‘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.’