Malcolm Bradbury - Doctor Criminale

Later that night I somehow found myself high up in the Alps. The good Herr Professor Doktor Codicil, wearing a great green loden coat, was chasing me through the boulders and the stunted trees and down into a deep and wooded ravine. He had a hunting rifle over his shoulder and a pack of staghounds ran at his heels. Despite his great bulk he was getting nearer, cutting off corners with his superior knowledge of the terrain. His dogs were close behind me and a rifle shot clipped a branch off a tree. I halted and saw his heated angry face, glaring at me. Then, with James-Bond-like bravura, I jumped into the rushing, frothing river that swept down the mountain beside me. It flowed at an angle of about forty-five degrees, and quickly began carrying me away. Codicil had halted on the bank; I looked back and saw him angrily waving his fists at me. The rushing river was freezing cold, and began to buffet me violently from rock to rock. Nonetheless I had a magical conviction of survival. Suddenly I was swept over a massive waterfall, and down into its whirlpool below. I struggled to swim, cried for help, and then was suddenly lifted from below by the surge and taken into calmer waters. Shivering and sweating at once, I swam in desperation towards the bank.

A branch hung above me, and I was able to pull myself onto the sandy rim and lay exhausted. ‘Welcome, would you like a cake?’ asked Gerstenbacker, who for some reason was standing over me, looking down at me politely over his high winged collar. ‘Professor Codicil’s after me,’ I said. Gerstenbacker bent down, took off my coat, and somehow managed to shake it completely dry. Then he handed it back to me and said, ‘That is better, now I will take you to Berggasse 19.’ ‘Why are we going to Berggasse 19?’ I asked. ‘Because Professor Doktor Sigmund Freud is ready to see you,’ said Gerstenbacker. ‘I don’t want to see Professor Doktor Sigmund Freud,’ I said. ‘This is not so polite,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Professor Doktor Freud has cancelled his appointments with Dora and the Wolfman for you. He has arranged a special visit in the pristine quiet of his home, to give you his best help.’ ‘What help?’ I asked. ‘He can help you remember what you have forgotten,’ said Gerstenbacker. ‘No, I’m sorry, but I do not want to see Professor Doktor Sigmund Freud,’ I shouted at Gerstenbacker.

‘No, I’m sorry, I do not want to see Professor Doktor Sigmund Freud,’ I found I was shouting in nightbound darkness in some hot and airless room. A great glow of orange light as from some nearby city shone through the panes of the window. Where was I? Of course: I was in Vienna, city of the waltz and the Sachertorte, pink rabbits and the Blue Danube, where one day almost a hundred years ago the secret of dreams had revealed itself to Doktor Sigm. Freud. I was shivering and sweating under my twisted duvet in my high lonely eyrie at the Hotel Von Trapp. I knew immediately what I must do. I would ask the fireman for help when he passed by the window. And I would not evacuate in the lift. In the city of Professor Doktor Sigmund Freud, such things are all too easily misunderstood.

Morning light came at last; I rose, showered, dressed, and went down to the basement breakfast-room. As I gathered up from the buffet a plate of fruit, ham and salad, I noticed that out in the hallway someone was sitting on a chair, very quietly, as if he had been waiting patiently there for some long time. I saw it was young Herr Gerstenbacker, his collar again neat, his bow tie smart. ‘You’re waiting for me?’ I asked, going across to him. He looked up. ‘I have been here quite a little time but I do not like to disturb you so very early,’ he said. ‘Come and have some coffee,’ I said. ‘No, I must go now,’ he said. ‘I came only to tell you that unfortunately I may not accompany you today. I should like to show you more Vienna, but Professor Codicil demands my helps with a very urgent matter.’ ‘Surely he’d allow you one cup of coffee,’ I said. ‘He also sends with me a message I am compelled to give you,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘He says he forbids you strictly to proceed any further with this Criminale project.’ ‘He forbids me?’ I asked. ‘He has examined the project carefully and considers it not suitable,’ said Gerstenbacker, looking at me very nervously.

‘Come and sit down,’ I said, leading him over to a high-benched seat at the table where my coffee was waiting, ‘Have some coffee.’ ‘No, thank you,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘He says you do not approach a very great man in the right way at all. If Doctor Criminale’s story is ever told, it will not be like this.’ ‘Could you take a message back to Professor Codicil?’ I asked, ‘Would you tell him the programme goes ahead, with his help or without it?’ ‘He is a very important man, a very famous professor,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘He has much influence with the government. He knows all the lawyers, he is a friend of Waldheim . . .’ ‘If he was Tsar of all the Russians we’d still go ahead,’ I said. ‘He means a formal protest to your Ambassador, who I think will stop it,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Professor Codicil was once the President of the Anglo-Austrian Friendship Society.’ ‘Oh, yes?’ I said, ‘Well, even if it means turning it into the Anglo-Austrian Enmity Society, the programme will still go on,’ I said, ‘In my country things don’t work like that. At least I hope they don’t.’

Gerstenbacker stared at me for a moment or so, as if impressed. Then he said, ‘Perhaps I will have a little coffee, if only half a cup. This of course is not my fault. You know I am only his assistant. I have no power over his mind.’ ‘I know,’ I said, ‘I don’t blame you at all.’ ‘Nada Productions must be a very powerful company,’ Gerstenbacker said, slowly pouring cream into his coffee. ‘Very powerful,’ I said. ‘So you could still perhaps bring me to Britain?’ ‘I’ll talk to the producer today,’ I said, ‘In Britain she’s considered a very big lady. In fact, she is everywhere.’ Gerstenbacker thought for a moment, then felt in the inner pocket of his black jacket. ‘I brought you this,’ he said, taking out a sealed envelope. I took and opened it. Inside was simply a file card, with on it a single name – Sandor Hollo – and an obscure address. ‘What’s this?’ I asked, ‘Who is Sandor Hollo?’ ‘He was Codicil’s research assistant five years ago,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘I went into the faculty office early this morning and looked up him in the file.’

I looked at the card. ‘You mean this is the man who wrote the book on Criminale?’ I asked. ‘Yes, I believe so,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Also you see he comes from Budapest. So also did Criminale.’ ‘So this address is in Budapest?’ I asked. ‘That man is Hungarian,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘He was assistant here for a time, and then went back. Budapest is quite a long way, but if you go there I think perhaps he can tell you all you like to know about Criminale. You will learn nothing here.’ I glanced again at the address and telephone number, and put the card in my pocket. ‘You’re wonderful, Gerstenbacker,’ I said, ‘You’re what in England we call a real mate. Cheers.’ ‘My name is Franz-Josef,’ said Gerstenbacker, blushing red, ‘What is that, a real mate?’ ‘A good pal,’ I said, ‘I really hope you make it to Castle Howard.’ ‘I also,’ said Gerstenbacker, taking up a menu and writing something on the back of it, ‘Now here is my address also. If you can help me, and I hope so, please never write to the faculty. Only to this, my apartment. Remember, you cannot ever trust this pig Codicil. He is a man who forgets nothing and forgives no one. He is not a nice enemy and his contacts are everywhere. Now I must go and work for him.’