Doctor Criminale (28 page)

I watched out for Doctor Criminale, and there he was, taking his seat by Monza right in the middle of the front row. Miss Belli then approached, smiled, said something, and took the seat next to
him. They leaned towards each other, possibly sharing a programme or some other small intimacy. I took a seat towards the back, in a position from which I could observe them; this was a
relationship I wanted to understand better. Then someone took the seat next to mine; I turned and saw that it was, once again, Cosima Bruckner. ‘I think, Mr Jay, it is time to be quite frank
with you,’ she whispered, leaning close to me, ‘Please understand I too am not what I seem.’ ‘Really?’ I asked, ‘So what are you then?’ ‘The face
that you see is only my cover,’ said Bruckner, glancing round. ‘You’re not from the European Community?’ I asked. ‘Let us say not from the beef section as I have been
maintaining,’ said Bruckner, ‘Ssshhh.’

She pointed to the podium, onto which was filing a small chamber orchestra. Its members, all in white shirts and bow ties, were youthful but stylish, the young men with long hair, the girls with
short. After a brief moment, a similarly youthful conductor, in long black tails and wearing long flowing locks, entered, took centre stage, bowed to our warm applause. The orchestra tuned up.
‘A fine acoustic!’ Criminale could be heard saying. Then the conductor stepped forward. ‘Antonio Lucio Vivaldi,
Le Quattro Stagione
,’ he said, ‘
The Four
Seasons
.’ Here was another composer who had, I seemed to remember, died in poverty in Vienna, and then revived to bring us neo-classical joy. The orchestra, a good one, now set about Vivaldi’s meteorological work with gusto; I leaned back to listen and enjoy.

It was in the middle of
Spring
that Cosima Bruckner resumed her whispering in my ear. ‘Do you realize that here we are within ten kilometres of the Swiss border?’ she asked. I
shook my head. ‘And you know Switzerland is the world’s financial paradise?’ I nodded. ‘Also it is not a member of the European Community.’ I smiled sympathetically.
‘That means this border is alive with fraudulent traffic and financial irregularities of every kind.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘You know that ten per cent of the European Community
budget disappears in fraudulent transactions?’ I raised my eyebrows even higher. ‘Much of it goes out of Italy and through these passes.’ I shrugged my shoulders. ‘So
perhaps now you understand why I am at Barolo,’ said Cosima Bruckner, sitting back as the movement came to its end.

When
Summer
started, she was off again. ‘What could be better than an international congress for passing illicit traffic?’ she murmured. ‘These are all famous
international scholars and writers,’ I murmured back. ‘Exactly, people from all over the world that no one would suspect,’ whispered Cosima. ‘I don’t believe
it,’ I whispered back. I saw the conductor turn and look at us with irritation. ‘Listen, I will trust you,’ hissed Cosima Bruckner, ‘I require your helps.’ ‘I
know nothing about these things,’ I hissed back. ‘You would be wise to consider,’ susurrated Cosima Bruckner, ‘Remember, I could have you ejaculated from this congress
entirely. You understand?’ ‘What do you want, then?’ I susurrated back. ‘Have you see anything at all suspicious, at Barolo?’ asked Cosima Bruckner, ‘Financial
transactions, unexpected contacts?’ ‘Nothing like that,’ I said. ‘Nothing at all that is unusual?’ asked Cosima. The movement came to its sprightly end. I looked again
at the front row, wondering how things were with Bazlo Criminale. It was then that I realized that, somewhere during the course of Summer, he and Miss Belli had both disappeared.

Autumn began, and midway through it the heavens opened. A tempestuous downpour clattered violently on the tiles above us, and by the end of the movement rainwater was swilling over the marble
floors of the
salle de réception
and lapping around our feet. When the music ceased, Monza rose and had a few words with the conductor, who then stepped forward. ‘Grazie, thank
you very much,
The Three Seasons
,’ he said. The applause that followed was undeservedly brief, for Monza was up there again, clapping for attention. ‘Now may I ask you to returna
to the boata! These storms can sometimes go on all through the nighta, so I think we must returna to Barolo quickly.’ We hurried out of the hall and to the boat through the classical gardens.
Rain tumbled down and Mars and Venus dripped and spurted from every cleft, orifice and protuberance. Water filled the gunwales of our waiting speedboat, and we huddled in the cabin. I looked round
for Criminale and Miss Belli. There was no sign of them, but no one except myself and Cosima Bruckner seemed to care.

We set sail quickly towards the Isola Barolo. The lake had fallen into a strange calm. To the north, where the Alps rose up, the view was magnificent and terrible. Wild lightning flashes lit the
mountaintops, disclosing vast ranges of snow-covered ridges we had never seen before. Rushing clouds skittered over their tops; the trees below the tree-line were dipping under rushing wind and
then rising again. Thunder echoed from mountainside to mountainside, with the racket of an enormous military barrage. Then in the lightning flashes we could see that, from the top end of the lake,
a ruffle of violent wind was moving along, tearing at the still surface of the water. Only Cosima Bruckner seemed to be without fear; she stood up in the front of the boat and shouted,
‘Storm, go away!’ The rest of us huddled in the cabin as the boatman made the engine surge, and we drove for the Barolo pier.

The storm was striking Barolo now; the trees began to dip and crack, the crag above the village was garishly backlit, the villa itself illuminated in a sudden
son et lumière.
I
thought about Ildiko, hoping hard that she had safely returned from her shopping on the evening boat. It was only by moments that we ourselves outran the windstorm that swept down Lake Cano that
night. Even as our boat tied up at the pier, the waves began leaping violently, and the water spumed and boiled. We ran through the pouring rain to the minibuses that had come down to collect us,
and by the time we reached the gates of the villa it was clear something had happened to Paradise. Water swept down the drive as if it had turned into a riverbed; the branches of trees were
bending, twisting, snapping to the ground.

At the villa, when we had skidded and splashed up the flooded drive, the lights were flickering, the outside shutters banging wildly against the walls. The dark-jacketed servants ran out with
umbrellas, which themselves strained and gusted as they hurried us inside. In the lobby the tapestries flapped on the walls, and wind flurried through the corridors, upturning lamps and toppling
priceless vases. I went through the downstairs rooms, looking for Ildiko. At last I found her, in the drawing room; it was half-dark, lit by some strange emergency lighting. She sat on a sofa,
surrounded by bags of shopping. ‘Whoever invented the umbrella undoubtedly had a mind of genius,’ someone on the sofa opposite was saying to her, ‘To put a moving roof that folds
on a stick we can carry without difficulty, this I must call thinking.’ For a moment I thought her companion was Bazlo Criminale. But then I moved closer and realized we had a new visitor,
someone who must have come in on the same boat as Ildiko. It was, I saw, Professor Otto Codicil.

I should freely admit that the Gran Hotel Barolo – down in the village, next to the lake, out along the promontory, charmingly overlooking the pier – was pleasant
enough. In fact, with its large grounds, its glassed-in waterfront terrace, its comfortable three-star restaurant, it was delightful, especially if you had come to it afresh or from afar. Its
façade was grand, its grounds well-kempt. There were boats in its boathouse; a nice old-fashioned trio played each evening in the pleasant bar. In fact it was the ideal place, even or
perhaps especially out of season, for tired Milanese businessmen to bring their wives, or more usually someone else’s, for a happy night or a good weekend. But the hotel somehow looked a
little different to those of us who had just spent five pure days in Paradise. To our eyes, its public rooms seemed faded and cheerless, its residents and guests drab and dull, its tablecloths
dank, its silver less than silver, its menu uninspiring, its bedrooms mean and stale, by comparison with the comforts of the Villa Barolo, high up on the crag above. Nonetheless, it did possess one
virtue that the villa did not. It was prepared to admit us, after we had been summarily ejaculated out of the gardens of Paradise.

This unfortunate episode happened on the morning after the great storm, which is still probably not forgotten at Barolo. When Ildiko and I woke up that morning, it was to look out on a clear,
bright and faultless day. Beyond the windows of the Old Boathouse, the lake lay entirely unruffled, the mountains fresh and calm. As I walked up through the terraces for breakfast (Ildiko followed her habit and stayed in bed), I found branches and
fallen trees everywhere, plants flattened, benches upturned. Still, the gardeners were at work already, repairing and perfecting the scene. So were the servants up at the villa, busily sweeping up
the debris, straightening the priceless paintings. Yet somehow the storm had left its mark, and the atmosphere of the congress had subtly changed. That was clear in the breakfast room too, where
the congress members sat eating their eggs and bacon in a strange and solemn silence. Then I looked round the room, and understood why. Today there was no Bazlo Criminale.

Had he still failed to return? I sat down to eat and after a few moments Sepulchra came in. ‘Such a night! I am tempest-tossed!’ she cried, high hair spun up higher than ever. We
watched her go over to the sideboard and pour Criminale’s usual cup of coffee. Then she turned, looked round, and said, ‘So? Where is Bazlo?’ People shook their heads. ‘You
don’t see him?’ she asked, ‘Not know where he is? You think maybe he took long walk?’ But Sepulchra did not even then appear particularly worried; she must have had half a
lifetime’s experience of dealing with Criminale’s careless wanderings and obscure absences. I said nothing about the concert the previous night, and finished my breakfast in silence. At
that moment it seemed to me perfectly possible that Criminale had stepped from the music to think some fresh thought, examine some statue or fine painting, or just look for a newspaper, and that
Miss Belli had thoughtfully followed. If he was not here now, he would probably return shortly, perhaps led by Belli, perhaps brought home by the police in their van.

There was only half an hour left before the congress events were due to resume, so I went out into the hall, meaning to go back to the Old Boathouse, stir Ildiko, and give her the roll I had
slipped into my pocket. Here, however, the butler stopped me, and very politely told me that I was summoned immediately to the upstairs suite of Mrs Valeria Magno, which I knew occupied most of the
top floor of the villa. It was only as I followed his white back up the grand staircase that led the way to our padrona that I began to stir with anxious thoughts. Could it be possible that someone
had been unkind enough to go to her and blow the gaff, strip my cover, and indicate that I was here on if not false then imperfect pretences? And if so, who was it? Could it be the operatic Cosima
Bruckner, whose conspiratorial Euro-imaginings of the night before I found it, to be frank, almost impossible to take seriously? Or was it possibly Professor Doktor Otto Codicil, whose greeting to
me the night before, when I found him with Ildiko, had been of the very frostiest, and who was, as Gerstenbacker had warned me, potentially a dangerous enemy?

The suite of Mrs Magno was, as befitted the benefactor of the entire enterprise, spacious and vast. The butler led me through a lobby, a sitting room, a gracious private dining room, and a
dressing room, before at last we reached a great bedroom, into which he ushered me. A maid with a bucket was mopping up a great pool of water from beneath the windows, another deposit from last
night’s storm. Mrs Magno was sitting at her dressing table, wearing flamboyant lounging pyjamas, and checking her face in the mirror, as if she was equally worried about storm damage there.
Professor Monza stood in the room, wearing both his Royal Engineers tie and a strangely anxious expression on his small brown face. And, sitting weightily on a chair by the window, I saw the bulky
figure of Professor Otto Codicil. ‘Lo, the outrageous impostor,’ he announced. Yes, it was bloody Codicil.

Mrs Magno turned, and looked me up and down. ‘You’re Francis Jay?’ she asked. ‘Yes, I am,’ I said. ‘Well, the prof here says you’re a phoney,’
said Mrs Magno, ‘Otto, just tell us again what he’s supposed to have done.’ ‘Well, just for a starter, this young man has completely abused your hospitality with his false
pretences,’ said Codicil, ‘Plainly it is outrageous.’ ‘I fear I made a very bad mistaka,’ said Professor Monza, ‘You understanda, Signora Magno, to organize a great congress is a very demandinga business.’ ‘You do a great job, Massimo,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘Don’t worry, it’s all logged up
here.’ ‘I should have checked his recorda more closely,’ said Monza. ‘I fear it is only what we must expect,’ said Professor Codicil, ‘The cunning blandishments
of the media. Believe me, even I succumbed.’ ‘What do you two mean?’ asked Mrs Magno, plastering some tiny crack in her façade, ‘Is this guy some kind of journalist?’
‘Exactly so,’ said Codicil. ‘I thought we had a policy of letting in some press,’ said Mrs Magno. ‘But in this case also an impostor, as I found out in Vienna to my
cost,’ said Codicil. ‘Okay, what’s the story?’ asked Mrs Magno. ‘If you do not mind, I will not mince my words,’ said Codicil. ‘Go ahead, be my
guest,’ said Mrs Magno, ‘I can take anything. I’m Californian.’

‘Very well,’ said Codicil, rising to his feet and pacing the room, ‘This man, an illiterate hack of no importance, by the way, appeared in Vienna a few days ago and solicited
my assistance. He told me he was making a television show on the subject of our dear esteemed friend Bazlo Criminale.’ ‘So why come to you?’ asked Mrs Magno, adding blusher.
‘My dear lady,’ said Codicil, a little stung by this, ‘You lead a world life, so you may not know it, but I am the author of the one great study of the work of our master.’
At this point it crossed my mind to dispute him; then I thought not. I could be in enough trouble already. I was. ‘I arranged to meet the lout,’ said Codicil, ‘At once I saw he
was unworthy, if not unwashed, even by peasant standards.’ ‘He is kind of brutal, isn’t he?’ said Mrs Magno, looking me up and down pensively. ‘How could a man of this
type possibly make a programme about Criminale?’ demanded Codicil, ‘I was reminded of Heidegger. He, you know, rejected
Öffentlichkeit
, the light of publicity which obscures
everything.’ ‘Didn’t he have good reason?’ asked Mrs Magno.