Ildiko looked at the plate in front of me. ‘Ugh, goulasch,’ she said, ‘Do you know what it is made of? Dead bodies from the Danube.’ ‘I don’t believe it,’ I said. ‘Well, I lie sometimes, but only with my closest friends,’ said Ildiko, ‘Now listen, I think we must go tomorrow, or we miss the congress start. Do you like me to go later and get us some tickets for the train?’ ‘Fine,’ I said, ‘If they say we can attend.’ ‘You have dollar?’ asked Ildiko, ‘It is best in dollar. If you have dollar I will love you.’ ‘I do have dollar,’ I said, ‘But later.’ ‘But you will definitely take me to the West? Where they have all these shops?’ ‘Yes, I will,’ I said. Then it’s wonderful,’ said Ildiko. And that, as it happened, and that is most of what happened, is how Ildiko Hazy and I found ourselves the next day on another international train, from Budapest to Milan, on our way to the Barolo Congress and, we hoped, to Bazlo Criminale.

One thing I’ve learned in life is that you should never take a great international literary congress too lightly. And that was certainly so with the now highly famed Barolo Congress on the topic of ‘Literature and Power: The Changing Nineties: Writing After the Cold War’, which held its deliberations at the Villa Barolo on Lake Cano in November 1990. Supported by the munificence of the great Magno Foun­dation (whose founder, Mrs Valeria Magno, was to attend the ceremonies), chaired by the famed Italian intellectual, Professor Massimo Monza, Professor of Obscure Signs at the University of Nemi, and with as its guest of honour none other than Professor Bazlo Criminale, it was plainly an event of scale, significance and indeed, in the wise gaze of history, true cultural transformation.

But I realized none of this when, encouraged by Ildiko Hazy, and supported, rather doubtfully, by Lavinia, still engaged on her obscure recce in Vienna, I sent off a cable asking permission for myself and companion to cover the event on behalf of a British newspaper and on behalf of the Great British Public, whose concern about the cutting edge of modern literature was, I said, well known. Much to my surprise, a cable from Barolo flew back almost immediately, signed by none other than Professor Monza himself. It declared his extreme delight that the British press should want to do literature, and indeed himself, the honour of covering the occasion. It also issued a joint invitation to myself and my companion, and told me that joining instructions and briefings for the congress would follow almost immediately.

And so they did; and from that moment onward the whole flavour of my life changed, and the whole nature of my quest for Bazlo Criminale was transformed. An hour later I was called down from my room at the Budapest Ramada – Ildiko happened to be with me, helping me check the contents of the mini-bar – and there in the lobby was one of those leather-coated motorbikers whose appearance of violence and aggression is intended to reassure us that these days trade and data always pass everywhere at the very fastest speed. He handed me an express package that had just landed hot from the sky at Budapest airport. On it was the great logo of the Magno Foundation; it was clear that our joining and briefing instructions had come. Ildiko and I took them back upstairs to my room, where it was definitely more comfortable, and we began to examine them. It was probably then we should have sensed the grandeur and munificence of the occasion, but I fear we did not.

Certainly we realized at once that this was no ordinary conference, held in a cafeteria with a cooking smell in the background. The Barolo instructions impressed from the start. They explained we should arrive on a certain day (it was the next one), at a certain time (14.30), at a certain place (Milan Central railway station), where a formal reception committee would receive all congress members. One hundred people, the documents warned, would be attending. The Villa Barolo was far too remote, its deliberations far too demanding, its security far too intense, to allow for other joining arrangements, and those who did not follow the instructions precisely would not be admitted. The villa was isolated, indeed islanded, and could not be reached by car; the nearest parking space was probably ten miles away. There were also no landing facilities for personal planes, helicopters, or private yachts, other than those belonging to the members of the Magno Foundation itself.

This didn’t greatly concern us, but we did realize that, once we had reached Barolo, a good deal would be done to ensure our intellectual strenuousness, our convenience and comfort. The working languages of the congress were English, Italian, French and German; full interpretation facilities would be provided. Fax machines and photocopying facilities would be made available. ‘Fruit in our rooms,’ said Ildiko, seeing that Apricots and Apples would also be on offer; I explained this was computing equipment. All papers would be photocopied and made avail­able in advance (‘That is silly,’ said Ildiko, ‘Why go?’) and the full proceedings would later be published by a distinguished university press in the USA. In the intervals of our delibera­tions, a heated pool was available for informal discussions (‘Oh, that is why go,’ said Ildiko). So would tennis, riding, boating on the lake. Guests were advised to bring appropriate clothing for cold and wet days (the weather, unlike almost everything else, could unfortunately not be guaranteed) and stout shoes for walking the extensive private grounds. Dinner jackets were not obligatory, but formal clothes were needed for the evening, when orders, decorations and Nobel medals could be worn.

There were also some special instructions for the press. Media attention was not encouraged, but since this was a historic and international event some coverage was permitted. To avoid inhibiting discussion, members of the press were expected to be discreet, and observe the congressional ‘off the record’ convention, which meant all statements were unattributable. Stories should be checked with the Secretariat before being filed. Press packs would be issued on arrival; special press badges would be worn. Accommodation for organizers and main speakers would be provided in the Villa Barolo itself; other participants, including the members of the press, would watchtowers and belvederes that lay within the confines of the extensive and beautiful grounds.

‘But I thought nobody in your West took writing seriously,’ said Ildiko, as we checked through all the documents in my room, ‘I thought all your writers starved, except of course for Jeffrey Archer. I thought that was why your writers envied ours so much, when we were always putting them in prison.’ ‘Nobody in the West does take writing seriously,’ I said, ‘What they take seriously are conferences. That’s what hotels are for. Shall I send back a cable to say we accept?’ ‘Of course, it’s wonderful, and Criminale will be there,’ said Ildiko, ‘Do you like me to go for some train tickets? Now may I have your dollar?’ She held out her hand; I gave her some. ‘This is not very much,’ said Ildiko, ‘I also have to live when I get there.’ ‘It looks as though the Magno Foundation will take care of that,’ I said.

‘Really, I hope you are not going to be mean, or this will not be such a good trip,’ said Ildiko, ‘You do like to take care of me in the West? Remember I have never been there.’ ‘Never?’ I asked. ‘No, of course,’ said Ildiko, ‘Before the change I was not allowed to travel. To travel you must be very reliable. I was not so reliable. That is how it was in those days.’ ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘But you do please to go with me, I hope?’ ‘Of course, Ildiko,’ I said. ‘I found you the way to Criminale, no?’ ‘You did,’ I said. ‘And I think you do like me a bit, yes?’ ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Then you let me have that hundred-dollar note, all right?’ ‘All right,’ I said.