welfare of humankind, the protection of the eco-system and the excessive importance of literary prizes to glance out of the window. Yes, Criminale was absent, but also almost
present, ever reassuring.
And sure enough, when we broke for drinks before lunch, Criminale would be there – concerned, interested, benign and thoughtful. Now he was a far more public self, the international
thinker. ‘Certainly I intended to be present,’ he would say, as we gathered on the chill of the terrace, ‘However a few thoughts of great urgence occurred to me suddenly. But you
had I expect a very good morning. It was an excellent dialogue? Now tell me everything. I do not wish to miss a word of it.’ So he’d pass right round the gathering, speaking to
everyone, sharing every interest, picking each brain. ‘You know the architectonics of pure sound are infinite, did we know it,’ you could hear him saying to some music specialist,
‘They take us into conceptions we cannot imagine, better than any spaceship. By the way, I like this suit.’ Or, ‘You are a minister of culture, oh really? I do believe the fact
that there are so many ministers here, leaving so little room for writers, is proof positive of the seriousness with which literature is nowadays taken. It raises my heart, really.’
As Criminale did his priestly work, Sepulchra would go scurrying round after him. ‘Dearling, you will be very tired,’ she would say. ‘Not at all, please, please,’ he
would answer, ‘Don’t you see, I am in the most stimulating company possible, how could I possibly be tired?’ ‘Up late,’ said Sepulchra, ‘Working too hard.’
‘Don’t fuss, Sepulchra, but by the way, better to take those notes you made and lock them in our suitcase,’ he would say, ‘You know the old saying: thought is free, but even
wise men are thieves.’ This was somehow insulting, but it offended no one, just as his absences offended no one. Criminale had permission; he lived by edgy irony. So the delegates would crowd
round, reporting like happy children on the deeds they had so bravely performed in the congress sessions. And on anything, everything, they discussed Criminale had an opinion, a judgement.
Constantly he summed matters up with some aphorism so wise it completely excused his absence. It was somehow generally acknowledged that what it took duller minds three hours to deliberate,
Criminale, Mr Thought, could sort out and settle in a matter of seconds.
*
‘Ah, what a minda!’ cried Monza on the first day, grasping my arm through his, as we stood there holding pre-lunch drinks on the cold terrace, ‘A minda like
quicksilver!’ ‘Yes, he’s impressive,’ I said, ‘It’s a pity we didn’t have him to talk in this morning’s session when Tatyana Tulipova . . .’
‘But you know such a man is too busy,’ said Monza. ‘Is he?’ I asked. ‘Of coursa!’ cried Monza, ‘He has publishing affairsa! Financial affairsa! Political
affairsa! Everyone asksa for him!’ Suddenly there was a stir, as blue-coated servants rushed outside and began meticulously tidying the terrace. A moment later, Mrs Valeria Magno swept
grandly through the doorway, and appeared amongst us on the terrace. The chatter stopped, and we all turned to look. The great padrona had arrived.
There is no doubt she was an impressive sight. She wore some low, loose, splendid Italian designer creation – I suspected that this purchase was what had kept her late the night before,
while we all sat waiting for her arrival at the banquet – and had one of those perfect timeless, transcendental faces that between them surgeons and beauticians have somehow secured in
perpetuity. I immediately saw from her manner – the way her eyes slid across me and many others and then turned quickly away – that, like most celebrities, she was looking round for
some topshot company. ‘Scusi, the padrona,’ said Monza, leaving me immediately, and rushing over to kiss her hand. Mrs Magno glanced at him, then pushed him aside. She had found what
she was looking for. ‘Hey man!’ she cried, throwing her arms wide, ‘How are you, buddy?’
‘Hey there, my dear lady,’ said Bazlo Criminale, the object of this attention, walking over to enjoy an embrace and a round of kisses. ‘You know I wouldn’t have come if
it hadn’t been for you, honey,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘So how’s it buzzing? Good congress?’ ‘Believe me, Valeria, quite excellent,’ said Criminale, ‘Our
Monza has surpassed himself. Talent is everywhere, wisdom abounds.’ ‘My God,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘Listen, I’m not going to eat a thing unless you sit beside me,
okay?’ ‘Okay, of course,’ said Criminale. ‘And how’s Madame Criminale,’ asked Mrs Magno, turning to Sepulchra. ‘So-so,’ said Sepulchra, ‘Maybe
I miss lunch. I am putting it on.’ And so when lunch was served a little later, Mrs Magno and Criminale, padrona and protégé, the American cosmopolite and the big gun of
culture, sat side by side, their warm chatter, smiles and laughter delighting the entire international gathering. Ildiko had cut morning session, but now she appeared. ‘Oh, aren’t they
happy!’ she cried, looking at them, ‘And they even got rid of Sepulchra!’
That afternoon I slipped down to the village to call Lavinia. ‘Darling, I went to the most wonderful marriage last night,’ she said. ‘Who got married?’ I asked.
‘Figaro, of course, marvellous production,’ said Lavinia, ‘What’s happening, Francis, you’ve been suspiciously quiet.’ I told her about the charming atmosphere
of Barolo, the connubial bliss of the Criminale ménage. ‘Francis, Francis, connubial bliss is no good at all,’ she said, ‘This is television. May I remind you of your
magnificent treatment, I managed to read it the other day: “Criminale is evidently a man of gargantuan appetites and great lust for life, indeed lust for everything. Political contradictions
and secrets litter his path.”’ ‘Yes, I know,’ I said uncomfortably, ‘I was younger then.’ ‘Better get after it, Francis,’ said Lavinia,
‘Remember, plot, crisis, difficulty. You’re not on holiday. You’re an investigator. This is all a façade.’ ‘So what do I do?’ I asked. ‘Penetrate
it,’ said Lavinia, ‘Search his room. Make something happen.’
But the first few days of the congress passed in the same peaceful way. For the season, the weather was remarkably good. The mornings began clear; then, after lunch, there came as if under
contract a sudden sharp downpour of rain. The long, well-lit classical views down the lake would close in, and become enclosed gloomy romantic views. The mists shut out the further mountains, the
nearer ones would huddle in closer, the cypresses grew darker, the rocks above us blacker. The rain fell in fecund sheets, sweeping through the grounds, overflowing the drains and watercourses. The
green grottoes dripped, the spewing fountains ejaculated uselessly against the downpour. The lake bounced, lightning flashed in a great display of daytime fireworks, perhaps revealing a villa no
one had noticed creased into a hillside, or a sudden glimpse of some mountaintop monastery far away. Then the rain stopped, the lake settled, the mountains cleared, the birds resumed. ‘God is
a gardener,’ the waiters in their Italian wisdom would explain at dinner in the evening, as the writers and politicians ate pasta and drank wine by candlelight and grew, every day, in every
way, closer to each other.