That afternoon, von Igelfeld sat in his room, the proofs of the next issue of the Zeitschrift on his desk before him. He was wrestling with a particularly difficult paper, and was finding it almost impossible to edit in the way which he felt it needed to be edited. ‘Spanish loan words,’ wrote the author, ‘appear to be profuse in Brazilian dialects, particularly those used by river-men. But are they really loan words, or are they Brazilian misunderstandings of Portuguese originals . . .’
Von Igelfeld looked up from the paper and stared out of his window. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate, his mind was distracted. What were these river-men like? He tried to picture them; tough-looking men, no doubt, with slouch hats; characters from a Conrad story, perhaps. But the image faded and his thoughts returned to the memory of his trip to the dental studio and of the sweet face of Dr von Brautheim above him. What did she think of her patients, and of their suffering? He imagined her as a ministering angel, gently bringing relief to those in pain. Von Igelfeld recalled the touch of her hands and the delicious smell of the soap, a reassuring, almost-nursery smell. To be looked after by such a being must be paradise indeed. Just imagine it!
He got up from his desk and walked about his room. Why was it that he kept thinking of her, when he should have been thinking of the Zeitschrift? This had only happened to him once or twice before, and he distrusted the feeling. It had happened once when he was nineteen, and he had met, for a mere afternoon, the daughter of his Uncle Ludwig’s neighbour. She had been at the conservatory in Berlin and had played her viola for him. He had seen her once or twice after that and then she had gone to America and never come back. He imagined a crude fate for her in the United States – living in a characterless apartment block with urban ugliness all about and a husband who growled and talked through his nose.
Von Igelfeld left his room and walked down the corridor to Unterholzer’s small study. Unterholzer was in, leafing through his share of the Zeitschrift proofs, shaking his head disapprovingly.
‘These printers,’ he said to von Igelfeld. ‘They must be illiterate. Here’s a page with the diacritical marks all in the wrong place. They’ll have to reset the whole thing.’
Von Igelfeld nodded absent-mindedly.
‘I went to the dentist yesterday,’ he announced. ‘I was in great pain.’
Unterholzer looked up, concerned.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Did he fix everything up?’
‘She,’ said von Igelfeld, smiling. ‘It was a lady dentist. And she made everything much better.’
‘Oh,’ said Unterholzer, his eyes returning to the proofs. ‘I’m happy to hear that you’re no longer in pain.’
Von Igelfeld crossed Unterholzer’s room and looked disapprovingly out of the window: in contrast to the view from his own room, Unterholzer had a very unedifying view of the Institute car park. Perhaps it was good enough for him; poor Unterholzer.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She was a very charming dentist indeed. Very charming. In fact, I certainly would not mind pursuing her acquaintance.’
‘Is that so?’ said Unterholzer, still looking at the proofs. ‘Perhaps I should go and have my teeth checked. Where is her studio?’
‘Just round the corner,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘And it’s a good idea to go to the dentist regularly, you know. When did you last go?’
‘About a year or two ago,’ said Unterholzer vaguely.
Von Igelfeld tut-tutted. ‘That’s not frequently enough,’ he said. ‘Dr von Brautheim recommends a visit once every six months.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Unterholzer. ‘I’ll make an appointment soon.’
Von Igelfeld gave up. He had hoped to be able to tell Unterholzer a little bit more about Dr von Brautheim, but he was clearly not going to be at all receptive. That was the trouble with Unterholzer, he thought – he was too literal. He had very little imagination.
On the appointed day, von Igelfeld dressed with care for his visit to the dental studio. He put on the bright red tie he had bought in Rome, and he took especial care in choosing his shirt. Then, with at least half an hour in hand, he made his way to the dental studio, carrying with him the present he had decided to give Dr von Brautheim. It was not a present which he usually gave to people, as it was not at all inexpensive. But Dr von Brautheim was different, and he had carefully wrapped it in soft purple paper he had acquired from a gift shop near his house.
He intended to do more than give her a present, though. He had decided that he would enquire discreetly of the receptionist whether her employer was single, and if that was the case – Oh bliss! – then he would ask her to join him for lunch some weekend. He would set up a lunch party – perhaps Zimmermann might come – and that would be a good setting in which to get to know her better.
The receptionist did not appear surprised by the question.
‘Dr von Brautheim is unmarried,’ she said. ‘She lives with her elderly parents. Her father was Professor of Dentistry in Cologne.’
Von Igelfeld was delighted with this information. What a perfect background for such a person! Dentistry might not be the most prestigious career, but it was an honourable calling and people were wrong to look down upon it. And undoubtedly the von Brautheim family had once done something better, as the name suggested distinction of some sort.
He was admitted into the studio and, blushing slightly, took his place in the chair.
Dr von Brautheim took no more than a few minutes to attend to his mouth.
‘It’s healing nicely,’ she said. ‘And I see no complications. You may rinse your mouth out now.’
Disappointed at the brevity of the treatment, von Igelfeld became flustered. He had intended to raise the subject of the lunch party at this stage, but there was something about the situation which suggested that it would be inappropriate. There was still the present, though, and as he stood at the doorway he thrust it into her hands.
‘This is a small token of my appreciation,’ he said formally. ‘You’ve been so kind.’
The dentist smiled, a warm, melting smile that made von Igelfeld feel weak at the knees.
‘How kind of you Professor Dr von Igelfeld,’ she said. ‘How unnecessary, but how kind. May I open it now?’
‘Of course,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I should be delighted.’
Dr von Brautheim unwrapped the soft purple paper and there it was, in her hands, Portuguese Irregular Verbs!
‘How kind!’ she repeated. ‘Such a large book too!’
Over the next week, von Igelfeld thought of little else. He had decided that he would leave it about ten days before he sent the note inviting her to the lunch, which would be held a month after that. This would mean that it would be unlikely that she would have another commitment and would therefore accept. In due course the letter was written, and a prompt reply received. Yes, she would be delighted to attend his lunch party on the stated date.
Meanwhile, Unterholzer announced that he had himself consulted Dr von Brautheim, who had suggested two fillings and a new crown. He was delighted with her treatment, and told von Igelfeld that for the first time in his life he found himself looking forward to being in the dentist’s chair. Von Igelfeld found this rather presumptuous, but said nothing.
A few days before the lunch party was due to take place, von Igelfeld decided that he could properly call on Dr von Brautheim again to give her directions as to how to reach his house. It was not strictly speaking necessary, as she would undoubtedly have a map of the town, but it would give him an opportunity to see her again.
He made his way up to the dental studio, his heart hammering with excitement. The receptionist greeted him warmly and asked him whether he was experiencing further trouble with his teeth. Von Igelfeld explained his mission, and was disappointed when the receptionist told him that it was Dr von Brautheim’s afternoon off and that she would not be in until tomorrow.
‘You may leave her a note, though,’ she said.
Von Igelfeld glanced towards the studio
, the door of which was open. There was the drill apparatus, the couch, the chest of instruments, and there, on the floor beside the chair was Portuguese Irregular Verbs. For a moment he said nothing. Then a wave of emotion flooded through him. She was reading his book in between patients! What a marvellous, wonderful thing!
‘That book,’ he said to the receptionist. ‘Is Dr von Brautheim reading it at present?’
The receptionist glanced in the direction of the studio and smiled. ‘That? Oh no. You know that Dr von Brautheim isn’t very tall, and she’s found that standing on that book brings her up to just the right height for when the chair’s reclined.’
Von Igelfeld left a brief note, confirming the time and place of the lunch. Then he went out into the street, his mind in turmoil. No, he should not take offence, he told himself. It was quite touching really. It was unfair to expect everybody to be interested in philology, and at least she had found a use for the book. Perhaps she even used it because it reminded her of him! Yes, that was it. If he looked at it that way, then the ignominious fate of Portuguese Irregular Verbs was nothing to worry over.
He made his way into the Institute and settled down to the work that had piled up over the last few weeks of distraction. There was a great deal to do, and when six o’clock came he had made little impression on it. Most of the staff of the Institute had left, and von Igelfeld was surprised when Unterholzer knocked at his door.
‘What’s keeping you in, Unterholzer?’ von Igelfeld asked.
Unterholzer stood in the doorway, beaming with pleasure.
‘I’m in because I’ve been out,’ he said. ‘I took the afternoon off and now I’ve come in to do what I wanted to do during the afternoon.’
‘Oh yes,’ said von Igelfeld, with a distinct lack of interest. ‘What did you do?’
Unterholzer stepped forward into the room.
‘I went out . . .’ he began, halting in his excitement. ‘I went out with my new fiancée. We went to buy a ring.’
Von Igelfeld dropped his pen in amazement.
‘Your new fiancée!’ he exclaimed. ‘Unterholzer, what dramatic news! Who is she?’
‘My dentist!’ crowed Unterholzer. ‘The delightful Dr von Brautheim. I have been seeing her regularly and we have fallen in love with one another. At lunchtime she agreed to become my wife. I shall be calling on her father tomorrow. Do you know that he had the Chair of Dentistry in Cologne?’
Von Igelfeld stayed in the Institute until half past eleven, alone with his papers. Then he walked home, following his usual route, reflecting on the sadnesses of life – visions unrealised, love unfulfilled, dental pain.
acht
Death in Venice
The wedding of Professor Dr Detlev Amadeus Unterholzer and Dr Lisbetta von Brautheim was a particularly trying occasion for the author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs. Von Igelfeld tried to rise above the feelings of resentment he experienced on finding that Unterholzer, of all people, had succeeded in securing the affections of the woman he had been planning to marry, but it was difficult. If only he had not waited; if only he had invited her to lunch immediately, rather than a full five weeks later, then matters would have turned out differently. And, of course, if he had not been so foolish as to recommend that Unterholzer have his teeth seen to, then the couple would never have met and it would have been him, rather than Unterholzer, standing beside Lisbetta at the altar.
Such thoughts, of course, led nowhere. Von Igelfeld put on as brave a face as he could, and tried to show pleasure in the evident happiness of the bride and groom. At the wedding itself, a large occasion attended by over two hundred people, he sat next to Florianus and Ophelia Prinzel, and this helped to take his mind off the thought of what might have been. Ophelia Prinzel found weddings extremely moving occasions and wept voluminously, with Prinzel and von Igelfeld taking it in turns to comfort her.
Later, though, von Igelfeld confessed to Ophelia what had happened, and she was aghast at the story.
‘What awful, awful bad luck,’ she said sympathetically. ‘You would have made a much better husband for her, Moritz-Maria. Unterholzer’s all very well, but . . .’
Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But it’s too late now, and I suppose we must wish them every happiness.’
Ophelia Prinzel agreed that this was the charitable thing to do, but she was secretly thinking of what it would be like to share a bed with Unterholzer and the notion did not appeal. In fact, she closed her eyes and shuddered.
‘However,’ she said, ‘there’s no point in thinking of what might have been. The important thing is: how do you feel?’
For a moment von Igelfeld said nothing, then he turned to her and said, ‘Terrible! I feel all washed up and finished. I feel as if there’s no point to life any more, even to my work. What’s the use? Where does it all lead?’
Ophelia laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.
‘You need to get away,’ she said. ‘You must come with us to Venice, mustn’t he, Florianus?’
Prinzel quickly agreed with his wife. ‘We’re going to go in two months time. We shall spend a month there in September, when the worst of the crowds have gone. You’d be very welcome, you know.’
Von Igelfeld thought for a moment. He usually went to Switzerland in the late summer, but it was a good three years since he had been to Venice and perhaps it was just what he needed. In Switzerland he always walked and climbed – it was really no holiday – whereas in Venice he could take things very easily, read, and enjoy good Italian meals. Yes, it was an excellent idea altogether. The Prinzels travelled down to Venice first, motoring in a leisurely way through the hills of Austria. Von Igelfeld followed by train, and when his carriage eventually drew into Venice station, there was Prinzel to meet him. They boarded a vaporetto and were soon heading out across the lagoon, through that waterscape of legend, past the proud liners at anchor, past the tether posts, past the cypress-crowned islands. Von Igelfeld watched as the city retreated and the Lido drew near, and then they were ashore, and a liveried porter of the Grand Hótel des Bains was struggling with the von Igelfeld cabin trunks, the very same trunks which his grand-father had himself brought to the beguiling city.
Established in his room overlooking the hotel gardens and the beach, von Igelfeld changed out of his suit and donned a white linen jacket and lightweight trousers. Then, with his Panama hat in hand, he made his way down to the main terrace where Prinzel and Ophelia were waiting for him. They sat and drank lemon tea, chatting for over an hour, and then von Igelfeld returned to his room for a siesta. He was already beginning to feel relaxed, and he knew that Ophelia’s advice had been sound. How pointless in such surroundings to worry about lost chances and the petty irritations of life! Here all that mattered was art and beauty.
He slept deeply, awaking shortly after six o’clock. Drawing his curtains, he noticed that the sun was setting over the city, a great red ball sinking behind the distant domes, setting fire to the pale blue water. He stood for a few minutes, quite entranced, and then he left his room and went down to the terrace again. They had all agreed to meet for dinner at eight, and until then, von Igelfeld sat on the terrace, reading the copy of I Promessi Sposi which he had extracted from one of his cabin trunks. It was a perfect evening, and the hours before dinner went rather too quickly for von Igelfeld. He could have sat there forever, he thought, looking at his fellow guests and the bobbing lights upon the sea.
They dined in the main dining room. Ophelia chose all the courses, and every one of them was approved of by von Igelfeld. The conversation was light and entertaining: neither Unterholzer nor Dr von Brautheim was mentioned once, although the occasional painful memory momentarily crossed von Igelfeld’s mind. After dinner, they returned to the terrace to drink small cups of strong, scalding coffee.
‘This is perfect,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I could stay here indefinitely, I’m sure.’
Prinzel laughed. ‘You think you could,’ he said. ‘But remember, we’re only
visitors. The reality of Venice might be rather different when one’s exposed to it all the time. This city has other moods, remember.’
‘Oh?’ said von Igelfeld. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Prinzel paused before answering. ‘It’s corrupt. Some say that it’s dying. Can’t you smell it? The decay?’
Von Igelfeld thought about this for some time, and later on, in the small hours of the morning, he was troubled by a dreadful nightmare. He was alone in a small Venetian street, a street that appeared to lead nowhere. At every corner there were mocking figures wearing elaborate Venetian masks, laughing at him, ridiculing him. He sat up in bed and shivered. He had left the window slightly open, and a breeze was moving the curtains. He turned on a light, looked at his watch, and took a long draught of mineral water. What was wrong? Why had Prinzel said that Venice was dying? What had he meant?
The next morning, with the sun streaming in through his window, von Igelfeld was able to put the terrors of the night well behind him. He showered, once again donned his light linen jacket, and went downstairs for breakfast. They had agreed to pursue their own activities and interests during the day and to meet each evening for dinner – a good arrangement, von Igelfeld thought, as they didn’t want to be too much on top of one another.
Sitting at the starched white cloth of his table, von Igelfeld smiled as he addressed his breakfast. He looked at the twenty or so other guests who were making an early start to the day. There was a young couple, absorbed in each other, with eyes for nobody else; there was an elderly woman with purple-rinsed hair, American, thought von Igelfeld, and lonely; there was a clergyman of some sort, probably English, von Igelfeld decided; and then there was a large family, of mother, governess and four children. Von Igelfeld watched the family. They were elegantly and expensively dressed, three girls and a boy. The girls wore light blue dresses and ribbons in their hair – almost a family uniform – and the boy, who was about fifteen or sixteen, wore a sailor suit.