Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
Within a few moments Paradise seemed to have drifted far behind us, and some new and anxious confusions lay ahead. Over the days at Barolo I had truly come to respect and value Bazlo Criminale,
and I found it hard to understand his flight. I had no problem, naturally, in understanding his reason for fleeing with Miss Belli, now that I had had a few days’ experience of Sepulchra and
her ways. As for Cosima Bruckner and her fevered imaginings, they seemed ridiculous. Criminale was far too dignified, too concerned with higher things, just too
abstract
to be bothered with
the kind of mysterious Euro-fraud which seemed to be Cosima’s speciality in life. Then there was the question of what had alerted Codicil. I still felt sure someone had set him onto me
– perhaps young Gerstenbacker, perhaps Monza, perhaps someone else at Barolo? But why? What difference did a television programme make to a man like Criminale? Or was Codicil worried about
something completely different, something that had come my way, at Barolo, perhaps, or even when I was in Vienna? And then there was Ildiko, sitting across from me in the compartment. I could see
that, probably, from her point of view, Criminale’s flight with Miss Belli must have been a betrayal. But why, then, was she so anxious to hurry after him again?
For, if I seemed gloomy, Ildiko, sitting across from me, seemed excited. ‘You don’t look happy!’ she said, leaning forward. ‘Of course not,’ I said, ‘I just
feel this whole quest is going wrong.’ ‘Because of Codicil and little Miss Black Trousers?’ she asked, ‘You don’t really believe that Criminale Bazlo smuggles cows in
his suitcases?’ ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Really you should not listen to this lady,’ said Ildiko, ‘She is not a good friend for you.’ ‘She’s
not my friend,’ I said. ‘She knows nothing,’ she said, ‘These people in the European Community like to interfere in everything. Criminale never even thinks about
money.’ ‘That’s my impression too,’ I said. ‘Bazlo does nothing wrong,’ said Ildiko, ‘Well, except of course those things you have to do wrong to survive
in a Marxist country.’ I looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, ‘What things?’ ‘You know, you are so ignorant,’ she said, ‘Those usual
things.’ ‘Ildiko, what usual things?’ Ildiko was just about to speak when I put my finger to my lips. The train had stopped at Domodossola near the Swiss border, and I realized
that immigration men and probably the finance police as well were coming down the coach. A moment later the door slid open and two men entered, checking our papers with what seemed peculiar care.
Then they looked at each other and went. I had a feeling that, no doubt courtesy of Cosima Bruckner, our time of crossing the border was being logged precisely.
Then a very serious-looking Swiss, wearing glasses and a small beard, and carrying a heavy briefcase, got into the compartment. The train moved on; as Paradise slipped ever further behind, the
Swiss Alpine wonderland began to rise up ahead. High mountains replaced the Lombardy plain, Italian chaos began giving way to Swiss neatness, Italian noise to Swiss silence. Indeed the Swiss in our
compartment twice made Ildiko dust down her seat, after he had caught her furtively eating a chocolate bar purchased at Milano Central. We wanted to talk, but the Swiss, who was reading a Geneva
newspaper, cast such firm and forbidding glances at us that even conversation came to seem an offence against decency, probably subject to citizen’s arrest. At last Ildiko, ever Ildiko, grew
impatient and suggested that we go along to the restaurant car. Leaving the compartment to the Swiss, we set off down the long line of corridors.
Immediately the train plunged into a great gloomy tunnel (I suppose, when I think of it, it must have been the Simplon) and we seemed to be cutting through the chilly core and fundament of the
world. Through semi-darkness we groped our way down the coaches to the dining car. Here all was comfort; white-coated waiters bearing damask napkins flitted, the brass table-lamps gleamed, the
white cloths were reflected in the heavy blackness outside, bottles of good wine rattled against the window glass. ‘Steak, please,’ said Ildiko to the waiter, ‘And I think we have
the best red wine.’ ‘All right,’ I said, ‘What do you mean, the things you have to do wrong to survive in a Marxist country?’ ‘You really are so ignorant,’
said Ildiko, ‘That is because you live in a country where everything is what it seems.’ ‘Britain?’ I asked, ‘I hadn’t noticed.’ ‘Oh, you British are
complaining all the time, you do not like this or that, how you suffer,’ said Ildiko, ‘But at least you can live openly. You can be yourself, have your nice little private life. Nobody
spies with you, nobody denounces, you do not have to treat with the regime. And of course you can shop.’
‘Please don’t mention shops,’ I said. ‘Shall I explain you Marxism?’ Ildiko asked, ‘Or did you study it at school? I know you think it is clever and
complicated, but really it is very simple. Karl Marx wrote a book called
Das Kapital
and after that we never had any. And that is a pity because, do you know, money is freedom, Francis.’ ‘Not for everyone,’ I
said. ‘Listen, do you know what is the currency in Hungary?’ ‘Yes, the forint,’ I said. ‘No, that is scrap paper, fit only to wipe yourself with in a certain place, if
you don’t mind I say so,’ said Ildiko, ‘The same with the zloty, the crown, the lev, the rouble. The currency of Marxism is the American dollar. That was not explained in Marx.
But that is what the Party officials at their dachas had, that is why they had their own private food and medicine, why they shopped in the dollar shop, if you don’t mind I mention just one
shop. That is why when Western visitors came we stopped them on the street and said, “Change money, change money.” We had to have them, the only way to live was the dollar.’
‘You mean to travel?’ I asked. ‘Please, most of the time you could not travel,’ said Ildiko, ‘Unless you made sports, or belonged to the Party, or liked to keep a
little record on your friends. No, with dollar you could live under the table where everything lived. Do you understand?’ ‘Not quite,’ I said. ‘Oh, yes, in Marxism there are
always two systems, official, and unofficial,’ said Ildiko, ‘In the official world you are a Party member, or a dissident, you believe in the victory of the proletariat, what a victory,
and the heroism of the state. In the unofficial world, everyone, even the officials, they were someone else. Party members were not Party members, enemies were friends and friends were enemies. You
trusted no one but you could trade with everyone. And with dollar you could buy anything: influence, dacha, a job, sex, black-market petrol, travel permit, what you liked. Nothing was what it
seemed, nothing was what was said. So every story had two meanings, everyone had two faces.’ ‘Including Criminale?’ I asked.
‘I said everyone,’ said Ildiko, ‘Criminale is an honest man, but he also had to live in such a world. You saw his apartment, you know how he travelled. You read his books, how
they go a bit this way, then that.’ ‘I thought so,’ I said, ‘But what did he do?’ ‘Remember, Criminale had one clever thing, the book,’ said Ildiko,
‘And the book, you know, is wonderful. A person always must stay in one place, you can even hold him there. A book can go in the pocket, be on tape, now go down a fax machine. It can change,
one language to another, one meaning to another.’ ‘It’s what Roland Barthes said, the reader creates the writer.’ ‘Did Roland also say that it is always the writer who
sells and the reader who buys?’ asked Ildiko, ‘You are not paid to read. Unless you are great professor, or maybe a poor publisher like me. But you are paid to write, and if you are
famous, all round the world, then you make much money.’ ‘And Criminale made a lot of money?’ ‘Well, why not?’ asked Ildiko, ‘This is how the writer becomes free.
Otherwise you are a state writer, that is a hack. If the state doesn’t like you, you sweep the street. You never saw Criminale sweep the street.’
There was suddenly a great burst of light, as we came out of the tunnel and into the Swiss Alpine world. Now we passed by places with names like Plug and Chug, past deep blue lakes and
sharp-pointed Alps that shone with snow and ice, beside rivers that roared and plunged with winter rain, through forests that stirred with animals and grim hunting birds, through pine-covered
slopes and across deep ravines, through damp clouds of mist and showers of pelting rain. We passed green pastures where the chalet chimneys steamed, dark slopes down which the gravel and boulders
slid. ‘You mean Criminale made serious money?’ I asked. ‘Well, he is one of the world’s bestselling intellectual writers,’ said Ildiko, ‘What do you
think?’ ‘And the state didn’t mind?’ I asked. ‘Of course, yes,’ said Ildiko, ‘But also it needed Criminale. So it was always necessary to make certain
arrangements. His books had to go to the West, some money had to come from the West. There were other things. And always someone had to help him.’
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘Codicil. That’s why he’s so worried.’ Ildiko looked across the white cloth at me and laughed. ‘No, you don’t really now think that
Codicil is a nice good man?’ she said, ‘That is not how you said it yesterday.’ Then I began to see. ‘It wasn’t Codicil,’ I said, ‘You were his publisher,
you were his girlfriend. You could get his manuscripts out, you could probably make arrangements for his royalties . . .’ ‘I think a publisher must always help an author and the cause
of art, yes?’ said Ildiko. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Even if that means working a little under the table?’ ‘Naturally there were deals with officials and so on,’
said Ildiko, ‘They knew he made very much money, so they made certain demands of him.’ ‘What kind of demands?’ I asked. ‘He had to please them with certain things,
naturally,’ said Ildiko, ‘Sometimes to remain silent when it was better to speak, sometimes to speak when it was better to remain silent.’ ‘I see,’ I said. ‘But
always Criminale was an honest man. Honest, but a little bit flexible. Maybe that is the best you can ever be, in such a country.’
‘But why didn’t he move to the West?’ I asked. ‘Oh, why?’ asked Ildiko, ‘Because he was a philosopher, he liked to live in a world with an idea. Of course
then he found it was not such a good idea, that he wanted a new idea. What I did not tell you about Marxism, perhaps you knew it already, is it appears to be made of thinking. Unfortunately Marx
said that the important thing is not to understand the world but to change it. Poor man, he got it the wrong way round. The important thing is not to change the world too much until you understand
it. The human need, for one thing. I am sorry, perhaps I am too serious for you. I know the British do not like this.’ ‘I like you when you’re serious,’ I said.
‘Better than when I shop? Well, now you understand everything,’ said Ildiko, ‘Oh look, isn’t it nice?’
Ildiko pointed out of the train window; I looked, and saw rising over the high ridges the white spire of Mont Blanc. ‘We must be getting near Lausanne,’ I said, ‘You know, what
I don’t understand is why Criminale has gone there.’ Ildiko looked out of the window and said, ‘Well, tell me something, what do they have a lot of in Switzerland?’
‘Mountains, of course,’ I said. ‘More of than mountains,’ she said. ‘Cows,’ I said. ‘Not cows,’ said Ildiko. ‘Not shops,’ I said,
‘They don’t have shops.’ ‘They do, I checked,’ said Ildiko, ‘But no, not shops.’ ‘Banks,’ I said. ‘And what is it for, a bank?’ she asked. ‘To keep your money safe,’ I said. ‘I don’t think so,’ said Ildiko, ‘If you want it safe, keep it better
in your bed. You are so ignorant, now I must teach you capitalism too. Banks are to hide your money away, move it, put it through the washer . . .’ ‘Launder it?’ I said,
‘You mean Criminale’s royalties are in Swiss banks?’ ‘Of course,’ said Ildiko, ‘In a bank with no questions. Special accounts.’
‘So perhaps he’s come to collect his royalties?’ I asked. ‘Well, since the
Wende
, he does not have to be so cautious, in Hungary what do they mind any more?’
said Ildiko, ‘Now it is the free market, we can do with our money what we like. Even spend it all on Miss Blasted Belli.’ ‘You think that’s what he’s doing?’ I
asked. ‘Well, you have seen Sepulchra, wouldn’t you?’ ‘It must be a great deal of money, if he’s the world’s bestselling intellectual novelist.’
‘Perhaps two million dollar,’ said Ildiko. I looked at her in amazement. ‘A fortune,’ I said. ‘Well, fortunate for him,’ said Ildiko, ‘Not because he cared
so much for the money. He is not like that, with him it comes and goes. What mattered was the freedom.’ Then I suddenly remembered the bank statement I had seen on Criminale’s desk in
his suite at Barolo. ‘These accounts are in Lausanne,’ I said. ‘I think so,’ said Ildiko. ‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ I said. ‘Of course, I helped
him put it there,’ she said. I thought about this for a moment, and then I said, ‘Maybe that’s what interests Miss Black Trousers.’ ‘I don’t know why,’
said Ildiko, ‘You were right, she is crazy. Criminale did nothing, except a few things under the table. I told you, he is honest man.’
The train had by now emerged from the mountain passes, and we were moving along beside the spread of Lake Geneva: the waters of Léman, by which some have sat down and wept, and many, many
others have sat down and written. There was the castle-prison of Chillon, standing in the lake; then the esplanades of Montreux, where Vladimir Nabokov – God bless him – had written and
had died. Very soon there was Vevey, where Charlie Chaplin had died, been buried, and, if I remembered rightly, also been exhumed again, for profit. Then there was a lattice of vineyards,
stretching up and down the slopes on either side of the train, not a scrap of space wasted, in the good Swiss way. ‘Lausanne, City of Banking and Culture,’ said the advertisements on
the station platform, as we drew in. ‘You see, it is the right place,’ said Ildiko, pointing them out to me as we lifted our luggage down from the train: looking once more for honest,
if flexible, Bazlo Criminale.
From the moment Ildiko and I stepped down from the Milan express in the station at Lausanne, the good grey city set midway along the great banana that is Lake Geneva, it was
clear we had entered a different kind of world. Here everything seemed so sober and Protestant after Vienna, so solid and lasting after Budapest, so very neat and honest after northern Italy. Fine,
let the Austrians, with their taste for baroque abandon, celebrate two hundred years of Amadeus in their own Alpine wonderland next door. The Swiss had seven hundred years of mountain democracy, of
alphorns and liberty, watches and banks, to celebrate that same year, but they did it without any excess. When I went into the tourist information office in the station concourse, leaving Ildiko to
keep guard over our luggage, the girl behind the desk was solemn, dour and reserved. So were all the maps and guidebooks she handed me. ‘Here it is the quality of life that counts,’
said the first guide I opened, ‘Each district, street, park and shop attempts to outshine the others, but always in the best of good taste and with due moderation.’ No doubt about it;
we had definitely arrived in Switzerland.