They sat at a table under one of the oak trees, a flask of home-produced wine before them. Toasts were exchanged, and von Igelfeld closed his eyes with pleasure as the delicious red liquid ran down his parched throat. Glasses were refilled, and it was when these had been emptied that the farmer’s wife invited von Igelfeld to stay for lunch.
‘My wife is one of the best cooks in Tuscany,’ said the farmer, bright-eyed. ‘That’s why I married her.’
‘I should not wish to impose,’ said von Igelfeld, hardly daring to believe his good fortune.
‘It would be no imposition at all,’ he was reassured by the farmer’s wife. ‘We have so much food here, and only two mouths to eat it now that our children have gone to Milan. You would be doing us a favour, truly you would.’
The meal was served at the table under the tree. To begin with they ate zuppa crema di piselli, rich and delicious. This was followed by bowls of tagliatelle alla paesana, heavy with garlic. Finally, an immense casserole dish of capretto al vino bianco was brought out, and of this everybody had three helpings.
Von Igelfeld sat back, quite replete. During the meal, conversation had been somewhat inhibited by the amount of food which required to be consumed, but now it picked up again.
‘You must be a happy man,’ observed von Igelfeld. ‘How lucky you are to live here, in this charming place. It’s so utterly peaceful.’
The farmer nodded.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been to Rome. I’ve never even set foot in Florence, if it comes to that.’
‘Nor Siena,’ interjected his wife. ‘In fact, you’ve never been anywhere at all.’
The farmer nodded. ‘I don’t mind: enough happens here to keep us busy.’
‘Oh it does,’ agreed his wife. ‘Tell the professore about the angels.’
The farmer glanced at von Igelfeld.
‘We have seen angels here,’ he said quietly. ‘On several occasions. Once, indeed, while we were sitting under this very tree. Two of them passed more or less overhead and then vanished behind those hills over there.’
Von Igelfeld looked up into the echoing, empty sky. It seemed quite possible that angels might be encountered in such a setting. It was against such landscapes, after all, that Italian artists had painted heavenly flights; it seemed quite natural.
‘I can well believe it,’ he said.
‘The priest didn’t,’ snapped the farmer’s wife. ‘What did he say to you? Accused you of superstition, or something like that.’
‘He said that angels weren’t meant to be taken seriously,’ said the farmer slowly. ‘He said that they were symbols. Can you believe that? A priest saying that?’
‘Astonishing,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Angels are very important.’
‘I’m glad to hear you say that,’ said the farmer. ‘The angels are really our only hope.’
They were silent for a moment, and von Igelfeld thought of angels. He would never see one, he was sure. Visions were reserved for the worthy, for people like this farmer who uncomplainingly spent his entire life on this little corner of land. Visions were a matter of desert.
‘And then,’ said the farmer. ‘We had a major incident during the war – on that very hillside.’
Von Igelfeld looked at the hillside. It was quite unexceptional, with its innocent olive groves and its scattered oaks. What could have happened there? A terrible ambush perhaps?
‘I was only eight then,’ said the farmer. ‘I was standing in the farmyard with my father and two of my uncles. All the trouble had passed us by, and so we were not worried when we saw the large American transport plane fly low overhead. We watched it, wondering where it was going, and then suddenly we saw a door in its side open and several parachutists jumped out. They floated down gently, coming to land on the hillside. Then the plane headed off over Montalcino and disappeared.
‘We ran over to where the men had landed and greeted them. They smiled at us and said: “We’re Americans and we’ve come to free you.”
‘Well, we told them that we’d already been freed and that there was really nothing for them to do. So they looked a bit disappointed, but they came and had dinner with us. Then, after dinner, they went off to sleep in the barn, using their parachutes for bedding, and one of them went into the village. He never came back. He met a girl in the village and married her. The others were very cross and debated about going into the village to find him and shoot him, but they decided against it and instead went away on some bicycles they had requisitioned. My mother made shirts and underpants out of the parachutes. They lasted indefinitely, and I still occasionally wear them. That was it. That was the war. We’ve never forgotten it. It was so exciting.’
Von Igelfeld eventually bade a late and emotional farewell to his hosts and began the walk back to Montalcino. The pangs of hunger were a dim memory of the past; he would need to eat nothing that evening – that would show Signora Cossi! He entered the hotel, and hung his hat on one of the hat pegs. He was late, and dinner had already started. Then he remembered. Prinzel and Unterholzer had already arrived – he had totally forgotten about them – and there they were, at the table, tucking into the largest helpings of pasta which von Igelfeld had ever seen.
Von Igelfeld’s heart sank. Look at them eat! It was enough to confirm Signora Cossi’s views one hundred times over. And indeed it did, for as von Igelfeld stared in dismay at his companions, Signora Cossi swept out of the kitchen carrying two large plates, piled high with lamb cutlets.
‘For your friends!’ she said triumphantly, as she passed her speechless guest.
Prinzel and Unterholzer could not understand von Igelfeld’s bad mood. Nor did they understand his expression of dismay when, after they had settled their bills, a smirking Signora Cossi handed von Igelfeld a small package.
‘I saw you throw these away,’ she said, giving him his laces. ‘You must surely have done so by mistake.’
Her expression was one of utter, unassailable triumph, and von Igelfeld was to remember it well after he had forgotten his walks through that timeless landscape, that marvellous meal under the farmer’s oak tree, and the vision, so generously shared, of angels.
PORTUGUESE IRREGULAR VERBS
THEY TOOK UP RESIDENCE IN REGENSBURG one by one – von Igelfeld first, then Unterholzer and finally Prinzel. Prinzel’s new wife, Ophelia, had been reluctant to leave Wiesbaden, where she acted as secretary to her father in the Wiesbaden Project on Puccini. This project, which had been running for fourteen years, was set to run for at least a further decade, or more, and absorbed almost all the energies of both herself and her father. A move was quite out of the question.
At the time when Unterholzer moved to Regensburg, von Igelfeld was himself involved in his own difficulties over publication. Studia Litteraria Verlag, the publishers of his renowned and monumental work Portuguese Irregular Verbs, had written to him informing him that they had managed to sell only two hundred copies of the book. There was no doubt about the book’s status: it was to be found in all the relevant libraries of Europe and North America, and was established as a classic in its field; but the problem was that the field was extremely small. Indeed, almost the entire field met every year at the annual conference and fitted comfortably into one small conference hall, usually with twenty or thirty seats left over.
The publishers pointed out that although two hundred copies had been sold, there still remained seven hundred and thirty-seven in a warehouse in Frankfurt. Over the previous two years, only six copies had been sold, and it occurred to them that at this rate they could expect to have to store the stock until well into the twenty-second century. Von Igelfeld personally saw nothing unacceptable about this, and was outraged when he read the proposal of Studia Litteraria’s manager.
‘We have received an offer from a firm of interior decorators,’ he read. ‘They decorate the apartments of wealthy people in a style which indicates good taste and education. They are keen to purchase our entire stock of Portuguese Ir
regular Verbs, which, as you know, has a very fine binding. They will then, at their own expense and at no cost to yourself, change the embossed spine title to Portuguese Irrigated Herbs and use the books as furniture for the bookshelves they install in the houses of their customers. I am sure you will agree that this is an excellent idea, and I look forward to receiving your views on the proposition.’
It was no use, thought von Igelfeld, to attempt to use the arguments of scholarship and value when dealing with commercial men, such as the proprietors of Studia Litteraria undoubtedly were: they only understood the market. It would be far better, then, to ask them to wait for a while and see whether the sales of Portuguese Irregular Verbs picked up. From the commercial point of view, it would surely be more profitable to sell the book as a book, rather than as – what was the insulting expression they had used? – furniture.
Yet it was difficult to imagine sales picking up. There was no event, no anniversary, on the horizon to suggest that Portuguese Irregular Verbs might suddenly become more topical. Nor was von Igelfeld’s own fame, though unquestioned in the field, likely to become markedly greater. No, any sudden increase in interest in the book would have to be the result of von Igelfeld’s own efforts to persuade those who did not currently own a copy to buy one.
As an experiment, von Igelfeld wrote to his mother’s cousin in Klagenfurt, Freiherr Willi-Maximilian Guntel, asking him whether the library in his country house contained a copy of the work. A prompt reply was received.
‘My dear Moritz-Maria,’ the letter ran. ‘My failing health makes me something of a recluse these days, and it is therefore such a great pleasure to receive mail, especially from the family. How kind of you to offer to give me a copy of your book. I must admit that my library has little about Portugal in it. In fact, it contains nothing at all about Portugal. Your kind gift would therefore be most appreciated.
Now, on another matter, do you remember cousin Armand, the thin one, who used to mutter so? Well, it really is the most extraordinary story . . . ’
Von Igelfeld was, of course, trapped, and in due course the order department of Studia Litteraria was surprised to receive an order for a copy of Portuguese Irregular Verbs, with an accompanying cheque drawn on the account of the author, Professor Dr Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld. Clearly, caution would have to be shown in soliciting purchases, or it could become an expensive business.
Von Igelfeld thought again. What he should try to do was to find out by more indirect means who owned a copy and who did not. Unterholzer, for example: did he own a copy, or did he merely make free use of library copies?
‘Unterholzer,’ von Igelfeld said one day as the two philologists sat in the Café Schubert, drinking coffee, ‘I’ve been thinking recently about updating Portuguese Irregular Verbs. What do you think?’
Unterholzer looked surprised. ‘Does it need it?’ he asked. ‘Have the verbs changed recently? Becoming more regular?’
Von Igelfeld reacted crossly to what he thought was an unnecessarily flippant remark.
‘Of course not,’ he snapped. ‘But scholarship always marches on. There have been several very important developments since the last edition.’
Unterholzer was apologetic. ‘Of course, of course.’
Von Igelfeld glanced sideways at his friend. Now, perhaps, was the time to strike.
‘But I wonder if people would want to buy a new edition . . . ’ He paused, raising the coffee cup to his lips. ‘Especially if they already have a copy.’
‘They might,’ said Unterholzer. ‘Who knows?’
Von Igelfeld lowered his cup. ‘Take somebody like you, for example. Would you buy a new edition?’
Von Igelfeld felt his heart pounding within him. He was astonished at his own sheer bravery in asking the question. Surely he had Unterholzer cornered now.
Unterholzer smiled. ‘I should hope for a review copy from the Zeitschrift,’ he said lightly.
Von Igelfeld was silent. Unterholzer had given nothing away. Could his remark have meant that he had received a review copy of the first edition? And if so, then where was the review? Von Igelfeld had not seen it. Or had Unterholzer really bought a copy of the first edition and was now hoping to be spared the cost of a second? That was conceivable, but how could one possibly tell?
As days passed, von Igelfeld’s chagrin increased over the inconclusive nature of his discussion with Unterholzer. He realised that if he did not know whether or not even a close colleague like Unterholzer had a copy of Portuguese Irregular Verbs, then there would be little chance of encouraging sales. He could hardly tout the book on an indiscriminate basis; the only way would be by the subtle, individual approach.
It would have been simple, of course, if Unterholzer had kept his books in the Institute. Had that been the case, then all von Igelfeld would have had to do would be to cast an eye over his colleague’s bookshelves on his next visit to his room. Unfortunately, Unterholzer was the only person in the Institute whose room was virtually devoid of books. He largely worked in the library, and his own collection, he had explained to everyone, was kept in his study at home.
Von Igelfeld pondered. He knew where Unterholzer lived, but he had never been in his flat. They had walked past it one day, and Unterholzer had pointed up at his windows and balcony, but no invitation had been extended to drop in for a cup of coffee. By contrast, Unterholzer had been invited to von Igelfeld’s house five or six times; he had attended the party which von Igelfeld had thrown for Florianus and Ophelia Prinzel, and he had certainly been present at the stylish reception which von Igelfeld had held in honour of Professor Dr Dr (h.c.) (mult.) Reinhard Zimmermann. There was no doubt but that by any criteria of reciprocity of hospitality, Unterholzer should have invited von Igelfeld into his home.
Von Igelfeld decided to act. If Unterholzer was not going to invite him, then he must commit the solecism of arriving at the doorstep one day, uninvited. Unterholzer could hardly turn him away, particularly if it was raining, and in this way he would be able to inspect his bookshelves and settle once and for all the issue of whether he was the owner of Portuguese Irregular Verbs. All that was required was a rainy Saturday afternoon. Unterholzer would be in; von Igelfeld knew that he never went out, other than to go off on one of his solitary walks by the river; and not surprising, reflected von Igelfeld wryly – if he never issues any invitations then it’s quite right that he should get none in return. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more unacceptable appeared Unterholzer’s behaviour.
A suitably overcast Saturday afternoon arrived. Von Igelfeld made his way to the building in which Unterholzer lived. Standing outside, he looked up at the balcony which Unterholzer had pointed out and he noted with satisfaction that there was a light on inside. Good, he thought. Unterholzer was too mean to leave lights burning if he was not in.
Von Igelfeld peered at the plate above the bell and drew in his breath sharply. Professor Dr Dr D-A. von Unterholzer. What extraordinary, bare-faced cheek! It was little short of an outrage, on three counts, no less. Firstly, Unterholzer did not have two doctorates; there was no doubt about that. Secondly, what was all this nonsense about the hyphen between Detlev and Amadeus? Amadeus was his second name, as the whole world knew, not part of his first. And finally, and perhaps most seriously of all, there was the von. Von Igelfeld felt the anger surge up within him. If people got away with adding vons to their names whenever the mood took them, then that immeasurably reduced the significance of the real vons. So this was why Unterholzer had never invited him to his flat; it was simply because he knew that his pretensions would be exposed. But then, if nobody was ever invited, then who was there to be impressed by the bogus credentials? The postman? Or was it some bizarre, private fantasy on Unterholzer’s part, designed to give him some inexplicable, solitary pleasure?
Von Igelfeld gave the bell an imperious, righteous push, in the way in which a policeman might ring a bell when he knew that a long-elusive quarry was hiding within. He heard the bell sounding
and then, after a few moments, the door opened and Unterholzer stood before him.
‘Good afternoon, Herr Unterholzer,’ said von Igelfeld, throwing a glance in the direction of the name plate. ‘I was walking past and the sky looked a bit threatening. I wondered if I might take shelter here for a while.’
Unterholzer frowned. ‘The sky looked fine to me, when I last saw it.’
‘It changes so quickly, though,’ retorted von Igelfeld. ‘The rain is definitely coming on.’
Unterholzer still looked unwilling to admit von Igelfeld.
‘I’m also rather thirsty,’ went on von Igelfeld. ‘A glass of fruit juice would be most welcome.’
Unterholzer looked regretful. ‘I’m afraid I have no fruit juice at the moment. There is, however, a small café round the corner.’
‘Water would do quite well,’ countered von Igelfeld. ‘I take it that you haven’t run out of that.’
It seemed to von Igelfeld that Unterholzer now had no alternative.
‘Do come in,’ the latter said. He suddenly became the genial host, as he ushered his guest into the hall and closed the front door behind him. ‘Why don’t we sit in my study?’
Von Igelfeld followed Unterholzer along a short corridor and into a large well-lit room. Two of the walls were covered with bookshelves, all of which were filled with books. There was a desk, on which sundry papers were scattered, a couch, and several armchairs. It was a pleasant enough room, if somewhat spartan in its tone. It did not give the air of being well-used: none of the armchairs looked as if they had ever been sat in, and on those shelves on which small ornaments were placed, these had been positioned strictly according to size.