‘So why do you try?’ I asked. ‘Because worse is to do nothing at all,’ said Criminale, Today they tell the philosopher, be modest, you have done enough harm. But how can he be released from philosophy? I think always we need a morality, a politics, a history, a sense of self, a sense of otherness, a sense of human significance of some kind. Now we have sceptics who invent the end of humanism. I do not agree. The task of philosophy is simply always to reinvent the task of philosophy, to subject our age and our world to thought. You are a young man, we owe you ideas. And always we need a morality, a politics, a history, a sense of self, a sense of others, a sense of eternity of some kind. So how then do we invent philosophy offer philosophy? That is the question I always ask myself ‘And how do you answer?’ I asked.

‘Well, that there is always something to divert us,’ he said, ‘Love, money, power, celebrity, boredom. Speaking of this I must go and find my young companion. You are alone?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I see,’ he said, ‘I thought I saw you with someone. What is happening?’ The paddles were churning, the ship turning; I looked down over the side. A small pier was in view below. ‘We’re docking,’ I said, ‘We must be going ashore.’ ‘Ah, yes, Chillon,’ said Criminale, dropping his cigar carelessly over the side, ‘I must get ready to give my lecture.’ ‘You’re lecturing now, here?’ I asked. ‘I think so, that is how they plan to spoil this nice evening,’ he said, ‘Don’t you have it in your programme?’ ‘Ah, I lost it,’ I said quickly, ‘Well, I look forward to hearing you.’ ‘Never look forward to a lecture,’ said Criminale, raising his hand to me, ‘Only look back on it, if it has been worth it. Good-night.’ He walked off along the deck. He was looking, I suppose, for Miss Belli, although the relationship between them struck me as far stranger than I had thought before.

The grim stone castle of Chillon, sad spot in the history of human misfortune, islanded in the lake, sat illuminated close to where our steamer had docked. The photographers were already streaming off the boat, onto the promenade, and, in a noisy crowd, crossing the wooden bridge that led to its keep. Criminale was among them; I could see him in the crowd, brought to attention by the bright orange dress of Miss Belli, who hung onto his arm. The person I could not see was Ildiko, and I went round the ship, looking everywhere for her. She was not on the open decks, not in the saloons; she seemed to have acquired a gift for disappearance quite as expert as Criminale’s. My life these days seemed to be a quest not for one person, but two. The ship was almost empty now, so I went ashore, and across the bridge to the castle of Chillon.

Here, in the courtyard, the congress members had gathered together. The Mayor of Montreux stood on a balcony and welcomed them, telling the story of poor old François Bonivard, who had been chained six years to a rock below the waterline in a dungeon beneath, apparently for choosing the wrong philoso­phy on the wrong day. Thinking has never been easy to get right. I scanned the crowd, but Ildiko was nowhere to be seen. Next we were ushered into the Great Hall, where modern chairs were laid out under modern lighting. A flamboyant chairwoman rose, and introduced the congress guest of honour, and speaker for the evening. It was Criminale, of course, rising to give our keynote lecture, on the topic of ‘Photography and Desire’. I sat at the back and looked carefully round the attentive audience. Ildiko was not in the room.

This rather distracted my attention from Criminale’s lecture, but it seemed to go well. The apocalyptic gloom he had shown at Barolo seemed to have gone, as had the signs of sexual boredom he had displayed to me a few minutes before on the deck of the ship. He spoke in open praise of the erotic, celebrating desire, more than desire: frankness, shockability, outrage. He refused, he said, to see the body as sign or symbol, like the modern philosophers. For him it was pure presence, flesh as flesh. The erotic self was a place of plenitude, the naked being was a place beyond culture or disguise. He assaulted old-fashioned moralists, new-fashioned semioticians; he dismissed Lacan, told Foucault just where to go. Feminists hissed and abstractionists muttered, for he was clearly going beyond the intellectual convention, the most conventional form of convention there is. But, tired by two days of theory, and keen to get to the wine to follow, the photographers reacted warmly, greeting him with loud applause.

I could hear it even from a distance, for by now I had slipped away; I wandered round the grim stone castle, looking everywhere for Ildiko. At last, down in the dungeons, I found her, holding a drink and talking warmly to Hans de Graef. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ I said. ‘You know how I don’t like lectures,’ she said. There was a flash, and I saw Hans de Graef taking our photographs. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘Now I must go upstairs for the reception.’ ‘Ildiko, I’ve had enough of this,’ I said when he had gone, ‘I think it’s time you told me just what’s going on with you and Criminale.’ ‘Nothing goes on,’ said Ildiko, ‘I don’t even see him.’ ‘You came all the way from Budapest to see him,’ I said. ‘At least I am not suspicious,’ said Ildiko, ‘Do you know that nice young man is asking many questions about you?’ ‘De Graef?’ I asked, ‘What kind of questions?’

‘About your work, your background,’ said Ildiko, ‘He says you are the first Russian he ever met who speaks no Russian at all. Maybe you should learn to be a bit more Hungarian, like me.’ ‘What did you tell him?’ I asked. ‘Nothing,’ said Ildiko, ‘I said I hardly knew you at all. Isn’t it true?’ ‘I had a long talk with Criminale,’ I said, ‘He told me how his life had been ruined by sex.’ ‘He talked about me?’ asked Ildiko. ‘No,’ I said, ‘And I told him nothing at all.’ ‘Good,’ said Ildiko, ‘With matters of this kind it is best to be a bit discreet.’ ‘Matters of what kind?’ I asked, ‘What’s going on?’ But just then a crowd of conferees, wearing their badges and carrying glasses in their hands, came down the steps to inspect the dungeon. ‘Go back there and do your mingle,’ said Ildiko, ‘We can talk on the ship. I like to look some more round this terrible place.’

So I returned to the Great Hall. The chairs had been cleared for a reception. There were drinks, drinks in plenty; there were photographs, and what photographs! After all, the greatest photographers in the world were there, all photographing one another, and, of course, Bazlo Criminale. He was where he liked to be, the centre of attention: he was surrounded. I pressed a little closer. ‘You gave such good lecture,’ a very attractive Romanian lady was saying to him, ‘Only five people fell asleep, very good. And you understand so well the erotic. I would love so much to be nude photographed by you.’ ‘Let us arrange,’ said Criminale, ‘Tomorrow?’ ‘Bazlo, caro, time you go back to the boat,’ said Miss Belli, pulling at his sleeve, ‘These people will tire you out.’ Ildiko was right, she sounded just like Sepulchra; maybe Criminale did this to people. ‘This lovely lady likes me to make her photo,’ said Criminale. ‘Don’t forget you have to go to the bank tomorrow,’ said Belli. ‘We can go any time,’ he said, ‘Why is it always time to leave when someone admires you?’ ‘Everyone blasted admires you,’ said Belli, sounding impatient; then she saw me. Recognition dawned; her eyes widened. She turned, and whispered something to Bazlo Criminale. I began now to see the point of Ildiko’s policy of discretion, and slipped away to tour the castle.

Not till I got back to the ship did I see Ildiko again. A chill squally wind had blown up to accompany our return trip to Lausanne. Hunting through the now very jovial photographers, I found her alone in the rear saloon, huddled against the cold in her/my ‘I ♥ Lausanne’ sweater, and looking extremely unhappy. ‘Time to talk, I want to know what’s going on,’ I said. ‘I too,’ said Ildiko, ‘Is Bazlo still with Belli?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘He wants to take nude photographs and she wants to get him to the bank.’ ‘When, tomorrow?’ asked Ildiko, sitting up. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘You were right, she gets more like Sepulchra every minute.’ ‘That is how Bazlo is like,’ said Ildiko, ‘He finds a nice new woman, then he loses interest. He finds he really loves the one he has lost. When he ran away with Sepulchra, he always said he loved Gertla the more.’ ‘So why did he run away with her?’ I asked. ‘Of course, because Gertla would have ruined him if he stayed,’ said Ildiko.