Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
‘I do wish you wouldn’t keep calling Ildiko the Hungarian agent,’ I said, nervously, ‘She’s just a charming little publisher from Budapest who has an unfortunate
taste for luxury goods.’ ‘You think so?’ asked Cosima, ‘I thought you knew her very well.’ ‘I did too, but I’d have to admit in the end it was hard to know
Ildiko very well,’ I said, ‘She has a, well, Hungarian mentality.’ ‘So you didn’t know her quite so well?’ asked Cosima. ‘Not really,’ I said.
‘And yet when you left Lausanne so suddenly, we found you had stayed in that brothel hotel with this Hungarian agent.’ ‘We didn’t have the same room,’ I said.
‘And then we discovered that she was the one who drew the Criminale money from the Bruger Zugerbank,’ said Cosima, looking at me. ‘You have been busy,’ I said, drinking my
Sauvignon uncomfortably.
‘So you didn’t know this?’ asked Cosima. ‘I just thought she’d gone out for another day’s heavy shopping,’ I said. ‘And you did not see her again
after?’ ‘I never saw her again after that,’ I said truthfully. ‘And you do not know what happened?’ ‘No,’ I said, as innocently as I was able, ‘Do
you?’ ‘Yes, your friend had quite a busy day in Lausanne,’ said Cosima, ‘The Bruger Zugerbank was not the only bank she liked to visit. There was also the Crédit
Suisse, the Banque Cantonal, the Crédit Vaudois, the Zürcher Volkshandlung, the Hamburger Kommerzfinanzgesellschaft, the Bedouin Trust of Abu Dhabi, the Yamahoto Bank of Japan and the
Helsinki Pankii.’ I stopped drinking and stared in surprise at Bruckner. ‘A lot of banks,’ I said, ‘And Criminale had accounts in all of them?’ ‘All of
them,’ said Cosima Bruckner. ‘He must have sold a hell of a lot of books,’ I said. ‘If you really think that is where the money came from,’ said Cosima.
‘So Ildiko went round the whole lot and stripped the cupboard bare?’ I asked. ‘All of them,’ said Cosima. ‘She must have got away with a hell of a lot of
money,’ I said. ‘I think so,’ said Cosima, ‘This surprises you?’ ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘Really I knew nothing about it. And it’s not at all like
her. She really is a very nice person.’ ‘Very charming, I am sure,’ said Cosima, ‘And you know what happened next, after she did this?’ ‘They didn’t catch
her?’ I asked, nervously. ‘No,’ said Cosima. ‘She went off and cleared out the stores of Lausanne?’ I suggested. ‘No, there was no more time for shopping that
day,’ said Cosima, ‘Early that evening your friend left the country by the Austrian frontier and was driven full-speed back to Hungary.’ ‘You’re sure?’ I asked.
‘Of course, this was observed,’ said Cosima, ‘Her time of departure was logged precisely. Unfortunately none of these countries detained her, and all of them are just now outside
EC jurisdiction.’ ‘Ah, so she got away,’ I said. I must have shown too much relief, because Cosima Bruckner looked at me sharply.
‘As for you,’ she said, ‘You left the next day. The twelve o’clock flight from Geneva to London.’ ‘I see, that was logged precisely too, was it?’
‘Criminale left for India the same evening, and is now in California,’ said Cosima. ‘Really?’ I said, ‘Well, the TV programme was cancelled, so . . .’
‘Before you left Geneva you too visited a bank, I think,’ said Cosima. ‘Did I?’ I asked, ‘I can’t remember.’ ‘You like to be reminded?’ said
Cosima, dipping down into a handbag and coming out with a photograph. There was no doubt about who the young man was, walking there with his luggage out of the Crédit Mauvais. ‘I must
have gone to change money,’ I said. ‘You like to see some more?’ asked Cosima, handing me photos, ‘One on the lake steamer, talking to Criminale.’ ‘Why
not?’ I asked. ‘Notice the false name, see the badge, Dr Ignatieff,’ said Cosima, ‘One in the basement of Chillon castle, discussing your plans with the Hungarian
agent.’ ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘Hans de Graef from Ghent. He was one of yours.’ ‘As I told you in Lausanne, names are not necessary,’ said Cosima.
A fine terrine, doubtless made from the best wild game the Forest of Soignes could offer, came before us, but I could hardly touch it. ‘So you do think I’m a part of it,’ I
said. ‘A part of what?’ asked Cosima. ‘How do I know?’ I said, ‘I thought you were going to tell me. I just went there to make a film about Bazlo Criminale.’
‘Yet you met some strange people,’ said Cosima, ‘We thought perhaps you could help us find the real accomplice.’ ‘What real accomplice?’ ‘I think I told
you she was driven at speed from the country,’ said Cosima, ‘A young man was waiting for her in the Boulevard Edward Gibbon, and she got into his red BMW. Maybe if you look at these
photographs you can identify him.’ Cosima looked in her bag again. ‘Don’t bother,’ I said, as a great many things fell suddenly into place, ‘His name’s Sandor
Hollo, Hollo Sandor. He’s a Hungarian fixer.’
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Cosima, ‘And so you do know him?’ ‘Yes, I know him,’ I said, ‘He used to be a philosopher. I met him in Budapest. In fact he
probably fixed
me
up. He fixed up my meeting with Ildiko. He probably fixed her entire trip too. Barolo, Lausanne, the whole thing.’ ‘Perhaps he is a member of the state
security,’ said Cosima. ‘No, I don’t think so. I think he’s right in the forefront of the free market. You ought to give him a subsidy. He’s a juppie, he makes
deals.’ ‘So you say you were his dupe?’ asked Cosima. ‘You know, one of the wonderful things about talking to you is I hear words I haven’t heard for years,’ I
said, ‘But you’re right. His dupe was exactly what I was.’ ‘And you know this man very well?’ ‘I had lunch with him once,’ I said, ‘That was when he
introduced me to Ildiko.’ ‘I am sorry, but I think this girl was perhaps not such a good friend for you,’ said Cosima. ‘She was,’ I said, ‘A very good friend.
But maybe I wasn’t the only very good friend she had.’ ‘Criminale also?’ asked Cosima. ‘Exactly,’ I said, ‘So why would she join up with Hollo and steal
his royalties?’
‘Maybe that was not exactly the point of it,’ said Cosima, ‘Those Swiss accounts were interesting to very many people. Why?’ ‘Because they had a lot of cash in
them?’ I suggested. ‘But also because perhaps they were not quite what they seemed,’ said Cosima. ‘Like the people in this restaurant,’ I said. ‘Think, a man
like Criminale,’ said Cosima, ‘With a Hungarian address, an Austrian passport, a Swiss bank account. A great philosopher, a man everywhere trusted. He can travel everywhere, go between
East and West. He is a friend of the great, he can go even where diplomats cannot. He is not observed, no one suspects him. The ideal cover, don’t you think?’ ‘Probably,’ I
said, ‘But cover for what?’ ‘You don’t know, really?’ asked Cosima. ‘Of course I don’t know,’ I said, ‘I don’t know anything.’
‘Why do the Hungarian authorities let him hold such accounts in the West?’ asked Cosima, ‘Of course, because they can be used for other things. Putting in Party funds. Making big
secret deals. Buying technologies. Other people could use them.’
‘Like Ildiko,’ I said. ‘We think she was probably a bag lady,’ said Cosima. ‘I don’t think so, unless the bags came from Harrods or Gucci,’ I said.
‘You understand, a female bagman,’ said Cosima, ‘Europe is an equal opportunity employer. She was the one who could bring it in, also take it out. We think that is why she came to
Lausanne. Perhaps those two did not think it was Criminale money at all.’ ‘Missing millions,’ I said, ‘That’s what you thought I was a part of.’ ‘You must
admit your actions were most suspicious,’ said Cosima. ‘And now?’ I asked. ‘Now we think you probably are almost but not quite what you say you are,’ said Cosima.
‘From you that’s a terrific compliment,’ I said. ‘You must understand, in my job this is highly unusual,’ said Cosima, ‘Look, here is the lobster.’
‘Good,’ I said, relieved. Because frankly I was now beginning to realize there was no end to the trouble you could get yourself into, once you had entered the complex world of Bazlo
Criminale.
There are a good many reasons why I shall not forget the evening I spent in that luxurious restaurant in the Grand’ Place, head to head with Cosima Bruckner. Beyond its
windows the Belgian people went about their usual lives: eating chocolates, crashing their fine cars, and wondering whether Belgium was really a country at all. Inside the splendid Eurocrats ate
and pondered the future of us all. To the side of our quiet table in the window, a silver cart laden with huge pink crustaceans was rolled. Skilled deferential surgeons appeared with complex
instruments and reduced the creatures to rubble. Other black-coated minions came, handed us silver weaponry, and tied plastic bibs around our necks. The surgeons stacked the crustaceous flesh on
crested plates and capped them with silver covers. Then Armand, the maître d’, one hand behind his back, put the plates reverently before us, and, with a flourish, lifted off the covers
– to reveal, like some failed magician, that what was underneath was exactly what we had seen was underneath. ‘Wunderbar,’ said Cosima Bruckner.
It was the thought that certain other covers were coming off that excited and worried me. It was not easy to be back in the strange, conspiratorial world of Fräulein Bruckner, with her gift
for making a mystery out of everything, of finding plots where I hadn’t. I was not sure (I’m still not) whether I believed a word she ever said. But I had to admit her version of what
happened in Lausanne did have a strange consistency. I liked Ildiko greatly (I still do), and I think she liked me; but I could see how likely it was she had teased and used me. I admired Criminale
deeply (I still do), and found his absences and wanderings consistent with his life in a high mode of thought; but his actions also fitted the life of a man who was being pursued and persecuted. I
couldn’t quite accept the world of Cosima Bruckner, but I couldn’t quite deny it either. After all, she had been remarkably shrewd about myself, and I wasn’t off the hook yet
either.
‘I can’t believe it, Cosima,’ I said, when the waiters had gone, ‘Surely Criminale was far above money.’ ‘Oh yes, they paid him to be,’ said Cosima,
sitting there in her bib. ‘Why would the Communists want to put their money in the West?’ I asked. ‘Naturally, it was the only way Communism could survive in the East,’ said
Cosima. ‘Come on, you’re not telling me capitalism was handing out mortgages to Communism,’ I said. ‘Why not?’ asked Cosima, ‘Communism never had a proper
economy, Lenin forgot to invent one. It all worked by bribes, barter and black market. If you made some money, would you keep it in a Russian bank? The Party people needed the West to be their
bankers. And to get it here they needed people like Criminale.’
‘In that case, why did we need a Cold War?’ I asked. ‘How else could we have unified Europe?’ said Cosima, ‘It was the Russians who did it for us.’ ‘All
right, then, why was there
détente
?’ I asked. ‘Why not?’ asked Cosima, ‘Maybe it is okay to nuke another country, but a bit crazy to bomb your own bank
account, I think.’ ‘You certainly have an original vision of modern history,’ I said, ‘How is it I only hear these conspiracy theories when I talk to you?’ ‘It
is because you are not European,’ said Cosima, ‘The North Sea is a big problem for you, I think. Don’t you realize West Germany paid to keep the DDR in existence?’ ‘It
did what?’ I asked. ‘Of course,’ said Cosima, ‘And when the DDR needed money, it picked up some political prisoners and sold them for hard currency to the West. You see
there was always unification, even before there was unification.’
‘But why keep all this money in the West?’ ‘Why?’ asked Cosima, ‘Many reasons. For one, economic espionage. The Stasi had a whole division devoted to economic blackmail. They had to have patents, buy forbidden military technologies, weapons and
computers, yes? Then to pay all the agents. Remember, half the middle-aged secretaries in the Bundestag found a little romance by selling photocopies to the East. But the money went everywhere, for
blackmail, for influence. To politicians, businessmen, Western bureaucrats, even some in this room.’ ‘Oh, come on, Cosima,’ I said, poking at my lobster anxiously. ‘Of
course the money was there for other reasons also,’ said Cosima, ‘All those Eastern Party officials needed their nice little accounts in the West. Maybe they liked a German car or a
villa in Cannes, or just liked to feel safe when things changed. Maybe they are keeping it there to pay for a coup one day. Some was just for good investment, some of them had very nice portfolios,
you know. So money was coming here all the time.’
‘And it was coming in through the accounts of Criminale?’ I asked. ‘Oh, there were many ways, many accounts,’ said Cosima, ‘But we traced quite a lot of things to
him.’ ‘He knew all about it, then?’ I asked. ‘It would not be necessary,’ said Cosima, ‘It was more useful if he just did his philosophy and let his accounts be
used by some others. He had his freedom, they had their way to the West.’ ‘And Ildiko was the bag lady?’ I asked. ‘She was a publisher, she moved book money around, she had
access to those accounts, you saw that very well,’ said Cosima. ‘So she was working all the time for the Communist Party,’ I said, ‘And Hollo too.’ ‘It’s
possible,’ said Cosima, ‘But these things were much more complicated.’ ‘I’ll say,’ I said. ‘She could be on that side, or the other,’ said
Cosima.
‘What other?’ I asked. ‘Naturally since the
Wende
everyone has been after this money,’ said Cosima, ‘It still comes in, and it is billions, you know.’
‘Billions?’ ‘Like the Nazi billions after the war, you remember. Everyone wants it. The Party people say it is theirs. The new regimes say it was robbed from the people and really
it is theirs. The apparatchiks who hid it want it back to pay for their nice villas or start up new lives. There are those in the West who smuggled it, and like their share. There are politicians
and people in governments who need it hidden, now the security files are opening in the East. Then there are the fraud investigators who want to know what has been hidden, how it was used.’
‘So a lot of people are fighting over the same cash,’ I said. ‘Yes, and you saw quite a lot of them at Barolo,’ said Cosima.
I looked up. ‘At
Barolo
?’ I asked, ‘The great congress on Literature and Power in the Age of Glasnost?’ ‘Where we first met, you remember,’ said
Cosima. ‘Of course I remember,’ I said, ‘But what had that got to do with it? Those people were writers, politicians.’ ‘Not all of them were what they seemed,’
said Cosima. ‘Oh, come on,’ I said, ‘Susan Sontag? Martin Amis? You’re not saying they were in on these fancy games?’ ‘No, we think those two were almost who
they say they are,’ said Cosima, ‘It was the others you know very well.’ ‘What others?’ I asked. ‘You saw the Russians were there?’ ‘What, Tatyana
Tulipova?’ I asked. ‘Did you ever see a word she wrote in her life?’ asked Cosima, ‘The Americans too. Those critics from Yale.’ ‘Please, Cosima,’ I said.
‘Professor Massimo Monza, he lives a little too nicely, don’t you think?’ ‘I don’t believe it,’ I said. ‘And of course your Otto Codicil. Oh, how is the
lobster, by the way?’