Doctor Criminale (43 page)

Do we call those things betrayals? Yes; if you accepted Gertla’s story on the pampa, then philosophy or ideological conviction did not save him. Indeed betrayal and deceptive silence
simply had to be read back into the book’s record, onto almost every single page. There was romantic betrayal: he had loved Irini but allowed her to be silenced, to disappear. There was
intellectual betrayal: the radical and revisionist philosopher had, by Gertla’s account, signed a Devil’s Pact with Stalinism in 1956. Then that meant political betrayal: he had become
a creature of a corrupt and conspiratorial regime and system, repressive to its marrow, and everything he said and did there-after could be considered suspect. There was personal betrayal: when
Criminale made his high-level contacts and friendships in the West, he was reporting everything back to Gertla, who was herself pillow-talking with the Hungarian (which must also have meant the
Russian) secret police. There was perhaps even financial betrayal, in the special accounts in Switzerland that had so interested Ildiko Hazy and Cosima Bruckner.

But to measure all that, it seemed important to decide who really
had
written the book, to make up my mind about the absent author. Here I had quite a rich choice: Otto Codicil, Criminale
himself, Sandor Hollo maybe, Gertla Riviero. I thought of others: Sepulchra, say, even Ildiko. But by the time I had put the book down I had little doubt; I was more or less sure it was really
Gertla. She came out as a kind of heroine. In fact if the book was a whitewash of Criminale, it was even more a whitewash of Gertla, or what I understood of Gertla. I checked the things I could
check. She had the opportunity: when the book was written, in the mid-Eighties, she was still living in Budapest and could have sent it via Hollo to Codicil. She had the motive. For the book came
from the age when Marxism– Leninism was coming apart, in Gorbachev’s Soviet Union, during the great time of glasnost and then perestroika, and in the Eastern European countries – almost everywhere, you could say, except in China and the seminar rooms of some British and American universities. Reform was spreading, history moving fast.
The pointless inhumanity of the system, the prison walls built round it, the shameless manipulations of its power-brokers and bully-boys were plain, and even the old Party hacks and hardliners were
busy rewriting their histories in case. Criminale, Great Thinker of the Age of Glasnost, tough but tender, revolutionary yet reformist, a philosopher of reconciliation and
rapprochement
,
was a perfect mask.

There was only one problem with all this. If the mask was there above all to protect Gertla, why would she now want to take it off? Why say something different and opposite
now
–
and not just to me, but through me, a known and convicted journalist, to the world beyond? Why, if she was the secret police agent who had, in effect, corrupted Criminale, would she want that known
– especially at a time like this, when the files were opening everywhere, the scores were being settled, and everyone was claiming virtue? At first, on the plane, my thought, as you know, was
this came from the jealousy of a strong-minded, powerful woman who, in a time of change, was losing her influence over a world-famous man. Something like that wasn’t new. It was what I had
heard from the mistresses of Borges; it was what I remembered from the great fights among the lovers and friends of Jean-Paul Sartre over who had the ‘right’ to his thought when he
changed his opinions in his final, ailing years. But now I saw that made very little sense. If she was changing her position, and trying to undermine and expose Criminale, there had to be another,
better reason.

Having got here, I knew even less just what to do next. There was Criminale’s secret, there was Gertla’s secret, and goodness knows what other obscurities else. I put it all aside.
Like Jean-Paul Sartre on his summer holidays, I felt I wanted a rest from all this
Angst
for a bit. My desk was piling up with the new spring books, which burst out like crocuses at this
season. I did my work and let the story ride. But then one day, typing down the computer linkline in my all-too-open open-plan newspaper office, I had a thought on pure impulse: I knew someone who
might know. I picked up the phone and rang the European Commission in Brussels. There followed the usual confusions: multilingual chatter, switchboard misdirections, cries of Ciao, invitations to
please hold onto your piece. Then a familiar voice was on the line. ‘Ah, ja, Bruckner?’ it said.

‘Oh, Bruckner, guess who?’ I said, ‘Your contact in London.’ ‘Ah, ja, which contact in London?’ asked Bruckner. ‘It’s quite all right to
talk?’ I asked. ‘Why not, we talk all the time in the European Commission,’ said Bruckner. ‘It’s Francis Jay, remember,’ I said. ‘Ah, ja,’ said
Bruckner. ‘I promised I’d call if I knew any more about Bazlo . . .’ ‘Wait, I transfer this to a more secure line with a certain device,’ said Bruckner. ‘I
thought you might,’ I said patiently. A moment later, her voice sounding strangely magnified, Bruckner was back again. ‘So you, my friend, you found out something?’ ‘It may
not be important,’ I said, ‘But I was in Argentina and met Criminale’s second wife.’ ‘Gertla Riviero?’ asked Bruckner. ‘You know her?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ said Bruckner, ‘You just saw her there? So how is she like?’ ‘Well, re-married, rich, and starting a whole new life,’ I said. ‘Yes, I think
so,’ said Bruckner, ‘So what did you really find out?’

My news evidently sounded weary and unprofitable, I thought; I went on anyway. ‘She told me a lot of things about Criminale’s political past,’ I said, ‘His links with the
Hungarian regime and so on.’ ‘It’s interesting?’ asked Bruckner. ‘It’s dynamite for his reputation, that is, if it’s true,’ I said, ‘The
trouble is I don’t know whether to believe a word of it.’ ‘You called but you think it is not true?’ ‘I think it needs checking carefully,’ I said,
‘That’s why I called. I thought if you ever came to London I could take you out for a bite to eat and we could compare notes. I’m in no hurry to print it.’ ‘You think
you will print it?’ ‘She wants me to print it,’ I said. There was a pause, and then Cosima Bruckner said, ‘Listen carefully please. Here are your instructions. Go now to the
airport and take the first flight here to Brussels.’ ‘I can’t, I have a job to do,’ I said. ‘Europe will pay,’ said Bruckner, taking no notice, ‘Do not
tell anyone what you are doing. Mention Riviero to no one. Go to the Grand’ Place in the centre. In the corner is a restaurant, La Rochette. Everyone knows it from the outside. Meet me at
eight. I will expect you. Once again you have done very well, my friend.’ It was curious how, when Cosima instructed, one always obeyed.

That same afternoon, then, I found myself once again in Heathrow’s packed, vile Terminal 2, caught a Sabena flight to Brussels, walked out through the controls at
Zaventem, and took a taxi down tram-tracked streets into the grey city centre. There was hardly time to inspect the chocolate shops and pâtisseries before the city clocks were ringing eight.
A row of black limousines waited outside La Rochette, their chauffeurs buffing them up to perfection. I made my way through the obscure, dignified entrance: the maître d’ pounced in the
doorway. ‘I regret very much, m’sieu, but we take only guests with reservations,’ he said. ‘There’s a guest here from the European Commission,’ I said.
‘Yes, m’sieu, they are all from the European Commission,’ he said, ‘Only they can afford La Rochette.’ ‘I’m joining Miss Bruckner,’ I said. ‘Ah
oui, Miss Bruckner! She likes always the quiet table by the window,’ said the maître d’, relieving me, with evident distaste, of my anorak and rucksack, and offering a tie from an
extensive rack.

He presented me with a house aperitif; Miss Bruckner had not yet arrived. I sat at the table looking at the prices on the finely printed menu, and quickly realized why the citizens of Brussels
knew La Rochette only from the outside. A few moments later, Cosima Bruckner walked in. I saw at once she looked different. She had abandoned her usual leatherized motorcycle gear, and was wearing
a soft, expensive dove-grey dress. I have to confess that, to my Nineties post-punk fabric-loving eyes, she looked suddenly much more attractive. The maître d’ seated her:
‘Armand, this is my special guest from London,’ she said, ‘Look after him nicely.’ ‘Enchanté, m’sieu, welcome to La Rochette,’ Armand said, ‘The best champagne, perhaps?’
‘Please,’ said Bruckner, ‘And how is the lobster this evening?’ ‘Ah! Parfait!’ cried Armand. ‘Do you like some?’ Bruckner asked me. I glanced at the
prices on the menu, and must have turned starch white. ‘Oh, please do not worry,’ said Cosima Bruckner, ‘Europe is willing to pay.’

The chandeliers tinkled and twinkled over our heads; the quiet waiters flitted, the champagne buckets clanked. I glanced round the room, and realized it was a murmur of ministers, a parley of
parliamentarians, a babel of bureaucrats, a chatter of commissioners, a lobbying of lawyers, an argument of advisers. ‘Who are all these?’ I asked, ‘Why so many people here from
the European Commission?’ ‘Remember, this New Europe is a very strange place,’ said Cosima, ‘A great and complicated mega-country. And these are the élite of Brussels
now, the new class, the people from the Berlaymont.’ ‘The Berlaymont?’ I asked. ‘That is the great four-legged building in the Rue de la Loi, with all the flags, you
know?’ said Cosima, ‘That is the Commission, where I work. I and about fifteen hundred other bureaucrats.’

‘That’s where you work,’ I said, ‘What do you do there?’ ‘I think you know,’ said Cosima. ‘Not exactly,’ I said, ‘I only know you
chase people and spy on them all the time.’ ‘You also, I think,’ said Cosima. ‘For different reasons,’ I said. ‘No need to tell your reasons, I know almost
everything about you,’ said Cosima. I looked up. ‘You’ve been checking on me?’ ‘Naturally, it was necessary to check on everyone,’ said Cosima. ‘You
probably know more about me than I do,’ I said uncomfortably. ‘This is possible,’ said Cosima Bruckner. ‘Well, as Professor Codicil would say, who is the man who can
entirely explain himself?’ ‘He said this?’ asked Cosima, ‘You were right about him, of course.’ ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘It was as you said, he
was the centre of it,’ said Cosima. ‘The centre of what?’ I asked. ‘Naturally I cannot tell you,’ said Cosima, the eternal enigma.

‘So you know about me,’ I said, ‘Now tell me a bit more about you.’ ‘Why should I do this?’ asked Cosima. ‘Because I can’t see what this Criminale
business has to do with the people of the Berlaymont.’ ‘Please, my friend, you do not know what riffraff might be listening,’ said Cosima, glancing round. ‘Riffraff?’
I asked, glancing myself round the room. Nothing could have seemed in better order. I saw the King of the Belgians, the European Foreign Ministers (I recognized Hurd and Genscher), the Sheikhs of
Araby, the Deputy-President of the European Commission, closeted in a quiet corner. ‘Of course,’ said Cosima. ‘They look like a very high class of riffraff to me,’ I said.
‘Many of these people are not what they seem,’ said Cosima, ‘I see you do not really understand our New Europe.’ ‘I probably don’t,’ I said.

‘If you like to understand it, think of Switzerland,’ she said, ‘You remember Switzerland, where we last met?’ ‘I shall never forget it, Cosima,’ I said.
‘Both have many things in common,’ said Cosima, ‘They are confederations, they have complicated government, they are rich. That is why tonight you eat lobster.’ ‘At
moments like this I’m all for the New Europe,’ I said. ‘Both have many different cultures, many different languages. In Europe nine official ones, and then Euro-speak.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked. ‘It is mostly acronyms, like when the ERM of the EMS leads to the EMU and the ECU,’ said Cosima, ‘And both are very pretty countries, no?
The fields are full of cows and grain and vines, all supported by subsidies. Both have wonderful lakes and mountains. You know our nice lakes, I hope? The Wine Lakes, the Milk Lakes, the Olive Oil
Lakes? Then our wonderful mountains.’ ‘Yes, the Beef Mountain, the Wheat Mountain, the Butter Mountain,’ I said.

‘You really know our country quite well,’ said Cosima admiringly, ‘But do you understand how hard it is to govern? Three hundred million people, a quarter of world resources.
And who is in charge?’ ‘The Parliament,’ I suggested. ‘Oh, you know where it is?’ asked Cosima, ‘No one else can find it. It meets only four days a month. Mostly
it is lost on a train between Strasbourg and Brussels.’ ‘The European Heads of State, then,’ I said. ‘You are joking, of course,’ said Cosima, ‘They cannot agree
on anything, especially now you British are in. No, it is governed by the Commission.’ ‘Oh yes, Jacques Delors,’ I said, fondly remembering (I often did) Ildiko’s shapely
tee-shirt. ‘Except he likes to be President of France for a change,’ said Cosima, ‘So the important one is the one I showed you, Jean-Luc Villeneuve. But the Commission has
problems too. We have created a great bureaucracy that would drive even Franz Kafka crazy.’

‘Frankly I thought he was a little crazy,’ I said. ‘Oh, no, he is alive and well and living in the Berlaymont,’ said Cosima, ‘You know, in a few months they will
pull the building down. Why, because it does not meet the asbestos regulations invented by the people who like to work inside it.’ ‘Franz would admire that,’ I admitted.
‘Then in fifty offices are fifty officials working to design the perfect Euro-pig.’ ‘That too,’ I agreed. ‘Also now we have a Europe completely filled with paper crops
and paper animals,’ said Cosima, ‘Paper olives which never grow, but still the farmers make a fortune. Paper cows nobody sees, but they walk across borders and double their value in one
minute. Paper pigs climb in trucks in Ireland and arrive in Romania with an export refund. And think of a system where people spend all day in meetings making budgets and subsidies, then come out
at night to restaurants like this and plan how to defraud them. Perhaps now you understand better what my job is.’

‘Yes,’ I said, as the best champagne was replaced by a very fine Sauvignon, ‘Your job is to sit at night in very expensive restaurants like this, working out how your
colleagues fix things so they can sit at night in very expensive restaurants like this.’ ‘That is it exactly,’ said Cosima, with an unexpected hint of a giggle, ‘You see,
where there is a great budget, usually there is also a great fraud. So maybe there are some riffraff here, after all.’ ‘But that doesn’t explain why you came to Barolo, what you
were doing in Lausanne,’ I said. ‘We had our suspicions,’ said Cosima. ‘Or why you were checking up on me,’ I said. ‘We checked on you of course because we
thought you were a part of it.’ ‘A part of what?’ I asked. ‘Please,’ said Cosima. ‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘Let’s start again. What made you think
I was a part of whatever it was you thought I was a part of?’ ‘Of course,’ said Cosima, ‘Because you were travelling with the Hungarian agent.’