Doctor Criminale (13 page)

‘And what about Professor Codicil? Does he also know what to remember and what to forget?’ Gerstenbacker peered at me owlishly through his spectacles. ‘Yes, of course,’
he said, ‘Professor Codicil also had some sympathies of a different kind he likes to be forgotten. I think he understands these difficulties very well.’ ‘Good God,’ I said,
‘Codicil too.’ ‘He lived in the Hitler time,’ said Gerstenbacker. ‘I see,’ I said, ‘So forgetfulness becomes a habit. There are certain things that are
just better not found out.’ ‘Ah, do you think so?’ asked Gerstenbacker, staring at me in what looked like relief. ‘No, I don’t actually think so, but I see I do come
from an innocent country,’ I said, ‘Do you think so?’ ‘Well, Professor Codicil thinks so,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘And naturally I am his assistant.’
‘Using his approach and his methods,’ I said. ‘Yes, exactly,’ said Gerstenbacker. ‘But what do you actually think yourself?’ I asked. ‘What do
I
think?’ asked Gerstenbacker, looking at me in surprise, ‘Well, I think . . . I think you must be very tired. Also these peasants are getting far too noisy, don’t you say?’
‘Oh, come on, Gerstenbacker,’ I said, ‘We’re the ones who should be asking questions. Or we’ll never be free of those problems.’ ‘Excuse me,’ said
Gerstenbacker, ‘I will pay the check and call a taxi to take you back to your hotel. Then in the morning I will come and show you some more Vienna. You have not even seen the palace of
Schönbrunn.’

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 Sigmund 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 Russias
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.’

In case you are wondering, I never did get to see the opera in Vienna. As soon as Gerstenbacker had gone on his way, back to do Codicil’s bidding, as any good assistant should, I called
Lavinia in her suite at the Hotel de France. ‘I’m just having coffee and hot rolls in bed,’ she said, ‘Listen, I found this wonderful exhibition at the Hermesvilla called
“Eroticism, Amorous Advances”. I’ve got two tickets. Come on over and we’ll try it.’ ‘Maybe I should pass up on eroticism today,’ I said, ‘Something
interesting just came up.’ And I told her the story of Codicil and his strange little assistant. ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Lavinia, ‘You mean old Codicil
doesn’t even write his own books?’ ‘Apparently it’s an old European custom,’ I said, ‘You remember School of Rembrandt.’ ‘You mean, so it’s
really Dante’s assistant’s
Divine Comedy
? Goethe’s pupil’s
Faust
?’ ‘That’s it,’ I said, ‘What’s more, Codicil claims he
doesn’t remember a thing. Nobody remembers a thing. They all prefer not to.’ ‘I know, they have a name for it here, Waldheimer’s Disease,’ said Lavinia, ‘This is
getting interesting, Francis.’

‘So what do I do now?’ I asked, ‘Codicil was the only lead.’ ‘Leave it to me,’ said Lavinia, ‘I can dump Eroticism for one day. I’ll cable London,
call the travel agent, get down to the bank for some more cash. What’s the good of being a producer if you don’t produce?’ And to give her due credit, Lavinia certainly produced.
She produced money, tickets, hotel arrangements, everything the occasion called for. Not much later, with the morning still quite young, I found myself standing on the platform at one of
Vienna’s several railway stations, next to the coaches of the Salieri Express – one of those great European trains that adds and multiplies, subtracts and divides, this coach going off
to Brug or Altona, that one to Brigenza or Tallinn. I stood beside the coach marked Budapest, waiting for Lavinia, who had still not arrived. It was just as the train doors were about to close that
I saw her, running heavily down the platform, yet another travel wallet waving in her hand.

‘There we are, that should cover everything,’ she said, ‘Now remember your treatment, don’t forget your plot. A man of many lives and loves.’ ‘Well,
maybe,’ I said, ‘That was just how it looked to me at the time.’ ‘Find them, Francis, we’re talking television,’ said Lavinia, ‘And remember, when you get
to this man Hollo, nestle in his bosom like a viper.’ ‘Do I gather you’re not coming?’ I asked. ‘Far too much to do in Vienna, darling, I’m afraid,’ said
Lavinia. ‘But there’s nothing here,’ I said. ‘Oh, yes, atmosphere and background,’ said Lavinia, ‘What a shame. I was really looking forward to taking you to the
opera. And to the champers after.’ ‘Never mind, Lavinia,’ I said, ‘I expect you’ll find someone to share it with.’ ‘Yes, I expect I will,’ admitted
Lavinia. ‘Oh, and don’t forget to do something about young Gerstenbacker,’ I said, ‘He made all this happen.’ ‘I’ll get in touch and find him a treat of
some kind, don’t worry,’ said Lavinia.

Along the platform, the guard began whistling and waving his baton; I climbed up the steps of the Budapest coach. ‘Such a pity, darling,’ said Lavinia, reaching up to give me a very
large kiss, ‘When one thinks of the things that might have been. But usually never are, of course.’ ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Well, bye, darling, must go, I’ve a lunch
date at Sacher,’ said Lavinia, ‘Do good, and remember this. In fact say it every night before you go to sleep. Very tight budget.’ ‘Yes, Lavinia,’ I said, as the train
doors hissed shut in front of me. A few minutes later, signs saying MELKA and MINOLTA, BAUHAUS and BP, SPAR and WANG were flying past the window of my second-class carriage, and I was once more
rushing across Europe, looking, again, for Doctor Bazlo Criminale.

So where were you, exactly, when the Eighties ended? Try asking me and I can tell you quite precisely, the way some of the oldies can remember just what they were doing at the
moment President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. I was on board that great trans-European train the Salieri Express, riding east from Vienna to Budapest, Hungary, for what I thought was a very
brief visit. I sat alone in the grey-upholstered compartment; my lightweight bag lay on the rack, my lightweight anorak hung on the hook beside me. Near me on the seat lay a paperback copy of
The Magic Mountain
, Thomas Mann’s fine novel about disordered Europe just before the First World War. I had begun to read it; now for some reason I had set it aside and it lay
neglected. I’d quickly bought it in the excellent British Bookshop, near the Stephansdom in Vienna, partly because it dealt with another part of the turn-of-the-century forest kindly young
Gerstenbacker had taken me through the previous day, but also for another reason. For the novel contains a famous portrait of a modern thinker, called Naphta in the book, and based on the Marxist
Hungarian philosopher Georg Lukacs. And Lukacs (Budapest 1885 geboren, author of
The Meaning of Contemporary Realism
and
Theory of the Novel
) – a man of whom Mann said,
‘As long as he was talking, he was always right’ – was supposed to have had great influence over and significance for the man I was now hunting, Bazlo Criminale.