Doctor Criminale (33 page)

She was already sitting on the tiny glazed terrace that lay outside the hotel, wearing the ‘I
Lausanne’ sweater and drinking
coffee. I saw when I sat down beside her that her fine Hungarian temper had most definitely not cooled. Early evening darkness was just beginning to settle on the lake, and though the air was
chilly the view was pleasant. The lamps were beginning to sparkle all along the smart promenade, and the lights of Evian twinkled on the further shore, elegantly reflected in the waters of the
lake. Skateboarders were skating in the park that lay in front of the steamer pier, and a more exotic nightlife was just beginning to emerge. This was evidently the smart area, the place where the
jeunesse dorée
of Lausanne chose to gather at this time of day. Bronzed youths and very well-dressed maidens were already out, performing the local version of the Italian
corso.
Driving round at speed in their Porsches, Audi Quattros and customized Range Rovers, or on their BMW speedbikes, they were calling from car to car at each other and the more
attractive samples of the passers-by.

Trying to delight Ildiko a little, though it was plainly going to be a formidable job, I opened up the guidebook and read to her about the delights of Ouchy. ‘“Famous people sit on
the terraces to watch the students and pretty girls go by and meet with other locals, or travellers from afar, perhaps experts at an international congress taking time off to savour
life,”’ I read. I looked up; Ildiko was already watching some traveller from afar, probably an expert from an international congress, stop a girl in a tight-rumped skirt, give her
money, and go off with her up the street. ‘You see that!’ she cried, ‘There is sex in Switzerland. They do it just like everyone else!’ ‘I’m sure,’ I said,
‘They just do it differently.’ ‘So why must I be the only one in a room alone?’ asked Ildiko. ‘This should only take a couple of days,’ I said, ‘I’ve
already tracked down Bazlo Criminale.’ ‘So where is he?’ she asked. ‘Cosima was right, he is staying at the Beau Rivage Palace,’ I said. ‘He is, and I am
not,’ said Ildiko, ‘You went there? You saw him?’

‘No, I just called on the telephone,’ I said. ‘Oh, how?’ asked Ildiko, turning to me, ‘In my room there is not a telephone. Also no shower, no toilet. I have to
walk half a kilometre just to make a little pee.’ ‘You just go down to the booth in the lobby,’ I said, ‘Then you get a little counter from the desk.’ ‘To
pee?’ asked Ildiko. ‘To telephone,’ I said. ‘So you called Bazlo?’ asked Ildiko, ‘How is he? Is his room very nice? Is toilet included?’ ‘I
didn’t actually talk to him,’ I said, ‘The Beau Rivage looks after its guests very carefully.’ ‘How wonderful,’ she said. ‘Apparently some Middle East
talks are going on over there,’ I said, ‘The place is full of Arab potentates with their own security guards. You have to answer all these questions about who you are.’ ‘And
did you know?’ asked Ildiko, ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘I told them I was a close friend of Criminale’s Hungarian publisher,’ I said. ‘You did that?’
asked Ildiko, furiously, ‘Well, you are not. I do not want him to know I am here.’ ‘Why not?’ I asked, ‘An hour ago you wanted to share a hotel corridor with
him.’ ‘Because he is with Belli,’ said Ildiko. There was no doubt about it; Ildiko, as I’d noticed before, was a mass of Hungarian contradictions.

‘Is Belli really with him?’ she now asked, looking up at me. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘He’d left instructions with the desk not to be disturbed. He said
he was in the middle of some very important congress.’ ‘Yes, you see, with Belli,’ said Ildiko. ‘Not that sort of congress,’ I said, ‘They said he was attending
some big conference here. And you know the more I think about that, the less it makes sense.’ ‘Well, you don’t understand anything, I think,’ said Ildiko, ‘Why
doesn’t it make sense?’ ‘Look, here’s Criminale,’ I said, ‘He breaks with his previous life, he runs away from his wife, he comes to Lausanne with this wonderful
designer bimbo . . .’ ‘You think she is wonderful?’ asked Ildiko, ‘She is the one you really like?’ ‘It’s not a question of whether I like her,’ I
said, ‘Criminale likes her. He’s changed his life because of her.’ ‘If you think so,’ said Ildiko. ‘Why else would he run away from Barolo?’ I asked,
‘He comes to Lausanne where no one can find him. And then what does he do? He collects his royalties, books in at one of the world’s best hotels, sticks a badge on his lapel and goes
straight off to another congress.’

‘Do you know what I think?’ asked Ildiko, ‘I think I would like a very big ice-cream.’ ‘Isn’t it a bit cold for that?’ I asked. ‘Don’t
worry, I’ll survive,’ said Ildiko, waving at the miserable waiter who stood halfheartedly in the doorway, ‘You know, really you do not understand a single thing about Bazlo
Criminale.’ ‘That’s very likely,’ I said, ‘In fact he baffles me completely. One minute he’s the world’s most famous philosopher, the next he’s off
screwing around.’ ‘He is a philosopher, he has to do something with himself when he’s not thinking,’ said Ildiko, ‘Also he has to do something with his mind when he is
not screwing. And this is his life today, congress after congress. You do not have to give up one for the other. Or maybe you do, but not Criminale Bazlo.’ ‘But if you were on the run,
would you show up on the platform at a congress?’ I asked. ‘Why do you say he is on the run?’ said Ildiko, ‘Only because you listen too much to your nice little Miss Black
Trousers.’ ‘No, I don’t,’ I said. ‘She is crazy, didn’t I tell you?’ asked Ildiko, ‘What is Criminale supposed to have done wrong? Why is he always a
crook? Why do you like to accuse him?’

‘I’m not saying he’s done something wrong,’ I said, ‘I think the stuff about fraud is nonsense.’ ‘Good,’ said Ildiko, accepting her ice-cream from
the waiter. ‘I’m saying it’s no way to spend a dirty weekend. When he’s out at his congress what happens to poor Miss Belli?’ ‘Oh, listen to him now,’ said
Ildiko, ‘So thoughtful about other women. At least he shares his room with her. What about your dirty weekend with me?’ ‘We can enjoy ourselves when we’ve caught up with
him,’ I said, ‘Anyway, after we’ve had some dinner, why don’t we go and have a drink over at the Beau Rivage Palace.’ Ildiko looked at me. ‘Why?’ she
asked. ‘Because I thought you’d like it,’ I said, ‘And because we might get a glimpse of Criminale and Belli.’ ‘I don’t think so,’ said Ildiko, as
contradictory as ever, ‘Maybe it is a bad idea. He will not expect to see us.’ ‘We have to get nearer to him somehow,’ I said. ‘Why?’ asked Ildiko.
‘Because I’m making a programme about him,’ I said, ‘It’s either that or going round the banks and asking some questions.’ ‘I don’t think so,’
said Ildiko, ‘In Switzerland the banks do not like to be asked questions. Maybe they will throw you out of the country.’

‘So what do you suggest we do, then?’ I asked. ‘I know, tomorrow you go to his congress,’ said Ildiko, ‘What is the name of it?’ ‘That’s the
problem,’ I said, ‘When I asked the clerk at the Beau Rivage, he couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me.’ ‘It is not hard,’ said Ildiko, ‘I don’t suppose
there are so many congresses in Lausanne.’ ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ I said, ‘Lausanne is chock-full of congresses. It must be the conference centre of the
world. Every second person in this city must be going around in a lapel badge.’ ‘Maybe this is what they do instead of sex,’ said Ildiko. ‘If you think people go to
congresses instead of having sex, you can’t have been to many congresses,’ I said. ‘Now he is an expert on sex,’ said Ildiko, ‘Why don’t you get a list of these
congresses?’ ‘There’s one in the weekly guidebook,’ I said, showing her, ‘And just look at it, congresses everywhere. There’s a winemakers’ congress, a
crime-writers’ congress. There’s a gastronomy congress, there’s a gastro-enteritis congress. There’s a volleyball congress, an investment bankers’ congress, I bet that
one’s hard to find, there’s a pipesmokers’ congress. And a ballet congress, a watchmakers’ congress. An Olympics congress, an Esperanto congress. It’s the perfect
place for a man like Criminale to disappear, if you ask me. We’ll never find him.’

Ildiko licked her fingers and took the guidebook from me. ‘You are hopeless again, let me see it,’ she said, ‘If you were just a little bit clever, you would know at once which
one it is.’ ‘All right, which one is it?’ I asked. ‘That one,’ said Ildiko, putting her finger against one of the entries. I looked, and saw at once that, as the
French say, Ildiko had reason. She was pointing to the entry for an International Congress on Erotics in Postmodern Photography, held under the auspices of the Musée Cantonal de
l’Elysée, from the day previous to our arrival to a couple of days forward. ‘You’re brilliant, do you know that?’ I said. ‘And you are not, do you know
that?’ asked Ildiko, pouting, and then sucking furiously at her ice-cream again, ‘So all you must do tomorrow is get yourself included in the congress on erotic photography.’
‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Tomorrow I like to do some other things,’ she said. ‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘Not shopping.’ ‘No, I must call my office and
tell them I am not there.’ ‘Surely they’d notice,’ I said. ‘Well, you don’t notice when I am not there,’ said Ildiko.

Clearly my punishment was not yet complete. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘How do I get myself included in a congress on eroticism and photography?’ ‘Well, I can tell you,
you will not get in on the eroticism side,’ said Ildiko, ‘Maybe if you bought a camera? You know, with the wallet?’ ‘I don’t think the people who come to international
conferences on photography are snapshot types,’ I said, ‘Some of them are way out beyond the camera altogether. They’re into the chaos of the sign and the randomness of
signification. And parodic intertextuality and contrived depthlessness and photographing their own urine.’ ‘Well, if you only have to talk cowshit, you can do that very easy,’
said Ildiko. ‘And when I find him, what do I say to him?’ I asked. ‘You say, “Oh my dear Doctor Criminale, how nice to see you again. I just happened to pass by and saw you in a
congress, and look, here you are with your nice new mistress, Miss Blasted Belli. What a coincidence! And by the way, do you still smuggle all those cows?”’

And it was then a strange thing happened. ‘Speaking of coincidence, just look at that,’ I said, pointing across the Place General Guisan. Ildiko lifted her head from her ice-cream
and looked round idly. ‘The girl in the Porsche?’ she asked, ‘No, you wouldn’t like her, tits too big for you, I think.’ ‘No, not the girl in the Porsche,’
I said, ‘Look over at the promenade. You see that crowd of people walking towards the pier? All dressed up and somewhere to go?’ Ildiko checked on what I had seen: a largish group of
people all dressed up to the top of their best, and carrying what looked like conference wallets, walking towards the park in front of the pier. ‘Okay, what about them?’ asked Ildiko.
‘You see the man walking along in the middle of them, with a girl in an orange dress?’ I asked, ‘Wouldn’t you say that was Bazlo Criminale?’

‘I don’t have my contacts,’ said Ildiko, with what seemed to me a strange lack of enthusiasm. ‘I didn’t know you wore any,’ I said, ‘It is, I’m
sure of it.’ ‘So?’ asked Ildiko. ‘So come on, let’s go,’ I said. ‘Why do we go?’ asked Ildiko, spooning in ice-cream. ‘To catch up with
them,’ I said. ‘And then?’ asked Ildiko. ‘We’ll work it out,’ I said, pulling her up by the hand, ‘Quick, before we lose them.’ I dropped some Swiss
francs onto the table. ‘Amazing, he pays,’ said Ildiko, following me across the square, between the Porsches and the Audis. We passed another grand hotel, the Château
d’Ouchy, also a place where diplomats gathered and treaties were signed. ‘This also is very nice,’ said Ildiko, looking inside. ‘Quick, or they’ll disappear,’ I
said. ‘I do not think this is such a very good idea,’ said Ildiko, ‘What do you say to him when you see him?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘Let’s
just catch them first.’

The party ambled on somewhere ahead of us, going through the park. They were an obvious congress group, headed for an evening out. ‘Where do you think they go?’ asked Ildiko. I
pointed ahead: the white lake steamer we had seen earlier at the pier was in steam, black smoke pouring out of its funnel. ‘Oh, they make a trip on the lake, how nice,’ said Ildiko,
‘They will not let us on, of course.’ By now the forward battalions from the congress were already passing through the turnstiles and onto the pier, then mounting the gangplank of the
white lake-boat. Among them I could now clearly see the impressive, grey-haired, stocky bulk of Bazlo Criminale, clad in one of his shining suits and wearing, of course, his yachting-cap. I could
also see more clearly the girl in a bright orange dress who was holding his arm and steering him up the plank. ‘I was right,’ I said, ‘He is with Miss Belli.’ ‘How
wonderful,’ said Ildiko.

Ildiko was right too. At the entrance to the pier, a sign said ‘Privé,’ and a sailor taking tickets guarded the gate. ‘It’s a charter,’ I said, ‘It
must be a special trip just for the congress. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow.’ But Ildiko’s mood seemed to change; evidently she was now taken up by the thrill of the chase.
‘You know you are hopeless?’ she said, ‘If you want to get on, you must think a little Hungarian. Wait, and give me your wallet.’ ‘My wallet?’ I asked. ‘If
you want to catch him, it will cost you something,’ she said, ‘Do you want it or not?’ I handed her my wallet, and Ildiko ran off, disappearing into the mêlée at the
pier entrance. For a few terrible seconds it occurred to me that I had been very foolish: maybe that would be the last I would see of both of them, and that the small supply of funds Lavinia had
sent me would soon be making its merry way round the stores of Lausanne. This was, it seemed, an unworthy thought. A few moments later Ildiko re-emerged, running towards me, and carrying a large
conference briefcase.