Malcolm Bradbury - Doctor Criminale

I turned a bend, and there on a rough wooden bench were two people. They too offered a familiar romantischer prospect, sitting close together, male and female. One was Criminale, still in his now sagging blue suit; he was talking warmly with, graciously grasping, now and then, the hand of, one of the more attractive members of our band, a Russian lady. She fluttered at him; he bowed and nodded at her. A sexy bounce had come back into his manner. Remembering the Ildiko strategy, I changed course, through the trees, to pass them by. The Russian lady looked through the branches and saw me. ‘Oh, see, the journalist,’ she said. ‘So sorry,’ I said, ‘Just walking.’ ‘Come,’ said the Russian lady encouragingly, ‘We were just comparing our laptops.’ ‘Really?’ I said. ‘This lady has a German laptop and I have an American laptop,’ said Criminale, looking me up and down. ‘Good, enjoy yourselves,’ I said, and turned to walk off down the twisty path.

‘Wait,’ said Criminale. I turned; he had risen and was staring after me. ‘Excuse me, I was thinking,’ he said, ‘Somewhere in another place we met before, no?’ ‘It’s possible,’ I agreed. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘Barolo, then Lausanne.’ ‘I was there,’ I said. ‘You were in love with Ildiko Hazy,’ he said triumphantly, ‘And why not, it is perfectly natural. A vivid person.’ ‘I didn’t know you’d noticed,’ I said cautiously. ‘Now I know who you are exactly,’ he said, ‘Valeria Magno told me. You are that young man from Britain who likes to make a story of me, yes?’ ‘Once,’ I said, ‘Not now, that whole idea’s been dropped.’ ‘You dropped my life?’ asked Criminale, looking at me, ‘What a thing! I hope you were not influenced by Otto Codicil.’ ‘No, not Codicil,’ I said, ‘In the end it was money.’ ‘Money, that is all?’ he said, ‘We know it is important, but not everything. I hope I am more important than money.’

You should know, I thought, and saw he was looking at me keenly. ‘You are here now,’ he said. That’s pure chance,’ I said. ‘You think chance is pure?’ he asked. ‘I mean our being here together is completely random,’ I said, ‘I just came to write a magazine piece on Po-Mo.’ ‘What is Po-Mo?’ asked Criminale. ‘Postmodernism,’ I said. ‘Ah, what follows Mo,’ said Criminale, nodding, ‘Why do all these people come for it? Are there no women? What is wrong with drink?’ ‘Well, they do have both here,’ I said. ‘So, it is entirely random we meet again,’ he said. ‘Entirely,’ I said. Now Criminale turned with a flourish of courtesy to the Russian lady, seated patiently, contemplatively, on the bench. ‘My dear Yevgenya, may we examine our laptops another time?’ he asked, ‘I like a serious talk with this young man. I will meet you in the lobby in one half-hour, and we will do what we agreed.’ ‘Of course, Bazlo,’ said the lady, rising. ‘It’s all right, I have an interview to do,’ I said hastily. ‘Another time will do,’ said Criminale, putting his heavy arm across my shoulders, ‘Let us turn round the lake.’

A large gloomy lake lay in the centre of the woods> a-piece of artifice. Stone ruins, mostly constructed, stood on little islands and promontories; the water was green and stagnant. Swans and geese swam lazily in the weeds, angry flies buzzed up from the undergrowth as we approached. ‘It is true perhaps your programme was not so good idea,’ said Criminale, ‘A person is not interesting, only his thought. And how can you show such impossible, improbable things with little moving pictures?’ ‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘It is also true,’ said Criminale, ‘that nobody likes to be investigated without his knowledge. Even though where I come from I am used to this, I am surprised. Are there no ethics of these things?’ ‘We were just scouting the programme,’ I said, ‘Going ahead of the story to see if there really was a story.’ ‘Was there?’ he asked, ‘I see there was not.’ ‘Not the kind of story we were looking for,’ I said.

‘No?’ asked Criminale, ‘May we sit down? I have spoiled already your interview, perhaps you have a little time.’ He pointed to a mossed stone bench squatting in the long grass right by the water, we sat down. He took off his jacket, and once more wiped his brow. He was perfectly friendly, more than I deserved; he was also trying to put me firmly in the wrong. I was in it already, of course; I had never really approved of Lavinia’s indirect techniques of investigation, but at that time I was young and job-hungry, though I had always dreaded the moment when Criminale had to be told we were making a programme on him. But now it seemed to me it was he who had no right to the moral ground he was assuming. ‘At Barolo, if you had asked, well, I might have helped,’ he was saying, ‘Now, no. If your programme fails I am not disappointed. My life is not so interesting to deserve the honour, a story of small confusions, mostly.’ ‘I don’t agree,’ I said, ‘I think it’s very interesting.’

Criminale brought out his expensive cigar case, took one, then pointed the case at me. ‘The heat here is terrible,’ he said, ‘You think so, an interesting story? What did you find out?’ ‘A lot,’ I said, taking the cigar. ‘Ah,’ said Criminale, carefully applying his lighter, ‘Who did you talk to? Some people who did not give me such a good portrait?’ ‘That’s right,’ I said, ‘Gertla, for one.’ ‘An envious and difficult woman, I have a fondness for that type,’ said Criminale, ‘Frankly, just to you, I always had problems with the ladies.’ ‘Yes, I know quite a bit about that too,’ I said. ‘You have done a lot,’ said Criminale, ‘You were wise to know Ildiko. So perhaps now you can understand why I do not expect my reputation to last for so much longer.’ He said this with a surprising brightness. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And in all these journalistic pryings just what did you find out?’ he asked.

‘Well, the Party, the KGB, the nomenklatura , used your accounts for all kinds of deals in the West,’ I said. ‘Oh, the missing millions,’ said Criminale, ‘To me this was no great concern. Money is not an important thing with me. Those Party people loved capitalist games, why not let them, maybe that is when they learned something.’ ‘You worked for the Party and reported on people abroad through Gertla,’ I said. ‘She said this?’ asked Criminale, ‘Not quite true. I was a two-way channel. I passed things to both sides. This was known perfectly well in a number of places. Messages could always come and go through me. People like myself were essential. You would be surprised how complicated these games could get.’ ‘So you didn’t really betray anyone?’ I asked. ‘I have good conscience,’ said Criminale. I could have left it there; I didn’t. ‘What about Irini?’ I asked.

Criminale, breathing hard on the bench beside me, wiped his brow again. ‘Yes, I was not allowed my life with Irini,’ he said, ‘History came and took her away from me.’ ‘History?’ I asked, ‘Why is it that abstract nouns do so much?’ ‘But they do,’ said Criminale, ‘Impersonal forces are more powerful than personal forces.’ ‘Surely you could have done something,’ I said, ‘You had a lot of influence, friends everywhere.’ ‘In a state of chaos no one has influence,’ said Criminale, ‘Nagy had influence, they took him and shot him. Do you think you would have done better?’ ‘I don’t know, I can’t imagine,’ I said. ‘Why have you come?’ asked Criminale, ‘Is this your journalist’s set-up? You like to accuse me of something?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘It’s true, I’m here completely by chance.’ ‘Entirely random!’ said Criminale, ‘You intend to tell this story.’