"Doctor Criminale" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bradbury Malcolm)

4 In his wing collar, Gerstenbacker sat there . . .

So my man had gone. All I had left was young Gerstenbacker, sitting there opposite me in his natty wing collar, looking at me eagerly. Evidently he was waiting for me to say something; I did. ‘Professor Codicil certainly speaks very good English,’ I remarked to him. ‘Of course, they say he speaks the best English in the world,’ said Gerstenbacker, with the simple admiration of the perfect Germanic research assistant, ‘Now what do you like to do with yourself? I think you do not know Vienna so well?’ ‘My first visit,’ I said. ‘Excellent,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Then to start I will take you to see some things you ought to see, and then you can tell me those things you would like to see. By the way, the Spanish Riding School is closed, and the Belvedere is not yet open. But Vienna, you know, is many things.’ He took out a little handwritten list from his top pocket. ‘First we will start at the Hofburg, if this is all right, and then we will do some more things. I know you would like to see our gay Vienna. So now do we go?’

Seeing gay Vienna was not, I thought, going to help much in my search for Bazlo Criminale. On the other hand, there was Lavinia, engaging in naked tourism, and I could see no reason to refuse. At the same time I thought it was odd that Professor Codicil, apparently so determined to be unhelpful in most things, should have assigned his little assistant to take such good care of me. Still, as long as I had Gerstenbacker’s company, my path back towards Codicil was surely not closed completely. ‘Okay, fine,’ I said, ‘Let’s go.’ ‘Wiedersehen, meine Herren,’ said the head waiter as the two of us, young neophytes at the mysteries, went through the academic conclave in the café and out into the chilly street. Once there, Gerstenbacker pulled up his collar, turned, and began marching briskly along the Ringstrasse, through its great parade of late-nineteenth-century Habsburgian buildings: the imperial and the civic, the academic and the political, the theatrical and the musical.

As he walked on, Gerstenbacker began a kind of continuous commentary: ‘Here once were the city walls where we defended Europe against the Turk. Then our Habsburg monarchs, who ruled so much of the world, decided to make an imperial city. First do you see the university. One day you must go inside and see the hall where are displayed all our great professors.’ ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘There the Burgtheater, there the Parliament building, here the Rathaus,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘This is Vienna.’ Outside the Rathaus, a Christmas street market was in progress. The chestnut sellers and the sausage fryers were all out; there were stalls stacked with elaborate ribboned candles, peasant woodcarving, great piles of gold and silver baubles, bags of biscuits. I stopped to witness a triumph of kitsch: a stall covered entirely in pink fabric and laden with thousands of pink toy rabbits. A fair-haired very pretty girl stood behind the counter, in a pink rabbit costume; she was teasingly running a rabbit glove puppet up and down her arm to tempt the children crowded round her to buy. ‘Isn’t that wonderful?’ I said, turning to Gerstenbacker; he had gone. Then I saw him, yards ahead, still striding briskly onward. ‘In front the Nature History Museum, then the Art Historical Museum, opposite the Heldenplatz . . .’ he was still saying, to no one in particular, as I caught him up.

Now certain memories began coming back to me. Helden-platz, the great square outside the Hofburg; wasn’t this where Adolf Hitler had addressed a cheering Austrian crowd when he dropped his troops, dressed as nuns, into the country in 1938? Well, now it was where all the tourists, mostly Japanese and American, gathered. Their great modern tour buses, equipped with central heating, toilets, kitchens, television sets, a home on wheels, stood lined up in rows. Landau drivers sat waving their whips over their horses and calling for customers. Great tour groups eddied here and there, herded by umbrella-waving female Austrian guides, evidently a formidable breed in their dirndls. ‘Hello, hello, my name is Angelika, do you like it?’ said one in English, steering a party of tired elderly Americans. (A round of applause.) ‘Yes, I think you do. Notice please my pretty dirndl, very typical, do you like it too?’ (More applause from party.) ‘Yes, you do.’

I stopped to listen. ‘Well, we make very nice tour today, the Hofburg, Schonbrunn, then the Blue Danube, very nice, ja?’ (More applause from party.) ‘I hope you know our Habsburgs, you remember the Empress Maria Theresa? Even if a woman she kept our empire great for many many years.’ (Murmurs of assent from party.) ‘Then, do you know, things went a little wrong for us. You remember the tragedy of Mayerling in 1889?’ (Murmurs of assent from party.) ‘Yes, of course you do, the young Archduke Rudolph and his pretty little Baroness Maria Vetsera, who died with him in his bed at the hunting lodge, ja?’ (Murmurs of sympathy from party.) ‘After this nothing went right for us. And yet you know those were our most brilliant times? And that is what we say about Austrians. The more things went wrong, the more we learned to be so modern and so gay!’ (Loud applause from party.)

There was a sharp tug at my sleeve. It was Gerstenbacker, and he did not look so modern and so gay. ‘Oh yes, 1889, when we learned to be so modern and so gay!’ he said, walking me off to the entrance to the Hofburg, ‘But I hope a little bit more critical and analytical than this. To be modern is not always so amusing, I think.’ He took me inside, and we went round the great complex of state rooms, the imperial fixtures, the regalia and the treasure chests. ‘The Emperor Franz Josef, he was not so modern,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Here in the Hofburg he refused most things: the telephone, the toilet, the electricity light. Until he died and his age too, this place was lit only by torches. I will show you the Capuchin crypt where the Habsburgs were buried. Of course first they took out their hearts and put them in another place.’

‘Franz Josef was not so gay either,’ said Gerstenbacker, as we went down to the crypt, ‘He lived here in one room and watched his empire fall to pieces. Because you know here was made a great dream of a glorious Europe. Once, you understand of course, we were Europe.’ We had Spain, the Nederland, Italy, the Balkans. All run from here. Not the crypt, of course, upstairs, where is Waldheim now.’ ‘Oh, is he?’ I asked, ‘The great forgetter.’ ‘Well, some things we remember, some we forget,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Yes, here was the Emperor, the archdukes, the courtiers, the diplomats. The bureauarats, the policemen, the apparatus, the files, the rules of law, and trade, and censorship.’ ‘It all sounds a bit like Brussels now,’ I said. ‘The same,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘The European Community, you know we will join very soon. I believe we have some experiences that would be useful.’ ‘I’m sure you do,’ I said. ‘Good, now you have seen some of our past, next I will show you some of our modern,’ said Gerstenbacker, checking his piece of paper, ‘In fact I will show you everything.’

And sure enough, over the course of the next hours, Gersten­backer did exactly that. He showed me as much of everything as time and the human frame would permit. He showed me gothic, the church of darkness and mystery, and he showed me baroque, ! the church of light and joy. He showed me Biedermeier, the art of the bourgeois, and he showed mejugendstil, the art of dissent. He showed me Calvinism; he showed me the New Eroticism. He showed me Egon Schiele and he showed me Gustav Klimt; he showed me Salome and he showed me Judith. He showed me the Café Central where Trotsky used to sit and reflect, he showed me a table used by Krafft-Ebing, he showed me the home of Gustav Mahler. He showed me the consulting rooms of Sigmund Freud at Berggasse 19, its contents mostly disappeared, where sex-shocked patients once used to lie among portraits of Minerva and pictures of Troy. He explained to me things that were there, things that had once been there, and even things that had never been visibly there but came nonetheless. For he briefly took me out of the city and into the Vienna Woods, where Freud had once bicycled, and where a plaque among the trees read very simply: ‘Here, on July 24, 1895, the secret of dreams revealed itself to Dr Sigm. Freud.’

And all the time, as we toured the city, getting on a tram here and taking a taxi there, I tried to encourage perfectly pleasant young Gerstenbacker to talk to me about Bazlo Criminale. There was no obstruction; he seemed totally willing. Yet always, it seemed, there was some absolutely necessary diversion or other. ‘Look, tell me, do you have any idea where Criminale stays or who he sees when he visits Vienna?’ I would ask. ‘You think he comes to Vienna?’ he would say. ‘Professor Codicil said he comes to Vienna,’ I would say, ‘He said it was one of his homes from home, you remember.’ ‘Homes from home, not home from homes?’ he would say, ‘By the way, do you like to see a building with a cabbage on the top of it?’ ‘Homes from home,’ I would say, ‘What do you mean a building with a cabbage on the top of it?’

‘It has a cabbage on the top of it.’ ‘Why does it have a cabbage on the top of it?’ I would ask. ‘It has a cabbage on the top of it because of course Josef-Maria Olbrich put it there.’ ‘Who did?’ I asked. ‘Olbrich, don’t you know him? The friend of Otto Wagner? They all wanted to make a great Secession together.’ ‘I see,’ I said, ‘So when Criminale comes to Vienna, where does he stay?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he would say. ‘Who are his friends?’ I would ask. ‘Does he have some?’ he would say. ‘I expect so,’ I would say, ‘You’ve never met him?’ ‘I, of course not,’ Gerstenbacker would say, ‘I think the Secession was really where the Viennese baroque shook hands with Viennese modernism.’ ‘We’re back to the cabbage, are we?’ ‘Don’t you like to see it? It is very famous.’ ‘All right, Gerstenbacker,’ I said at last, ‘Let’s go and see a building with a cabbage on the top of it.’

The building Gerstenbacker took me to was the famous Seces­sion Building (motto: ‘To the age its art, and to art its freedom’); sure enough, it did indeed have a kind of cabbage-shaped metal dome on the top of it. We walked inside, to see the place where, in the 18905, Viennese baroque met Viennese modernism, and an art of the new, now already beginning to look like an art of the old, was born. ‘What about Professor Codicil?’ I asked as we looked round, ‘Does he see much of Criminale?’ ‘I think perhaps not any more, I think he no more comes so often,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Do you like to know who paid for all this?’ ‘Yes, who did?’ I asked. ‘Wittgenstein’s father,’ said Gerstenbacker. ‘So where does he spend most of his time these days?’ ‘In the tomb, I think. He is dead,’ said Gerstenbacker.

‘Now please, Gerstenbacker, not Wittgenstein’s father,’ I said sharply, ‘I’m trying to talk to you about Doctor Criminale.’ ‘But how can I tell you these things, really I have no idea,’ said Gerstenbacker innocently, ‘Did you know that Ludwig Wittgenstein and Adolf Hitler went to the same school?’ ‘No idea at all?’ I asked, ‘Wittgenstein and Hitler went to the same school?’ ‘Yes, in Linz,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘If only Adolf Hitler had had a bit better marks, he might today be professor of philosophy at your University of Cambridge.’ ‘That’s quite a thought,’ I said, ‘If Wittgenstein had had worse ones, he could have been up there telling the Nuremberg rallies that the limits of our language are the limits of our world.’ For a moment Gerstenbacker considered this gravely. ‘Perhaps it is theoretically possible,’ he said at last, ‘I do not think it is likely. But he would not have gone to Cambridge and you would have had no Viennese philosophy at all.’

When we went out into the street outside the Secession Building, Gerstenbacker started again. ‘So now I think you would like to see an opera house with cats.’ ‘What is an opera house with cats?’ I asked. ‘You don’t know cats?’ he asked, ‘Cats are by Andrew Lloyd Webber.’ By now I thought I had taken the point. Gerstenbacker was a perfectly nice young man, but the task assigned to him by Codicil was plainly to get me as far away from Criminale as possible. ‘You’re very kind, Mr Gerstenbacker,’ I said, ‘But really I don’t want to see any more Imperial Vienna, any more Baroque Vienna, any more Secession Vienna, any more Freudian Vienna. I especially don’t want to see Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Vienna. What I want to see is Criminale’s Vienna.’ ‘But it doesn’t exist,’ he said. ‘No?’ I asked. ‘After the Second World War when he came there really was no Vienna.’ ‘At least you admit he came,’ I said, ‘But what do you mean there was no Vienna?’ ‘Well, there were four Viennas,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘There were four zones, Russian, American, British, French, yes? And now I think you must go to see the Blue Danube.’ ‘It’s not necessary,’ I said. ‘But of course,’ said Gerstenbacker, shocked, ‘You cannot come to Vienna and never see the Blue Danube. We will go to Nussdorf.’

So we went on a tram to Nussdorf, where we stood on the end of a decrepit pier and did not see the Blue Danube. For the Blue Danube, as you probably know all too well already, since we live in an age of travel, is not actually blue. That is probably why the Viennese, quite some time ago, considerately moved the Danube right out of the city altogether and put it in a concrete cutting in a far suburb, where it would not constantly be checked, and they could go on singing about it without embarrassment. We stood on the pier and stared down at a dirty brown flow as it passed nervelessly by; nearby a group of dispirited Japanese tourists refused even to uncap their cameras, despite the urgings of their dirndled guide. ‘It’s brown,’ I said, ‘It’s brown and muddy.’ ‘Yes,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘But it is also going blue in certain lights.’ ‘Gerstenbacker,’ I said, as we turned and walked back into Nussdorf, ‘have you ever actually seen the Blue Danube when it was blue?’ ‘No, but I come from Graz,’ said Gerstenbacker. ‘Have any of your friends or relatives seen the Blue Danube when it was blue?’ I asked. ‘No,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘But in Vienna we know it is blue.’

‘You mean it’s blue for the tourists,’ I suggested. ‘No, it is blue for us also,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘And now I think you would like to try the Heurige, the new wine. I know a very good place in Heiligen where we can try some special growths.’ ‘Gerstenbacker,’ I said, as we got into a taxi, ‘am I right in thinking that one of your jobs as a great professor’s small assistant is to make sure I find out nothing at all about Doctor Criminale?’ ‘It’s possible, ‘ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Now I know you will like this place very much and after we have tasted some wines I will explain if you like why the Blue Danube is blue.’ ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Oh by the way, this wine is quite strong,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Really we should eat a little pig with it, if your religion permits it.’ I looked at him. ‘My religion?’ I asked, ‘Oh, you mean the Jane Fonda diet? Yes, I’m allowed to eat pig.’ ‘Good,’ he said, ‘I think we will have a very nice evening.’

Gerstenbacker was quite right. In Heiligen we went into one of those large village inns where they advertise the new wines have arrived with a bunch of twigs outside; we sat down on hard wooden benches in a vast, folksy winehall, where a peasant band in leather knickerbockers drew music from a strange array of tubas, trumpets, logs and woodsaws; Gerstenbacker called over the apple-cheeked waitress, her purse hung like an economic pregnancy beneath her apron, and gave her a list of vintages. In wine as all else (except the matter of Bazlo Criminale), young Gerstenbacker was a fountain of knowledge; he talked of villages and vineyards and varieties, making me take a glass of this, share a flagon of that, and the more we tasted, the more expansive grew his talk. ‘Yes, why the Blue Danube is blue,’ he said, ‘Perhaps you don’t know it, but when Strauss wrote that music we had just lost a battle with Germans and our power was in decline. So for us the Danube became blue.’ ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Then was Sarajevo when the Archduke was shot by Princip, then 1918, when we lost our empire, our borders, our pride. You will understand this very well, I think, because you are British.’ ‘Yes, we do share some things in common,’ I said. ‘But it was not really the same,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘We lost everything, our meaning, our history, our reality. All we had was music, dreams, illusions.’ ‘And the Blue Danube became even bluer,’ I said. Gersteribacker nodded. ‘Then there was 1945, we had lost again,’ he said, ‘Now we were nothing at all, an occupied country. We had to forget war, forget history. The Blue Danube is blue because we say it is blue. In Vienna, after what happened, do not expect too much reality. Now there is another wine we must try.’

After a further half-hour, Gerstenbacker’s wing collar had come awry, he wore his spectacles at an angle, and he had grown wildly talkative. ‘Tell me please, do you know this place Castle Howard?’ I nodded. ‘It is very nice, yes? I would really like to go there, for my thesis. Also Penshurst, Garsington, Charleston, Cliveden, where there was a set.’ ‘Very nice,’ I said, ‘It sounds a splendid subject for a thesis.’ ‘You see, most of your great philosophers were aristocrats, Earl of Russell, G.E. Moore and so on,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘That is why they had time for strange questions, do I mean what I say when I say what I mean, is the moon made of green cheese, and so on. Wittgenstein loved this.’ ‘And you do too,’ I said, ‘Well, if you want any help in arranging a visit . . .’ ‘It’s possible, you think so?’ asked Gerstenbacker, staring at me eagerly through his twisted spectacles, ‘Maybe you will speak to your Ambassador when you see him at a party?’ ‘Maybe not the Ambassador,’ I said, ‘I don’t move that much in diplomatic circles. But we could probably get you over on this television project. If you were able to give us some leads on Bazlo Criminale.’

Gerstenbacker’s face visibly fell. ‘I am sorry, it is really true,’ he said, ‘Even if Codicil did let me help you, I know nothing about Bazlo Criminale.’ I knew I had better press home my advantage. ‘You’re the great professor’s assistant,’ I said. ‘Only his assistant,’ he said. ‘But you work closely with him,’ I said. ‘Well, a bit,’ he said. ‘So what does an assistant actually do?’ I asked. ‘Well, I examine Professor Codicil’s students and mark their papers,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘When he is not there, I teach his classes.’ ‘How often is that?’ I asked. ‘Quite often, because he is not there quite often,’ he said, ‘Naturally an important professor must travel abroad in many places. Sometimes I give his lectures, sometimes I write his books . . .’ I stared at him in amazement. ‘You write his books’?’ I said, surprised. Gerstenbacker stared back owlishly through his L. spectacles, clearly surprised by my surprise. ‘Professor Codicil is a very busy man,’ he explained, ‘He has to advise ministers, travel to many foreign congresses, sit on many very important committees. He does not have so very much time to write his books.’

In the background, the peasant band was reaching a point of over-stimulation. Its members were hitting logs with axes; next they turned to slapping themselves and then each other, in a form of syncopated grievous bodily harm. ‘Oh, listen, this is very typical,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Not all our music is Mozart and Strauss.’ ‘So I see,’ I said, getting excited myself, ‘So what you’re telling me is that you write the books, and Codicil signs them?’ ‘Only if he agrees with them,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘If not I would have to begin all over again. Sometimes I review them for the newspapers also.’ ‘Isn’t it rather an odd system?’ I asked, ‘You do all the work and he takes all the credit?’ ‘Oh no,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘Because one day I will myself receive a call and become an important professor. Then I will have many assistants, and they will write my books for me.’ ‘It all works out in the end,’ I said. ‘Of course,’ he said, looking round for the waitress, ‘Now I remember another very good wine you must try . . .’ ‘No, just a minute,’ I said, ‘One more very important question. Did you happen to write the book on Bazlo Criminale?’

‘Did I?’ asked Gerstenbacker, surprised, ‘No, of course not. As-I told, I know nothing of Criminale. The book of his I write is on British . . .’ ‘Empirical Philosophy and the English Country House,’ I said, ‘I know. So who did write the book on Criminale?’ ‘I don’t imagine,’ he said. ‘Well, guess,’ I said, ‘Was it Codicil himself?’ ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘I don’t think Codicil ever wrote any of his books.’ ‘Another assistant?’ I asked, ‘Does he have a lot of assistants?’ ‘Quite a few,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘But that book was five years ago. Five years ago I was still in Graz.’ And probably, I thought, still in short trousers; young Gerstenbacker, his formal clothes now looking more like a fancy dress costume at a bad party, was growing younger before my eyes by the minute. ‘But this could explain everything,’ I said. ‘Codicil’s book isn’t by Codicil at all. That’s why he’s not giving me his help with the Criminale project. He doesn’t want me to find out.’

Gerstenbacker looked puzzled. ‘Find out what? The book is his. It has his name on it. Also it was written by his assistant to his instructions, in his office with his files, using only his approach and his methods, and following his advice and corrections. This is not why he will not help you.’ ‘Why won’t he help me, then?’ I asked. ‘He will not help you because you are too young and too English, and he thinks you cannot possibly understand such a man as Bazlo Criminale. Beside he does not believe in the light of publicity. Also many bad things are said about Austria these days. We have attacks on our President for his past, and so on.’ ‘Yes, I see,’ I said, ‘I can’t possibly understand why the Blue Danube is blue.’ Gerstenbacker looked at me, smiled, and nodded. ‘You cannot understand how it was here, because you were not here. Your country has been lucky, your lives have been simple, you have not suffered from our history, lived with our politics and philosophies. Codicil cannot even understand why the British should be interested in such a man as Criminale. He is not at all in your tradition of do I mean what I say when I say what I mean.’

‘Well, you could say the British are learning to be more European,’ I said. ‘No,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘You are building a Channel Tube but I do not think you will ever understand the Europe on the other end of it. Here we have been through everything. We understand how it is, and remember how it was.’ ‘So I see,’ I said. ‘We have a respect for those for whom life has been difficult. Those who are older than us have lived in terrible times. Perhaps you do not know what it is like to be in a world where history changes all the time, where to have an idea or a side is one day right and the next day wrong, where every choice, every thought, is a gamble that maybe you win or maybe lose, where what is patriotic now is treachery then.’ ‘Perhaps I can’t,’ I said, ‘But you can?’ ‘Of course,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘In my country we have led many lives. We have been Austrian, German, Russian, American, French and British. People have had to learn how to live in many different ways. Do you know what a strange place Vienna was in 1947?’ ‘1947,’ I said, ‘That was the time when Criminale came here from Eastern Europe.’

Gerstenbacker stared at me. ‘But he did not come here from Eastern Europe,’ he said. ‘I thought he did,’ I said, ‘You said so.’ ‘No, he did not, because Vienna itself was part of Eastern Europe, don’t you remember?’ ‘No, I don’t, I wasn’t even born,’ I said. ‘If you were here you would remember,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘He could come here easily because it was still in the East.’ ‘But it was also the border with the West,’ I said. ‘Yes,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘For example, in the first district, where is the university, the occupation changed every month. When it was the Russian turn, many people moved into hotels in the other zones. You know the Russians, how they liked to pick people up.’ ‘So you could move from zone to zone,’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘You could go in the front door of a building and still be in Russia. But if you had a key to the back door you could walk out and now be in America.’ ‘So perhaps Criminale found the key to the back door,’ I said, ‘In fact he could have been on both sides.’ ‘Many people were on both the sides,’ said Gerstenbacker, ‘As I told you, In Vienna we learned from experience it is wise to live in many different ways. Now you see why perhaps we are not so pleased with your questions. We have learned how to remember but also how to forget.’

‘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 Sigm. 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.’ ‘Heforbids 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 Russians 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 Hermes villa 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, rickets, 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.