So, shaking hands, chatting, laughing, frowning, embracing, renewing old congress friendships or old conference hostilities, the notable writers of the world gathered round the reception desk in the concourse, while the citizens of Milan set aside their normal daily cares and gathered round to watch the spectacle. From small bald Professor Monza the writers received warm handshakes and backslaps; from the laughing, ebullient Signorinas Belli and Uccello they received friendly embraces and large leather wallets. Then suddenly, leaping on his chair and clapping his hands together, Professor Monza began shouting. ‘Attenzione! Achtung bitte! Quiet please! An announcament!’ ‘Professor Monza is the crown prince of announcements,’ said Miss Belli to me. ‘Your cars are now awaiting!’ announced Professor Monza, ‘Pleasa now follow the behinds of Misses Belli and Uccello!’ There was pleased laughter. ‘Maka your way to the entranca! I will see you all again at the Villa Barolo! Then I will make some more announcements! It is very importanta you listen for all announcaments!’

The writers of the world then began to march in a line through the concourse, down the escalators, towards the entrance to the station. And here a great cortege of dark limousines stood waiting, each one with a dark-suited driver beside it. The writers piled in, group by group, nation by nation. Then, as motorcycle outriders stopped the city traffic, the grand procession began moving through the streets of Milan, rather like some state funeral at which, however, the mourners had failed to observe the basic rule of solemnity, and were laughing, leaning out of the windows, and waving from car to car. We passed the wonderful designer shops of Milan, in the arcaded streets; Ildiko stared out of the window entranced. ‘But I thought Italy was a very poor country,’ she said. ‘Not any more, not since it joined the European Community,’ I said, ‘It’s one of the richest countries of Europe. At least, this part is.’ ‘Oh, good,’ said Ildiko, ‘I like it. Oh, what shops!’

Probably because of our subordinate press status, we had been put in the very last car. This proved fortunate, because it meant we found ourselves in the ebullient company of Signorinas Belli and Uccello. Fine-looking girls of a familiar, and expensive, Italian type, they flashed their eyes a lot, laughed a good deal, and happily explained to us what a whole lot of blasted fun this whole blasted congress was going to be. ‘Professor Monza has prepared it for many month,’ said Miss Belli, ‘I suppose you have both heard of Professor Monza?’ ‘I don’t know him,’ said Ildiko. ‘He is not known in my country.’ ‘But he is just our very best-known professor!’ cried Miss Uccello, ‘He has his own column in La Stampa!’ ‘His own arts programme on Radio Italiana, Ecco Bravo!’ cried Miss Belli. ‘He writes experimental novels of Sicily!’ cried Miss Uccello. ‘And edits the famous magazine Soufflé, you know it?’ cried Miss Belli, ‘All about literature and food!’ ‘Also he drives a Porsche,’ said Miss Belli. ‘He has a very beautiful, very rich wife,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘Of course he keeps her at his villa in the campagna.’ ‘He has the best collection of South American art in Italy,’ said Miss Belli. ‘In short he is very blasted famous and very blasted rich,’ said Miss Uccello.

‘And he is a professor, he teaches as well?’ asked Ildiko. Misses Belli and Uccello laughed. ‘Well, when the universities are open, he sometimes visits us,’ said Miss Belli, ‘In Italy the universities are not open so often.’ ‘You’re his students?’ I asked. ‘Well, we make our theses with him,’ said Miss Uccello. ‘So what do you study?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Signs, we study signs,’ said Miss Belli. ‘Mostly the film Casablanca, do you know it?’ asked Miss Uccello, ‘That has very interesting signs.’ ‘We look at it from a semiotic Marxist perspective,’ said Miss Belli. ‘You mean, Professor Monza is a Marxist?’ I asked. ‘Of course, he is a leading Italian intellectual,’ said Miss Uccello. ‘A very rich Marxist, that is the best kind to be,’ said Miss Belli, ‘Never be a Marxist and also poor.’ ‘He takes us out on his yacht at the weekends and we discuss the theories of Gramsci,’ said Miss Uccello, looking at Miss Belli and giggling. ‘It’s right,’ said Miss Belli, giggling too, ‘We call it, topless Gramsci.’

Milan was well behind us now, and we were proceeding north, back toward the slopes of the Italian Alps; the white peaks rose ahead of us, backlit with a roseate afternoon glow. Even with winter coming, various perfumed fragrances blew in on us from the Lombardy countryside, with its red farmhouses and verdant gardens – though these were as nothing compared with the expensive musky perfumes that wafted from the bodies of the delightful Signorinas Belli and Uccello, who sat in the seats in front of us. ‘So that’s Monza,’ I said, ‘But what happened to Doctor Criminale? I didn’t see him at the station.’ ‘At the station, naiou,’ said Miss Belli, ‘Of course not, he is at the villa, preparing his great speech for the close of the congress.’ ‘Has he been there a little while?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Already three, four day,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘He likes to come there often, because it is a good place for him to write. My mount of Olympus, that is how he calls it.’ ‘He’s alone?’ I asked. Miss Belli and Miss Uccello turned to each other and laughed. ‘No, not alone,’ said Miss Belli finally, ‘La Stupenda is with him.’

‘La Stupenda?’ I asked. ‘His wife Sepulchra,’ said Miss Uccello, ‘We call her La Stupenda.’ Ildiko turned to me. ‘You remember her,’ she said, ‘I showed you her nude photographs in Budapest.’ ‘Her blasted nude photo!’ cried Miss Belli joyously, falling with tears of laughter into the arms of Miss Uccello. ‘Non possibile!’ cried Miss Ucello, wiping her eyes. ‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘You don’t know her?’ asked Miss Belli, ‘This lady is like a great battleship.’ ‘She charges all round and fires at people all the time, always ready for the attack,’ said Miss Uccello. ‘That poor man,’ said Miss Belli, ‘Really we feel so sorry for him.’ ‘How does such a nice man marry such a woman!’ asked Miss Uccello. ‘Oh look,’ said Miss Belli, ‘Here we are at the blasted lake!’ ‘And now we must go on the blasted speedo!’ said Miss Uccello. The car stopped, in the long line of cars; the driver descended, and opened the doors for us; we all got out.

We were beside a wooden pier, where three white speedboats with bright awned canvas roofs stood rocking, waiting to take us on board. Behind us lay a small Italian town, buzzing with the noise of motorscooters; in front of us lay a great Italian lake, surrounded by ilex-covered green hillsides. Along the spread of the lake were a few small settlements, their lights twinkling in reflection in the pearly grey water. The lake was thin and long, and made a great finger pointing north into the granite white-capped mass of the Alps, which rose up in a wall at the further end. Behind them a purple evening light was already beginning to glow. ‘Why do we go on a boat?’ asked Ildiko. ‘Because now we go to an island, Isola Barolo,’ said Miss Belli, ‘And there you will find the villa. Let us go on board.’ The other writers were already settling in the seats, some of them wrapping themselves around with rugs. Helped on board by a white-capped boatman, Ildiko and I went up to the prow, to be joined by Misses Belli and Uccello.

Soon we were speeding up the lake, over still grey chilly water that fizzed like champagne under our motion. Around the lake sat many fine and ancient villas, terra cotta or ochre in colour, built on small outcrops or tucked into coves; their manicured gardens were filled with statuary, and all had great boathouses, packed with yachts, cruisers, small motor boats. Hair blowing in the wind, Misses Belli and Uccello explained to us that most of these were ancient villas, homes that had once belonged to Pliny and Vergil, to noble contessas and elegant principessas, to deposed kings and displaced literary exiles. Now, in another order of things, they mostly belonged to Milanese furniture designers or Arab entrepreneurs, people whose bank accounts kept them going and who only came there on occasional weekends, leaving the lake to a kind of peace it had not really enjoyed since the days of the Ghibellines and the Guelphs. ‘So now we have it nearly to ourselves,’ said Miss Belli, ‘Now, when we turn the point, you will see Barolo.’