Malcolm Bradbury - Doctor Criminale

‘Just one more moment,’ I said quickly, ‘We were counting on your help.’ ‘My help, why my help?’ he asked. ‘Because you’re the great authority on Criminale’s work,’ I said. ‘No,’ he said, ‘The great authority on Criminale’s work – it is obvious, of course, but I see I must inform you – is Criminale himself. You have talked to him?’ ‘Not yet,’ I said, ‘I came to you because you wrote the important book on him.’ There was another lengthy pause, and then Codicil said, ‘My dear fellow, I know very well if my book is important or not. Of course it is important, I would not have written it otherwise. Just one moment, please.’ Codicil then shouted several imperative things in German down a very long corridor, and there was more skittering on the parquet. Then he returned to the telephone. ‘Ja, bitte?’ he asked. ‘Professor Codicil,’ I said, ‘This is going to be a very important programme. We were hoping that you would consent to contribute to it.’ ‘I, contribute, how?’ asked Codicil. ‘We thought you might speak on the programme about Criminale,’ I said. ‘You wish to employ my own presence in this programme?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘You’d be a very valued contributor.’ Codicil was silent again. Then he said, ‘No, really, that will not be possible. I hope you do not think I am some flighty little starling who likes nothing better than to preen on the television.’

‘Of course not, Professor Codicil,’ I said, ‘But can we possibly talk about it?’ ‘To my own estimation, that is exactly what we are doing at this moment,’ said Codicil. ‘I mean, can we meet somewhere and discuss this properly,’ I said. ‘My good fellow,’ said Codicil, ‘It may have escaped your notices that I am quite an important man. I lead an exceedingly busy public life and I have many affairs. Also in Austria we do not have the habit of inviting the utter passing stranger into the pristine quiet of our homes. I know you come from an informal country, but here, even in these difficult days, we like to preserve a certain formality, with proper introductions and so on.’ ‘I understand that,’ I said, ‘But I’m not asking to come to your home.’ ‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Codicil, ‘Naturally you would not be welcome.’ ‘But can’t we meet in your office, perhaps?’ ‘I see that like so many people in the newspapers you have really no idea of the harsh and unremitting demands of modern academic life,’ said Codicil, ‘May I suggest to you that you simply forget about your programme, and allow me to take my dinner.’ ‘I can’t forget all about it,’ I said, ‘The project’s already started. It will be on television next autumn. I hoped you’d want to make sure that everything the programme said was completely fair and accurate.’

At the other end, Codicil had gone quiet again, though I could hear him breathing heavily. Then he coughed suddenly and said, ‘Oh, listen to these importunate blandishments of the media. Very well, since despite all my best advisings you insist to proceed further, I will offer you a very brief appointment. Let us meet at the Café Karl Kraus. That is near to the Votivkirche and the Universität. If, that is, you think you can stir your stumps enough to attend there tomorrow morning at eleven of the clock?’ ‘I think I can stir my stumps for that,’ I said, ‘How will I know you?’ ‘You will have no difficulty,’ he said, ‘Just ask for me there, I am not unknown to them, in fact they know me very well. By the way, remember, it will be my treat.’ ‘And mine too,’ I said warmly, ‘I’m looking forward to meeting you.’ ‘No, you misunderstand my evidently ineluctable English,’ said Codicil, ‘I am explaining that I am happy to slap up the tab.’ ‘Ah, thank you,’ I said. ‘It is my pleasure,’ said Codicil, ‘Is that enough? Then Wiedersehen, mein Herr.’

After I had replaced the phone, I sat on the bed for a moment. This was not the kind of conversation I had expected to get into, when Lavinia told me I was going off into life to be a television researcher. It seemed that Viennese professors had a somewhat different attitude to the media from many of their British counterparts, and I already felt sure I would not get much out of Codicil. And with no Codicil, there would probably be no way to reach Criminale, maybe no programme at all. I thought I had better consult the Delphic oracle, so I picked up the telephone and rang Lavinia, over there in her grand-luxe comfort at the Hotel de France. ‘I’m sitting in the bath eating Rumtorte,’ said Lavinia when I reached her at last, ‘Is your hotel full of Japanese?’ ‘Hundreds,’ I said. ‘Do yours ride up and down in the elevators all the time and giggle?’ asked Lavinia, ‘Mine do.’ ‘Listen, Lavinia,’ I said, ‘I’ve just been talking to Codicil.’ ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Apparently in Vienna all professors have ex-directory numbers,’ I said, ‘Luckily they use the telephone company as an answering service.’ ‘Does he speak English?’ asked Lavinia. ‘Yes, you could say he speaks English,’ I said, ‘In fact he speaks it far more fluently and fancily than I do.’ ‘Brilliant,’ said Lavinia. ‘I’m not sure it is brilliant,’ I said, ‘He’s obviously made his mind up to be very difficult. Or more likely he just is very difficult by nature and he didn’t have to make up his mind to it at all.’

Well, you know what to do, Francis,’ said Lavinia, ‘Get your foot in the door. That’s what we’re paying you all this money for. Just be persuasive and charming.’ ‘I was,’ I said. Then why is he being difficult?’ asked Lavinia. ‘He says he has more important things to do and he’s not interested in the blandishments of the media,’ I said. They all say that,’ said Lavinia, ‘I expect he’s one of those old-fashioned profs who pretend to despise television and say they never watch it. You just have to say you’ll put them on it and they’re licking at your legs straight away.’ ‘Maybe in Britain,’ I said, ‘I don’t think they’re like that in Austria. Viennese professors have a big sense of their own importance.’ ‘It’s just a question of finding the right approach,’ said Lavinia, ‘Get him to meet you.’ ‘I have,’ I said, ‘I’m having coffee with him tomorrow morning. I thought it might be a good idea if you came along.’

‘Sorry, Francis, terribly busy day, full diary already,’ said Lavinia, ‘You know what to do. Just nestle in his bosom like a viper.’ ‘I have a strange feeling Codicil’s bosom isn’t the kind of bosom anyone ever manages to nestle in,’ I said. ‘Well, you know you can always come and nestle in mine,’ said Lavinia, ‘Any time. Oh, and about that, I had this terrible problem getting tickets for the opera. The Japanese had all got there first and bought out the place.’ ‘What a pity, Lavinia,’ I said, ‘So we have to cancel the champagne?’ ‘No, I got a box for the following night,’ said Lavinia, ‘I daren’t tell you what it cost, but it’s damn near half the recce budget. Then you can come back after and see my absolutely glorious room. Do you have an absolutely glorious room?’ ‘Not exactly, Lavinia,’ I said, ‘I’m up in the loft with the pigeons.’ ‘Good,’ said Lavinia, ‘Because we couldn’t have afforded it, not with these opera tickets. Still, I know you’ll love mine.’ ‘Oh, good,’ I said, ‘Thanks so much for your help, Lavinia.’ ‘Remember,’ said Lavinia, ‘In his bosom like a viper. Night, darling.’

The next morning, I took a hearty European feast in the downstairs breakfast room (ham, cheese, salami, strawberries, melon, yoghurt, bran and buttermilk, if I remember rightly), and then set out, with plenty of time to spare, for my meeting with Professor Doktor Otto Codicil. By ten thirty I was already in the square outside fragile and mournful Votivkirche. As I’ve said already, Vienna does not in the end neglect its great men, and not even the one who explored the deeper dreams of the city of dreams, the stranger desires of the city of desire, who was then expelled by the Nazis, and who ended his days sadly in Hampstead, dying just one year more than fifty years before. The square outside the church, I gathered from my various maps and guides, had passed through several names and several histories – Dollfuss-Platz, maybe Hitler-Platz, certainly Roosevelt-Platz. Today it was Sigmund Freud-Park; in fact a statue of the old couch-artist stood there, pigeons roosting on its head, a plaint about human reason on its base. Freud hadn’t liked Vienna; Vienna felt much the same way about Freud. Now, though, he seemed to be enjoying almost a Mozartian revival. The newest operatic work to open in the city was, according to all the posters, Freudiana , and offered ‘the findings of Sigmund Freud, fantastic dreams’ – I bet – ‘and celestial-sounding music – the ingredients of Vienna’s latest musical.’ Soon, I realized, we’d all be out buying Freudkugeln (‘the sweet heritage of Sigmund’) and chocolate Wolfmen. So goes the world.