Unusual Uses for Olive Oil

by Alexander McCall Smith

  The guide looked up at the towering, distant peak of the Needles. The Japanese climbers, who spoke no German, peered at von Igelfeld and exchanged quick, excited remarks intelligible only to themselves. The guide then looked back at von Igelfeld in disbelief. Perhaps this unusual-looking man was concussed; sufferers from concussion could talk the most extraordinary nonsense.

  ‘Perhaps you were a bit lower when you fell,’ the guide said politely. ‘There’s a ridge up there behind you. Perhaps you fell from there.’

  ‘I know exactly where I was,’ von Igelfeld replied. ‘And I wouldn’t necessarily say that I fell. I descended rapidly. There is a distinction, you know.’

  The guide scratched his head and shrugged. ‘If you say so,’ he said. He did not believe him, of course: no man could survive such a fall.

  But it was then that the small radio that he was carrying crackled into life. A message had been transmitted from the party with whom von Igelfeld had been climbing and had been passed to the mountain rescue authorities. There had been a fall from the summit of the Devil’s Needles and assistance was required in the search for what was assumed would be a body.

  The guide listened to the message in frank astonishment.

  ‘You see?’ said von Igelfeld. ‘That was about me.’

  The guide nodded and let out a whistle of admiration. ‘A miracle,’ he said. ‘A direct descent from the summit of the Needles. They said it couldn’t be done.’

  The Japanese climbers were now marvelling at von Igelfeld’s height, rather than at the nature of the fall, the details of which, for linguistic reasons, they had missed. They now posed on either side of him, giving the guide a camera to record the meeting. Von Igelfeld tried to smile; he was a polite man – in his way – and would not wish to offend visitors to Germany, even when one of his ribs was most uncomfortable and he was now beginning to feel hungry.

  He was escorted back to the lodge by the mountain guide and the two Japanese climbers. More photographs were taken along the way and von Igelfeld also signed a small autograph album that one of the Japanese produced from his rucksack. By the time they arrived back at the lodge, the press was already there in the shape of the reporter from the local newspaper and a correspondent from Mountain Gazette who happened to be staying in the area.

  Von Igelfeld was examined by a doctor who announced that his only injury – apart from a few scratches – was to a rib, and that would heal naturally, even if it would be uncomfortable for a few days. Von Igelfeld was stoical in these matters and did not think that painkillers would be necessary.

  He agreed to speak to the press, but only later that day, once he had had the opportunity to catch up with correspondence and deal with some proofs that had arrived in that day’s post. He did, however, meet his climbing companion, whose party had come down the mountain as quickly as possible – by the conventional route – after von Igelfeld’s tumble.

  ‘I am so delighted to find you alive,’ she said. ‘I never imagined that anybody could survive such a fall. When I saw you slip …’

  Von Igelfeld shook his head. ‘I’m not so sure that it was an actual slip,’ he said.

  ‘But—’

  Von Igelfeld cut her short. ‘No, I certainly left you abruptly, but an abrupt departure is not the same thing as an involuntary one.’

  The mountaineeress stared at him. ‘You are a very brave man, Professor von Igelfeld.’

  Von Igelfeld gave a modest shrug. ‘All of us are capable of rising to the occasion,’ he pronounced.

  ‘Or falling to it,’ she muttered.

  The reporter from the local newspaper realised that he had a major story on his hands. Sitting in the common room at the lodge, he sent off a piece that would appear the next day in all the major German papers as well as in a slew of foreign ones. Celebrated Professor in Rapid Mountain Descent, he wrote. Professor Dr Dr Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld will go down in mountaineering history as the only man to make a descent of the famous Devil’s Needles by the most direct route.

  The following day, when the papers were delivered to the lodge, von Igelfeld, still basking in the attention of all and sundry, waved a hand airily when the Librarian read out the phrase about going down in mountaineering history.

  ‘I should have thought it better to go up in mountaineering history,’ he said, ‘rather than down.’

  There was silence. Then all the students, the administrators, and Herr Huber began to laugh. Von Igelfeld bowed his head modestly, as a further mountaineering reference came to his mind. What had Mallory said when asked why he had attempted to climb Everest? Because it was there. There were some amusing remarks, he thought, that had to be made – because they were there!

  He looked about him. It was a relief to be alive, and in appreciative company. Herr Huber was looking at him proudly from the other side of the room and suddenly he remembered how he had seen the Librarian’s face on his way down the mountainside. And what was it that he had said? You have been so kind to me.

  He crossed the room and drew the Librarian aside. ‘I appreciate what you have done here,’ he said. ‘You have made this reading party a particular success. Thank you so much for all you have done, Herr Huber.’

  Herr Huber beamed with pleasure and made a noise that was difficult to interpret, but was clearly a noise of satisfaction, rather like the purring of a cat.

  Unusual Uses for Olive Oil

  The news of von Igelfeld’s narrow escape from death was still being talked about in Regensburg a few days later, after the reading party returned from the mountains. The public reaction was generally favourable, with pride being expressed in the ability of the local professoriat to survive the apparently unsurvivable. People are, by and large, keen to find instances of human heroism, and the view soon emerged that surviving the fall was somehow an achievement akin to battling one’s way down a mountain against extreme odds or reaching the South Pole single-handed. This is a mountaineering triumph, wrote one correspondent to the local paper. In an age when even the climbing of mountains has become a high-tech business, here we have an enthusiastic amateur showing that what counts is determination and character. Professor von Igelfeld may be an unlikely hero, but he is certainly an authentic one. The city fathers should name a street after him – at the very least.

  This letter was read out loud in the coffee room by Herr Huber – in the absence of von Igelfeld – and the Librarian nodded in vigorous agreement when he came to the final sentence.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I have often thought that it would be a good idea to have a street named after our dear colleague. I thought this even before this latest incident. I pointed out to my aunt …’

  ‘Well really!’ exclaimed Unterholzer. ‘I have every admiration for Professor von Igelfeld, as we all know, but naming a street after him is ridiculous.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Herr Huber. ‘Professor von Igelfeld did a remarkable thing. It is quite appropriate to name a street after somebody who pulls off a major sporting achievement.’

  Unterholzer snorted. ‘A major sporting achievement? Come now, Herr Huber; what did Professor von Igelfeld actually do? He fell. Now I don’t think that’s a major sporting achievement at all. It’s just a fall. And he turned out to be lucky enough to survive. That is not an achievement in my view. It is an outcome. That’s all.’

  The Librarian looked down into his coffee. ‘I was there,’ he muttered. ‘And I saw how high that mountain was.’

  Unterholzer pursed his lips. ‘Mountains are, by definition, high, Herr Huber. That is why only very experienced climbers should try to get to the top of them. Rank amateurs – professors and the like – should not venture beyond the very lowest slopes lest they stand the risk of falling – as a recent event has clearly demonstrated to us. And I fail to see what credit there is in falling – I really do. I could fall down the stairs outside my office any day, but I would not expect a street to be named after me as a result.’

  ‘Well, he certainly ma
naged to stay alive,’ ventured Prinzel. ‘And I, for one, would be happy to see a street named after Professor von Igelfeld.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Librarian, emboldened by this show of support. ‘And imagine how amusing it would be, Professor Prinzel, if you found yourself living on Von Igelfeld Street and he found himself on Prinzel Street! That would require, of course, that you do something heroic too, and I wouldn’t want you to think that I would wish you to fall off anything. Perish the thought! I am sure there are many other reasons why a street should be named after you. For example, if …’

  Unterholzer glared at the Librarian. ‘Von Igelfeld Street?’ he mocked. ‘Let us remind ourselves what Professor von Igelfeld’s name actually means: hedgehog-field. People would drive down it very carefully because they might think that it was a street much favoured by hedgehogs. People do not like to drive over hedgehogs in their car. No, it would be very impractical.’

  The suggestion that a street be named after von Igelfeld was taken no further, but the effect of the incident continued to be felt and von Igelfeld found that invitations to speak on the radio flooded in. There were several television appearances too, and requests for interviews from journalists. He tried to accept as many of these invitations as he could – not out of any personal vanity, but because he believed that it was in the Institute’s interest to have exposure in the press and also because he believed that a measure of publicity would do no harm to the prospects of Portuguese Irregular Verbs. Von Igelfeld had always believed that his magnum opus should reach a wider readership, and it was a regular affront to him to be informed by the publishers that on average only two or three copies left their warehouse every six months. If further public mention could be made of it, then surely more copies would be bought and his work might perhaps nudge its way on to those lists of bestselling books he had seen in the papers. After all, there was no doubt but that many people were interested in language, and if even a small proportion of these were to read Portuguese Irregular Verbs it would make a difference.

  In due course the interest in the mountain incident subsided. There was still the occasional invitation to make a public appearance, but the papers, having extracted all they could from the story, had other events to cover. What did arrive, though, was an approach from a speakers’ bureau in Cologne, asking von Igelfeld whether he might consider becoming what the writer termed an ‘inspirational speaker’.

  He read the letter with some interest. We represent a wide range of public figures, it said. These are figures from the business world, the world of politics, or, as in your case, the world of sporting achievement. There are many clubs and other organisations that are keen to engage such speakers for their meetings and dinners. Might we interest you in this? We have already received an enquiry from a business association in Hamburg asking us whether we can secure an engagement with you. Would that be possible?

  Von Igelfeld looked thoughtful. Hamburg was an interesting proposition, as that was where Zimmermann lived and if he went up there he could combine the speaking engagement with a call on Zimmermann. He and Zimmermann had a great deal to discuss and on the last two occasions he had visited Hamburg Zimmermann had been away. And it would be helpful if Zimmermann were to realise that he, von Igelfeld, had public speaking engagements. He could write to him and say, quite casually, that he happened to be coming to Hamburg to speak at a large dinner and would it be possible to call?

  Von Igelfeld mentioned the letter in the coffee room that morning.

  ‘A speakers’ bureau?’ said Prinzel. ‘Interesting. I’ve read about such things. I heard of one retired politician who went on the speaking circuit and became a very wealthy man just speaking to people about things. An agreeable way to earn a living, if you ask me. And free dinners too!’

  ‘It would be very nice for Professor von Igelfeld to do that too,’ said the Librarian. ‘I’m sure that there are many people – not just in Hamburg – who would like to hear him speak. I would certainly pay for a ticket, wouldn’t you, Professor Prinzel?’

  ‘I certainly would,’ said Prinzel.

  Unterholzer lowered the paper he was reading. ‘I am sure that you would be very popular, Herr von Igelfeld,’ he said. ‘But what would you speak about, I wonder?’

  Von Igelfeld shrugged. ‘There are many things to speak about, Herr Unterholzer. But I might observe that the letter goes on to say something about an inspirational subject.’

  ‘Your recent experiences in the mountains would be very interesting to people,’ said Herr Huber. ‘You could perhaps entitle your talk “Going Up and Coming Down”. You could talk about how in life we are sometimes faced with circumstances that take us up, and then we encounter circumstances that bring us down. Up and down. That is how it is. And then you could tell them how to make sure that they go up more than they go down. And it would all be to do with your remarkable recent descent of the Devil’s Needles, where you went up, and then came down.’

  Unterholzer listened with increasing irritation. ‘Or going sideways, perhaps?’ he said sarcastically. ‘There are plenty of people who might prefer to go sideways. What about them? How are we to inspire them?’

  The Librarian, momentarily nonplussed, looked to von Igelfeld for help.

  ‘It’s all very well to mock at such things, Professor Unterholzer,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘All this talk of going sideways cannot obscure the essential truth that there are many people who do not know where they are going, whether it be up or down, or, indeed, sideways.’

  ‘Backwards too,’ said the Librarian. ‘I imagine that there are many people who feel that they are going backwards. These are the people to whom we should reach out.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ snapped Unterholzer. ‘Most people aren’t going anywhere. And they certainly don’t need inspirational speakers to tell them that. Not in my view, anyway.’ He paused. ‘Although I’m sure that Professor von Igelfeld would be a very entertaining and much appreciated after-dinner speaker.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the Librarian. ‘And do you think that you might perhaps come and speak at my aunt’s nursing home, Professor von Igelfeld? There are plenty of people there who could do with a bit of inspiration.’

  ‘I would be very happy to do that, Herr Huber,’ said von Igelfeld, glancing reproachfully at Unterholzer. ‘After all, we should all be willing to shoulder our broader responsibilities to the wider community.’

  And at that point the discussion ended. Going back to his room, von Igelfeld looked again at the letter from the speakers’ bureau and dictated a reply. He would be happy, he said, to accept the Hamburg invitation and he suggested that his talk might be called ‘Going Up and Coming Down’. He hoped that the organisers would find this title acceptable, and he looked forward to the occasion in Hamburg.

  I am delighted, wrote back the director of the bureau several days later. I have already spoken to our clients and they are extremely pleased that you will be coming to speak to them. They are sure that their membership will be most interested in hearing you and they look forward to being your hosts in Hamburg.

  Now that the invitation was confirmed, von Igelfeld began to write his speech. He had a great deal to say on both going up and coming down. Going up, he pointed out, was a matter of commitment, preparation, and careful execution. Commitment required one to be determined to achieve the objective in question. Do not be half-hearted, he wrote. Those who are half-hearted often only get halfway. He stopped. The aphorism was neatly stated and utterly memorable. He was proud of it. And as for preparation, there could be no doubt but that this was the key to successful execution. A prepared position is a position, he wrote. Those who are not prepared do not have positions. They may be keen to move into positions, but they are not there until they have made their preparations. When I go climbing, I always ensure that I have my ice-axe and my …’ He paused to think about what other pieces of equipment the well-prepared climber should have. And my other pieces of necessary equipment, he wrote. Again he was struck
by the aptness of the advice and its elegant expression. Being an inspirational speaker, he decided, was not a difficult job at all – very much easier than being a professor of Romance linguistics, and rather better paid too, it seemed.

  * * *

  ‘Exciting news,’ said Herr Huber that evening, as he sat in the small Italian restaurant that he had recently taken to frequenting.

  His companion, Aalina, was the young woman he had met on the reading party.

  The friendship that had blossomed in the mountains had survived the transition to lower altitudes – indeed it had become more intense. Now, sitting in a discreet corner of La Tavola Sienese, they held hands across the table, gazing at each other with an intensity of fondness that impressed itself even upon the waiters who had witnessed numerous romantic trysts.

  ‘Oh, Stoffi,’ enthused Aalina. ‘I love exciting news. I love, love, love it!’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ said the Librarian. ‘It’s about Professor von Igelfeld.’

  Aalina’s eyes widened. She stood in awe of von Igelfeld – an impossibly remote and grand figure if you were, as she was, a lowly postgraduate student. And now, to be in a position to hear first-hand gossip of his doings …

  ‘Hamburg,’ announced the Librarian. ‘He’s going to Hamburg to give a talk to a group of businessmen. This isn’t a lecture: this is a talk. The sort of talk that prominent politicians or famous actors give. That sort of talk.’

  Aalina absorbed this. ‘You’d give lovely talks, Stoffi,’ she said.

  The Librarian laughed. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. You’d be really popular and there’d be big turnouts. Why don’t you?’

  Herr Huber shook his head. ‘Impossible. Nobody would ask me.’

  ‘I would.’

  He pressed her hand. ‘That’s because you’re kind. No, nobody would come to any talk I gave. Nobody wants to listen to me.’

  She returned the pressure of his clasp. ‘But I do! I love listening to you, Stoffi. You make me laugh. You make me feel … well, you make me feel as if anything could happen. You know that feeling?’