Doctor Criminale (17 page)

‘And then in Vienna you became Professor Codicil’s assistant and wrote his book on Criminale?’ I asked. Hollo stopped swirling his second brandy, and looked hard at me.
‘Why do you ask these questions? Are you some kind of policeman?’ ‘No, a journalist,’ I said, ‘I’m just researching Bazlo Criminale.’ ‘Only for your
film?’ ‘Just for the film,’ I said, ‘But the trouble is, the man’s so elusive. None of the facts seem correct. That’s why I need to know who wrote the
book.’ Hollo looked at me and said, ‘Well, I tell you, I did not.’ ‘Does that mean Codicil wrote it himself, after all?’ ‘That old devil, you don’t think
so?’ said Hollo, ‘No, Codicil did not write it either.’ ‘So there’s someone else,’ I said, ‘Who was it? Do you know?’ The waiter brought cutlery to
the table, but Hollo said something to him, and he went away again without setting it down. ‘Well, of course I know,’ he said, after the waiter had moved away, ‘And you
don’t guess?’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘But of course,’ said Hollo, ‘It was Criminale Bazlo.’

‘But it’s not an autobiographical book,’ I said, ‘In fact it’s very critical.’ ‘This is true, of course,’ said Hollo, ‘But still it was
Bazlo.’ ‘You’re telling me he wrote a book that was deeply critical of himself?’ I asked. ‘Yes, why not?’ asked Hollo. This all seemed too difficult; I switched
to something else. ‘All right, why didn’t he publish it here? Why did it have to come out in the West, in Vienna?’ ‘If you call that the West,’ said Hollo, ‘It
is also Mittel-Europa.’ ‘That’s true,’ I said, ‘But why didn’t he use his own name? What made him use Codicil’s?’ ‘I see you know a few
things,’ said Hollo, ‘Maybe you know a famous essay by the Frenchman Roland Barthes, called “The Death of the Author”?’ ‘Yes, I like it,’ I said,
‘The death of the author is what permits the birth of writing. But what’s that got to do with it?’

‘You know, I would like to write a better essay, called “The Hiding Away of the Author”,’ said Hollo, lighting up another cigarette, ‘About the author who is here
and not here. About the book that exists, and does not. About the reader who is present in one place and not in another. About the text that says and does not say. Do you know Lukacs?’
‘The great Marxist intellectual,’ I said. ‘If you say so,’ said Hollo, ‘I call him the danger artist. You know he would write a preface to one of his books in the
third person, to show he was not the same Lukacs who had written it, and it was only by some curious misfortune the book had appeared at all. Here we know all about the art of the danger
artist.’

A small girl appeared by the table, selling roses wrapped in Cellophane. Hollo waved her away. ‘She mistakes us for lovers,’ he said. ‘So you’re saying Criminale wanted
the book to appear, but he didn’t want certain people to know it had appeared?’ ‘No,’ said Hollo, ‘Criminale didn’t want the book to appear in case it did him
harm, but he wanted it to appear in case it did him good. He made it appear that he did not want it to appear. But when it appeared he made it appear that he could do nothing.’
‘You’re beginning to lose me,’ I said, ‘Are you telling me that Criminale sat here in Budapest and wrote a book critical of himself, got you to take it to Vienna, and then
Codicil allowed it to come out under his name?’ ‘Not exactly,’ said Hollo. ‘Then what?’ I asked. ‘I am telling you that a certain Criminale, at a certain time,
wrote a book about another certain Criminale,’ said Hollo. ‘I see,’ I said, though I didn’t.

‘And then that book went somehow to Vienna, don’t let us discuss how,’ said Hollo, ‘He often went there himself, after all, and difficult papers and other things were
crossing those frontiers all the time. Even the regime permitted it in certain cases, when it suited them. Of course in Vienna some changes were made. When times change books must change. So it
became a book about another Criminale.’ ‘And you made the changes?’ I asked. ‘I think I updated things by just a little,’ said Hollo. ‘And so where did Codicil
come into all this?’ I asked. ‘Oh, Codicil,’ said Hollo, ‘He was the big man, always talking to ministers and financiers, another fixer of a different kind. He went
everywhere, to lodges and clubs. Vienna is full of those important people. So of course he had no time for any of it.’ ‘Yet the book came out under his name,’ I said, ‘Why
was that?’ ‘Many reasons,’ said Hollo, ‘He knew Criminale, they had some links. I was his assistant. And this was the right way to get it published.’ ‘You mean
he did it to help a friend?’ I asked. Hollo laughed. ‘I see you do not know Codicil,’ he said, ‘Maybe rather to hurt an enemy.’ ‘What enemy?’ I asked.
‘How do I know?’ asked Hollo vaguely, ‘This man had so many. Oh, look, wonderful, she is here!’

I turned round, to see what he had seen. The door curtain to the restaurant had lifted; in the entrance, a slim tall girl stood, looking around. She was blonde, blue-eyed, a Hungarian beauty;
she wore a short furry topcoat over a blue mini-dress. Hollo waved at her; she waved back. ‘Oh, I just forgot to mention,’ he said, ‘I told a friend of mine you would buy her
lunch. You don’t mind, I hope?’ I looked over at the girl, who was taking off her coat and hanging it; she was very attractive. ‘I don’t mind at all,’ I said. The girl
walked through the tables towards us; first she embraced Sandor Hollo, then she turned and smiled at me. ‘So how are you?’ she said. Hollo leapt up: ‘This is Mr Jay or Kay, I
don’t remember.’ ‘Francis,’ I said. ‘And this Hazy Ildiko,’ he said, ‘You are late, darling, always late. And this man is asking me such questions about
Criminale Bazlo.’ ‘Oh, really, Criminale Bazlo, do you really like him?’ she asked me, sitting down. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said, ‘I’m just trying to find
out about him.’ ‘Another,’ said Ildiko. ‘He makes a film and asks so many questions,’ said Hollo, ‘I will go to the waiter and order some food and wine,
yes?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ said Ildiko. ‘The best of course,’ said Hollo, ‘You know our friend is a very rich man?’ ‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Talk to
her,’ said Hollo, patting my shoulder, ‘By the way, Ildiko is the editor who publishes the books of Criminale.’

Ildiko looked at me from the other side of the booth and laughed. ‘So you know Sandor,’ she said, ‘What a rogue, don’t you think? You mustn’t believe a thing. He is
always in trouble, no one knows what to think about him.’ ‘Criminale’s publisher,’ I said, ‘Are you really?’ ‘Yes, this is almost true, I am a bit,’
said Ildiko, ‘But for my little house he is already too famous. Today he writes in German or English. His books come out first in Stuttgart or New York.’ ‘But some of his
books?’ I asked. ‘Yes, we published him early, when he was not so great, so he lets us make the Hungarian translation. We think he is a Hungarian, even if he does not. Of course now in
the free market it is very hard for us. Luckily we have our impossible language.’ ‘Does that mean you know him well?’ I asked. ‘Please, do you talk all the time about
Criminale?’ asked Ildiko, ‘What about football, the weather?’ ‘Do you know what he’s doing now?’ I asked. ‘I think he makes a big book, but he does not
like to talk to me about it,’ said Ildiko. ‘You mean you’ve seen him lately?’ ‘Of course,’ said Ildiko, ‘About two weeks.’ ‘Two weeks
ago?’ I asked, ‘Where, here in Budapest?’ ‘Yes, he keeps an apartment here,’ said Ildiko, ‘If you are so interested, why don’t you meet him?’
‘Is that possible?’ I asked. ‘I think so,’ said Ildiko, ‘And then you don’t have to ask me so many questions.’

When Hollo came back to the table, he was followed by the waiter, who set the table for a meal as we talked. ‘I ordered the perfect meal,’ said Hollo, sitting down in his red braces,
‘Goose livers, followed by fogas. Best Balaton wine, no expenses spared.’ ‘Very good,’ said Ildiko, ‘Sandor, your friend says he would very much like to meet
Criminale. Why don’t we have this lunch and then go there in the Ultimate Driving Machine?’ As she said this, she looked over at me and smiled. Hollo frowned. ‘No, not such a good
idea,’ he said. ‘Why not?’ asked Ildiko, glancing again at me. ‘You know very well,’ said Hollo, ‘Criminale does not like me any more.’ ‘He
doesn’t trust you any more,’ said Ildiko, ‘But if you come with an important foreign visitor . . .’ ‘How do you even know he would like that?’ said Hollo,
‘If you insist to go, I will wait outside, in the car. I do not want to meet him. Besides, he will be away, he is always away.’ ‘You see?’ said Ildiko, smiling at me,
‘In Hungary a student never loves his teacher. That is because the best way to succeed is to denounce him.’ ‘I did not denounce him,’ said Hollo, ‘Only I disputed his
grasp on correct historical reality.’ ‘It’s the same,’ said Ildiko, ‘Never mind, everyone does it.’ ‘He does not forgive me,’ said Hollo. ‘He
will have forgotten, darling, of course,’ said Ildiko, ‘He is a big man and has more things to think of than little Hollo Sandor.’

‘Bitch!’ said Hollo. ‘Pig!’ said Ildiko, looking delighted. ‘Wonderful fish,’ I said, uneasy. ‘You are making a scene in front of our host,’ said
Hollo, ‘Didn’t I fix you up a nice lunch?’ ‘You are a beautiful boy,’ said Ildiko, reaching out and stroking his cheek, ‘Just, nobody trusts you!’
‘Okay, okay, we will go after,’ said Hollo very grudgingly, ‘I just know he will not be there anyway.’ ‘You see, I knew he really wanted to take you,’ said
Ildiko, smiling brightly at me, ‘Now, is it true you are making a film? I would love to make a film, especially a film with travel.’ ‘So far it’s been no film and all
travel,’ I said. ‘Maybe I can help you,’ said Ildiko. ‘Maybe we both can help you,’ said Hollo. ‘This one, who thinks he knows everything,’ said Ildiko.
And so we talked on, through a long and excellent meal.

At the end of it, the bill came, and I suddenly thought of Lavinia. I checked the paper, and saw with relief that by Lavinia’s lavish West End standards it must have come to no more than the price of a first-rate after-the-opera snack. We went
outside, into the square. Here Ildiko stopped on the pavement, and stuck her arm through mine. ‘We will just wait here, and you can bring to us your Ultimate Driving Machine,’ she said
to Hollo, who walked off, his coat collar turned up, towards the Saint Matthias church. ‘This fine philosopher, you know how he lives now?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Fixing things,’ I
said. ‘He talks to German and American businessmen in the bars and cafés, and promises he will find them some investment,’ said Ildiko, ‘Next he goes to some more bars and cafés,
and talks to the government officials, telling them he can find them hard currency and takeovers. So a little bit here, a little bit there, and everyone has something. Be a little
cautious.’

‘I am,’ I said, ‘But he’s very helpful.’ ‘You know, once he believed in the heroic future of the people, the great progress of history,’ said Ildiko,
‘Now what does he believe in? Video recorder, mobile phone, fashion suit, the Ultimate Driving Machine.’ ‘What does he call himself, a
Wenderer
?’ I asked. ‘No,
a
Wendehals,
maybe a
Veränderer,
always a quick-change artist,’ said Ildiko, ‘My country is full of them. Perhaps this is how we have survived, better than some. But
sometimes I think this is not the best way.’ ‘What happened between him and Criminale?’ I asked. ‘You ask so many questions,’ said Ildiko. ‘I have to, it’s
my job,’ I said, ‘I’m a journalist on a story.’ ‘Well, okay, what does it matter?’ said Ildiko, ‘What happened is what always happens. The student, he was
Bazlo’s student, takes on the master and tries to seize his place. The master resists, of course. Especially if he is Criminale, this is a clever man, by the way.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ I said, ‘So what happened?’ ‘Oh, the student accuses the master,’ said Ildiko, ‘He is not reliable, not politically correct, and
so on. The authorities check, and Criminale is in some troubles, but these things are always difficult. People take sides, there are battles everywhere. Then someone wins, someone loses. Sandor
thought he had won, he always thinks that. Criminale came to him and said these things are not nice, let us make some peace, I find you a very nice job in Vienna. But when Sandor came back again to Budapest, he found his post here was no
more. Now you see why he does not want to go to Criminale, they have this bad history together. But Sandor likes to do anything for me. Oh look, here it is, Ultimate Machine. I go in the front and
show him the way, if he has forgotten. And I think you get in the back and shut your eyes, you know how he drives.’

So I sat in the back of Hollo’s car as it raced in a zigzag back down the streets of the hillside, then through a tunnel under the castle, then across the Chain Bridge over the Danube and
into Pest. Hollo and Ildiko bickered in the front: were they lovers, old student friends, just useful contacts for each other? It occurred to me that, now I was in their Hungarian world, the whole
story of Criminale, which had bothered me so much in London, was perhaps nowhere near as obscure and mystifying as I’d thought. Here too was a world where history was always changing, where
old battles and allegiances had played, where people were always having to remember and handle and reconstruct the past. Gerstenbacker had given me a fine word for that –
Vergangenheitsbewältigung,
written down on a bit of paper as he left the inn at Heiligen – that seemed to explain everything, and more. It was a world where a master had his
restive students, where dangerous accusations flew back and forth, where philosophers were bound to have their adversaries and ideological betrayers, where minds changed when necessary, and shifts
of power and state opinion made lives no purer or safer than those of – well, almost any of us.

Talking at the Restaurant Kiss, Hollo had reminded me of Lukacs’s prefaces. Now I remembered one that had been written at the time of the Hungarian Uprising, when Lukacs had joined the new
liberal regime, resigned in good time, been exiled by the Russian invaders to Romania, survived, come back to partial Party rehabilitation, and turned back with the tide. Perhaps it was no wonder
that it seemed the most devious preface of them all. It attacked the dogmatists for not being revisionists, since revisionism was needed to put Stalin’s positive achievement in true
perspective. It also attacked the revisionists for not being dogmatists, because revisionism was ‘the greatest present danger for Marxism’. As for the book it introduced, it spoke of
the need for ‘critical’ realism, but refused to criticize socialist realism itself. Lukacs’s busy philosophical mind moved back and forth, but always ended up frozen in its mental
prison. But the prison he chose to call reality itself, and he tried to argue his fellow human beings inside it with him. Doubting dogma and making it, Lukacs survived as a philosopher, a tainted
hero to the end. If Lukacs, why not Criminale? Well, perhaps I would soon find out, at his apartment.