A thought suddenly occurred to me. ‘Lavinia, you didn’t tell him where I was, I hope?’ ‘I could have said something,’ admitted Lavinia, ‘I have been chatting with him quite a bit.’ ‘Well, better not tell him anything else,’ I said. ‘You don’t think he leaks?’ asked Lavinia. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘But things are getting very confusing here. When you see him again, try and find out how Codicil got here.’ ‘I could give him a call now,’ said Lavinia. ‘Do, and cable me some money to the Gran Hotel Barolo,’ I said. There was a short pause at the other end. ‘Gran Hotel?’ asked Lavinia. ‘It’s a very small gran hotel, only three forks in the book,’ I said, ‘Anyway, it’s the only one here that’s open in the winter.’ ‘But I thought you were staying at a private villa,’ said Lavinia. ‘I’ve been kicked out of there,’ I said, ‘Thanks to Codicil. So talk to Gerstenbacker, find out what’s going on, and don’t forget the money. I can’t even pay the hotel bill.’

‘Francis, look, how do I know you’re spending this budget wisely?’ asked Lavinia, ‘You could be going shopping with it. Or spending it on some girl.’ ‘I hope you know me better than that, Lavinia,’ I said, ‘Do you want me to go after Criminale in Lausanne or not?’ ‘I’m not sure, darling,’ said Lavinia, ‘This is a very tight-budget show.’ I was beginning to feel desperate; like Ildiko, I could not bear the thought of giving up now, when indeed we seemed, in some obscure way, to be getting nearer the dangerous truth. ‘Lavinia, look,’ I said, ‘Believe me, this is getting really interesting. Criminale’s disappeared, Codicil’s frightened, and the European fraud squad are interested. We’ve got to go on.’ ‘I really don’t know, Francis,’ said Lavinia. ‘Look at it, Lavinia,’ I said, ‘Great Thinker of the Age of Glasnost in Italian Bimbo Scandal?’ ‘Well . . .,’ said Lavinia. ‘Heidegger Quarrel Man in Euro Meat Fraud?’ ‘Yes, Francis, it sounds great,’ said Lavinia after a dreadful moment, ‘Okay, darling, I’ll get back to London and rustle up a bit more out of Eldorado. They’ll love all that. Expect my cable soon.’

The cable, thank goodness, came overnight. That meant Ildiko and I were able to settle our bill (surprisingly large) at the hotel desk the next morning and still catch the hovercraft into Cano. The Villa Barolo faded into the cypresses and ilexes behind us; then, as the boat steered round a promontory, the island itself faded from view, as insubstantial as Criminale himself. In Cano we boarded a rattling bus, and found ourselves, by mid-morning, back at Milano Central railway station, where our Barolo adventure had begun. Unfortunately our departure in no way resembled our arrival; this time no marching band was there to play, no battery of cameramen to catch us as we left. Ildiko wore her ‘Up Yours, Delors!’ tee-shirt, her tight Lycra bicycling pants with the flashes, and her ‘Cleveland Pitchers’ baseball cap; but even so she found, to her intense disappointment, that she was almost invisible in the contemporary international crowd. We went through a hall of stalls, bought tickets, took the escalator to the train. Soon we were sitting, once again, opposite each other in another great trans-European express, though this time we were going north and west, to Lausanne.

Within a few moments paradise seemed to have drifted far behind us, and some new and anxious confusions lay ahead. Over the days at Barolo I had truly come to respect and value Bazlo Criminale, and I found it hard to understand his flight. I had no problem, naturally, in understanding his reason for fleeing with Miss Belli, now that I had had a few days’ experience of Sepulchra and her ways. As for Cosima Bruckner and her fevered imaginings, they seemed ridiculous. Criminale was far too dignified, too concerned with higher things, just too abstract to be bothered with the kind of mysterious Euro-fraud which seemed to be Cosima’s speciality in life. Then there was the question of what had alerted Codicil. I still felt sure someone had set him onto me – perhaps young Gerstenbacker, perhaps Monza, perhaps someone else at Barolo? But why? What differ­ence did a television programme make to a man like Criminale? Or was Codicil worried about something completely different, something that had come my way, at Barolo, perhaps, or even when I was in Vienna? And then there was Ildiko, sitting across from me in the compartment. I could see that, probably, from her point of view, Criminale’s flight with Miss Belli must have been a betrayal. But why, then, was she so anxious to hurry after him again?

For, if I seemed gloomy, Ildiko, sitting across from me, seemed excited. ‘You don’t look happy!’ she said, leaning forward. ‘Of course not,’ I said, ‘I just feel this whole quest is going wrong.’ ‘Because of Codicil and little Miss Black Trousers?’ she asked, ‘You don’t really believe that Criminale Bazlo smuggles cows in his suitcases?’ ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Really you should not listen to this lady,’ said Ildiko, ‘She is not a good friend for you.’ ‘She’s not my friend,’ I said. ‘She knows nothing,’ she said,. ‘These people in the European Community like to interfere in everything? Criminale never even thinks about money.’ ‘That’s my impression too,’ I said. ‘Bazlo does nothing wrong,’ said Ildiko, ‘Well, except of course those things you have to do wrong to survive in a Marxist country.’ I looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, ‘What things?’ ‘You know, you are so ignorant,’ she said, ‘Those usual things.’ ‘Ildiko, what usual things?’ Ildiko was just about to speak when I put my finger to my lips. The train had stopped at Domodossola near the Swiss border, and I realized that immigration men and probably the finance police as well were coming down the coach. A moment later the door slid open and two men entered, checking our papers with what seemed peculiar care. Then they looked at each other and went. I had a feeling that, no doubt courtesy of Cosima Bruckner, our time of crossing the border was being logged precisely.

Then a very serious-looking Swiss, wearing glasses and a small beard, and carrying a heavy briefcase, got into the compartment. The train moved on; as paradise slipped ever further behind, the Swiss Alpine wonderland began to rise up ahead. High mountains replaced the Lombardy plain, Italian chaos began giving way to Swiss neatness, Italian noise to Swiss silence. Indeed the Swiss in our compartment twice made Ildiko dust down her seat, after he had caught her furtively eating a chocolate bar purchased at Milano Central. We wanted to talk, but the Swiss, who was reading a Geneva newspaper, cast such firm and forbidding glances at us that even conversation came to seem an offence against decency, probably subject to citizens’ arrest. At last Ildiko, ever Ildiko, grew impatient and suggested that we go along to the restaurant car. Leaving the compartment to the Swiss, we set off down the long line of corridors.

Immediately the train plunged into a great gloomy tunnel (I suppose, when I think of it, it must have been the Simplon) and we seemed to be cutting through the chilly core and fundament of the world. Through semi-darkness we groped our way down the coaches to the dining-car. Here all was comfort; white-coated waiters bearing damask napkins flitted, the brass table-lamps gleamed, the white cloths were reflected in the heavy blackness outside, bottles of good wine rattled against the window glass. ‘Steak, please,’ said Ildiko to the waiter, ‘And I think we have the best red wine.’ ‘All right,’ I said, ‘What do you mean, the things you have to do wrong to survive in a Marxist country?’ ‘You really are so ignorant,’ said Ildiko, ‘That is because you live in a country where everything is what it seems.’ ‘Britain?’ I asked, ‘I hadn’t noticed.’ ‘Oh, you British are complaining all the time, you do not like this or that, how you suffer,’ said Ildiko, ‘But at least you can live openly. You can be yourself, have your nice little private life. Nobody spies with you, nobody denounces, you do not have to treat with the regime. And of course you can shop.’