Doctor Criminale

‘Please don’t mention shops,’ I said. ‘Shall I explain you Marxism?’ Ildiko asked, ‘Or did you study it at school? I know you think it is clever and complicate, but really it is very simple. Karl Marx wrote a book called Das Kapital and after that we never had any. And that is a pity because, do you know, money is freedom, Francis.’ ‘Not for everyone,’ I said. ‘Listen, do you know what is the currency in Hungary?’ ‘Yes, the forint,’ I said. ‘No, that is scrap paper, fit only to wipe yourself with in a certain place, if you don’t mind I say so,’ said Ildiko, ‘The same with the zloty, the crown, the lev, the rouble. The currency of Marxism is the American dollar. That was not explained in Marx. But that is what the Party officials at their dachas had, that is why they had their own private food and medicine, why they shopped in the dollar shop, if you don’t mind I mention just one shop. That is why when Western visitors came we stopped them on the street and said, “Change money, change money.” We had to have them, the only way to live was the dollar.’

‘You mean to travel?’ I asked. ‘Please, most of the time you could not travel,’ said Ildiko, ‘Unless you made sports, or belonged to the Party, or liked to keep a little record on your friends. No, with dollar you could live under the table where everything lived. Do you understand?’ ‘Not quite,’ I said. ‘Oh, yes, in Marxism there are always two systems, official, and unofficial,’ said Ildiko, ‘In the official world you are a Party member, or a dissident, you believe in the victory of the proletariat, what a victory, and the heroism of the state. In the unofficial world,, everyone, even the officials, they were someone else. Party members were not Party members, enemies were friends and friends were enemies. You trusted no one but you could trade with everyone. And with dollar you could buy anything: influence, dacha, a job, sex, black-market petrol, travel permit, what you liked. Nothing was what it seemed, nothing was what was said. So every story had two meanings, everyone had two faces.’ ‘Including Criminale?’ I asked.

‘I said everyone,’ said Ildiko, ‘Criminale is an honest man, but he also had to live in such a world. You saw his apartment, you know how he travelled. You read his books, how they go a bit this way, then that.’ ‘I thought so,’ I said, ‘But what did he do?’ ‘Remember, Criminale had one clever thing, the book,’ said Ildiko, ‘And the book, you know, is wonderful. A person always must stay in one place, you can even hold him there. A book can go in the pocket, be on tape, now go down a fax machine. It can change, one language to another, one meaning to another.’ ‘It’s what Roland Barthes said, the reader creates the writer.’ ‘Did Roland also say that it is always the writer who sells and the reader who buys?’ asked Ildiko, ‘You are not paid to read. Unless you are great professor, or maybe a poor publisher like me. But you are paid to write, and if you are famous, all round the world, then you make much money.’ ‘And Criminale made a lot of money?’ ‘Well, why not?’ asked Ildiko, ‘This is how the writer becomes free. Otherwise you are a state writer, that is a hack. If the state doesn’t like you, you sweep the street. You never saw Criminale sweep the street.’

There was suddenly a great burst of light, as we came out of the tu

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘Codicil. That’s why he’s so worried.’ Ildiko looked across the white cloth at me and laughed. ‘No, you don’t really now think that Codicil is a nice good man?’ she said, ‘That is not how you said it yesterday.’ Then I began to see. ‘It wasn’t Codicil,’ I said, ‘You were his publisher, you were his girl-friend. You could get his manuscripts out, you could probably make arrangements for his royalties . . .’ ‘I think a publisher must always help an author and the cause of art, yes?’ said Ildiko. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Even if that means working a little under the table?’ ‘Naturally there were deals with officials and so on,’ said Ildiko, ‘They knew he made very much money, so they made certain demands of him.’ ‘What kind of demands?’ I asked. ‘He had to please them with certain things, naturally,’ said Ildiko, ‘Sometimes to remain silent when it was better to speak, sometimes to speak when it was better to remain silent.’ ‘I see,’ I said. ‘But always Criminale was an honest man. Honest, but a little bit flexible. Maybe that is the best you can ever be, in such a country.’

‘But why didn’t he move to the West?’ I asked. ‘Oh, why?’ asked Ildiko, ‘Because he was a philosopher, he liked to live in a world with an idea. Of course then he found it was not such a good idea, that he wanted a new idea. What I did not tell you about Marxism, perhaps you knew it already, is it appears to be made of thinking. Unfortunately Marx said that the important thing is not to understand the world but to change it. Poor man, he got it the wrong way round. The important thing is not to change the world too much until you understand it. The human need, for one thing. I am sorry, perhaps I am too serious for you. I know the British do not like this.’ ‘I like you when you’re serious,’ I said. ‘Better than when I shop? Well, now you understand everything,’ said Ildiko, ‘Oh look, isn’t it nice?’

Ildiko pointed out of the train window; I looked, and saw rising over the high ridges the white spire of Mont Blanc. ‘We must be getting near Lausa

‘So perhaps he’s come to collect his royalties?’ I asked. ‘Well, since the Wende, he does not have to be so cautious, in Hungary what do they mind any more?’ said Ildiko, ‘Now it is the free market, we can do with our money what we like. Even spend it all on Miss Blasted Belli.’ ‘You think that’s what he’s doing?’ I asked. ‘Well, you have seen Sepulchra, wouldn’t you?’ ‘It must be a great deal of money, if he’s the world’s bestselling intellectual novelist.’ ‘Perhaps two million dollar,’ said Ildiko. I looked at her in amazement. ‘A fortune,’ I said. ‘Well, fortunate for him,’ said Ildiko, ‘Not because he cared so much for the money. He is not like that, with him it comes and goes. What mattered was the freedom.’ Then I suddenly remembered the bank statement I had seen on Criminale’s desk in his suite at Barolo. ‘These accounts are in Lausa