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Authors: Malcolm Bradbury
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to both sides,’ said Ros. ‘Okay,
how?’ I asked, ‘Was he an international emissary, a spy, what?’ ‘You’re overloading it, Francis,’ said Ros, ‘He was a famous philosopher who was above all
those things. Like Jean-Paul Sartre. He went everywhere.’ ‘This is a man who likes high living,’ I said, ‘He stays at some of the best hotels in the West. The
Badrutt’s Palace in Saint Moritz, for instance. Where they charge you a monkey for just letting you turn the revolving doors.’
‘Well, wouldn’t you, if you could?’ asked Ros. ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘The point is I couldn’t. This is a man from a poor world who lives like a prince.
It’s almost as if some great international foundation had been set up especially for him.’ ‘Lecture fees, royalties from his books,’ said Ros. ‘All right, let’s
take his books,’ I said, ‘Half of them were banned in Russia, but they still managed to appear all over the place.’ ‘He had to publish them abroad,’ said Ros.
‘But if they didn’t like them, why didn’t they freeze his bank accounts, take away his citizenship, put him in jail?’ ‘Maybe he was too famous abroad,’ said Ros.
‘You can always stop someone becoming famous abroad,’ I said, ‘Forbid him to travel, for one thing. They never did that.’ ‘Maybe he had friends in high places,’
said Ros, ‘Maybe they liked him to have a high reputation abroad but were careful of what he said back home. The Cold War was filled with these funny games. Or maybe they did forbid him to
travel, put him in prison, and you just haven’t found out about it.’
‘All right, but it doesn’t say so in Codicil,’ I said. ‘Why should Codicil know all that much about it?’ asked Ros, ‘He’s just some Austrian prof.
Anyway, you may not have read it right. You know your German’s hopeless.’ ‘It was, it’s been getting better by the minute,’ I said, ‘I still think the whole
thing is pretty damn strange.’ ‘It’s just the same as Brecht and Mann and Lukacs,’ said Ros, ‘All those great figures who tried to be on both sides of the fence. They
were survivors, Francis. They learned how to play the political game and still stay serious. Maybe that’s what a modern master really is. Someone who learns to swim with the flow, turn with
the tide. But still bends history to his own advantage, so he can still do something. I want to do something. Let’s go to bed.’ ‘I’m sorry, Ros,’ I said, ‘I
still haven’t done the treatment. And Lavinia needs it tomorrow. I’m going to have to work all night.’ ‘I want you in bed,’ said Ros. ‘I’m sorry, Ros,
really,’ I said, ‘But for a man’s whole life, what’s one night?’ ‘You bastard,’ said Ros.
And so, right through the night, full to the brim and more with Bazlo Criminale, I tried to put his life into some sort of shape, his story into some sort of order. From time to time Ros thumped
angrily on the floor of the room above, but I bravely resisted all sexual temptation. Everything Lavinia had asked for I tried to provide: the life, the loves, the friends, the enemies, the peaks,
the troughs, the history, the settings, the fleshy human being from whom the thought emerged. I plotted and planned it, topped and tailed it, edited and word-processed it, bound and ribboned it.
And whatever I explored, wherever I looked, Criminale seemed more obscure and enigmatic than ever. So, the job done at last, I labelled it on the cover ‘The Mystery of Doctor
Criminale’, and handed it to Ros when she descended to breakfast in the morning, in a very testy mood.
‘You didn’t come to bed at all,’ she said. ‘No, but I finished it,’ I said. ‘This is it?’ she said, glancing it over, ‘It’s a very full
treatment.’ ‘It’s a very full life,’ I said. ‘More than thirty pages,’ said Ros, not reading but simply turning over the sheets, ‘Lavinia said no more than
ten.’ ‘You try
how?’ I asked, ‘Was he an international emissary, a spy, what?’ ‘You’re overloading it, Francis,’ said Ros, ‘He was a famous philosopher who was above all
those things. Like Jean-Paul Sartre. He went everywhere.’ ‘This is a man who likes high living,’ I said, ‘He stays at some of the best hotels in the West. The
Badrutt’s Palace in Saint Moritz, for instance. Where they charge you a monkey for just letting you turn the revolving doors.’
‘Well, wouldn’t you, if you could?’ asked Ros. ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘The point is I couldn’t. This is a man from a poor world who lives like a prince.
It’s almost as if some great international foundation had been set up especially for him.’ ‘Lecture fees, royalties from his books,’ said Ros. ‘All right, let’s
take his books,’ I said, ‘Half of them were banned in Russia, but they still managed to appear all over the place.’ ‘He had to publish them abroad,’ said Ros.
‘But if they didn’t like them, why didn’t they freeze his bank accounts, take away his citizenship, put him in jail?’ ‘Maybe he was too famous abroad,’ said Ros.
‘You can always stop someone becoming famous abroad,’ I said, ‘Forbid him to travel, for one thing. They never did that.’ ‘Maybe he had friends in high places,’
said Ros, ‘Maybe they liked him to have a high reputation abroad but were careful of what he said back home. The Cold War was filled with these funny games. Or maybe they did forbid him to
travel, put him in prison, and you just haven’t found out about it.’
‘All right, but it doesn’t say so in Codicil,’ I said. ‘Why should Codicil know all that much about it?’ asked Ros, ‘He’s just some Austrian prof.
Anyway, you may not have read it right. You know your German’s hopeless.’ ‘It was, it’s been getting better by the minute,’ I said, ‘I still think the whole
thing is pretty damn strange.’ ‘It’s just the same as Brecht and Mann and Lukacs,’ said Ros, ‘All those great figures who tried to be on both sides of the fence. They
were survivors, Francis. They learned how to play the political game and still stay serious. Maybe that’s what a modern master really is. Someone who learns to swim with the flow, turn with
the tide. But still bends history to his own advantage, so he can still do something. I want to do something. Let’s go to bed.’ ‘I’m sorry, Ros,’ I said, ‘I
still haven’t done the treatment. And Lavinia needs it tomorrow. I’m going to have to work all night.’ ‘I want you in bed,’ said Ros. ‘I’m sorry, Ros,
really,’ I said, ‘But for a man’s whole life, what’s one night?’ ‘You bastard,’ said Ros.
And so, right through the night, full to the brim and more with Bazlo Criminale, I tried to put his life into some sort of shape, his story into some sort of order. From time to time Ros thumped
angrily on the floor of the room above, but I bravely resisted all sexual temptation. Everything Lavinia had asked for I tried to provide: the life, the loves, the friends, the enemies, the peaks,
the troughs, the history, the settings, the fleshy human being from whom the thought emerged. I plotted and planned it, topped and tailed it, edited and word-processed it, bound and ribboned it.
And whatever I explored, wherever I looked, Criminale seemed more obscure and enigmatic than ever. So, the job done at last, I labelled it on the cover ‘The Mystery of Doctor
Criminale’, and handed it to Ros when she descended to breakfast in the morning, in a very testy mood.
‘You didn’t come to bed at all,’ she said. ‘No, but I finished it,’ I said. ‘This is it?’ she said, glancing it over, ‘It’s a very full
treatment.’ ‘It’s a very full life,’ I said. ‘More than thirty pages,’ said Ros, not reading but simply turning over the sheets, ‘Lavinia said no more than
ten.’ ‘You try
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