Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
‘The lobster? Oh, fine,’ I said, ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘Because I like you to enjoy it,’ said Cosima, ‘I wished to give you a nice reward.’
‘Reward for what?’ I asked. ‘Because I discovered so much of this from you,’ said Cosima. ‘How could you?’ I asked, ‘I’m not a part of it, Cosima,
really. I told you, I knew nothing at all. I thought Ildiko was a girlfriend, I thought Criminale was a philosopher. The whole thing is news to me. In fact I’m not sure I believe any of
it.’ ‘Yet you did your work well,’ said Cosima. ‘What work?’ I asked, ‘What did I do that was worth the death of one poor old lobster?’ ‘You pointed
out to us Professor Otto Codicil,’ said Cosima, ‘The key of it all, the missing link of our chain. He was the mastermind, as you warned us. And once we had realized this, all the other
things were clear.’
‘I hate to tell you this, Cosima,’ I said, though I didn’t hate it at all, ‘I think you’ve got the wrong man. I only fingered Codicil because he was trying to
destroy my television programme. I know nothing about him, nothing at all. Except he eats too much cake and never sees his students. Apart from that he’s probably as white as the driven
snow.’ ‘No, he is part of it,’ said Cosima. ‘I just hope you can prove that,’ I said, ‘Because that man is a friend of ministers. He has lawyers hanging off his
shirt-tails. He’s a nasty enemy, believe me. He’ll have you fired or in jail, if you aren’t careful.’ ‘Then you didn’t know?’ asked Cosima.
‘Didn’t know what?’ I asked. ‘Codicil tried to flee the coop,’ she said. ‘He tried to do what?’ I asked. ‘Flee the coop,’ said Cosima,
‘They picked him up at Frankfurt airport as he tried to fly to South America.’
‘No, this is too much,’ I said, ‘The rest is possible, this I don’t believe. Was he dressed in women’s clothes as well?’ ‘No, a red wig,’ said
Cosima. ‘Otto Codicil in a red wig?’ I said, ‘Cosima, don’t you think a red wig is a bit over the top, as it were?’ ‘He had also a false passport,’ said
Cosima, ‘And a false-bottom suitcase with two hundred thousand deutschmark.’ ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Now he is held in Germany and he is singing like a canary,’ said
Cosima, ‘He has told us nearly everything. He was recruited after the war, when Vienna was the funnel of East and West.’ ‘I always thought he was more the SS officer type,’
I said. ‘Earlier,’ said Cosima. ‘But you’re absolutely certain?’ ‘The report was delivered in my office today,’ said Cosima, ‘Don’t you like
to know why he was going to South America?’
The remains of the lobster were taken away. The second fine Sauvignon gave way to two pungent old Armagnacs. ‘I suppose he was going to join Martin Bormann and Ronald Biggs,’ I said,
‘And one day they’ll all come back as a football team and win the World Cup.’ ‘He was expected to collect the money from the Criminale accounts and take it to the right
people,’ said Cosima, ‘However, your Hungarian agent got a lot of it first.’ ‘Good for her,’ I said, and then a thought began to strike me, ‘Where in South
America? Who was he taking them to?’ ‘I think you begin to understand,’ said Cosima. ‘Yes, well,’ I said, swirling my brandy thoughtfully, ‘I suppose it does
cost a lot of money to run a big hacienda in Argentina. What with 130 per cent inflation and a very unreliable rate of exchange.’ ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Cosima Bruckner.
‘So,’ I said, ‘Codicil and Gertla, those two are old friends?’ ‘I thought this is what you came to Brussels to tell me,’ said Cosima, ‘Then perhaps we
could slip the last piece into place.’ ‘No, that wasn’t why,’ I said, ‘It was something else, but you probably know it anyway.’ ‘Tell me, please,’
said Cosima, ‘I like to know everything.’ ‘I can see that,’ I said, ‘Gertla simply told me she got Bazlo working for the Hungarian secret police back in 1956. All the
time he was travelling in the West he was reporting to her. She passed it on to the authorities. And if it got to the Hungarians it certainly must have reached the Russians.’ ‘Oh, that
is all,’ said Cosima. ‘All?’ I said, ‘This was a man who was seeing Reagan, Bush, Genscher, Thatcher, everyone. He must have had access to enormous information. If this got
out it would destroy his entire reputation.’
‘Well, in this world there are few reputations you cannot destroy,’ said Cosima, ‘You know that very well, you are a journalist.’ ‘As a journalist, let me ask you,
is it true? Can you confirm it? You know everything?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Cosima, ‘But did you never ask why he was allowed so much to travel?’ ‘Of
course,’ I said, ‘But surely not everyone who travelled worked for the regime.’ ‘They generally made their arrangements,’ said Cosima, ‘In that world to get
one thing you gave another. That was understood, the regime used you, you used the regime. Everyone had a file. Go to Prague now and look. Doctors had code names, archbishops had official ranks in
the secret police. If you managed these things cleverly, you could lead the charmed life. And I think Criminale always managed to lead the charmed life.’
‘A great philosopher,’ I said. ‘Even a great philosopher lives in history,’ said Cosima. ‘So what Gertla said was really true?’ I asked. ‘I cannot tell
you, I only say it would not be surprising. But I think anyone in the West who was wise would know that.’ ‘You mean anyone except me,’ I said. ‘He could go where diplomats
could not,’ said Cosima, ‘He could make deals and pass information both ways. I expect both sides used him. He was too big to waste on little things.’ ‘It would still
destroy him,’ I said, ‘And why would Gertla want to? It damages her reputation too.’ ‘You don’t know?’ asked Cosima. ‘No, Cosima, I don’t
know,’ I said, ‘I don’t know anything. Please enlighten me.’
‘It happened before, in Germany in 1945, in France after collaboration, in Hungary in 1956, in Russia always,’ said Cosima, ‘It happens now, it will happen again. The files
that were shut come open, so everyone runs for cover. To protect themselves, they settle scores with others. Those old Party people are bitter these days. They were promised history for ever. They
made their deals and bought their houses and now they feel cheated. But they mean to survive, to start again. They know the world cannot live without them. All they must do is show they know too
much. For this they must sacrifice a few. Why not a famous man, up there on his pedestal? He has had his charmed life, they helped him make it. Well, it is not so hard for them to take it away
again. He was no worse than others, maybe no better either. So do you think you will help them? Do you publish your article?’
I thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, ‘His work’s too important. He’s been a great influence. His ideas will die too.’ ‘He impresses
you,’ said Cosima. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I suppose he’s a friend.’ ‘And for a friend you would keep silent,’ said Cosima. ‘If I thought it was
important, yes,’ I said. ‘And then, if in twenty years they write the life of Francis Jay, what do you think they say of you?’ asked Cosima, ‘He knew the truth and kept it
quiet.’ ‘I’m not important enough,’ I said, ‘Anyway, the world doesn’t have to know everything.’ ‘And you are a journalist?’ asked Cosima.
‘Even journos can be human,’ I said, ‘Some of them, anyway.’ ‘And are you silent also over the others?’ asked Cosima, ‘Gertla, Monza, Codicil?’
‘I’ll just stick to the book pages,’ I said. ‘And life and crimes have nothing to do with the book pages?’ asked Cosima.
I looked at her. ‘I’m not sure whose side you’re on,’ I said. ‘Oh, poor Francis,’ said Cosima, ‘He has stumbled on things he cannot understand. I think
the world is a bit stranger place than you imagined.’ ‘You know, Cosima,’ I said, ‘You could really be very attractive, if you didn’t speak all the time in that
sonorous sort of way.’ ‘I do not think I speak all the time in a sonorous sort of a way,’ said Cosima, and I saw with surprise she was blushing a little, ‘Unless you mean
because I am German my English is not the best.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant you make everything seem so conspiratorial, all so plotted and
planned. You turn the world into a spy story. Whenever I talk to you, everything is conspiracies and scams and treacheries and tricks. I’m not even sure there
was
a plot.’
‘Of course,’ said Cosima, ‘The world is full of them. Don’t you think our postwar world has been often a spy story? Don’t you know that when the Eastern European
files were opened, people everywhere asked that they be shut again, because so many Western careers would be finished? What kind of story do you like it to be?’ ‘I suppose a more
philosophical story, a more humane story,’ I said, ‘Closer to the way most things really are.’ ‘And you know how they really are?’ asked Cosima, ‘Then maybe you
should not have got so interested in Bazlo Criminale. If you had asked no questions, you would not have found these answers you don’t like.’ ‘That’s true,’ I said.
‘And you would not be here with me in La Rochette,’ she said. ‘That’s true too,’ I said. ‘And I would not have found out so much about you,’ said Cosima
Bruckner, ‘I think our stories are not so different after all.’
Just then Armand appeared, bearing a folded paper on a silver tray. ‘Time to pay,’ said Cosima, ‘Europe will get it, Francis.’ I watched Cosima take out some Euro-credit
card and put it on the tray. ‘Thank you, Cosima,’ I said, ‘An excellent meal.’ ‘We like you to be satisfied,’ said Cosima, ‘Now, where is your
hotel?’ ‘Hotel?’ I asked, ‘I don’t have one yet.’ ‘Didn’t I tell you to book a hotel, when I gave you your instructions?’ asked Cosima,
‘Brussels has a very bad problem of hotels.’ ‘You didn’t, Cosima,’ I said, ‘I’d better call round before it’s too late.’ ‘I think already
it is too late,’ said Cosima, glancing at her watch, ‘Brussels is full just now. The European Ministers meet. The NATO generals meet. There is a big fashion show, the Rolling Stones are
in town.’ ‘Wonderful,’ I said, ‘An evening out at one of Europe’s great restaurants, then a night on a bench at the railway station.’ ‘Oh no,’ said
Cosima, ‘You have been very helpful. Europe is going to find you something.’
We went out to the lobby, where I exchanged my excellent tie for my graceless anorak. ‘My dear Mam’selle Bruckner, you are charmante as usual,’ said someone behind us. There
stood the small, bird-eyed man whom Cosima had said was Deputy-President of the European Commission. ‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Villeneuve,’ said Cosima. ‘I had no idea you dined in such
expensive restaurants,’ said Villeneuve, ‘You know, I can hardly afford them myself.’ ‘I need to make certain investigations, you understand,’ said Cosima.
‘Really?’ asked Villeneuve, ‘And you are tête-à-tête, I see.’ ‘Ah, ja, this is Francis Jay, a journalist from London,’ said Cosima.
‘Enchanté, m’sieur, Jean-Luc Villeneuve,’ said Villeneuve, ‘You are from Britain? Not, I hope, another piece about the faceless bureaucrats of Brussels. As you see,
my dear fellow, Mam’selle Bruckner and I do have quite interesting faces, when you get to know us a little better.’
‘Of course, Mr Villeneuve,’ I said. ‘M’sieur Villeneuve,’ said Villeneuve, ‘I am afraid, you know, that you in Britain have never understood the great dream
that is Europe. Yes, we must be bureaucrats, we live in a bureaucratic age, but we can be idealists too, I hope.’ ‘I hope so too,’ I said. ‘Look round here, and what do you
see?’ said Villeneuve,
‘Luxe et volupté.
When I come here and see such things, I always ask myself, how can there be such
luxe et volupté,
unless there is
also
rêve et désir?
I am European, but also French, you know.’ ‘I know,’ I said. ‘And we French are just a little bit
philosophe,’
said
Villeneuve, ‘We are the land of Pascal and Montaigne and Descartes and Rousseau, after all.’ ‘And Foucault and Derrida,’ I said. ‘Those also,’ said Villeneuve
unenthusiastically, ‘And we believe in thought and dreams,
rêve et désir,
ideals and purpose. N’est-ce pas, Mam’selle Bruckner?’ ‘Oui, Monsieur
Villeneuve,’ said Cosima.
‘Bon,’ said Villeneuve, ‘And now, Mam’selle Bruckner, may I take just a moment of your excellent time? Tomorrow morning, would you kindly visit my office? I have been
reading your papers on this certain fraud matter, you know? Evidently you have conducted investigations with your customary astuteness.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Cosima. ‘There are
just one or two small problems,’ said Villeneuve, ‘These matters are serious, but we must not allow anything to threaten our relations with our good Eastern European friends, who cry
out so loudly to join us one day soon.’ ‘I understand, Monsieur Villeneuve,’ said Cosima Bruckner. ‘Well, I must keep the Romanian President waiting no longer,’ said
Villeneuve, ‘Enchanté, Monsieur Jay. Ten o’clock tomorrow, Mam’selle Bruckner.’
We walked out into the floodlit Grand’ Place; Cosima waved for a taxi. ‘And what do you think to my boss?’ she asked. ‘Quite an idealist,’ I said. ‘If you
think Caligula was an idealist, Machiavelli an idealist,’ said Cosima, ‘This man wants the whole world in his hands. When he talks of the Great Super-Europe, you can know there is
something in it for him.’ ‘You mean a role in history?’ I asked. ‘Or perhaps a roll in the bank,’ said Cosima. A taxi came over; we got in the back, and Cosima said
something to the driver. Then she said: ‘So you didn’t see who was with him at his table?’ ‘The Romanian President?’ I asked. ‘Maybe,’ said Cosima,
‘But also someone else you know a little better. Professor Monza.’ ‘The Prince of Announcements?’ I asked, surprised, ‘What was he doing there?’ ‘Evidently
he knows my boss,’ said Cosima, as we drove out of the brightly lit Grand’ Place, ‘I tell you, Villeneuve is not what he seems.’ ‘You’re not saying the
Deputy-President of the European Community is a part of it, surely,’ I said. ‘A part of what?’ asked Cosima Bruckner.
*
This perhaps explains why, twenty minutes later, as I ascended an elevator to the top of some expensive apartment block, evidently in one of Brussels’s better residential
districts, I was in a somewhat confused state of mind. I was bewildered by what Cosima had told me: how much of it was true? All of it? Some of it? None of it? Exposure to the ambitions of
Super-Europe seemed to have given her an extraordinary taste for scandal. The events of the entire evening had moved far too fast for me. I was in the state I think scientists call redundancy: an
excess of messages and signals, a superfluity of mixed information. It didn’t help that I’d drunk quite a litreage of the best champagne, finest Sauvignon and most pungent Armagnac
modern European viticulture could offer, that my own small unit of Ildiko’s possible billions had come close to being uncovered, that even the Berlaymont seemed a part of it now.