Unterholzer gestured to the sofa while he himself sat in one of the armchairs.
‘I can’t remember when you were last here,’ he said to von Igelfeld, fixing him with a challenging stare.
Von Igelfeld pretended to search his memory. ‘I can’t remember either. It must have been a long time ago.’
He looked about the room, noting the cheap and unattractive framed views of the Rhine. It was not the sort of thing to which he would give wall space. It was almost kitsch in fact.
‘I have a very good housekeeper,’ said Unterholzer. ‘Frau Kapicinska comes every morning. She keeps everything very clean.’
‘That is very good,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Is she Polish, by any chance?’
Unterholzer nodded. ‘Yes. Polish.’
‘Ah,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I see.’
There was silence. Unterholzer looked up at the ceiling while von Igelfeld’s gaze returned to the views of the Rhine. Really, they were terrible. They were coloured engravings – coloured well after the original had been printed. And there, facing these ill-depicted views of the Rhine, was a large framed photograph of a sausage dog. This was even worse. Could Unterholzer be one of those people who liked those unfortunate dogs? Von Igelfeld was aware of their popularity, but had always been irritated by what he considered to be the ridiculous appearance of the dachshund, with its absurd little legs and its long, sausage-like body. The von Igelfelds had always had large dogs, suitable for hunting on the plains of their now confiscated estates. They would never have owned a sausage dog. It was most irritating, really, to see these clichéd views of the Rhine and a sausage dog in such proximity.
‘Do you have a dog, Herr Unterholzer?’ asked von Igelfeld, looking about the room for signs of canine occupation.
Unterholzer smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, proudly. ‘I have a very fine dachshund. He is called Walter.’
Von Igelfeld raised an eyebrow. Walter? ‘And does this dog live here, in this apartment?’ he asked.
‘He does,’ said Unterholzer. ‘He is sleeping now and we should not wake him up. But one day I will introduce you to him.’
‘That would be very kind,’ said von Igelfeld. He wanted to laugh, though, at the thought: Unterholzer saying to his ridiculous sausage dog, ‘And this is Professor von Igelfeld’ and von Igelfeld shaking the dog’s proffered paw and saying, ‘Good morning, Herr Unterholzer!’ – because what else could he call the dog? He could hardly call him Walter on first meeting, and so it would have to be Herr Unterholzer. That, of course, would make it difficult to distinguish whether he was talking to Unterholzer or his dog, and could lead to confusion.
‘Would you care for coffee?’ Unterholzer asked suddenly. ‘I could make some in the kitchen.’
Von Igelfeld accepted rapidly. He wanted to get Unterholzer out of the room for a few minutes so that he could check the bookshelves. It would not take long, but he could hardly do it while his host was present. And the moment that Unterholzer left, von Igelfeld was on his feet, his eye running rapidly over each shelf in turn. Not that one, nor that one; not there; no; undsoweiter until he had searched every shelf and reached the terrible, damning conclusion: Unterholzer did not own a copy of Portuguese Irregular Verbs.
When Unterholzer returned, he found von Igelfeld sitting in a different chair. He paid no attention to this; he had assumed that his guest would probably try to go through his papers in his absence. Well, there was nothing for him to find there; he was just wasting his time.
Von Igelfeld sipped at the coffee which Unterholzer had given him – not very good coffee, he noted. Was there anything to be said in Unterholzer’s defence – anything at all? Could it be argued that he had suffered in some way, and that his suffering deserved sympathy? No. Unterholzer was not a refugee from the East or anything like that. Nor had he suffered at the hands of a cruel or bullying step-parent; von Igelfeld understood his father to be a perfectly reasonable retired bank manager. So there was no doubt but that Unterholzer was answerable for the various wrongs which had been so quickly and damningly chalked up against him.
As he thought this, von Igelfeld saw something else on the wall. It was a framed coat of arms, and underneath, in Gothic script, he made out: ‘The arms of von Unterholzer’. Well, really! That was even worse than the views of the Rhine, which appeared to be in good taste by comparison.
Von Igelfeld bit his lip. Then he could remain silent no longer.
‘I must say that I can’t understand what you see in those views of the Rhine,’ he said. ‘Did some student give them to you?’
Unterholzer looked at the pictures and then looked at von Igelfeld.
‘You mean you don’t like them?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said von Igelfeld icily. ‘That’s what I do mean. I think they’re terribly, terribly vulgar.’
Unterholzer’s jaw sagged open.
‘Vulgar?’ His voice was the voice of a broken man, but von Igelfeld pressed on.
‘Kitsch, Herr Unterholzer,’ he said. ‘Kitsch. I gather that it’s becoming fashionable again, but I didn’t expect to find you, of all people, living in a . . . in a palace of kitsch!’
Unterholzer said nothing, as he looked about his study. Then, almost absent-mindedly, he offered von Igelfeld more coffee from his china coffee-pot with its curious chinoiserie pattern. Was that kitsch too, he wondered?
‘Look out,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘You’ve splashed it on my shirt.’
With shaking hands, Unterholzer put down the coffee-pot.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘Do let me fetch a cloth.’
‘No thank you,’ said von Igelfeld coldly. ‘Just you direct me to the bathroom and I’ll attend to it myself.’
Von Igelfeld left Unterholzer in the study and walked angrily down the corridor to the bathroom. There he sponged off the two small coffee splashes and adjusted his tie. He closed the bathroom door behind him and started back along the corridor. There was a large bookshelf on his right, and from ancient habit he stooped to look at the contents. There, on the bottom shelf, standing out with their excellent bindings, stood not one, but two copies of Portuguese Irregular Verbs.
Von Igelfeld stood stock still. Then, cautiously, drew out the first copy and paged through it. It was well-used and had been annotated here and there in Unterholzer’s characteristic script. Precisely read one comment; confirmed by Zimmermann said another.
He put the book back in its place and took out the second copy. This was in pristine condition, and had clearly been little used. He looked at the flyleaf to see if Unterholzer had stuck in his book plate, which he had not. Instead, in Unterholzer’s writing again, there was the following inscription: To my dear friend and colleague, in gratitude: the author, Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld.
For a moment Von Igelfeld did not know what to think. Of course he had never given Unterholzer a copy; it had never occurred to him. But why should he then have decided to write his own inscription, as if a presentation had been made?
Von Igelfeld replaced the book on the shelf, straightened his tie again, and went back into the study. As he entered the room, he paused, looked at the views of the Rhine again, and stroked his chin pensively.
‘You do know I was just joking a few minutes ago,’ he said. ‘Those really are very attractive pictures.’
Unterholzer looked up sharply, his eyes bright with pleasure. ‘You don’t think them kitsch?’
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed von Igelfeld. ‘Can’t you take a joke, Herr Unterholzer? Kitsch! If those are kitsch, then I don’t know what good taste is.’
Unterholzer beamed up at his guest.
‘I have a cake in the kitchen,’ he said eagerly. ‘It’s a cake cooked by Frau Kapicinska. Should I bring it through?’
Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘That would be very nice,’ he said warmly. ‘A piece of cake is just what’s required.’
While Unterholzer was out of the room, von Igelfeld put down his cup of coffee and moved over to examine the all
eged crest of the von Unterholzers, and he was standing there when Unterholzer returned.
‘It’s a funny thing, Herr Unterholzer,’ said von Igelfeld, ‘but I’ve always thought that you might be von Unterholzer.’
Unterholzer laughed. ‘It’s not absolutely established,’ he said. ‘So I don’t really use the von in public.’
‘Of course not,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But it’s good to know you’re entitled to it, isn’t it?’
Unterholzer did not reply. He was busy cutting a large piece of cake. Frau Kapicinska had baked it five weeks ago and he hoped that it would still be fresh; he had no idea how long cakes could be expected to last.
Von Igelfeld’s teeth sank into the cake. It was heavy and stale, but he would eat every crumb of it, he decided, and thank Unterholzer for it at the end. Indeed, he would ask for another piece.
HOLY MAN
AUDEN HAD CALLED SUCH PLACES ‘weeds from Catholic Europe’, and this is how Professor Dr Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld thought of them too; as usual, Auden’s imagery struck him as so rich, so laden with associations, and when he received the letter from Goa, with its unfamiliar, faded stamp, the haunting metaphor crossed his mind again.
It was a thin, dejected-looking envelope, much tattered by its journey. Indeed, in one corner it appeared that some animal, possibly a dog, had bitten it, leaving small tooth holes. In another corner, the paper had split, revealing a single sheet of greying parchment within. Von Igelfeld turned it over and saw the address of the sender, typed erratically across the back flap: Professor J. G. K. L. Singh. The name made his heart sink: J. G. K. L. Singh of Chandighar, author of Dravidian Verb Shifts.
Impulsively, von Igelfeld tossed the letter into his wastepaper bin. It had clearly met with near disaster on its trip to Germany, von Igelfeld thought; had the dog swallowed it, then it would never have arrived at all. If he threw it away now, then he was merely fulfilling its manifest destiny.
Von Igelfeld turned away and picked up the next letter, a quiet, reassuring letter, with a solid, familiar, German stamp, and the name of the sender neatly typed in the right hand corner: Professor Dr Dr (h.c.) Florianus Prinzel. This was Prinzel’s monthly letter, in which he would bring von Igelfeld up to date on developments in the Institute in Wiesbaden. At the end, penned in the slightly unsettling violet ink she habitually used, would be a small postscript from Ophelia Prinzel, with heart-warming domestic news of a trivial sort. This was exactly the sort of letter which von Igelfeld liked to receive, but even as he opened it and smoothed out the pages, his gaze turned guiltily to the poor, abandoned Indian letter, with its sad stamp and its flimsy paper.
Von Igelfeld wondered whether there was a moral obligation to read a letter. Surely the moral principles involved were the same as those which applied when somebody addressed a remark to one. One does not have to answer; but inevitably does. Yet, why should one have to answer: was there anything intrinsically wrong about ignoring somebody who said something to you if you hadn’t asked them to say something in the first place? Von Igelfeld wondered what view Immanuel Kant had expressed on this subject. Would Kant have thrown Professor J. G. K. L. Singh’s letter into his wastepaper basket? Von Igelfeld doubted it: the matter was clearly embraced by the Categorical Imperative. That settled that, but then the disturbing thought occurred: what would Jean-Paul Sartre have done if he had received a letter from J. G. K. L. Singh? Von Igelfeld suspected that Sartre might have had little compunction in doing as von Igelfeld had done, provided it made him feel authentic, but then, and here was the crucial di ference, he would not have worried about it. Or would he?
Von Igelfeld laid aside the epistle from Prinzel and retrieved the letter from the bin. Slitting open the remains of the flap, he took out the grey sheet within and unfolded it.
‘Dear Professor von Igelfeld,’ he read. ‘Greetings from Goa, and from your colleague, Janiwandillannah Krishnamurti Singh! I am down in this part of the world making arrangements for the All-India Union Congress of Philological Studies. We are meeting here in four months’ time and I wonder whether you will come to read a paper. All arrangements will be made, with despatch, by myself, and it will be very good to have some of you German fellows down in these parts again. The programme will be first class, and we shall have many excellent chin-wags. Please let me know . . . ’
Von Igelfeld sighed. Now that he had opened the letter, his questions about obligation seemed utterly answered. He would have to go: he was sure that Kant would agree.
The organising committee of the All-India Union Congress of Philological Studies had made a booking for von Igelfeld in the old wing of the Hotel Lisboa. It was a large, rambling hotel, surrounded by shady verandahs. The gardens of the hotel were filled with bougainvilleas, frangipanis, palms, and there were winding paths that led to small, secluded summerhouses. Von Igelfeld was delighted. The air was scented with blossom; the sky was of an echoing emptiness; Europe and all its frenzy was far beyond any conceivable horizon. He sat in the wicker chair that occupied most of the minute balcony outside his room and looked out over the tops of the gently swaying palms. What a relief it was that Kantian ethics had pressed him into coming!
There had as yet been no sign of Professor J. G. K. L. Singh. One of the other committee members, Professor Rasi Henderson Paliwalar, had been detailed to meet von Igelfeld and to make sure that he was well settled in his hotel. Professor Rasi Henderson Paliwalar appeared to have an intimate knowledge of the timetables of the Indian State Railways and explained that Professor J. G. K. L. Singh was on his way to Goa, but was travelling by train and could not be expected to arrive for another thirty-six hours. This news had been conveyed to von Igelfeld apologetically, but it had in fact gladdened the recipient’s heart. The Congress was not due to start for another three days, and of those three days at least one and a half could be enjoyed without any fear of encountering the author of Dravidian Verb Shifts.
Professor Rasi Henderson Paliwalar was much taken up with arrangements for the Congress and was relieved when von Igelfeld indicated that he could easily take care of himself until the opening session.
‘I should like to look about Goa,’ explained von Igelfeld. ‘There is so much interesting architecture to see.’
‘Indeed,’ said Professor Rasi Henderson Paliwalar, sounding somewhat doubtful. ‘Much of it is falling down, I’m afraid to say. In fact, all of India is falling down, all the time. Soon we shall have nothing but a fallen-down country, all over. I am telling you. These people here appreciate none of the finer things of life.’
As he made these disparaging remarks, the professor pointed dismissively at the manager of hotel, who beamed encouragingly and made a small bow. Von Igelfeld looked up at the ceiling of the Hotel Lisboa. There was an elaborate cornice, but several parts were missing, having fallen down.
That evening, after he had taken a refreshing drink of mango juice on the main verandah, von Igelfeld ventured out on to the road outside the hotel. Within a few seconds he had been surrounded by several men in red tunics, who started to quarrel over him until a villainous-looking man with a moustache appeared to win the argument and led von Igelfeld over to his cycle-driven rickshaw.
‘I shall show you this fine town,’ he said to von Igelfeld as the philologist eased himself into the small, cracked leather seat. ‘What do you wish to see? The prison? The library? The grave of the last Portuguese governor?’
Von Igelfeld chose the library, which seemed the least disturbing of the options, and soon they were bowling down the road, overtaking pedestrians and slower rickshaws, the sinister rickshaw man ringing his bell energetically at every possible hazard.
The library was, of course, closed, but this did not deter the rickshaw man. Beckoning for von Igelfeld to follow him, he took him through the library gardens and walked up to the back door. Glancing about him, the rickshaw man took out a small bunch of implements, and started to try each in the lock. Von Igelfeld watched in amazement as his guide picked the lock; he k
new he should have protested, but, faced with such effrontery, words completely failed him. Then, when the door swung open, equally passively he followed the rickshaw driver into the cool interior of the Goa State Library.
The building smelled of damp and mildew; the characteristic odour of books which have been allowed to rot.
‘Here we are,’ said the rickshaw man. ‘These books are very, very old, and contain a great deal of Portuguese knowledge. The Portuguese brought them and now they have gone away and left their books behind.’
Von Igelfeld moved over to a shelf to examine the contents. He picked up a large, leather-bound tome, and turned the pages. The paper was yellowed and rotting, but he could make out the title quite clearly: A Jesuit in Portuguese Goa by Father Gonçalves Persquites SJ. He laid it down and picked up the next one: The Lives of the Portuguese Sailors by Luis Valatar. This was in an even worse condition, and the binding fell away in his hands as he attempted to open the book.
‘It is time to go now,’ said the rickshaw man suddenly. ‘I shall take you to the prison. There is more to see there.’
Von Igelfeld left the library sadly, imagining the desolation of the deserted, decaying books. Could Father Persquites have envisaged that Goa would come to this, and that his book would lie rotting and undisturbed until a chance hand should pick it up for a few moments? Could Valatar have envisaged his covers coming off at the hands of a casual visitor, who had effectively broken into the library to view its utter abandonment, in an era when the Portuguese navigators meant nothing any more?
The prison was just around the corner, an imposing fort of a building. Von Igelfeld wondered whether his guide would repeat his lock-picking trick, but they rode past the front gate and turned round the corner. Here the rickshaw man dismounted and indicated to von Igelfeld that he should follow him to a small window in the outer wall of the prison.