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‘Here he goes,’ Miss Belli whispered in my ear. ‘For an entira weeka, in these so beautiful surroundingsa, both classical and romantical, we will meeta and worka together, to discuss the most lifa and deatha questions of the modern world of today!’ ‘This is brief?’ Sepulchra could be heard saying, ‘I do not think it is brief.’ ‘Fortuna’ said Monza ‘has smiled often on this fantastical place. It smiles againa today. I will be making you of course many a
That was the moment when I learned a further new lesson about Bazlo Criminale. If he was a man who was difficult to find, he was also a man who was easy to lose again. I turned and looked for the Misses Belli and Uccello; they were standing round Monza, flashing their eyes as only they knew how, and waving their arms furiously in a familiar kind of Italian frenzy. ‘What’s happened to him?’ I asked Miss Belli, detaining her for a moment. ‘He has done it again, he has blasted disappeared again,’ said Belli, looking frantic. ‘You mean he’s done this sort of thing before?’ I asked. ‘Of course, he does it all the blasted time,’ said Miss Uccello. ‘We are supposed to look after him, you see,’ said Miss Belli, ‘So we take him when he asks to go to the newspaper shop down in Barolo.’ ‘One minute he is there, the next he is gone,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘Then you don’t see him again for perhaps a whole day.’ ‘And he carries no money and he doesn’t know where he stays,’ said Miss Belli. ‘But usually the police find him somewhere, anywhere, and bring him back again in their van,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘But where now?’
‘Why does he do it?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘Sometimes he thinks he is in Rangoon. I don’t know why Rangoon.’ ‘He went there,’ said Miss Belli. ‘You don’t mean he’s a little . . .,’1 asked, tapping my head. ‘Naiou,’ cried Miss Belli impatiently, ‘He is better sane than the rest of us.’ ‘He is just thinking,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘He is a philosopher.’ ‘But this time we hope he has not gone so far,’ said Miss Belli. ‘Tonight he must give the after-di
Miss Belli groaned. ‘A
So, gathering his wits about him, Monza a
After that he a
And it was at the Secretariat, where I stood in line to collect our keys, that I discovered the first of my several Barolo confusions. Whether it was because of the brevity of my cable, international language difficulties or sheer natural Italian generosity I do not know, but Ildiko and I had been assigned to the same room. I had no real complaints about this myself (you would understand if you had seen Ildiko) but I rather thought she might have. ‘So where do we go?’ she asked, when I found her waiting for me on the terrace outside, staring delightedly at the view up the lake. ‘We’re both down in the Old Boathouse,’ I said. ‘A Boathouse?’ asked Ildiko, ‘We sleep in the water?’ ‘I don’t think we’ll actually be in the water,’ I said, ‘But they have put us together in one room. I could complain, if you like.’
Ildiko looked at me. ‘You want to complain?’ she asked. ‘Not necessarily,’ I said, ‘I thought you might want to complain.’ ‘But with officials it is always a very bad thing to complain,’ said Ildiko, ‘They can keep you for many days. No, I suppose this is the custom in the West.’ ‘Not always,’ I said, ‘But maybe in Italy. So it’s all right?’ ‘Of course all right,’ said Ildiko, ‘It is wonderful here. Just like a place for Party members, but even better. So is all the West like this?’ ‘I’m afraid not,’ I said, ‘Some of it’s pretty miserable. In fact most of it, compared with this.’ ‘So who pays all this?’ asked Ildiko. ‘An American patron,’ I said, ‘I think she made her money in planes and pharmaceuticals. So you could say this is the smiling face of American capitalism.’ ‘You mean I am looked after like this by American capitalism?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’ ‘Of course not, about time,’ said Ildiko, putting her arm through mine, ‘I think it is just like Paradise, here. So let us go and find our nice little room.’
Following the map we had been given, Ildiko and I walked along the path that led downwards, through the great gardens of the villa, towards the Old Boathouse, which was, as you’d think, set by the lakeside below. Looking round, I realized that Ildiko was right: paradise was no bad name for it after all. For, inside the villa and outside it, Barolo seemed a place where nothing could be faulted, except for the sheer absence of fault itself. No doubt its very confusions were intentional. The gardens we now walked through were themselves art-objects, just like the ones in the house. Every single terrace had been cultivated, every bed laboured over, every hedge and bush seemed to have been trimmed. Every tree was intentional, every rock had become a step to somewhere, and every woodland path led to some dramatic revelation – a grotto, a belvedere, a gazebo, a long view, a statue of a glancing nymph or indeed a hefty philosopher of the classical age, when they knew you thought much better naked.