Malcolm Bradbury - Doctor Criminale

So, I thought, leaning on the rail and looking out over the great black lake, they’d all gone: Ildiko Hazy, the beautiful Miss Belli, and the confusing, the enigmatic Bazlo Criminale. For a moment I wondered if they could all have gone together, but that made no sense, no sense at all. What I knew was that my trail had died. I might have forty thousand pounds sitting in my wallet, but I had come to the end of the quest for Bazlo Criminale. I’d asked the wrong questions. I’d found an obscure solution, and it was really no solution at all. The life, the loves, the friends, the enemies, the plot, the design – none of them had shape or sense. I was stuck, blanked out, gapped, aporia-ed, no idea what to do next. There was one thing I could do: go to Cosima Bruckner. Perhaps she would explain everything. On the other hand, she’d also doubtless relieve me of my wallet at the same time. Then I remembered the person who, in trouble, I was always supposed to turn to, the one who’d brought me here in the first place. I went back to the lobby of the Hotel Beau Rivage Palace, found a telephone, and called the Delphic oracle in Vienna.

This time Lavinia was there in her room. I could hear an operatic tape playing in the background, glasses tinkling somewhere, the sound of German chatter. I began talking; she cut me off. ‘Look, I’m afraid there’s bad news, Francis,’ she said, ‘I tried calling you at Barolo but they deny you even exist.’ ‘Of course they do,’ I said, ‘Barolo was weeks ago, I’m here in Lausanne.’ ‘You’re so damn hard to keep up with,’ said Lavinia, ‘Even when I’m sober.’ ‘All right, what bad news?’ I asked. ‘I’m sorry, Francis,’ said Lavinia, ‘But it’s all off.’ ‘What’s off?’ I asked. ‘The Criminale programme,’ said Lavinia, ‘It’s finite, kaput. We’re not doing it any more.’ ‘You don’t mean bloody old Codicil . . .’ I asked. ‘He’s nothing to do with it,’ said Lavinia, ‘He’s come back to Vienna, by the way, absolutely furious, according to dear old Franz-Josef. Isn’t that right, Franz-Josef darling?’ I could hear fond chatter at the other end; I interrupted. ‘If it’s not Codicil, who?’ I cried.

‘Eldorado TV, that’s who,’ said Lavinia, ‘They’re cancelling all their arts programming. Apparently they’ve had it up to here with Thinking in the Age of Glasnost.’ ‘They can’t have, Lavinia,’ I said, ‘This Criminale story is fantastic. It’s got secret police chiefs, obscure Swiss bank accounts, it’s got everything.’ ‘Nice try, Francis,’ said Lavinia, ‘Sorry, though, it’s just no good. Philosophy’s too far upmarket. The Eldorado franchise is up for renewal, so they’ve decided to explore the wonders of cheap television.’ ‘What wonders of cheap television?’ I asked. ‘Well, the first wonder would be if anyone was fool enough to watch it at all,’ said Lavinia, ‘Sorry, darling, but things are changing.’ ‘An era has ended,’ I said. ‘Exactly,’ said Lavinia, ‘So your work is done. Just get to the nearest airport and buy a ticket back to London. Don’t ask for any more of the recce budget, by the way, there isn’t one. Apparently quite a lot of the production costs have disappeared down the plughole in Vienna. God knows how, you know how frugal I am.’

‘You mean I’m finished again, I don’t have a job?’ I asked. ‘Well, not if I wrote your contract properly, you don’t,’ said Lavinia. ‘I bet you did, Lavinia,’ I said. ‘Believe me, I’m as sorry as you are, darling,’ she said, ‘I haven’t seen so much good opera for yonks.’ ‘Thank you very much, Lavinia,’ I said, putting down the phone. The frock-coated receptionist, watching me, bowed. Yes, it was the end. Lavinia, I knew, had written my contract properly; after all, people signed anything for Lavinia. And there I stood, no job, no income, no future, no prospects, nothing to investigate, nothing truly found out. All I had was a massive credit-card debt at home and a wallet in Lausanne stuffed with funny money. I had not found a plot, and the world seemed no better: history was in disorder, the universe was going nowhere, and the new era that had started about ten days ago already seemed to be coming rather suddenly towards its end.

I went back into the brasserie bar, among the beautiful people, sat down and ordered another beer. I felt . . . well, I felt strangely pure, as if I had suddenly grown up, emerged from something, passed from deep smart youthful wisdom into a perfect adult innocence. I had been deceived, I had been betrayed; but I also had it in my power to betray others. Perhaps I had learned something, after all, from Bazlo Criminale – that thoughts and deeds never come to us plain, pure, and timeless, but are born in conflict and deception, shaped by history, grow from obscurity, misfortune, and evasion. They are slippery and inexact, contradictory and subject to sudden change; they are just like life itself. In fact I never felt closer to Criminale than I did at that moment. And I began to wonder what, if he were in my circumstances, which were probably just the sort of circumstances he always had been in, he would do next.

As for what I did next . . . well, if you had tried to trace me the next morning (supposing, say, you were writing my life story, a few years from now – but why should you, I am no great philosophical elephant, only an investigative flea?), then you would have found me in the manager’s office at . . . well, let’s, for purposes of fiscal secrecy, just call it the Crédit Mauvais of Lausanne. I had entered the bank with a perfectly simple request. However, to my surprise a quiet cashier had taken me behind the counter, ushered me to a hidden glass-fronted lift, unlocked its door with a key on his chain, and ridden me up to the very top floor of the building, where I sat in a suite with splendid designer furniture and a perfect long view of the lake. Now Herr Stubli, the manager, was staring at me over his gold-rimmed half-spectacles. ‘A special numbered account?’ he enquired, Then I am afraid I must ask first if you don’t mind it just a few little questions.’

‘I thought in Swiss banks it was no questions asked,’ I said. ‘We are discreet, of course, but this is no longer quite true exactly,’ said Herr Stubli, ‘I am afraid in these difficult days when banking is so political a little more is asked even of a Swiss bank. We like to be quite careful. After all we may soon join the Europe Community. This money you mention, it is all cash?’ ‘Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘And it came by you how?’ asked Herr Stubli. ‘Well, it was just a windfall,’ I said. ‘Bitte?’ asked Stubli, ‘Eine Windfalle ?’ ‘A windfall is when apples fall off trees,’ I said. ‘Ah, ja, ja,’ said Herr Stubli, ‘It was an agricultural transaction. Kein problem! But I do need your identity, please. We must have a name, a signature.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, ‘It’s Francis . . . It’s Franz Kay.’

Herr Stubli stared at me over his spectacles. ‘Ja, I understand,’ he said finally. ‘Very well, I will put you down as Mr K. Willkommen to our excellent services. If you can make me one little signature here, and here, also here.’ ‘There’ll be no enquiries?’ I asked. ‘No, this is Schweiz, we are always very honest here,’ said Herr Stubli, ‘Your affairs could not be put into a safer place. Now, the guard will take you below, and you can deposit all these Windfalle you like to. And if there is anything else, if you like perhaps to start a small private company, we have some very useful arrangements of this kind.’ ‘Not just yet, I’m only just starting,’ I said, ‘Thank you very much, Herr Stubli.’ ‘And thank you also very much, Mr K.,’ said Herr Stubli, shaking my hand, ‘You will please to know you join many excellent and famous customers.’