At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances (11 page)

The conversation continued in this pleasant way for an hour or so before they moved through for dinner. This was served in an adjoining room, by a middle-aged cook in an apron. Von Igelfeld had expected generous fare, but the portions were small and the wine was thin. The conversation, of course, more than made up for this, but he found himself reflecting on the name of the villa and the parsimony of the table. These thoughts distressed him: there was something inexpressibly sad about faded grandeur. There may well have been a salon in this house, and it may well have been a distinguished one, but what was left now? Only memories, it would seem.

Von Igelfeld slept soundly. It had been an exhilarating evening, and he had listened attentively to his hostess’s observations on a wide range of topics. All of these observations had struck him as being both perceptive and sound, which made the evening one of rare agreement. Now, standing at his window the following morning, he looked out on to the courtyard with its small fountain, its stone bench, and its display of brilliant flowering shrubs. It was a magnificent morning and von Igelfeld decided that he would take a brief walk about the fruit groves before breakfast was served.

Donning his newly acquired Panama hat, he walked through the courtyard and made his way towards the front door. It was at this point, as he walked through one of the salons, that he noticed a number of rather ill-kempt men standing about. They looked at him suspiciously and did not respond when von Igelfeld politely said,
‘Buenos Dias.
’ Perhaps they were the estate workers, thought von Igelfeld, and they were simply taciturn. When he reached the front door, however, a man moved out in front of him and blocked his way.

‘Who are you?’ the man asked roughly.

Von Igelfeld looked at the man before him. He was wearing dark breeches, a red shirt, and was unshaven. His manner could only be described as insolent, and von Igelfeld decided that much as one did not like to complain to one’s hostess, this was a case which might merit a complaint. Who was he indeed! He was the author of
Portuguese Irregular Verbs
, that’s who he was, and he was minded to tell this man just that. But instead he merely said: ‘I am Professor Dr Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld. That’s who I am. And who are you?’

The man, who had been leaning against the jamb of the door, now straightened up and approached von Igelfeld threateningly. ‘I? I?’ he said, his tone unambiguously hostile. ‘I am Pedro. That’s who I am. Pedro, leader of Moviemento Veintitrés.’

‘Moviemento Veintitrés?’ said von Igelfeld, trying to sound confident, but suddenly feeling somewhat concerned. He remembered the warnings uttered by Cinco Fermentaciones in the hotel in Bogotá. Had Moviemento Veintitrés featured in the list of those who were dangerous? He could not remember, but as he looked at Pedro, standing there with his hands in the pockets of his black breeches and his eyes glinting dangerously, he thought that perhaps it had.

Von Igelfeld swallowed. ‘How do you do, Señor Pedro,’ he said.

Pedro did not respond to the greeting. After a while, however, he turned his head to one side and spat on the floor.

‘Oh,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I hope that you are in good health.’

Pedro spat again. ‘We have taken over this house and this land,’ said Pedro. ‘You are now a captive of the people of Colombia, as are the so-called Señora Barranquilla and Señor Gabriel. You will all be subject to the revolutionary justice of Moviemento Veintitrés.’

Von Igelfeld stood stock still. ‘I am a prisoner?’ he stuttered. ‘I?’ Pedro nodded. ‘You are under arrest. But you will be given a fair trial before you are shot. I can give you my word as to that.’

Von Igelfeld stared at Pedro. Perhaps he had misheard. Perhaps this was an elaborate practical joke; in which case it was in extremely poor taste. ‘Hah!’ he said, trying to smile. ‘That is very amusing. Very amusing.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Pedro. ‘It is not amusing at all. It is very sad . . . for you, that is.’

‘But I am a visitor,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I have nothing to do with whatever is going on. I don’t even know what you are talking about.’

‘Then you’ll find out soon enough,’ said Pedro. ‘In the meantime, you must join the others. They are in that room over there. They will explain the situation to you.’

Von Igelfeld moved over towards the door pointed out by Pedro.

‘Go on,’ said Pedro, taunting him. ‘They are in there. You go and join them, Señor German. Your pampered friends are in there. They are expecting you.’

Von Igelfeld entered the room. Sitting on a sofa in the middle of the floor were Señora Dolores Quinta Barranquilla and Cinco Fermentaciones. As he opened the door, they looked up expectantly.

‘Señor Gabriel Marcales de Cinco Fermentaciones,’ said von Igelfeld, ‘what is the meaning of all this, may I ask you? Will you kindly explain?’

Cinco Fermentaciones sighed. ‘We have fallen into the hands of guerrillas,’ he said. ‘That is what’s happened.’

‘It’s the end for us,’ added Dolores Quinta Barranquilla, shaking her head miserably. ‘Moviemento Veintitrés! The very worst.’

‘The worst of the worst,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘I’m afraid that there is no hope. No hope at all.’

Von Igelfeld stood quite still. He had taken in what his friends had said, but he found it difficult to believe what he was hearing. This sort of thing – falling into the hands of guerrillas – was not something that happened to professors of philology, and yet Pedro was real enough, as was the fear that he appeared to have engendered in his hosts. Oh, if only he had been wise enough not to come! This is what happened to one when one went off in pursuit of honours; Nemesis, ever vigilant, was looking out for hubris, and he had given her a fine target indeed. Now it was too late. They would all be shot – or so Pedro seemed to assume – and that would be the end of everything. For a moment he imagined the others at coffee on the day on which the news came through. The Librarian would be tearful, Prinzel would be silenced with grief, and Unterholzer . . . Unterholzer would regret him, no doubt, but would even then be planning to move into his room on a permanent basis. Was that not exactly what had happened when he had been thought to have been lost at sea?

Von Igelfeld’s thoughts were interrupted by Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. ‘I am truly sorry, Professor von Igelfeld,’ she said. ‘This is no way for a country to treat a distinguished visitor. Shooting a visitor is the height, the absolute height, of impoliteness.’

‘Certainly it is,’ agreed Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘This is a matter of the greatest possible regret to me too.’

Von Igelfeld thanked them for their concern. ‘Perhaps they will change their minds,’ he said. ‘We might even be rescued.’

‘No chance of that,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘The Army is pretty useless and, anyway, they probably have no idea that the place has been taken by these . . . these desperadoes.’ He looked up as he uttered this last phrase. Pedro had appeared at the door and was looking in, relishing the discomfort of his prisoners.

‘You may move around if you wish,’ he said. ‘You may enjoy the open air. The sky. The sound of the birds singing. Enjoy them and reflect on them while you may.’ He laughed, and moved away.

‘What a cruel and unpleasant man,’ said von Igelfeld.

‘They are all like that,’ sighed Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘They have no heart.’

Dolores Quinta Barranquilla seemed lost in thought. ‘Not everyone can be entirely bad,’ she said. ‘Even the entirely bad.’

Von Igelfeld and Cinco Fermentaciones stared at her uncomprehendingly, but she seemed in no mood to explain her puzzling utterance. Rising to her feet, she announced that she would go for a walk, would do some sketching, and looked forward to seeing them both at dinner.

Von Igelfeld was aware of a great deal of coming and going among the guerrillas during the course of the day, but paid them little attention. He went for a brief walk in the late morning, but found the constant tailing presence of a young guerrilla disconcerting and he returned to the villa after ten minutes or so. It seemed that although Pedro was prepared to allow them to wander about the villa, he was determined that they should not escape.

After an afternoon of reading in his room, von Igelfeld dressed carefully for dinner. Whatever the uncertain future held, and however truncated that future might be, he was not prepared to allow his personal standards to slip. Dressed in the smart white suit which he had brought on the trip he crossed the courtyard and made his way into the salon where Cinco Fermentaciones and Dolores Quinta Barranquilla were already sipping glasses of wine. They were not the only ones present, however: Pedro, dressed now in a black jacket, a pair of smartly pressed red trousers, and a pair of highly polished knee-high boots was standing with them, glass of wine in hand, engaged in conversation.

‘That’s very interesting,’ he said, referring to a point which Dolores Quinta Barranquilla had made just before von Igelfeld’s entry into the room. ‘Do you mean to say that Adolfo Bioy Casares himself was here. In this very room?’

‘Absolutely,’ replied Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. ‘He spent many hours talking to my father. I was a young girl, of course, but I remember him well. He wrote us long letters from Buenos Aires. I used to write to him and ask him about his first novel,
Iris y
Margarita
.’

‘Remarkable,’ said Pedro.

‘I remember telling Che about that,’ Dolores Quinta Barranquilla went on. ‘He was very intrigued.’

Pedro gave a start. ‘Che?’

‘Guevara,’ Dolores Quinta Barranquilla said smoothly. ‘Che Guevara. He called on a number of occasions. Discreetly, of course. But my father and I always got on so well with him. I miss him terribly.’

‘He was in this house?’ said Pedro.

‘Of course,’ said Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. ‘Such a nice man.’

Pedro nodded. ‘He is sorely missed.’

‘But now we have you!’ said Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll be as well-known as dear Che. Who knows.’

Pedro smiled modestly and took a sip of his wine. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’re too modest,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘You never know. I used to be unknown. Now I am a bit better known.’

‘That is true,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘And now Professor von Igelfeld has become a Corresponding Fellow of the Academy of Letters.’

‘Really?’ exclaimed Pedro. ‘Well, my congratulations on that.’ He looked at von Igelfeld, as if with new eyes. ‘You don’t think . . . ’ he began. ‘Might it be possible . . . ’

Von Igelfeld did not require any more pressing. ‘I would be honoured to propose you as a Member of the Academy. I should be delighted, in fact.’

‘And I would support your nomination,’ chipped in Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘I am virtually a Member myself and could expect to become a full Member provided . . . provided I survive.’

‘But of course you’ll survive,’ laughed Pedro. ‘Whatever made you think to the contrary?’

‘Something you said,’ muttered Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘I thought that . . . ’

‘Oh that,’ said Pedro nonchalantly. ‘I’m always threatening to shoot people. Pay no attention to that.’

‘You mean you never carry out your threats?’ asked von Igelfeld.

Pedro looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘It depends on whether it’s historically necessary to shoot somebody. In your case, it is no longer historically necessary to shoot you.’

‘I am pleased to hear that,’ said von Igelfeld.

‘Good,’ said Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. ‘Well, that’s settled then. Let’s go through for dinner. After you, Pedrissimo!’

Pedro laughed. ‘That is a good name. My men would respect me more if I were called Pedrissimo. That is an excellent suggestion on your part.’

‘I am always pleased to help Moviemento Veintidós,’ said Dolores Quinta Barranquilla.

‘Moviemento Veintitrés,’ corrected Pedro, almost pedantically, thought von Igelfeld; or certainly with a greater degree of pedantry than one would expect of a guerrilla leader.

‘Precisely,’ said Dolores Quinta Barranquilla, taking her place at the head of the table. ‘Now, Professor von Igelfeld, you sit there, and Gabriel, you sit over there. And this seat here, on my right, is reserved for you, dear Pedrissimo.’

Dolores Quinta Barranquilla had instructed the kitchen to make a special effort, and they had risen to the challenge. The depths of the cellar had been plumbed for the few remaining great wines (laid down some twenty years earlier by Don Quinta Barranquilla, who might not have imagined the company which would eventually consume them). These were served directly from the bottle, as decanting would have caused such vintages to fade. They were particularly appreciated by Pedro, who became more and more agreeable as the evening wore on. It might be impossible for him to travel to Bogotá in the near future to receive his Academy Membership, owing to the fact that the Government had put a price on his head (‘Such provincial dolts,’ Dolores Quinta Barranquilla had observed); however, he would be able to do so he hoped in the future, under a more equitable constitution.

They ended the evening with toasts. Pedro toasted von Igelfeld, and expressed the hope that the rest of his stay in Colombia would be a pleasant one; Dolores Quinta Barranquilla proposed a toast to Pedro, and hoped that he would shortly be received into the Academy; and Cinco Fermentaciones proposed a toast to the imminent success of Moviemento Veintidós, rapidly correcting this to Veintitrés on a glance from Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. Finally, von Igelfeld gave a brief recital of
Auf ein altes Bild
by Mörike, which Pedro asked him to write down and translate into Spanish when he had the time to do so.

Replete after the excellent meal, they all retired to bed and slept soundly until the next morning, when, to von Igelfeld’s alarm, they were awakened by the sound of gunfire. Von Igelfeld tumbled out of bed, donned his dressing-gown, and peered out of the window. A group of thirty or forty of Pedro’s men were marshalled in the courtyard, breaking open a crate of weapons and handing them round. Dolores Quinta Barranquilla was there too, helping to pass guns to the guerrillas. Von Igelfeld gasped. They had got on extremely well with Pedro the previous evening, and both sides had obviously reassessed their view of one another, but he had not imagined that it would lead to their all effectively joining Pedro in his struggle. And yet there was Dolores Quinta Barranquilla, rolling up her sleeves and organising the guerrillas, and was that not Cinco Fermentaciones himself perched on the roof, rifle at the ready?