Talking at the Restaurant Kiss, Hollo had reminded me of Lukacs’s prefaces. Now I remembered one that had been written at the time of the Hungarian Uprising, when Lukacs had joined the new liberal regime, resigned in good time, been exiled by the Russian invaders to Romania, survived, come back to partial Party rehabilitation, and turned back with the tide. Perhaps it was no wonder that it seemed the most devious preface of them all. It attacked the dogmatists for not being revisionists, since revisionism was needed to put Stalin’s positive achievement in true perspective. It also attacked the revisionists for not being dogmatists, because revisionism was ‘the greatest present danger for Marxism’. As for the book it introduced, it spoke of the need for ‘critical’ realism, but refused to criticize socialist realism itself. Lukacs’s busy philosophical mind moved back and forth, but always ended up frozen in its mental prison. But the prison he chose to call reality itself, and he tried to argue his fellow human beings inside it with him. Doubting dogma and making it, Lukacs survived as a philosopher, a tainted hero to the end. If Lukacs, why not Criminale? Well, perhaps I would soon find out, at his apartment.

Our car stopped at last, in some great boulevard of large, late-nineteenth-century apartment blocks, not far from the Square of the Heroes, which once, they told me, held a statue of Stalin, long gone. Ildiko got out, and we followed her, I gladly, Hollo reluctantly. We went into a courtyard hung about with washing and filled with the noise of radio folk music from the windows above. There was an entrance with a grilled doorway, and beside it a set of name cards, with some of the names scrawled over and replaced. None of the names was that of Bazlo Criminale. Ildiko rang a bell; we waited, a long time. In a society of functionaries, the person who holds the key or controls a door evidently has, if only for a moment, true power; no wonder a door takes so long to get through, a key so long to find. But at last a small elderly woman, clad in a blue nylon overall above dirty black trousers, unlocked the door slowly and pulled it cautiously back. Ildiko began to speak to her, and then Hollo turned triumphantly to me: ‘I told you,’ he said, ‘He is gone away.’

I turned to leave, but suddenly the old woman came over to me and seized me firmly by the arm. ‘She says wait,’ said Ildiko, ‘If you have come all this way from Europe, at least you must see his apartment. If you give her time, she will let us in.’ The woman smiled and nodded at me. ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I would like to.’ The woman disappeared into a small office, and hunted through more keys. Then she returned and took us to an old slow lift, with open grille sides. We rose, past dusty stairwells, dirty concrete landings, blackened old apartment doors. On the top floor, we got out, more keys were turned, and then we were in the apartment of Bazlo Criminale; large, airy, and fine, with big french windows and a view of the park on one side and the Buda hills on the other, a world away from the world outside. There was old furniture, good pictures, a grand piano. On the piano were many silver-framed photographs: of children, adults, young women, older women, and a good many of Criminale himself, with this person or that.

‘Criminale and Brecht,’ said Hollo, pointing. ‘Criminale and Stalin,’ said Ildiko, ‘Criminale and Nixon.’ ‘Criminale and Madonna!’ cried Hollo. ‘And these are his wives,’ said Ildiko, picking up some of the photographs, ‘You see he had quite a few of them.’ She showed me a picture of a small slim waif: ‘Pia, the first wife, German, I think, very nice,’ she said. ‘Of course she died quite a long time ago,’ said Hollo. ‘And this is Gertla,’ said Ildiko, showing me a fair-haired, strong-faced woman, ‘She was the second, I think, yes.’ ‘Yes, the second,’ said Hollo, ‘And she helped him a very big lot.’ ‘One I don’t know,’ said Ildiko, picking up a street portrait, a snapshot, on the hop, of a tall, fair-haired and fur-hatted young girl. ‘Remember somewhere there was another one, Irini, no?’ asked Hollo. ‘Another wife?’ I asked. ‘Not exactly wife, but important,’ said Hollo, ‘She died also, I am afraid he was not so lucky.’ Then Ildiko showed me a large photo of a big beautiful woman: ‘Here, look, this one is Sepulchra, his wife now, when she was younger.’ ‘Quite a lot younger,’ said Hollo, ‘And over here, see she is again. Such thighs, yes?’

He pointed to the wall. On it, hung between great shelves filled with books in French, Russian and German, English and Hungarian, were many photographs I now recognized; they were Criminale’s famous erotic nudes. ‘Are all these his wives too?’ I asked. ‘Well, some I don’t recognize,’ said Ildiko, ‘Maybe with clothes on I would. But yes, look, there is Gertla, see.’ There is Irini,’ said Hollo, ‘Very nice, ja?’ ‘And here Sepulchra, there and there and again,’ said Ildiko. I looked along the row, at the sequence of amazing, oily-looking bodies, angled and shaped. Some looked plainly at the camera, some hid their faces, some had no faces in view at all. Criminale’s tastes were certainly frank, and much of a kind; there were many models, but most were young and blonde. One even looked a little like Ildiko. ‘Quite something, yes?’ said Hollo, leaning over my shoulder, ‘Now you see Criminale did not only spend his time thinking. He liked to do some things as well.’

Then the old woman took me by the arm again, and led me through into another room. ‘His study,’ said Ildiko, ‘Oh, by the way, do not think we all live like this. Criminale is a famous academician and has a special arrangement.’ Here many more books, of art, philosophy, economics, mathematics, science, stood on the shelves. Everything was tidy and neat, like the room of a monk in a monastery. There was a locked glass case with loose-leaf folders inside. Hollo glanced in; ‘His stamp collection,’ he said, ‘Everyone in Hungary likes to collect stamps.’ Then there was a wide bookcase filled to capacity with the works – originals and translations, some in Western hardback, others in loose East European bindings – of Criminale’s own indefatigable industry: the Goethe life and Homeless in twenty languages, the works of aesthetic theory and political economy, the works of classical history and modern psychopathology, the feuilletons and magazine articles, clipped and in binders, the theoretical journals, American, British, German and Russian, to which he had contributed in a profusion greater than I had imagined. Hollo looked round, to see if the old woman was watching, and then pointed to one book: ‘The Codicil,’ he said, ‘The work he said he could never acknowledge. But you see here it is. Maybe now you believe me.’

The desk was tidy too, with everything put away except for some scattered papers covered in handwriting, and looking like an unfinished student essay. Perhaps it was something he had been working on, only to be interrupted when he went away. I moved closer to try and read; the old lady waved her finger at me. ‘She says you may look, but you may not touch,’ Ildiko said. ‘Would you ask her for me where he’s gone, whether there’s any way I could find him?’ I asked her. Ildiko and the old lady began a long and excited conversation. Meanwhile Hollo opened another door, and summoned me over with his finger. ‘His boudoir,’ he said. There was a large bedroom, in it a big bed with wooden head and foot. The walls were all covered either with modern paintings or erotic line drawings; there were also more of his photographs. ‘Quite something,’ said Hollo, ‘You know for one who thinks he lives a little well. Not quite a monk in a cloister, I think.’

‘She know nothing,’ said Ildiko, coming over, ‘He is gone away for a long time on some projects. Well, you will not see him, but at least you see what he sees.’ She pointed out of the window: at the park, the Buda hills, the long boulevard below, running back toward Pest. ‘In 1956 he would see the Russian tanks come up this street. Then the times after, good and bad, the times of compromise, as Kadar called them. And always when he was here he slept at this bed, and wrote at that desk. So now you have not seen him, but nearly.’ ‘I certainly feel I know him a bit better,’ I said. ‘Okay, enough,’ said Hollo, ‘Let’s go. I think maybe you give that lady a little something. Money, cigarettes, I don’t know.’ I held out some money, but the old lady sharply refused. ‘She doesn’t take anything,’ said Ildiko, ‘She says she is proud to show you the home of a great man from our country. She hopes you have learned a little.’ ‘I have,’ I said.