Unusual Uses for Olive Oil (7 page)

Prinzel welcomed him at the front door. ‘You’re early,’ he said.

Von Igelfeld pointedly looked at his watch. ‘I don’t believe I am,’ he said. ‘My watch is very accurate, and it says seven thirty precisely. And that I believe is the time for which your wife invited me.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Prinzel. ‘You’re not early, then – you’re prompt. Like Immanuel Kant. He used to go for his walks in Königsberg at the same time each day and the people of the town used to set their watches by him.’

‘That was very good,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Things appear to have deteriorated since then. I imagine that there are very few philosophers today who keep regular hours.’

Ophelia appeared in the hall. ‘You’re early, Moritz-Maria,’ she exclaimed.

Von Igelfeld bowed politely. ‘I am not,’ he said. ‘But if you would prefer it, I can go away and then return again. Some other day perhaps.’

‘No, please don’t do that,’ said Prinzel. ‘Come into the salon while Ophelia finishes with her preparations. Our other guest is yet to arrive. I expect she’ll be here in about ten minutes or so.’

‘About then,’ said Ophelia. ‘That would be normal.’

Prinzel led the way through a corridor to the salon. In this corridor, opposite a coat rack, was a long, ebony-framed mirror, hung on the wall. It was positioned in such a way as to allow one to adjust one’s clothing before setting out, and von Igelfeld could not resist giving his blue-fleck Scottish suit an admiring glance as he walked past. He froze. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the back of his jacket had a hole in it, and through this hole could be seen not only the shirt he was wearing but also the braces that he was using to keep his trousers up. And worse than that – a quick, discreet movement to the jacket revealed that the seat of the trousers was similarly afflicted. Moths, he thought.

‘Everything all right?’ asked Prinzel from the end of the corridor.

Von Igelfeld dragged himself away from the mirror and walked briskly down to where his host was standing. ‘Perfectly all right,’ he said, adding, to cover his dismay, ‘I must say, Herr Prinzel, that you have made a very fine home of this house.’

Prinzel beamed with pleasure. ‘Ophelia has a very good eye for decoration,’ he said. ‘She tells me that when she was a little girl she used to spend many hours decorating and redecorating a large doll’s house that she had. Perhaps her ability stems from those days.’

Von Igelfeld nodded. He was thinking of what he could possibly do to deal with the embarrassing holes that he had discovered. He wondered if he should simply confide in his hosts and ask Ophelia whether she had needle and thread to pull the gaping fabric together. But if he did that, he would have to remove his trousers and hand them over to her to carry out the emergency repairs. And what if Frau Benz arrived and discovered that the other guest had already removed his trousers? She would wonder, surely, what sort of dinner party she had been invited to and, as a respectable widow, would surely leave immediately; unless, of course, Ophelia drew her aside and explained to her the real reason for the removal of the trousers. But then she would think, no doubt, that it was very odd that a guest should come to a dinner party in such a state in the first place. She moved in circles, no doubt, where people did not have holes in their clothes, at least not in Germany; British gentry, of course, regarded it as entirely appropriate and indeed a mark of distinction to have shabby clothing, but then the British were very notably odd about this and most other matters.

‘You’ll have an aperitif, Herr von Igelfeld?’ Prinzel asked. ‘A vermouth perhaps? Or should I offer you a choice between French or German wine? Both are available.’

‘Then I shall have German,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Rhenish, if you have it. The French need no encouragement.’

‘Indeed not,’ agreed Prinzel. ‘There are many people who need no encouragement, and the French are certainly among them.’

Prinzel left the room to fetch the glasses, leaving his guest alone. Looking about him, von Igelfeld searched the room for a possible solution to the problem of the holes in his clothes. He could not expect to find a needle and thread – not in a salon – and anyway, if he did, he had no idea how to use them. Perhaps there would be some sort of paper clip that would do the trick; there was a writing bureau in one corner of the room and that would be an obvious place for such a thing. Moving quickly, he crossed the room, opened the top drawer of the bureau, and rifled through the contents. There were envelopes, letters, a stick of sealing wax – the typical paraphernalia of a writing bureau drawer. There were no paper clips.

‘Are you looking for anything in particular, Herr von Igelfeld?’

Von Igelfeld froze. Then slowly he turned round to see Prinzel standing in the doorway, a glass of wine in each hand. His eyes were fixed on the open drawer.

‘I was looking for a piece of paper,’ said von Igelfeld, slamming the drawer shut as he spoke.

It was clear that Prinzel did not believe him. ‘But
why would you need paper, Herr von Igelfeld? Were you thinking of beginning an article for the
Zeitschrift
perhaps?’

Von Igelfeld laughed nervously. ‘That would be very unusual!’ he joked. ‘One does not normally write an article at a social occasion!’

‘Exactly,’ said Prinzel. ‘So why would one need paper?’

‘I wanted to make a few notes,’ said von Igelfeld. He tried to sound careless, as if taking notes in such circumstances was a matter of the slightest consequence.

Prinzel approached him with his glass of wine. ‘On what?’ he asked.

‘A few lines occurred to me,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘One does not want to let these things escape. Pascal must have had a similar approach with his
Pensées
, don’t you think? He must have jotted down the
pensées
as they occurred to him, otherwise he would have forgotten.’

Prinzel passed von Igelfeld his glass. ‘Very commendable,’ he said. ‘So please allow me to find you some paper myself. It’s easier, I think, for me to do it, as I know my way around my own bureau. And I would not want to put you to the trouble of searching through my private papers.’

Von Igelfeld felt himself blushing. ‘I would never wish to read anything private,’ he said. ‘I hope that you didn’t imagine that I …’

‘Of course not,’ said Prinzel. ‘Look, here’s a piece of paper. Please note down your thoughts before our other guest arrives.’

With a certain stiffness, von Igelfeld took the piece of paper that Prinzel offered him.

‘And here’s something to write with,’ added Prinzel, passing a silver propelling pencil to his guest. ‘Please go ahead. We can resume our conversation when you have finished … unless you’re planning to write a whole chapter of notes, that is.’

‘A few lines,’ said von Igelfeld, scribbling casually on the piece of paper. ‘There, that I think will suffice. I find that so many useful thoughts can be lost if one doesn’t jot them down almost immediately.’

‘Or if one is interrupted,’ said Prinzel. ‘Was there not an English poet who was composing an important poem when somebody knocked on the door? Did he not lose his train of thought?’

Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘I believe that was Coleridge. I cannot imagine that the poem was of much value, of course – it would have been a different matter if somebody had knocked on Goethe’s door. Then the world would truly have lost something.’

Prinzel agreed with this sentiment. ‘Indeed, and now is that not the door bell? How fortunate that it should ring only after you have finished writing down your thoughts.’

Von Igelfeld smiled weakly. ‘Indeed. Very fortunate, and fortuitous.’

Left alone for a moment while Prinzel went to join his wife in greeting Frau Benz, von Igelfeld folded the piece of paper and put it in his jacket pocket. Then, after nervously touching the hole in his trousers – it was not all that large, he decided – he chose a position near the fireplace where he could greet Frau Benz without sartorial compromise. It was a good place to stand because if invited to sit, he would be able to walk sideways to a nearby chair and lower himself on to it without displaying either of the holes.

A few minutes later, the new guest was ushered into the salon. Introductions were made, and von Igelfeld bowed formally to Frau Benz.

‘I am most delighted to meet you, Herr von Igelfeld,’ she said. ‘I have heard so much about you from so many people.’

Von Igelfeld smiled. It was no great surprise, of course, that people should know about him; after all, he was the author of
Portuguese Irregular Verbs
, the definitive treatment of the subject. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘You have read my book, perhaps.’

Frau Benz looked blank. ‘What book?’

Prinzel came to the rescue. ‘Professor Dr Dr von Igelfeld has written a very important book, Frau Benz. It is called
Portuguese Irregular Verbs
.’

Frau Benz looked interested. ‘Ah yes, I have seen that in the airport.’

‘I do not think so,’ said von Igelfeld.

‘But I have, Herr von Igelfeld,’ protested Frau Benz. ‘They have all those language books for people going off on holiday to places like Portugal. Your book is among them … I’m sure.’

Prinzel laughed politely. ‘Frau Benz is having her little joke,’ he said. ‘They would never sell Professor von Igelfeld’s book at an airport, I’m afraid. It is not what you would call a bestseller.’

Von Igelfeld frowned. ‘There are many libraries that bought it,’ he said defensively.

‘But Florianus is right,’ interjected Ophelia Prinzel. ‘Nobody buys your book, Moritz-Maria. That is not to say that they
should not
buy it. It’s just that they don’t.’

Frau Benz now made another contribution. ‘There are many good books – very fine books, indeed – that are read by nobody at all. Perhaps Herr von Igelfeld’s book is one of those. They can be very important books, but they are none the less completely ignored. It is undoubtedly very unfair.’

‘But many people—’ von Igelfeld began, only to be interrupted by Prinzel, who reached for a bottle on the table beside him and offered to refresh everybody’s glass.

‘Let us not worry about books, and who’s reading them, or not, as the case may be. I, for one, have read Professor von Igelfeld’s book and greatly enjoyed it.’

‘And I shall read it too,’ added Frau Benz, enthusiastically. ‘When I next go to Portugal, I shall read it before I get on the plane and I’m sure that I shall speak perfect Portuguese by the time we arrive.’

‘You would only be able to say things that required irregular verbs,’ said Ophelia. ‘And that might be difficult. One cannot claim to be really fluent in a language if one knows only the irregular verbs.’

The conversation moved on. Von Igelfeld gave Ophelia Prinzel a couple of reproachful looks for her unwarranted remarks on his book, but she did not appear to notice. It was all very well for her to talk about small sales, he thought, but what book had she ever written? And even to sell one or two copies was better than selling no copies at all – of a non-existent book. Hah! He would tell her that later, if the opportunity arose and the conversation returned to
Portuguese Irregular Verbs
.

He threw a glance at Frau Benz. She was a large woman, with what his mother had always described as a
generous front
. She was not tall, and indeed it crossed his mind that close measurement might reveal that she was as wide as she was high – perfectly square, in fact. Her hair, which was blonde, although a curiously faded
shade of blonde, had been subjected to waving, and gave her a slightly sporting look, as if she might have spent some time gazing out to sea from the deck of a ship. Her eyes, which seemed somewhat small for her face, were none the less bright –
interested eyes
, thought von Igelfeld.

They finished their aperitif and went through to the Prinzels’ dining room. As they entered, von Igelfeld noticed Frau Benz cast a glance around the room; well might one, he thought, if one lived, as she did, in the Schloss Dunkelberg. The dining rooms in that palace were immensely long, and it must seem strange to her that people could make do with such modest accommodation as this. Indeed, he wondered whether she might think that the Prinzels’ dining room was in fact a cupboard; presumably there were cupboards in the Schloss Dunkelberg that were every bit as big as this.

Seated opposite Frau Benz, von Igelfeld decided to mention that he had visited her house.

‘I must say, Frau Benz,’ he began, ‘that I find your house very charming. I had occasion to visit it – just as a member of the public. I was most taken with the ceilings.’

Frau Benz seemed pleased with the compliment, even if she took it very much in her stride. When one lives in such a house, von Igelfeld reflected, one must get used to people remarking upon one’s ceilings. ‘They are
quite delightful,’ she said. ‘And I do hope that you will come and look at my ceilings again some time. I can give you a personal tour, if you wish.’

‘I would enjoy that very much,’ said von Igelfeld.

‘And you can examine the new one I am currently having painted,’ Frau Benz continued. ‘It portrays a scene that is very dear to my heart.’

‘And what would that be?’ asked Ophelia.

‘The apotheosis of Herr Benz,’ said Frau Benz. ‘My late husband is portrayed being welcomed into the celestial realm by St Peter, who is accompanied by a choir of well-known German personages, including Goethe and Wagner, of course.’

This was greeted with a silence that was eventually broken by von Igelfeld. ‘I am most interested to hear of this project, Frau Benz. And how perceptive of you to discern that the heavenly realms are largely occupied by Germans. That seems to me to be entirely fitting.’

Frau Benz smiled sweetly. ‘Thank you, dear Professor von Igelfeld. It is difficult to be sure about what lies ahead of us on the other side, but I had no difficulty in picturing this particular scene.’

‘I have always imagined that heaven will look rather like Bavaria,’ said Ophelia.

Frau Benz considered this. ‘That is quite probably the case,’ she said.

Prinzel looked doubtful. ‘I do not think that we should extrapolate from what we know,’ he said. ‘If we are likely to find ourselves disembodied, then the actual surroundings of heaven may be similarly disembodied, do you not think?’