Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
‘No?’ asked Criminale, ‘May we sit down? I have spoiled already your interview, perhaps you have a little time.’ He pointed to a mossed stone bench squatting in the long
grass right by the water; we sat down. He took off his jacket, and once more wiped his brow. He was perfectly friendly, more than I deserved; he was also trying to put me firmly in the wrong. I was
in it already, of course; I had never really approved of Lavinia’s indirect techniques of investigation, but at that time I was young and job-hungry, though I had always dreaded the moment
when Criminale had to be told we were making a programme on him. But now it seemed to me it was he who had no right to the moral ground he was assuming. ‘At Barolo, if you had asked, well, I
might have helped,’ he was saying, ‘Now, no. If your programme fails I am not disappointed. My life is not so interesting to deserve the honour, a story of small confusions,
mostly.’ ‘I don’t agree,’ I said, ‘I think it’s very interesting.’
Criminale brought out his expensive cigar case, took one, then pointed the case at me. ‘The heat here is terrible,’ he said, ‘You think so, an interesting story? What did you
find out?’ ‘A lot,’ I said, taking the cigar. ‘Ah,’ said Criminale, carefully applying his lighter, ‘Who did you talk to? Some people who did not give me such a
good portrait?’ ‘That’s right,’ I said, ‘Gertla, for one.’ ‘An envious and difficult woman, I have a fondness for that type,’ said Criminale,
‘Frankly, just to you, I always had problems with the ladies.’ ‘Yes, I know quite a bit about that too,’ I said. ‘You have done a lot,’ said Criminale,
‘You were wise to know Ildiko. So perhaps now you can understand why I do not expect my reputation to last for so much longer.’ He said this with a surprising brightness.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And in all these journalistic pryings just what did you find out?’ he asked.
‘Well, the Party, the KGB, the
nomenklatura
, used your accounts for all kinds of deals in the West,’ I said. ‘Oh, the missing millions,’ said Criminale, ‘To
me this was no great concern. Money is not an important thing with me. Those Party people loved capitalist games, why not let them, maybe that is when they learned something.’ ‘You
worked for the Party and reported on people abroad through Gertla,’ I said. ‘She said this?’ asked Criminale, ‘Not quite true. I was a two-way channel. I passed things to
both sides. This was known perfectly well in a number of places. Messages could always come and go through me. People like myself were essential. You would be surprised how complicated these games
could get.’ ‘So you didn’t really betray anyone?’ I asked. ‘I have good conscience,’ said Criminale. I could have left it there; I didn’t. ‘What
about Irini?’ I asked.
Criminale, breathing hard on the bench beside me, wiped his brow again. ‘Yes, I was not allowed my life with Irini,’ he said, ‘History came and took her away from me.’
‘History?’ I asked, ‘Why is it that abstract nouns do so much?’ ‘But they do,’ said Criminale, ‘Impersonal forces are more powerful than personal
forces.’ ‘Surely you could have done something,’ I said, ‘You had a lot of influence, friends everywhere.’ ‘In a state of chaos no one has influence,’ said
Criminale, ‘Nagy had influence, they took him and shot him. Do you think you would have done better?’ ‘I don’t know, I can’t imagine,’ I said. ‘Why have
you come?’ asked Criminale, ‘Is this your journalist’s set-up? You like to accuse me of something?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘It’s true, I’m here
completely by chance.’ ‘Entirely random!’ said Criminale, ‘You intend to tell this story.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t.’ He looked at me in bewilderment. ‘Then what do you really want of me?’ he asked. ‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ I said,
‘Except perhaps for a quote on Po-Mo.’ He sat for a moment, almost as if this dismayed him more than its opposite. ‘Excuse me if I am not grateful,’ he said then, ‘I
know journalists, I am one myself. Like secret policemen they keep a record of everything, and then one day . . . For a journalist to succeed, in here must be a bit the dishonest person.’
‘And for the philosopher?’ I asked. Criminale looked at the lake, and then said, ‘This is an interesting question. Yes, I think so. Remember, the philosopher is only the clown of
thought. He is granted the role of wisdom, he must appear wise. Every age, every idea comes along and demands him, give us a describable portrait of reality. He tries, he considers, he picks up the
tools of thought. But he is no different from anyone else. Dirty with history, a man after all. Perhaps against his intention, the thought betrays.’
‘But what betrays, the thought or the person?’ I asked. ‘Another very interesting question,’ said Criminale, not answering it, but staring down at the weed-filled water,
‘Please give me your view.’ ‘I remember a phrase I read somewhere, was it in George Steiner?’ I said. ‘It might be, if you read him,’ said Criminale. ‘He
remarked how often it is that the great scholar-thinker is also the great betrayer,’ I said. ‘The great betrayer,’ said Criminale, looking at me ironically, ‘You mean
myself? Please, in 1956 I was young, and I misread history, a very difficult book. It is easy, let me warn you, you will do it too. One thing I have learned, my friend, there is no such thing as
the future. The future is just what we invent in the present to put an order over the past. Don’t live for the future, you will only find the wrong faction and make the wrong friend. I made
the usual mistake, I thought I knew what was bound to happen. You will make it too.’
‘But you make your mistakes in public,’ I said, ‘A philosopher, people read and believe you.’ ‘I have written big books, yes, contributed to philosophy, made novels
too, you know,’ he said, ‘What now? Do I tear up my books because I looked at the clock and saw the wrong time there? All books are like that. You know, if my bedroom life had been just
a little different, in 1956 I would have come to the West. Then I would go to America, write just those same books. Would you talk of betrayal then? Would you doubt the words? I made a mistake, I
shared it with millions. Let us agree that, and say no more about it. It is not betrayal.’ ‘You didn’t just get history wrong,’ I said, ‘There was Irini.’
‘Well, let me tell you, because you clearly know nothing about it,’ said Criminale, ‘In certain times, maybe all times, love and friendship become impossible. If for forty years
you too had lived a double life, you would understand.’
‘A double life?’ I asked. ‘A double life of course,’ said Criminale, ‘Over there in those days we lived in a time when the only rule was to lie. By the wrong
emotion, the wrong gesture, you betrayed yourself. But if you knew how to lie, if you supported the regime in public, you were allowed your thoughts in private. If you allowed them to use your
reputation, you were not called to the police station. If you stood up for their history, they permitted you your irony. We were a culture of cynics, we were corrupt and base, but it was the agreed
reality. Those people loved great political thoughts, they loved Utopia, totality. The revolution of the proletariat, a madhouse. I had a higher life, I was better than that. But cynicism moves
everywhere, even into love.’ ‘And thought too,’ I said. ‘Possibly,’ he said, ‘I see now what you want me to say. That my work is wrong, as corrupt as my world.
Well, I cannot. Maybe the experience of a bad world also makes us think.’
‘I ought to go,’ I said, getting up, ‘I really do have an interview.’ ‘Wait,’ said Criminale, taking my arm, ‘You escape too lightly. I will teach you
about betrayal. Let me tell you this: we
all
betray each other. Sometimes from malice, or fear. Sometimes from indifference, sometimes love. Sometimes for an idea, sometimes from political
need. Sometimes because we cannot think of a good ethical reason why not to. Are you different?’ ‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘But don’t you think betrayal is all round us
now?’ asked Criminale, ‘Isn’t this also a time of j’accuse, j’accuse?’ ‘I’m sorry?’ I said. ‘J’accuse, my father abused me, my
mother failed me,’ said Criminale, ‘J’accuse, he invaded my sexual space, he made me an innuendo. J’accuse, I am his lover, he owes me a fortune. Go to America now. Three
hundred million naked egos all trying to make a claim. Even rich celebrities like to be victims. What their parents did to them, terrible, they could even have become failures in life. No, as
Nietzsche said, when an epoch dies, betrayal is everywhere. To make ourselves heroes of the new, we must murder the past. He also told us each time we try to become authors of ourselves, we become
only the more alone. So my story is not perhaps so far away from your story.’
But that seemed far too easy. ‘The past has to answer,’ I said, ‘In your story real crimes were committed.’ ‘Yes, wrongs were done, but how is it now?’ said Criminale, ‘You tell me, you come from a media world.’ ‘Not
any more,’ I said, ‘Actually I find I’m a verbal person, not a visual person.’ ‘That is not how I mean,’ said Criminale, ‘You live in the media age, the
age of simulation, as they all say at that congress. The age of no ideology, only hyperreality. Well, go to New York now, the Beirut of the Western world. The streets are filled with gangs and
terrorists, the women rage with anger, everyone lives for themselves. You sit high in some fine apartment, great paintings on the walls, and down in the street people kill for drugs and kicks. Too
little reality, also too much. Everywhere, wild fantasies, everyone wants a violent illusion. Life is a movie, death is a plot ending, no stories are real. And even the philosophers think in
unrealities, they describe a world of no ethics, no humanism, no self. I know my age had bad ethics, now show me yours.’
‘You remember in your quarrel with Heidegger . . .’ I said. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘You said his mistake was thinking thought could evade history and stay pure. But if it
can’t, what then?’ ‘Of course, if you like to think so, thought is corrupt, and nobody wins,’ said Criminale, ‘Then of course there are no ethics, no realities, no
philosophies, no myths, no art. The world is as empty as some people say, only chaos and randomness. We are non-existent selves, we start at the beginning again, with nothing at all. There is no
Criminale, no one to blame, no anyone. But that is your problem, not mine. Excuse me, I must go, I have lost my luggage. But I have met this very nice Russian lady who likes to take me shopping.
See you about, as they say.’ He stood up and pulled on his jacket; I watched him go off, down the bendy path and through the clotted woods. I despised him, I admired him. I hated him, I loved
him. I was outraged, I was charmed. When he spoke, I still wanted to listen.
As it happened, I didn’t talk to him again. There he was at the seminar dinner that night; his shopping trip had plainly gone well. He wore a very expensive new lightweight suit, a smart
new shirt, gold cufflinks that had not been on his wrists that afternoon. Despite, maybe even because of our conversation then, or perhaps because of the companionship of the Russian lady, he was
in excellent humour. His form was back; the Russian lady was at his side at table, touching his arm from time to time. I passed him as I moved towards a table in the further corner. ‘The
great trouble in Russia, you know, is their condoms are too thick,’ he was saying, ‘You need Western aid immediately.’ Later I saw him talking on and on, as he did, no doubt
flitting, as he also did, from Plato to Gramsci, Freud to Fukuyama. The usual respectful crowd sat silent round him; I never saw him again.
In the morning, when I checked at the desk, Criminale’s luggage had still not been traced. He would not be leaving quickly, I had enough for my article, and now I could not keep on
avoiding him. I left Schlossburg that morning and flew off home. I wrote my Po-Mo piece, which appeared in the Po-Mo supplement, which is why in their cottages in Provence everyone chatted
Postmodernism over the Piat d’Or that summer. Then I thought again about whether I should write about Criminale. I had said I would remain silent, but what I had in mind now was not exactly
about Criminale at all. The Schlossburg conversation half changed my mind. He had said his story was, perhaps, not so very far away from being my own story, though of course his story seemed to
stop more or less where mine started; that was what I thought about.
And Bazlo Criminale’s story did stop, just about a week after the end of the Schlossburg seminar. For, back in Santa Barbara, California, where he had returned, Criminale died –
knocked over by a helmeted bicyclist in a Sony Walkman, so engrossed in some orgasmic peak of the latest Madonna hit that he failed to notice the great philosopher abstractedly crossing the green
campus path in front of him. Criminale was struck in the temple by the rim of the cyclist’s safety helmet; they took him to the finest of hospitals, but he never regained consciousness. The
best that can be said about it is that he died with his lapel badge on – for he was, of course, attending a conference, on ‘Does Philosophy Have a Future?’, which was at once abandoned as a mark of respect for a great late modern thinker.
You may well remember the obituaries, which were plentiful and generally very respectful. The usual confusions surrounding him survived; several quite different dates and places of birth were
given, and his career, fame, and his political views and ideological attitude explained in quite contradictory ways. His public celebrity was, well, celebrated, and much was said about the
greatness of his literary work. Less was said about the philosophy, except that it was both advanced and obscure. ‘The Philosopher King Is Dead: Who Is The King?’ asked one piece,
speculating about the succession. Very little was said about his personal life, except in very general terms. And nothing at all was said directly about any feet of clay. Even so, there was a
general note of caution, as if there might be worse things to come out.
Someone who knew him better than most wrote the piece in the London
Times
. ‘His birthplace was Bulgaria, his passport was Austrian, his bank account Swiss, and his loyalty perhaps
was to nowhere,’ it said – pointedly, I thought, ‘There is no doubt he was a great man, amongst the leading European philosophers of the postwar era, but at times a flawed one. He
was a thinker of genius and a pillager of women. He was loved by many for his charm and presence, and made friends in high places everywhere in the world – a friendship he sometimes
exploited, in a familiar Mitteleuropean way, though those who knew him best well understood how to forget and forgive. He once famously described philosophy itself as “a form of irony”,
and that quality is what we will continue to find in his quite probably enduring work.’ These were the only real hints, if they really were hints, of trouble to come. However, in various
small American papers there were a few rumours that his death was not entirely accidental, that reactionary Eastern European forces had decided he was a liability. But, as you know, we live in an
age of conspiracy theories, some people preferring to believe that nothing is ever what it is but an elaborate plot by powers elsewhere.