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 table, and 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.
‘Excuse me,’ he began. ‘Since you came in this morning you’ve done nothing but chat to your friends and create a general disturbance. I would have you know that there are serious scholars working in this library and we find it very difficult if people like you don’t respect the basic rules.’
The reader looked at him in astonishment. It was obvious to von Igelfeld that he was barefacedly unrepentant. Well! Let him think about what had been said and he would, if necessary, make an official complaint to the Prefect of the Library if matters did not improve.
Turning on his heel, von Igelfeld returned to his seat and took up his work again. He was pleased to see that the Prefect must have noticed what was happening, as he had gone across to the other reader and was having a whispered conversation with him. He was presumably telling him off, thought von Igelfeld. As well he might! He noticed that the reader shook his head briefly – denying it! thought von Igelfeld – and the Prefect went back to his office. A few minutes later, the noisy reader decided that he had finished his researches – some researches thought von Igelfeld – and left the library.
As von Igelfeld was preparing to leave the Library that evening, the Prefect, who had been hovering around all afternoon, beckoned him over to his office.
‘Professor von Igelfeld,’ he said, his voice lowered. ‘I understand you had some difficulty this morning.’
‘I did,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘There was an extremely noisy reader. People kept coming in to see him and he kept talking. It was thoroughly inconsiderate behaviour on his part. So I told him to keep quiet – in no uncertain terms!’
The Prefect shook his head. ‘Most unfortunate,’ he said. ‘Most regrettable.’
‘Unfortunate that I told him off?’ said von Igelfeld indignantly. ‘That sort of person needs to be reminded of Library rules. It was not the slightest bit unfortunate.’
‘Well,’ said the Prefect quietly. ‘That was the Pope.’
For a few minutes von Igelfeld was unable to say anything. He stood there, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, as he contemplated the enormity of what he had done. He had told the Pope to keep quiet in his own library. It was a solecism of quite monumental proportions; something that, if it were ever to be related, would simply not be believed. There was nothing – nothing – with which it could be compared.
He closed his eyes and then reopened them. He was still in the Vatican Library, standing before the Prefect of the Library, who was looking at him reproachfully over his half-moon spectacles.
‘I didn’t realise,’ von Igelfeld began, his voice thin and reedy. ‘I had no idea . . .’
‘Evidently not,’ said the Prefect dryly. ‘In past times, that would have been a most serious offence – it probably still is, for all I know. His Holiness is an absolute monarch, you know, and his writ clearly runs to this library.’
Von Igelfeld nodded miserably. He had never before felt so utterly wretched. If an earthquake had struck and swallowed him up it would have been a complete relief. But there was no earthquake, not even a tremor; the walls of the Library continued their same solid witness to his terrible mistake.
‘I should like to apologise to His Holiness,’ he said weakly. ‘Would that be possible?’
The Prefect shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s not all that simple to get an audience,’ he said. ‘There are people who work in this building for years and years and never see him.’
‘But could you not ask?’ pleaded von Igelfeld. ‘On a matter like this – a personal matter – it may be possible.’
With an air of great weariness, the Prefect leaned forward and picked up a telephone. A number was dialled and a brief conversation was had with a thin, tinny voice at the other end.
‘You may go tomorrow morning to the Office of Holy Affairs,’ said the Prefect. ‘There is a Monsignor Albinoni there who will speak to you at ten o’clock. He may be able to help.’
Von Igelfeld thanked the Prefect and made his way out of the Library like a man leaving the scene of his crime. He took a taxi back to the Garibaldi, gazing steadfastly down at the floor of the vehicle rather than look out, as he normally would, on the streets and piazzas.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the taxi driver solicitously at the end of the journey. ‘You seem very sad.’
Von Igelfeld shook his head.
‘You are kind to ask,’ he said. ‘I am all right. Thank you for your concern.’
‘Nothing is that terrible,’ said the driver quietly. ‘Remember, there is no despair so total that it shuts out all the light.’
Von Igelfeld thanked him again for his advice, paid the fare, and made his way into the pension. Ophelia, who was in the entrance hall studying a map, saw him enter and greeted him enthusiastically.
‘We found the most wonderful antiquarian book-dealer, Moritz-Maria,’ she began. ‘All sorts of things . . .’ She tailed off, noticing her friend’s crestfallen expression.
‘Has something happened?’ she asked, taking hold of von Igelfeld’s arm.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve done something absolutely unforgivable.’
Ophelia gasped. ‘You’ve mislaid the reliquary again?’
‘No,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Worse than that. I told the Pope to keep quiet in his own Vatican Library.’
Ophelia gasped again. By this time, Prinzel had wandered into the hall and was told by his wife what had happened. Together they led von Igelfeld to a chair and listened while he explained what had happened.
‘But you weren’t to know,’ said Prinzel soothingly. ‘Presumably he was sitting there like any other reader. If he does that, then he can’t expect not to be mistaken for an ordinary person from time to time.’
‘Perhaps,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But that makes me feel no better.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Ophelia. ‘I can imagine just how you feel.’
The Prinzels did their best to ease von Igelfeld’s burden of guilt and embarrassment, but by the time that he set off for his appointment at the Vatican the following morning he felt every bit as bad – possibly worse – than he had felt before. Nor did the atmosphere of the Office of Holy Affairs do anything to help his mood. This was an austere suite of rooms located at the end of a winding corridor; a place without light. Von Igelfeld had been given a small pass to give him access, and the motif at the top of this looked remarkably like a prison portcullis. The Office of Holy Affairs, it would seem, had some sort of disciplinary role.
Monsignor Albinoni was waiting for him. He sat impassively behind his desk while von Igelfeld narrated the circumstances of the previous day’s encounter with the Pope and his only indication of a response was a slight intake of breath when von Igelfeld repeated the words he had used in his scolding of the Pope. Then, when von Igelfeld finished, he uttered his response.
‘There is no precedent for this,’ he pronounced. ‘I feel, therefore, that I should refer you to my immediate superior, Cardinal Ponthez de Cuera. I will speak to him immediately.’
The Cardinal, it transpired, would see von Igelfeld with-out delay. A young priest was summoned and he led an increasingly miserabl
e von Igelfeld out of the Office of Holy Affairs, back down the corridor, and up a rather intimidating set of marble stairs. At the head of the stairs he knocked at a large set of double doors, which were shortly opened to admit von Igelfeld to a large, airy room with a view over St Peter’s Square.
The Cardinal was reading a book when von Igelfeld was admitted. He rose to his feet graciously, straightened his scarlet cassock, and shook hands politely with his visitor.
‘I am so sorry to disturb you, Your Eminence,’ began von Igelfeld in Portuguese. ‘I am Professor von Igelfeld from Regensburg.’
The Cardinal beamed. ‘Professor Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld, author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs? The very same?’
For the first time that day, von Igelfeld felt the cloud of depression that had hung over him lift slightly. He acknowledged his identity and the Cardinal clapped his hands together with satisfaction.
‘But I have long admired that book,’ he exclaimed. ‘My principal academic interest, you see, is the philology of the Romance languages. And there is nobody who understands the history of our dear Portuguese language better than yourself, dear Professor von Igelfeld.’
Von Igelfeld could hardly believe his good fortune. From the role of criminal, he had been transformed into his proper status, that of the author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs. The relief was overwhelming.
‘And see!’ said the Cardinal, pointing to a large, glass-fronted bookcase. ‘There is your book. In pride of place.’
Von Igelfeld glanced at the bookshelf and smiled. There indeed was Portuguese Irregular Verbs.
‘But my dear Professor,’ went on the Cardinal. ‘What brings you to the Vatican, and to my fortunate door?’
Von Igelfeld described the events of the previous day and the Cardinal listened intently.
‘So I should like somehow to apologise to His Holiness,’ finished von Igelfeld.
The Cardinal nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘A very good idea. I’m sure that the Holy Father will not hold it against you. But it would be nice to be able to say sorry in person.’ He paused, looking down at his watch. ‘Why don’t we try to get him now while he has his coffee?’
Von Igelfeld was astonished. ‘You mean . . . now. In person? I had not thought of seeing him; I merely wanted to write a note.’
‘But I’m sure he would appreciate a visit,’ said the Cardinal. ‘Look, you wait here while I nip through and check. He’s only a few doors down the corridor.’
Von Igelfeld spent a few nervous minutes before the Cardinal returned and announced that the Pope would receive him for coffee.
‘I’m afraid it will just have to be the two of you,’ the Cardinal explained. ‘I am terribly behind on some correspondence and must get it done. But perhaps you and I could meet for lunch afterwards? We’ve got a terribly good Italian restaurant downstairs.’
A Swiss Guard escorted von Igelfeld from the Cardinal’s office. They walked down a corridor and through another set of high double doors. Now they were in an ante-room of some sort, at the end of which was a further set of double doors surmounted by the keys of St Peter. Two further guards, standing outside these doors, now moved smartly aside to allow von Igelfeld to pass and to enter the room beyond.
The Pope was sitting at a small coffee table, reading a copy of the Corriere della Sera. When he saw von Igelfeld enter, he rose to his feet and waved.
‘Come over here, Professor von Igelfeld,’ he said. ‘The coffee is still warm.’
Von Igelfeld moved over to the table and reached out to take the Pope’s hand. Then, still holding the papal hand, he bowed slightly.
‘Good morning,’ said the Pope warmly. ‘Good morning, and blessings. Please sit down and I’ll pour the coffee.’
Von Igelfeld sat down.
‘I’ve come to say how sorry I am about that regrettable incident yesterday,’ he said. ‘I had no idea it was Your Holiness.’
The Pope laughed. ‘Oh that! Think no more of that. It’s good of you to come and apologise. You know, there are so many who expect us to apologise to them. They ask us to apologise for the Inquisition, to apologise for the over-enthusiasms of missionaries of the past, to apologise for all sorts of terrible things that happened a long time ago. And nobody ever comes to apologise to me! Except you. It’s really quite refreshing.’
‘Well,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I am very sorry indeed.’
‘No need to say any more,’ said the Pope. ‘It’s very good to have the chance to chat to you. I have a wretchedly boring time for the most part. You’ve got no idea what a tedious life it is being Pope. I’m totally isolated from the rest of humanity. You saw me yester-day on one of my rare busy days. Do you know how many social invitations I received last year? No? Well, I shall tell you. None. Not one. Nobody dares to invite the Pope to anything. They all assume that I would never be able to come, or that it would be presumptuous to invite me. So I get none. And I sit here most days and play solitaire. That’s what I do.’
The Pope pointed to a table at the side of the room and von Igelfeld saw that it was covered with cards in a solitaire pattern.
‘Do you play solitaire yourself?’ asked the Pope.
‘No,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I used to. But not any more.’
The Pope nodded, looking slightly despondent. He took a sip of his coffee and stared out of the window. For a few minutes nothing was said and the only sound in the room was that of ticking from a long-case clock behind the Pope’s chair. Then the Pope sighed.
‘I look out of my window and see the Vatican gardens,’ he said. ‘The trees. The greenery. The paths where I take my walks. The fountains. And I remember a field behind my house in my native village. And I remember the river beyond it where we used to swim as boys. We had a rope tied onto the branch of a tree and we used to swing out over the water. And I’ve never had any greater pleasure since then. Never. And I’ve never had any better friends than I had then. Never.’
‘We all have a land of lost content,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I used to go and stay on my grandfather’s estate near Graz. I liked that. Then, a bit later, when I was a student, my friend Prinzel and I used to go walking down the river and drink a glass of beer in a riverside inn. That’s what we used to do.’
The Pope said nothing. But, after a moment, he spoke in a quiet voice: ‘Now I have my solitaire. I suppose that is something.’
The clock chimed. ‘Heavens,’ said the Pope. ‘That’s the end of the coffee break. I must get back to my solitaire. Could you possibly show yourself out? The Swiss Guards will direct you.’
The Pope rose to his feet and ushered von Igelfeld to the door.
‘Goodbye, dear Professor von Igelfeld,’ he said. ‘Good bye. We shall not meet again in this life, I fear, but I have enjoyed our brief meeting. Please remember me.’
And with that he turned and went back to his solitaire table, leaving von Igelfeld in the care of the guards.
The Prinzels insisted on being told every detail of von Igelfeld’s remarkable day. Ophelia quizzed him closely as to the decoration of the Pope’s private apartment and as to the precise exchange of views which had taken place between them. Prinzel was more interested in the geography of the Vatican and in the mechanism of obtaining an audience; it had seemed so easy for von Igelfeld, but surely it could not be that easy for others. Perhaps all one had to do was to insult the Pope first – if one had the chance – and then insist on an audience of apology
But there had been more to von Igelfeld’s day. After he had left the Pope’s apartment he had returned to the Vatican Library for some time before the Cardinal had come to collect him for lunch. Then they had gone downstairs to a remarkable restaurant, patronised only by clerics and their guests, where a magnificent Roman meal of six courses had been served. He and the Cardinal had got on extremely well, discussing a variety of philological matters, and von Igelfeld had enjoyed himself immensely. But just as the last dish was being cleared from their table and coffee and liqueurs were
about to be served, von Igelfeld had seen a familiar figure enter the restaurant. It was the Duke of Johannesburg. The Duke, who was in the company of an elegantly attired monsignor, had not seen him, and von Igelfeld had been able to make a discreet enquiry of his host.
The Cardinal had turned his head discreetly and glanced at the ducal table.
‘The cleric,’ he said, ‘is none other than Monsignor Ernesto Pricolo. He is the head of an office here which deals with relations with our dear misguided Orthodox brethren. Personally, I find his activities to be distasteful.’
Von Igelfeld shivered. ‘Distasteful?’
‘Yes,’ said the Cardinal. ‘He involves himself in their schisms. In fact, I believe he is currently attempting to destabilise the Patriarchy of Alexandria.’
‘The Patriarch Angelos Evangelis?’ asked von Igelfeld. ‘A tall Patriarch with a beard?’
‘They all look like that,’ said the Cardinal. ‘I can never tell them apart. But, yes, that’s the one. He has terrible schism problems and our friend Pricolo does nothing to help. Personally, I can’t see what possible advantage there is for Rome in it all, but there we are. We are, I suppose, a state and we must do all the things that states do.’
Von Igelfeld succeeded in leaving the restaurant without being seen by the Duke of Johannesburg, but he felt that a cloud had come over the day. If the Duke of Johannesburg was on the side of the schismatics, then he must have deceived the Patriarch into thinking he was really a supporter of his. And if that were the case, then the Duke probably knew, or suspected at least, that the Patriarch had given the reliquary to him, and the schismatics would themselves know that. Which meant that even as he and the Prinzels went about their innocent business in Rome, they could be being observed by the scheming schismatics who would, he assumed, stop at little to retrieve the bones of Father Christmas.
The Prinzels listened carefully to von Igelfeld’s account of the lunch.
The 2 12 Pillars of Wisdom Page 18