The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs

by Alexander McCall Smith

  If life were different – if instead of being the author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs, with all that this entailed, he were a man of independent means, able to spend his time as he wished, then he could live in Italy, in some renovated Tuscan farmhouse. He would rise late, attend to his vines, and then take a leisurely drive into the nearby village to buy his newspaper and collect his mail. Perhaps he would even get married and his wife keep him company and play Schubert on the piano for him in the evening. That would be heaven indeed, but there was no point in dreaming; he was the author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs, he had no house in Italy, and such domestic comfort as he enjoyed was at second hand, crumbs from the table of the Prinzels. If only Unterholzer had not stolen – yes, stolen – from him the charming dentist, Dr Lisbetta von Brautheim, who should, if there were any justice, have married von Igelfeld himself. And now he had even overheard Unterholzer talking about buying a small house in Italy! What use would that be to him, thought von Igelfeld bitterly. How could Unterholzer even begin to understand the subtle pleasures of the Italian landscape? How could Unterholzer begin to savour the scent of thyme in dusty summer air, with that great big nose of his? More of a lump than a nose, really, if one came to think about it. If Unterholzer were ever to contemplate a scene of hills and cypresses, all he would be able to see would be his own nose, and perhaps a blur beyond it. Italy, with all its visual treats, would be utterly wasted on Unterholzer, who would do far better to stay in Germany, where people like that were somehow less conspicuous.

  But what could one expect? thought von Igelfeld. What could one really expect? There was nothing that could be done about Unterholzer. He should have been something else altogether. Perhaps the Bürgermeister of a small town somewhere in Bavaria. Instead of which he had poked his large, unsuitable nose into philology, where it had no business to be. Really, it was most vexing.

  He sighed. It was not easy maintaining one’s position as the author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs. Not only was there Unterholzer (and all that tiresome business with his dog), but von Igelfeld also had to cope with the distinct unhelpfulness of the Librarian and with the unmitigated philistinism of his publishers. Then there was the awkward attitude of the university authorities, who recently had shown the temerity to ask him to deliver a series of lectures to undergraduate students. This had almost been the last straw for von Igelfeld, who had been obliged to remind them of just who he was. That had caused them to climb down, and the Rector had even sent a personal letter of apology, but von Igelfeld felt that the damage was done. If German professors could be asked to lecture, as if they were mere instructors, then the future of German scholarship looked perilous. He had heard that one of his colleagues had even been asked whether he proposed to write another book, when he had already written one some ten years previously! And the alarming thing was that people were taking this lying down and not protesting at the outrageous breach of academic freedom which it unquestionably was. What would Immanuel Kant have made of it? What would have happened if the University of Koenigsberg had asked Kant whether he proposed to write another Kritik der reinen Vernunft? Kant would have treated such a question with the contempt it deserved.

  It was the old problem of the poets and the legislators. The poets were not legislators, and the legislators were not poets. The wrong people were at the top, in positions where the people at the bottom might do very much better. Look at the sort of people who became Chancellor of Germany! Who were they? Von Igelfeld paused to address his own question. Who were they indeed? He had very little idea, but they were certainly very dull people, who were, on balance, best ignored. Sooner or later they went away, he found.

  ‘Oh dear!’ said von Igelfeld, out loud. ‘Il nostro mondo! Che tedio!’

  ‘My goodness,’ said a rich, rather plummy voice behind him. ‘What a sentiment!’

  Von Igelfeld turned sharply. Somebody had addressed him from behind.

  ‘My dear sir,’ said the man standing behind him. ‘I did not mean to make you start! It’s just that I, too, was admiring this view and reflecting on the state of the world, but was reaching an optimistic conclusion when you expressed yourself.’

  Von Igelfeld rose to his feet and bowed slightly to the stranger.

  ‘I am von Igelfeld,’ he said.

  The stranger smiled. ‘And I’m the Duke of Johannesburg,’ he said warmly, reaching out to shake hands.

  Von Igelfeld looked at the Duke. He was a tall man, seemingly in his mid-forties, almost as tall as von Igelfeld himself, but more heavily-built. He had a fine, aquiline nose, rather reddened, von Igelfeld noted, a large moustache, and a crop of dark hair, neatly brushed back in the manner of a ’thirties dancing instructor. He was wearing a lightweight linen suit, but in place of a tie there was a red bandana tied loosely about his neck.

  They engaged in light talk about the view from the terrace. The Duke was not staying at the hotel, he explained. He had a house of his own several streets away, but unfortunately it had no terrace. So he sometimes came down to the hotel in the evenings to take an aperitif and look out over the hills.

  ‘So that’s why I’m here,’ he said simply.

  They discussed Siena. The Duke explained that he had been spending several months a year there for some time, pursuing his researches. Then, when von Igelfeld mentioned Professor Guerini, they discovered a mutual acquaintance. The Duke, it transpired, had also known Guerini for years and had visited his estate several times. This information broke the ice further, and by the time that the Duke had finished his Martini von Igelfeld had been invited back to join the Duke for dinner.

  ‘Not a large party,’ said the Duke. ‘Just one or two people who are passing through and, of course, my research assistant.’

  Von Igelfeld was delighted to accept. He was pleased to hear about the research assistant, too, as this confirmed that the Duke himself was a serious scholar. All in all, it seemed a most agreeable prospect and, after the Duke had gone, he rushed off to inform the Prinzels that he would not be joining them for dinner in the hotel that night. As it happened, this suited his companions well. Ophelia Prinzel had a slight headache and was proposing to have an early night and the heat had destroyed Prinzel’s appetite. It was agreed that they would meet for breakfast and then spend the earlier part of the morning in the Cathedral Library, admiring the illuminated manuscripts, before hordes of schoolchildren and parties of chattering Japanese tourists began to flock in. Von Igelfeld found Japanese tourists particularly trying. They were often fascinated by tall Germans, and he found it most disconcerting to be photographed by them. It was sobering to contemplate how many photograph albums in Tokyo or Kyoto contained his image, frozen in time, quite out of context, pored over and pointed out to interested relatives of the travellers. Why should they want to photograph him? Had they not seen a German professor before? It was another vexing thought, and so he put it out of his mind in favour of the contemplation of dinner at the Duke’s house and the warm prospect of edifying conversation and a good table. The Duke’s nose was a good portent. Its colour at the end suggested that a considerable quantity of fine Chianti had suffused upwards, by some process of osmosis. This implied the existence of a good cellar, and a generous hand. Let the Prinzels call room service and gnaw at some inedible little morsel; finer things were in store for him.

  The Duke’s house was in a narrow street off the Piazza del Risorgimento. An inconspicuous door led off the street into a courtyard dominated by a small fountain. Stunted fig trees grew in terracotta pots against the walls and a large black cat sat on a stone bench, grooming its fur. The cat looked up and stared at von Igelfeld for a moment or two before returning to its task.

  The main door of the house, on the other side of the courtyard, was ajar and von Igelfeld found no bell to ring. He entered somewhat cautiously, finding himself in a large, well-lit entrance hall. The floor, of black and white marble, was clearly an architectural reference to the famous striped cathedral tower which dominated the sky
line a few winding streets away. On the walls, framed on either side by gilt sconces, were paintings of Tuscan scenes, one of a cypress-crossed hillside, another of a young man in the Renaissance style, a notary perhaps, seated at his desk before an open window. The window framed a hillside on which deer grazed and improbable birds strutted.

  A door opened at the other end of the hall and a young woman – of nineteen at the most, little more than a girl – emerged into the hall. It was a moment or two before she saw von Igelfeld, and when she did, she gave a start.

  She raised a hand to her mouth as if to stifle a gasp. Then she spoke, in foreign-accented but correct Italian. ‘You gave me a fright. I was not expecting to find anybody in here.’

  Von Igelfeld made a self-deprecating gesture.

  ‘There was no bell,’ he said apologetically. ‘I should have rung had I found a bell. I do not like to walk into the houses of other people without giving them notice.’

  The girl laughed. ‘Johannesburg doesn’t mind,’ she said. ‘All sorts of people walk in here. He’s always happy to see them.’

  ‘I am glad,’ said von Igelfeld. Then, after a short pause, he introduced himself and explained that he had been invited for dinner.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘So you are the German professor he met earlier today when he slipped out for his Martini. He told me about you. He said you were very . . . ’

  She broke off suddenly, the hand going to the mouth. Von Igelfeld frowned. Very what? he wondered.

  ‘Anyway,’ said the girl, quickly recovering her composure. ‘You must be wondering who I am. I am Beatrice. I’m the Duke’s research assistant.’

  Von Igelfeld had been wondering who she was and he was pleased that the research assistant was so refreshingly attractive. His research assistants had been uniformly plain and he had always envied colleagues who seemed to have assistants who were glamorous and vivacious. Indeed, he had once raised the matter with Prinzel, drawing attention to the strikingly beautiful young Russian recently recruited by Professor Vochsenkuhn. She had turned every head at the last Romance Philology Congress and had been utterly charming in spite of her linguistic limitations. She spoke only Russian, which von Igelfeld thought must have restricted her ability to conduct research in Romance philology, particularly since Professor Vochsenkuhn himself was not known to speak any Russian.

  Prinzel had laughed. ‘The reason why other people have attractive research assistants, Moritz-Maria, is because they don’t recruit them on academic ability. In fact, academic ability is probably the last criterion for selection.’

  Von Igelfeld had found himself at a loss to understand.

  ‘But if they have no academic ability,’ he had objected, ‘why recruit them as research assistants?’

  Again Prinzel had laughed.

  ‘Because research assistants often have talents which go beyond pure research,’ he had said. ‘That is widely known. They provide . . . inspiration for the professors who employ them. Inspiration is very important.’

  Von Igelfeld was not convinced. ‘I still cannot see the justification,’ he had said. But Prinzel had merely shaken his head and changed the subject. Now here, clearly, was one of those attractive young research assistants who provided inspiration. Prinzel was evidently right.

  Beatrice gestured towards the door from which she had emerged.

  ‘They’re in the salon,’ she said. ‘We should join them.’

  She led von Igelfeld through a corridor and into a large room at the rear of the building. One of the walls was entirely covered with bookshelves; the others were hung with paintings of the sort von Igelfeld had already encountered in the hall. At the far end, standing before the gaping mouth of a high marble fireplace, stood the Duke, glass in hand; in a chair to his left sat a grey-bearded man dressed in the long black cassock of an Orthodox priest.

  ‘My dear Professor von Igelfeld,’ said the Duke, putting down his glass and advancing towards his guest. ‘You are most welcome to this house.’

  Von Igelfeld bowed slightly to the Duke and then turned towards the priest, who had risen to his feet and had extended a ring-encrusted hand. For a moment von Igelfeld was uncertain whether he was expected to kiss one of the rings, but the gesture very quickly made itself apparent as a handshake.

  ‘And this,’ said the Duke genially. ‘This is my old friend, Angelos Evangelis, Patriarch of Alexandria and All Africa Down as Far as Somalia.’

  Von Igelfeld shook hands with the Patriarch, who smiled and inclined his head slightly.

  ‘We are a very small party tonight,’ the Duke went on. ‘But, in a way, that is always preferable.’

  ‘Very much better,’ agreed von Igelfeld. ‘I cannot abide large parties.’

  ‘Then you should not come to this house too often,’ said Beatrice. ‘Johannesburg gives large parties every other night, more or less.’

  Von Igelfeld felt a flush of embarrassment. He had been unwise to condemn large parties; it was obvious that somebody like the Duke of Johannesburg would entertain on a splendid scale.

  ‘Of course, I like large parties too,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s just that I can’t abide them when I’m in the mood for a small party. It all depends, you see.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Duke. ‘I know in my bones when I get up whether it’s going to be a large party day or a small party day.’

  As this conversation was unfolding, Beatrice had busied herself in obtaining a drink for von Igelfeld and in filling up the glasses of the Patriarch and the Duke. There was then a brief silence, during which the Patriarch stared at von Igelfeld and the Duke adjusted the blue cravat which he had donned for the evening.

  In an attempt to stimulate conversation, von Igelfeld turned to the Patriarch and asked him where he lived.

  The Patriarch looked at von Igelfeld with mournful eyes.

  ‘I live in many places,’ he said. ‘I live here. I live there. It is given to me to move a great deal. At present I am in Rome, but last year I was in Beirut. Where shall I be next year? That is uncertain. Perhaps you can tell me.’

  ‘Well,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I’m not sure . . . ’ He tailed off.

  ‘I must explain that the Patriarch is currently afflicted with schisms,’ interjected the Duke. ‘He has been so afflicted for some years.’

  Von Igelfeld was about to express his sympathy, but Beatrice now intervened.

  ‘The Patriarch is a very brave man,’ she said. ‘If I had schisms I would not know where to turn. Is there a cure?’

  The Duke took a sip of his wine. He was smiling.

  ‘Dear Beatrice,’ he said. ‘Your question is so utterly pertinent, but, alas, one thousand years of Coptic history cannot be so easily resolved. I suggest, therefore, that we go to table. Signora Tagliatti has prepared some wild boar for us and my uncorked wines will rapidly lose their impact if we keep them waiting much longer. Shall we go through?’

  In the Duke’s dining room, von Igelfeld sat flanked by Beatrice and the Patriarch, with the Duke, a beaming host, at the head of the table. The Duke spoke of his researches – an investigation of the concept of empathy in Hume and compassion in Schopenhauer.

  ‘Much the same thing, don’t you think?’ he asked von Igelfeld.

  Von Igelfeld was not sure. He remembered reading that Hume believed that our minds vibrated in sympathy, and that this ability – to vibrate in unison with one another – was the origin of the ethical impulse. And Schopenhauer’s moral theory was about feeling, was it not; so perhaps they were one and the same phenomenon. But he could hardly pronounce on the matter with any authority, having not read Schopenhauer since boyhood, and he looked to Beatrice for support.

  ‘Schopenhauer!’ she murmured dreamily.

  ‘You must know a lot about him,’ encouraged von Igelfeld.

  ‘Hardly,’ she said.

  Von Igelfeld was silent for a moment. Was it her role, then, merely to inspire? He looked at the Patriarch, who stared back at him with melancholy, rheumy eyes.<
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  ‘I have known many who have lacked compassion,’ the Patriarch said suddenly. ‘The pretender to the Bishopric of Khartoum, for example. And the Syrian Ordinary at Constantinople.’

  ‘Especially him,’ agreed the Duke.

  Von Igelfeld was surprised at the bitterness with which the Patriarch spoke – a bitterness which seemed to find a ready echo in the Duke’s response.

  ‘Your schisms,’ von Igelfeld began. ‘They are clearly very deep. But what are they actually about?’

  ‘A variety of important matters,’ said the Duke. ‘For example, there is a serious dispute as to whether a saint’s halo goes out when he dies or whether it remains lit up.’

  ‘It does not go out,’ said the Patriarch, in the tone of one pronouncing on the self-evident.

  ‘Then there’s the question of miracles,’ went on the Duke. ‘There is a major schism on the issue of miracles. Are they possible? Does God choose to show himself through the miraculous? That sort of schism.’

  ‘But of course miracles exist,’ said Beatrice. ‘Miracles occur every day. We all know that. You yourself said that it was a miracle when you and I . . . ’

  The Duke cut her off, rather sharply, von Igelfeld thought.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ he said. ‘But it is not really the personal miracles that are at issue. It’s the miracles of ecclesiastical significance that are the real substance of the debate. The Miracle of the Holy House, for example. Did angels carry the Virgin Mary’s house all the way to Italy from the Holy Land, as is claimed?’

  ‘Of course they did,’ said the Patriarch. ‘No sensible person doubts that.’

  Von Igelfeld looked down at his plate. Had five fish appeared on it at that moment, it seemed that nobody would have been in the slightest bit surprised. But, for his part, he had always found the story of the Holy House rather too far-fetched to believe. How would the house have withstood the flight, even in the care of angels? It seemed to him highly improbable.