Malcolm Bradbury - Doctor Criminale

So we boarded one of those jolly Swiss funicular railways, which ran on ropes down the steep hillside from the centre of the grey city to the side of the grey lake. It was called la ficelle , the girl in the travel bureau had explained to me; and as we rode down it occurred to me that this was not the first time in my pursuit of Criminale that I’d been towed across Europe at a curious angle on the end of a string. We rode down between expensive, tidy apartments, with wonderfully kept window-boxes, set in streets of – and how I should have worried – very elegant shops. When the doors of the little train clanged open at the Ouchy terminus, we walked out to find ourselves in full view of the lake. There was the usual steamer pier, with moored at it the usual white Swiss paddle steamer, with its flapping red and white flag. Across the waters we could see, through the fading wintry day, the lights of the French spa of Evian, friend to smart dinner-tables everywhere, and behind it the Savoyard mountains, already dusted white with early snow and awaiting the coming of the skiing season, now not so far away.

I stopped, checked my guidebook, and then led the way across the square, with its statue of General Guisan, who had rallied the Swiss to fight for their neutrality during the Second World War. We passed the façade of the Hotel d’Angleterre, where, a plaque told us, Lord Byron had sat on the terrace in 1816 and written his long sad poem of liberty lost, The Prisoner of Chillon . But that was not what we were looking for. The hotel where Bazlo Criminale was staying, if Cosima Bruckner was right, was a grand affair indeed. There was nothing secretive or inconspicuous about the Hotel Beau Rivage Palace. Its vast, great-balconied façade shone white even in the dusk. The flags of all major nations fluttered on its high flagpoles. Capped chauffeurs buffed every splash and dustmark off the gleaming Rolls-Royces and Cadillacs that stood in its drives. Arabs in white robes swept in and out of its entrance; the Western suits that passed through its portico were clearly handmade. It was a place where peace conferences were held and treaties were signed. I was impressed, and so, plainly, was Ildiko.

This is really quite nice,’ she said, ‘And we are staying here?’ ‘No, Ildiko, we’re not staying here,’ I said, ‘Bazlo Criminale is staying here. To stay here you have to be very rich, very old, and on a diplomatic mission. In fact you probably have to be of royal blood as well.’ ‘Criminale Bazlo is not of royal blood,’ said Ildiko. ‘Maybe not,’ I said, ‘He’s into royalties of another kind. But you’re right, his sales have to be doing very nicely. You’d have to sell one hell of a lot of books before you could afford a suite at the Beau Rivage Palace.’ ‘But I like it here,’ said Ildiko. ‘Maybe you do,’ I said, ‘But we’ve come here to investigate Criminale, not share the highlife with him. Anyway, remember the television budget. I’m sorry, Ildiko, but I just don’t happen to be one of the world’s bestselling novelists.’ ‘And if I could find some money myself?’ asked Ildiko. ‘I doubt if they even take forints,’ I said, ‘You saw that plaque back there? Lord Byron wasn’t a man to stint on his comforts, and even he couldn’t afford a room at the Beau Rivage Palace. So let’s go and find somewhere nearby we can actually pay the bill for.’ ‘I hate you,’ said Ildiko, picking up her luggage, ‘I don’t know why you are always so mean.’

Now to be absolutely frank (and you know I can be, when I feel like it), I’ve no doubt I got the next bit badly wrong. But then I got quite a lot of things wrong over the course of my confusing quest for Bazlo Criminale. I’d already had my eye on the Hotel d’Angleterre. It was handily right next door to the place where Criminale was staying, always assuming that Cosima Bruckner had the right information, which I was start­ing to doubt, and its very name somehow satisfied my feeble but not totally exhausted sense of patriotism. Unluckily, thanks to the fact that Lausanne seemed to be hosting a conference or two at the time, its rooms were already fully booked. So, turned away, we walked on and, somewhere around the corner, almost in view of the lake – if you sat on its pavement, or rather gutter, terrace and leaned forward a little, you got a very decent sight of it – we found another hostelry, the small Hotel Zwingli. There is no doubt it was not exactly a Grand Hotel, but I felt Lavinia’s breath at my shoulder, and I knew she would wear nothing better. In fact the Zwingli had earned itself no stars in the guidebook at all, and, as things eventually turned out, for very good reason.

Still, it seemed a nice family place: neat, clean, and orderly, in the good Swiss way. The Swiss had, after all, won the world with their tradition of hotelkeeping and hospitality, and one could scarcely go wrong. I went over to the stern young daughter of the house who presided over the cubbyhole of a reception desk; she acknowledged they had vacant rooms and quoted what sounded a reasonable rate. With Ildiko standing crossly beside me, I signed the book (Mr and Mrs Francis Jay), changed some money, lira to Swiss francs, handed over our passports, and asked for a double room. That was when I found out that the Hotel Zwingli did have one or two disadvantages that the better class of guest over at the Beau Rivage Palace, just round the corner, was very probably spared. The girl handed me two keys. ‘No, a double room,’ I said. ‘With nice big double bed,’ said Ildiko. ‘Ah, non, m’sieu,’ said the girl.

‘Non?’ I asked. The girl held up our two passports, one British and one Hungarian, with two unmatching names, and tapped them. ‘Voilà, m’sieu!’ she said triumphantly. ‘But we’re together,’ I said. ‘Ce n’est pas possible, en Suisse,’ said the girl. Now of course I should at that moment have cancelled the contract, and gone looking for something elsewhere along the Ouchy shore, or maybe just handed over a small tip. But I was young then, the hotel was cheap, cheap enough for even Lavinia not to complain, and Bazlo Criminale was just round the corner. ‘Oh, very well, two single rooms then,’ I said, taking the keys. ‘C’est mieux, m’sieu,’ said the girl. ‘Two single rooms, why?’ asked Ildiko, looking at me mystified. ‘Switzerland is a Calvinist country,’ I said. ‘You mean they don’t have sex here?’ asked Ildiko. ‘I’m sure they do,’ I said, ‘There are plenty of them about. But maybe only on Protestant feast days.’ ‘But you don’t like this, do you?’ asked Ildiko, ‘Why don’t you protest? Maybe she likes a little something.’ ‘It’s no use,’ I said, ‘This is a very strict country. They like you to mind your manners. They don’t even let you do your washing on Sundays.’ ‘I did not come to Lake Geneva to do washing,’ said Ildiko, ‘And I did not come here to sleep alone in a single bed either.

I saw the girl at the desk staring at us with deep disapproval; I pulled Ildiko away. ‘It’s very unfortunate,’ I said, ‘but at least they’ve got room for us.’ ‘You think they make Bazlo Criminale and Miss Blasted Belli have two single rooms there at Beau Rivage Palace?’ asked Ildiko. ‘I can’t afford the Beau Rivage Palace,’ I said, ‘And it’s just for a couple of days.’ ‘A couple of days?’ asked Ildiko, ‘You don’t mind to be without me in your bed for a whole couple of days?’ ‘Of course I mind,’ I said. ‘Are you so tired at making love with me?’ asked Ildiko, rather loudly, ‘Don’t you like my body so much any more?’ ‘I love your body,’ I said, glancing at the girl at the desk, who was tapping her pencil furiously, ‘It’s a terrific body, really. But we can meet from time to time . . .’ ‘Where, in the corridor?’ asked Ildiko, ‘What fun.’ ‘Let’s go and unpack,’ I said, turning to the girl at the desk, ‘Where’s the elevator?’ ‘II n’y en a pas,’ said the girl, ‘Par 1’escalier.’ ‘Oh, no lift also?’ asked Ildiko, ‘Wonderful. How lucky the Swiss have at last invented stairs.’