The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs (8 page)

‘Well?’ said Prinzel, as he looked at the menu. ‘Well?’

‘There is something of purely personal value,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Something I do not wish to discuss.’

‘Oh,’ said Ophelia. ‘I’m sorry. We have been very tactless. It just seems so strange that you should be so protective of that bag and not tell us what is in it. After all, if I had an important bag I should not be so unkind as to make everybody wonder what was in it.’

‘No,’ said Prinzel. ‘She would not. And nor would I. If you came up to me and said: “What’s in your bag?” I would give a civil reply. I would not play some ridiculous game of cat and mouse. I would come straight out and tell you.’

Von Igelfeld stared at the menu. He was again being subjected to intolerable pressure, just as he had been in the museum when they had argued about the significance of hedgehogs. It was as if they were setting out to goad him.

He took a deep breath. It was important not to lose one’s calm in circumstances of this sort.

‘There is a secret in this bag,’ he said quietly. ‘You would never imagine – not even in your wildest dreams – how important are the contents of my bag. I have given my word that what is in this bag will not be revealed to others. So please allow me to keep to that undertaking.’

‘Oh,’ said Ophelia. ‘So what is in the bag does not belong to you. You must be carrying it for somebody else.’

‘Yes,’ said von Igelfeld coldly. ‘You could say that.’

The waiter, who had been standing behind von Igelfeld’s chair during this exchange, now joined in.

‘I wonder if it’s anything illegal,’ he said. ‘If it’s so secret, it could be contraband. Are you sure that you aren’t being used as some sort of courier? For a terrorist group, perhaps? In which case, I would look out if I were you. The Carabinieri are always prowling around, looking in other people’s bags. It would be best if you told us what was in it and we could advise you.’

‘Yes,’ said Prinzel. ‘That would be far better.’

Von Igelfeld twisted in his seat to fix the waiter with his most discouraging stare.

‘I am surprised that you should think it your business to enquire as to what your guests have in their bags,’ he said icily.

The waiter pouted. ‘I was only trying to help,’ he said. ‘You Germans think you can carry all sorts of bags around in Italy. Well you can’t.’

Prinzel now rose to von Igelfeld’s defence. ‘It’s none of your business,’ he said abruptly. ‘What is in this bag is between our colleague here and ourselves. It does not concern you in the slightest.’

‘You brought the subject up,’ said the waiter. ‘If this tall gentleman gets himself arrested, then don’t say that I didn’t try to help.’

‘Well we don’t want your help,’ said Prinzel.

‘Then in that case who’s going to bring you your lunch?’ shouted the waiter.

‘Clearly not you,’ said Prinzel. ‘And there are plenty of other restaurants.’

‘Not around here,’ said the waiter. ‘You’re going to go hungry.’

‘Oh really,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘This is all a fuss about nothing.’

‘Then why won’t you tell us what’s in your bag?’ crowed the waiter. ‘Put an end to the dispute.’

There was a silence. All eyes were turned to von Igelfeld, who looked fixedly ahead.

‘I suggest we leave,’ said Ophelia, after a moment. ‘Our lunch is spoiled.’

They rose to their feet and returned to the car. Not a word was said for at least ten minutes as they continued their journey south. Then Ophelia turned to face von Igelfeld in the back seat.

‘Did you remember your bag?’ she enquired.

Von Igelfeld sat bolt upright.

‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘Please turn round immediately.’

The waiter was expecting them.

‘Hah!’ he said. ‘Did we forget something? Did we forget a little black bag?’

‘Please give it to me this very moment,’ said von Igelfeld.

The waiter turned to retrieve the bag from behind the reception desk. Smirking, he handed it over to von Igelfeld.

‘So it’s bones,’ he said. ‘What a fuss over a few old bones.’

‘You looked!’ said von Igelfeld. ‘You looked in my bag!’

‘Well,’ said the waiter calmly. ‘It was my patriotic duty. If you had been carrying contraband, I should have had to report you to the Carabinieri. I had to satisfy myself that you were not carrying something illegal.’

‘You are an extremely insolent man,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I am very surprised that anybody comes to this appalling restaurant.’

‘Very few do,’ said the waiter.

Von Igelfeld stormed out, followed by Prinzel, who had come in to help retrieve the bag.

‘Bones,’ mused Prinzel, as they made their way to the car. ‘Very strange, Herr von Igelfeld. Bones.’

Von Igelfeld sighed. He had no alternative now but to let the Prinzels in on the secret. It was a relief, in a way, as the responsibility for the relics had begun to weigh on him, and he was appalled by his own carelessness in leaving the bag in the restaurant. How could he have faced the Patriarch with the information that he had abandoned his precious charge in a restaurant, where the box was at the mercy of a prying, self-opinionated waiter? Perhaps once the Prinzels knew what was in the bag they would help him guard the reliquary.

The Prinzels listened carefully.

‘What an extraordinary story!’ said Prinzel, once von Igelfeld had finished his account. ‘We shall have to be very careful.’

Ophelia shuddered. ‘I feel quite concerned,’ she said. ‘I can just imagine those schismatics! Moritz-Maria, you are a very brave man!’

Von Igelfeld nodded, acknowledging the compliment.

‘We must be vigilant,’ he said. ‘
Rome has ten thousand eyes
.’

The Prinzels said nothing. They were busy digesting this last comment, which made the innocent Italian landscape, normally so benign in its aspect, seem so strangely threatening. Ahead lay Rome, with its great weight of history and intrigue. What had been intended to be an entirely ordinary month of quiet work in the cool depths of the Vatican Library now threatened to be a month of furtive watchfulness. Von Igelfeld was not sure if he relished the prospect, but he had undertaken to perform a duty on behalf of the Coptic Church and he would carry it out to the letter. The bones would be guarded carefully, and it was only when the Patriarch came to claim them that the candy-striped box would be handed over to its owner. That, at least, was the plan.

The Pensione Garibaldi was one of the quietest and most respectable pensions in Rome. It had been established in the nineteen twenties by a retired civil servant who had secured a lucrative contract for the accommodating of other middle-ranking civil servants visiting Rome from the provinces. These were people who could not afford to stay in the hotels de luxe, but who expected a standard of comfort in keeping with their position. After all, if you were the Deputy Head of the customs office in Bari, in Rome for a three-day meeting on preferential tariffs, you would be entitled to expect a reasonable view and your own table in the dining room. You would also expect a desk clerk who would address you properly as ‘
Ragioniere
’ and take any telephone calls without asking for your name to be spelled out letter by letter. The Garibaldi provided all this, and more, and when the civil servants went elsewhere they were easily replaced by German scholars in Rome to avail themselves of the city’s libraries and galleries. It was in the Pensione Garibaldi that the art historian, Gustave Hochler, stayed while writing his
Life of Caravaggio
, and it was at the much sought-after table in the window of the pension’s small library that Professor Edmond Winterberg penned his devastating critique of Humperdinck, suggesting that it was Wagner who wrote passages of Humperdinck rather than the other way round!

Prinzel had been the first to discover the Garibaldi and had in due course recommended it to von Igelfeld.

‘Rome is so noisy,’ he had said. ‘It’s almost as bad as Naples in that respect. The Garibaldi is a haven of quiet.’

Von Igelfeld had spent two weeks there while visiting
la Sapienza
and had fully endorsed Prinzel’s views. Now the three of them were back again, and there was the same man at the desk who greeted them all as if they had never been away. Von Igelfeld was given the room he had occupied last time, and the Prinzels were given a room at the back, overlooking the carefully cultivated garden with its white marble figure of Augustus and its lily-covered pond.

Von Igelfeld lost no time in ensuring that the reliquary was safely stored in his wardrobe. This was a large mahogany cupboard with a sturdy lock, and it was clear that nobody would be able to gain entry to it without the exertion of considerable force. In an establishment like the Garibaldi, with its well-ordered atmosphere, the prospect of that happening was slight.

The bones secured, von Igelfeld went out and took a coffee in the small coffee bar at the end of the street. He felt a strange sense of exhilaration: not only had he a month of stimulating work ahead of him but he could also look forward to enjoyable architectural rambles with his friends the Prinzels. In every respect, it promised to be a most rewarding time. Not even the newspaper, which he read over his coffee, could dampen his mood. It reported that the Government had fallen – which was nothing unusual, thought von Igelfeld – and one of the judges of the Supreme Court of Italy had shot a fellow judge in the course of an argument. Again, there was nothing surprising in that, reflected von Igelfeld. Fortunately the judge had survived and had taken a remarkably tolerant view of his brother justice’s action.

‘We are all human,’ he had said from his hospital bed. ‘
Nihil
humanum mihi alienum est.
The work of the court must go on.’

The following day, while the Prinzels went off to the nearby Villa Borghese Gardens, von Igelfeld made his way to the Vatican Library. He had secured advance permission to work in the Library, which he had used before. He was interested, in particular, in the manuscript sources, including several volumes of bound correspondence from early Jesuit missionaries in Goa. Although they wrote their formal reports to the Vatican in Latin, a number of them had appended notes in Portuguese, and one or two of them had actually commented on the reception of Portuguese terms in the East. This was a topic of considerable interest to von Igelfeld, who had once written a paper on the origin of the word
alfandica
. An
alfandica
was a customs house for foreign merchants in India, and was obviously derived from the Portuguese
alfandega
. But was this really based on the Arabic,
al-funduk
, which signified an inn? If the Italian term was
fundaco
, this might not be expected to have a Moorish connection, or might it? There were many similar examples.

It was one of von Igelfeld’s favourite libraries. The real pleasure of working there lay in the knowledge of the great and beautiful things with which the Library was filled. Here were the very earliest books, the purest texts of the classics, the finest products of Renaissance Humanism. Here was a sheer accumulation of cultural treasures that outshone that of any other library in any other country. And it was all at his fingertips, ready to be brought to him, on his request, by one of the obliging library staff.

Because of his status, von Igelfeld was allowed to use a special reading room beyond the main public section of the library. This was a room with an airy, open aspect, decorated with sixteenth-century frescoes. There were six or seven large tables in this room, each equipped with several book rests on which large volumes could be safely placed. The chairs in this room were commodious, and well-padded – a fact which had somnolent results for some of the more elderly scholars who frequented this part of the Library. One cardinal in particular was known to retreat to the Library for long hours at a stretch, thereby avoiding duties in his office and enjoying, under the pretence of scholarship, an undisturbed siesta.

Von Igelfeld established himself at a table in the middle of the room, spread out his papers, and called for the first volume of letters to be brought to him. This was a volume which he had not examined before, and he found it to contain a substantial amount of dross. But there were one or two letters which would repay closer study, and these he prepared to transcribe.

The first day of work went well. That evening, he had dinner with the Prinzels in a restaurant near the Garibaldi, and then took an evening walk with them through a pleasant neighbouring part of the city. The next day, he was back at the Vatican Library shortly after it opened, and spent a satisfactory day wading through his manuscripts. He dined alone that night – the Prinzels were at a concert – and retired early to bed, his head still full of the whirls and cursives of the Jesuit script which he had spent the day deciphering.

On the third day, uncomfortably hot outside, but cool in the scholarly inner sanctum of the Vatican Library, von Igelfeld’s concentration on his task was considerably interrupted by one of the other readers. This reader, who was at the table next to his, had arrived with one or two other people, and had set himself down to browse through a large folio volume which the Prefect of the Library himself, an ascetic-looking Monsignor, had brought and placed on the table before the reader. Then the Prefect had retired, but there had followed a succession of other visitors who had come up to the table to whisper to the reader or to pass him notes.

Von Igelfeld felt his annoyance growing. Any scholar of standing knew that the library rule of silence had to be respected, even at the cost of considerable personal inconvenience. If this person wished to talk to his friends, then he should go out to do so under the Library portico. It was very distracting for everybody else if conversations were carried out in the library, even if they were
sotto
voce
. Von Igelfeld gave a loud sigh, hoping that his fellow reader would notice his displeasure, but the offender merely looked briefly in his direction and met his gaze – rather impudently, thought von Igelfeld. Then, a few minutes later, a cleric came in, approached the other’s table, and they proceeded to have a five-minute conversation, neither of them bothering to lower their voices to any extent. This, in von Igelfeld’s view, was the last straw and when the cleric had gone he rose to his feet and approached the offending reader at his table.