‘This is very serious,’ said Prinzel at last. ‘We shall have to redouble our vigilance.’
‘I suggest that we transfer the reliquary to my cupboard,’ said Ophelia. ‘They may know that Moritz-Maria has the bones, but they might not suspect us. After all, the Duke of Johannesburg never saw you or myself, did he, Florianus?’
It was agreed that the reliquary would be transferred to the Prinzels’ room and hidden in a locked suitcase within their locked wardrobe. This was done, and the evening came to a close. Never had von Igelfeld experienced a more dramatic day: he had met the Pope and over lunch he had witnessed high-level ecclesiastical plotting taking place before his very eyes. In a curious way he was beginning to acquire a taste for this. He imagined that the life of a diplomat, or even a schismatic if it came to it, could be almost as fulfilling as life as a professor of Romance philology. Almost, but not quite.
For the next two weeks, von Igelfeld worked every day at the Vatican Library, only taking off the occasional afternoon to spend with the Prinzels in their architectural explorations. They had intended to visit, and annotate, every important Baroque church in Rome, allowing several days for the study of each church. It was a major undertaking, and already their notebooks were bulging with observations.
Von Igelfeld’s own work progressed well. He had unearthed several previously unknown manuscripts thanks to the efforts of the Prefect, who had obviously been informed by the Pope that von Igelfeld was to receive special consideration. And indeed the Pope occasionally sent down a messenger with a small present for von Igelfeld, usually an Italian delicacy – panforte di Siena or amarettini di Sarona to eat with his morning coffee.
Then, one evening after von Igelfeld had returned to the Garibaldi, he had found a telegram awaiting him. He opened it with some foreboding, as one does with any telegram received while away from home, and saw that the message came from the Patriarch. He was, he explained, in a monastery in the Apennines. For various reasons he was unable to come to Rome to collect the relics, and he wondered if von Igelfeld would be kind enough to come to the monastery to deliver them to him. The relics would be safe there, he assured him.
Von Igelfeld showed the telegram to the Prinzels, who immediately consulted their road atlas and found the town from which it had been sent. The telegram had emanated from Camaldoli, a small town in the mountains, some four hours from Rome.
‘If we leave after breakfast tomorrow,’ said Prinzel, ‘we shall arrive by noon. According to our guidebook there is an inn there. We can stay there and complete our mission the following day.’
The plans laid, they booked themselves out of the Garibaldi, on the understanding that should they wish to return after a day or two there would be no difficulty in finding them rooms. In fact, they were all ready to leave Rome. Von Igelfeld had effectively come to the end of his work in the Vatican Library and the Prinzels were running out of Baroque churches. It was time for a change of surroundings.
The journey to Camaldoli took them high into the mountains of Umbria. From a landscape of rolling hills and comfortable villas they ventured onto mountain roads and broad views of valleys and pine forests. Although it was still sunny, the air now had a sharp edge to it and the streams which cascaded boyishly down the hillsides were icy cold. The inn was exactly as one might expect an old-fashioned Apennine inn to be; wood-panelled, with open fire-places in which the evening log fire had been laid. Each room, which was simply furnished, had a view either of the mountain rising above or the valley falling away below on the other side.
The monastery, they were told, was about an hour’s walk away. It could not be reached by car, as it was tucked away on the mountainside above the town. It was too late to go there that afternoon, but they were told that unless an unexpected mist descended the following morning they could easily make the journey up and down before lunch. That night von Igelfeld slept with the reliquary under his mattress. He did not sleep well. From time to time he awoke to some sound and froze, thinking that there were schematics outside the door. But the switching on of his light dispelled such terrors, and he would eventually drift back into an uneasy sleep.
At breakfast the next day there was another message. The Patriarch had heard of their arrival and had sent a note with a boy who was making his way down the mountainside to collect bread for the monks. In the note, he explained that he would be down in the town the next day and that they should do nothing until then. ‘Please do not leave the hotel,’ he warned. ‘Even at this late stage, there may be dangers.’
They read and re-read the note, each more frightened than could be publicly admitted. It was decided that they would interpret the Patriarch’s warning liberally. As long as one of them was in the hotel at any one time, the others should feel free to wander about the small town or go for a slightly longer walk along the river.
Prinzel and Ophelia went for such a walk after breakfast, leaving von Igelfeld in the hotel. He was sitting in the cramped living room, paging through old Italian magazines and listening to the chatter of the kitchen staff, when the new guests arrived. He looked up to see who they were. Germans perhaps? They were. It was Unterholzer and his wife, and, following closely behind them, their unfortunate dog, with its prosthetic wheels.
There was a great deal of mutual surprise.
‘I thought you were all in Rome,’ said Unterholzer, pumping von Igelfeld’s hand enthusiastically. We had no idea we would meet up with you. What a marvellous coincidence!’
‘Yes,’ said von Igelfeld reluctantly. ‘The Prinzels are here too. They have gone for a walk along the river.’
‘Wonderful idea,’ said Unterholzer. ‘We’ll just get everything sorted out and then perhaps you could come for a short walk with us.’
They went off to sign the register and to receive their keys. Then, closely followed by the dog, they went up to their bedroom to unpack.
The Prinzels were late coming back but von Igelfeld decided to risk leaving the hotel before they returned. Since he was with the Unterholzers, he thought, he could hardly be in any danger. So they wandered off along a path that led into the forest, from which, at various points, they would be afforded a fine view of the valley below.
The walk was most enjoyable, and when they returned the Prinzels were already awaiting them. They were extremely surprised to see the Unterholzers but if they felt any dismay they succeeded in hiding it effectively. Then it was time for lunch, and it was at this point that von Igelfeld made the dreadful discovery.
He went into his room to change the collar of his shirt. At first he saw nothing untoward but after a moment his eye fell on an object on the floor beside his bed. For a moment his heart stopped: it was the reliquary – and it was empty.
He fell to his knees with a cry, seizing the box and lifting it up. The mattress had been disturbed and the reliquary had been pulled from underneath it. He examined it closely: there were strange marks on it, marks which looked, to all intents and purposes, as if they were teeth marks! Some creature had come into the room, smelled out the reliquary, and gnawed it.
He rushed to the door and looked out into the corridor. As he did so, there came a bark from the next door room. Unterholzer’s sausage dog! Without wasting a moment, von Igelfeld ran to the open door of the Unterholzers’ room and looked inside. Frau Professor Dr Unterholzer was standing in the middle of the rug, wagging a finger in admonition at the dog.
‘You are a naughty, naughty creature,’ she said severely. ‘Where did you get those bones? Now you’ve eaten them you will have no appetite for your lunch!’
Von Igelfeld stood where he was, his heart a cold stone within him. Unterholzer’s dog had achieved, in several quick mouthfuls, what an entire faction of schismatics had so singularly failed to do.
They all spent a bleak and sleepless night. Von Igelfeld felt even worse than he had done when he had told the Pope to keep quiet. At least that was something that could be remedied; there was no possible means of sorting out this d
readful situation with the bones. He had no idea what he would say to the Patriarch when he arrived.
He would have to tell him the truth, of course, but that would be such an awful blow to him that he could hardly bring himself to do it.
When the Patriarch eventually arrived the next morning, he immediately sensed that something was wrong.
‘The schismatics,’ he said. ‘They have the bones . . .’
Von Igelfeld shook his head. ‘It’s even worse than that,’ he said. ‘I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this, but Professor Unterholzer’s sausage dog ate them yesterday.’
The Patriarch stared at von Igelfeld for a moment as if he did not believe what he had heard. Then he emitted a strange cry – a wail which was redolent of centuries of Coptic sorrow and suffering. Ophelia tried to comfort him, but he was inconsolable, his great frame heaving with sobs.
Unterholzer, who had said nothing during the harrowing encounter, suddenly whispered something to his wife, who nodded her assent.
‘Your Holiness,’ he said, placing a hand on the Patriarch’s shoulder. ‘I have the solution. You may have my dog.’
The Patriarch stopped sobbing and turned a tear-stained face to Unterholzer.
‘I do not wish to punish it,’ he said. ‘It’s a dumb creature. It cannot be held to account.’
‘But that was not what I had in mind,’ said Unterholzer. ‘I was merely reflecting on the fact that if my dog has eaten those old bones, they become part of him, do they not? He must absorb something.’
The Patriarch nodded. ‘He absorbs part of Saint Nicholas. He . . .’ He stopped. For a moment he frowned, as if wrestling with some abstruse theological point. Then he broke into a rare smile.
‘I see what you are suggesting!’ he cried. ‘This dog can become an object of veneration during his life. Then, when he eventually dies, we can put his bones in a reliquary too as they will be, in a sense, the bones of Saint Nicholas!’
‘Indeed,’ said Unterholzer. ‘I take it that he will be well looked after?’
‘Of course,’ said the Patriarch. ‘And the schismatics will never suspect that this innocent little dog is the custodian of our most holy relic!’
‘A brilliant scheme’ said von Igelfeld, feeling extremely relieved. ‘A highly satisfactory outcome from all angles.’
Unterholzer’s sausage dog was handed over at a touching little ceremony the following day. Then, the whole affair settled, the now enlarged German party settled down to a thoroughly enjoyable celebratory dinner with the Patriarch. Von Igelfeld took the opportunity to warn the Patriarch about the Duke of Johannesburg, but it transpired that the Patriarch had known all along.
‘I knew which side he was on,’ he explained. ‘But I never gave him the impression that I knew. He therefore did not know that I knew.’
‘But why is he a schismatic?’ asked von Igelfeld. ‘What drives him?’
‘A desire to find a point for his life,’ said the Patriarch. ‘The feeling that he is being useful to somebody, even if only schismatics.’
‘And that young research assistant of his, Beatrice?’ asked von Igelfeld. ‘What about her?’
‘She’s actually working for my side,’ said the Patriarch. ‘She files regular reports for us.’
‘Oh,’ said von Igelfeld, rather lamely.
‘But I’m withdrawing her from active service,’ said the Patriarch. ‘She has done enough.’
‘Will she need a job?’ asked von Igelfeld. ‘Have you anything for her to do.’
‘No,’ said the Patriarch. ‘But I have just this moment fixed her up with a new post. I spoke to your colleague Professor Unterholzer about her and gave him a full description of her talents. He very kindly agreed to take her on with immediate effect.’
Von Igelfeld was silent. Unterholzer! How utterly transparent! He began to shake at the thought of the injustice of it, and was still shaking half an hour later when the party had broken up and he found himself lying in bed in his darkened room, gazing out of his window at the moonlit mountainside. Oh, the injustice of it! Why should Unterholzer, who deserved nothing, get everything? It was so, so unfair.
He took a deep breath. He would rise above this, as he had risen above all the other injustices that blighted his life After all, he was Professor Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld, author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs, friend of cardinals and popes. That was something to think about.
He stopped. Should he say friend of cardinals and popes when he knew only one of each, or should he say friend of a cardinal and a pope, or even friend of a cardinal and the Pope?
Puzzling on this difficult point, von Igelfeld eventually fell asleep, and dreamed that he was playing solitaire in a remote field, a long time ago, while at the edge of the field the Pope swung out on a rope over a river that ran silently and very fast. And he was happy again, as was the Pope.
funf
The Perfect Imperfect
It was clear to everybody at morning coffee that something was tickling Professor Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld. Morning coffee at the Institute was normally a relatively uneventful affair: the Librarian might expound for some time on the difficulties of finding sufficiently conscientious nurses to attend to the needs of his aunt; Unterholzer might comment on the doings of the infinitely wearying local politicians in whose affairs he seemed to take such an inordinate interest; and Prinzel would sit and fiddle with the ink reservoir of his pen, which was always giving him trouble. Von Igelfeld had given up pointing out to him the folly of buying French pens when there were German alternatives to be had, but Prinzel refused to listen. Well, thought von Igelfeld, here we have the consequences – pens that never work and which cover his fingers in ink. We get the pen we deserve in this life, he said to himself. It was an impressive-sounding adage, and he was quite pleased to have coined it, but then he began to wonder about its meaning. Do we, in fact, get the pen we deserve? His own pen worked well – and that was possibly a matter of desert – but then Unterholzer had a particularly satisfactory pen, which never went wrong, and which had served his father well too. Unterholzer did not deserve a good pen – there could be no doubt about that – and so the theory was immediately disproved. On the other hand, perhaps Unterholzer’s father had deserved a good pen and Unterholzer was merely enjoying his father’s moral capital. That was quite possible; so perhaps the adage was correct after all.
That morning, when von Igelfeld entered the coffee room with a smile on his lips, Prinzel had removed the barrel of his pen and was attempting to insert a straightened paper clip into the reservoir. Unterholzer was snorting over an item in the local paper and pointing indignantly at the photograph of a politician, while the Librarian browsed through a leaflet published by a private nursing company.
‘Something amusing?’ asked Prinzel, now attempting to work out how to remove the paper clip from the pen’s innards.
‘Mildly,’ said von Igelfeld.
The Librarian looked at him.
‘Do tell me,’ he said. ‘My poor aunt needs cheering up and I find there’s so little positive news I can bring from the Institute.’
‘I received a very amusing letter,’ said von Igelfeld, extracting a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. He paused, watching the effect of his words on his colleagues.
‘Well,’ said the Librarian. ‘Do tell us about it.’
‘It’s from a shipping company,’ von Igelfeld said. ‘They run cruises which go from Hamburg to the Aegean, and they have lectures on these cruises. They have invited me to be one of the lecturers.’
‘Oh,’ said the Librarian. ‘And will you go?’
‘Of course not,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I am a philologist, not an entertainer. It’s an outrageous suggestion.’
‘Good,’ said Unterholzer quickly. ‘In that case, may I write to them and offer my services in your place? I would love to go on one of those lecture cruises. So would my wife. The lecturers can take their wives for nothing, I gather. That is, if one has on
e, of course, which you don’t.’
‘I’d very readily go too,’ interjected Prinzel. ‘I can think of nothing more enjoyable. Sitting on the deck, watching the sea go past! Occasionally having to sing for your supper, but not too often! What a wonderful way of spending a few weeks.’
Von Igelfeld was quite taken aback. He had assumed that his colleagues would have shared his disdain for the whole idea, instead of which they seemed anxious to take his place. This was troubling. Perhaps he had been too quick to turn the company down. In fact, he probably had a duty to do it now, as this would be the only way he could prevent Unterholzer from going in his stead and subjecting all those poor passengers to some terribly dull set of lectures on the subjunctive. It would quite ruin their holidays. No, he would have to reexamine his decision.
‘On the other hand,’ he said quickly. ‘It is perhaps our duty to impart knowledge to the public from time to time. Perhaps I have been too selfish; perhaps I should go after all.’
‘But you said that you wouldn’t,’ protested Unterholzer. ‘If your heart isn’t in it there is no point in your going. It’s not fair to the company or to the passengers. I, by contrast, would be very enthusiastic.’
Von Igelfeld ignored this. ‘I think I must go after all,’ he said firmly, adding: ‘It would be a pity to disappoint the organisers. I’m sure that you would do it very well, Herr Unterholzer, but the organisers did ask for me and not for you. If they had wanted to get you, then they would have written to you rather than to me. Perhaps next time, after I have done it, they might ask for you personally. One never knows.’
Unterholzer muttered something and returned to his newspaper. Prinzel, however, was beginning to warm to the theme.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘I’ve heard about these lecture cruises. They usually get art historians or archaeologists to talk about the places that the ship visits. They have lectures on Minoan civilisation and the like. Or even talks on Byzantine history.’
‘My aunt went on a cruise,’ said the Librarian. ‘They had a famous psychologist who lectured on relationships. My aunt wasn’t much interested in that. But they also had a man who told them all about sea trade in the early Mediterranean. She enjoyed that very much, and still talks a lot about it. And I’ve even heard that they’ve had Marcel Reich-Ranicki and famous people like that.’
The 2 12 Pillars of Wisdom Page 19