Over breakfast the next morning, von Igelfeld reflected on the experiences of the evening. He had enjoyed himself at the Duke’s dinner party, but had come away moderately perplexed. Who was Beatrice, and why did she know so little about Schopenhauer? Who was the Patriarch, and who was behind the schisms which seemed to cause him such distress? If he were the Patriarch, then could he not unilaterally put an end to schism simply by expelling schismatics? That is what von Igelfeld himself would have done. Unterholzer, after all, was a sort of schismatic, and von Igelfeld had found no difficulty in dealing with him decisively. Presumably patriarchs had at their disposal a variety of ecclesiastical remedies that put fear into the heart of any dissident. Inverted candles – snuffed out; that was the ritual which von Igelfeld associated with such matters and that would surely silence all but the most headstrong of rebels.
And then there was the mystery of the Duke himself. Von Igelfeld did not purport to know anything about the non-German aristocracy – which he considered to be a pale imitation of its German equivalent – and he had never been aware of a Dukedom of Johannesburg. But the British were peculiar – it was well-known – and they used extraordinary titles. Was there not a Scottish nobleman simply called The MacGregor, as if he were a whisky? And the Irish were not much better, when one came to think about it. There was a man who went under the title of The McGillicuddy of the Reeks, and somebody actually called the Green Knight. The Green Knight was now defunct, he had heard, which was not at all surprising. What were these people thinking of when they assumed these ridiculous names? At least in Germany people used simple territorial designations which let you know exactly where you stood.
The Duke appeared to be a man of substance. The house was in every respect suitable for aristocratic inhabitation, with its rich furnishings and its air of solid age. But there had been one very peculiar experience which had made von Igelfeld wonder whether all was how it seemed. As he was leaving, he had passed too close to one of the paintings in the hall and had tilted it slightly. He had stopped to straighten the heavy gilt frame, and as he had done so his finger had inadvertently come into contact with the canvas. It was a painting of a sixteenth-century papal coronation, presumably by an artist of the time, and von Igelfeld had touched the lower corner, which showed a crowd amassed outside the gates of the Vatican. This was unexceptional, but what was quite astonishing was the fact that the paint had not quite dried! He had been too surprised to investigate further and anyway the Duke of Johannesburg had appeared at this point and it would have been rude to be seen testing the dryness of one’s host’s oil paintings. Indeed it would be tantamount to a suggestion of nouvelle arrivisme .
The German party breakfasted together on the terrace. Ophelia Prinzel had quite recovered from her headache and was looking forward to a day of wandering about Siena. Prinzel himself had acquired an appetite overnight and tucked into three large almond rolls with apparent gusto, washing them down with at least four cups of steaming milky coffee.
‘Wonderful!’ Prinzel exclaimed at the end of breakfast. ‘Now to the Cathedral before the hordes arrive. Then a browse in the antique shops followed by lunch and a long siesta. What a marvellous day lies ahead of us!’
They walked together to the Cathedral, which had just opened its doors for the day. A taciturn attendant admitted them to the Cathedral Library, where the great illuminated manuscripts lay in their glass cases, displaying their medieval delights to the eyes of moderns, most of whom were now as virtually incapable of using a pen as was the profanum vulgus of those distant years. Von Igelfeld concentrated on the finer points of medieval Latin grammar as displayed in the text, while Prinzel and Ophelia discussed the use of colour in the elaborately ornamented capitals or in the bestiary upon which the monks based their parables.
‘Look,’ said Ophelia, pointing at a page of intricately illuminated text. ‘A hedgehog. Moritz-Maria, come and look at this hedgehog.’
Von Igelfeld crossed the room. His family crest contained a hedgehog, as one might expect, and he always felt a tug of affection towards hedgehogs in all their manifestations. It was a noble creature, he thought, every bit as impressive as more conventional heraldic creatures, such as the eagle. Germany, it was true, used the eagle as its symbol, but von Igelfeld had often thought that a hedgehog would be more suitable. It was not impossible to imagine the Prussian flag with a hedgehog rampant rather than its severe eagle.
‘Dear little hedgehog,’ said Ophelia, pointing at the tiny creature monastically caught in a scurry across the bottom of a page of the Psalms. ‘Look how timid he is. Minding nobody’s business but his own. Compare him with that boastful unicorn.’
‘The hedgehog is not timid,’ said von Igelfeld sharply. ‘In iconography, I must point out, he represents sagacity.’
‘No,’ said Prinzel. ‘That’s the owl.’
‘Not only the owl, Herr Prinzel,’ snapped von Igelfeld. ‘The hedgehog has always been admired for its wisdom. You will be familiar, I assume, with what Pliny the Elder thought about hedgehogs? Or what the Physiologus says of their virtues?’
‘This hedgehog doesn’t look very wise,’ said Ophelia. ‘Perhaps the monk used as his model a hedgehog which happened not to be very bright. Aristotle made the same mistake about moles when he said that all moles were blind. It’s just that the mole he examined was blind.’
Prinzel now joined in. ‘And then there’s St Basil,’ he said. ‘Did he not say that hedgehogs were unclean?’
Von Igelfeld glared at his friends. He had not come to this holy and learned place to be insulted, and he thought it best to withdraw to the other side of the room and leave the Prinzels to engage in whatever misguided discussion of symbolism they wished. He had found an interesting example of the ablative absolute in the transcription of a psalm and he wished to ponder it further.
It was while he was studying this text that the doors suddenly opened and the attendant wearily admitted a large group of Japanese visitors. There was a collective intake of breath as they saw the painted ceiling. Several dozen cameras were immediately produced and flashes of light followed hard upon one another. Then the leader of the group gave a cry when he noticed von Igelfeld and called out some command in Japanese. This was the signal for a large group, cameras at the ready, to advance upon von Igelfeld.
‘Tall sir,’ said the leader as he approached. ‘Be so kind as to stand with me in this photograph.’
Without waiting for an answer, the leader positioned himself next to von Igelfeld and looked up at him in admiration.
‘You would be a living monument in Japan,’ he said politely. ‘Japanese people like very tall people and very tall trees.’
Von Igelfeld stood tight-lipped as the photographs were taken. Really, the whole morning was proving to be quite insupportable. Firstly there had been the tactlessness of the Prinzels, and now there was this Japanese imposition. It was all too much, and as soon as the Japanese had departed he announced to the Prinzels that he had decided to leave and that he would meet them at lunch. It transpired that they, too, were beginning to find the library oppressive and would welcome some fresh air. So the German party left and soon found itself seated in a pleasant pavement café, with the soft morning sun warm upon their brows and the flags waving in a balmy breeze. There was no more talk of hedgehogs and von Igelfeld decided that he would overlook the earlier, ill-advised remarks of his friends. One did not come to Italy to argue; one came to Italy to allow the soul to bask in the sheer beauty of art and its ennobling possibilities.
Von Igelfeld enjoyed his siesta that day. It had been an exhausting morning in one way or another, and when they returned to the hotel after lunch he felt disinclined to do anything but sleep. He woke up shortly after four and read for three hours or so before venturing out for a short walk. He was due to meet the Prinzels for dinner at eight, in a restaurant which had been recommended to them by the hotel manager, and he decided to spend the hour until then wandering about the back alleys of the t
own. This was a time when people were quite lively, preparing for their evening meal, gossiping with one another, performing the final chores of the day.
He was walking up a narrow street – too narrow for cars, but wide enough for the occasional hurtling moped – when he felt a tug at his sleeve. He turned round sharply and saw the Patriarch standing behind him.
‘Professor von Igelfeld,’ said the priest. ‘I hoped that it was you.’
Von Igelfeld greeted him courteously. Was he enjoying the evening? he asked. And how was the Duke? Had he seen him?
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said the Patriarch quickly. ‘Wonderful evening. The Duke is in good spirits. I saw him this morning.’
Von Igelfeld waited for something more to be said, but the Patriarch merely looked over his shoulder furtively. Then he turned round and tugged at von Igelfeld’s sleeve again.
‘Could we please talk for a moment?’ he asked. ‘There is a little courtyard here on the right. It is always deserted.’
Intrigued, von Igelfeld followed as the Patriarch led him into the dusty, disused courtyard. The Patriarch still seemed anxious and only when they had crossed to the farther side of the courtyard did he begin to talk.
‘Professor von Igelfeld,’ he began. ‘I should like to ask a favour of you. I need your help. Indeed, the whole Church needs your help.’
For a moment, von Igelfeld was at a loss as to what to say. ‘But I don’t see how I can help the Church . . . ’
The Patriarch brushed aside the objection. ‘You can help in a way which is small, but which is also big. Small and big.’
The Patriarch had something tucked under his cassock, which he now took out and held before him. Von Igelfeld saw a small, candy-striped box, with a domed-top, the corners of which were lined with brass fittings.
‘This reliquary,’ said the Patriarch, ‘contains relics of the very greatest significance for the Church. Inside this box there rest the bones of St Nicholas of Myra. They are the object of the most particular reverence in the Coptic Church.’
Von Igelfeld looked at the box in astonishment. He knew that St Nicholas, the Bishop of Myra in Turkey in the fourth century, was the original model for none other than the St Nicholas, or Santa Claus, of popular legend. These, then, were the bones of Father Christmas.
The Patriarch now held the box out towards von Igelfeld.
‘I want you to look after these for me,’ he said. ‘There are schismatics in the Church who would dearly love to seize them and use them to sow dissension. While they are with me, they are in danger. If you take them, I can recover them from you at some time in the future. It will not be long. You said you were going to Rome for a month. I could get them back from you while you are there. By then, the danger will have passed.’
Von Igelfeld felt the box being thrust into his hands. ‘But why have you chosen me?’ he stuttered. ‘We have only met once.’
The Patriarch looked up at him and gave a rare smile. ‘I can tell that you are a man of integrity. I can entrust these to you in the confident expectation that you will not let me down.’
Von Igelfeld looked at the box again.
‘You may open it, if you wish,’ said the Patriarch. ‘But please don’t lose the bones. Without them, my Church is bereft and my own position is considerably weakened.’
‘I shall do my best,’ said von Igelfeld.
‘Thank you,’ said the Patriarch. ‘Now I must tell you where I shall be in Rome and you must tell me where you shall be. But please do not attempt to contact me. Nor, if you come across me in public, must you appear to recognise me. Rome has ten thousand eyes and there are many there who would wish to weaken our cause.’ He paused, fixing von Igelfeld with that disconcerting, mournful stare. ‘Do I have your agreement?’
It seemed to von Igelfeld as if there was no alternative. There was an air of such sadness about the Patriarch that it would have been churlish to decline to help him. And besides, it was a small thing to look after a reliquary. It could be tucked into his suitcase and left there until reclaimed. That was very little to ask when so much was at stake.
‘I shall do my best,’ he whispered, unconsciously mimicking the Patriarch’s conspiratorial air. ‘The bones will be safe with me.’
The Patriarch bowed his head. ‘You are a good man, Professor von Igelfeld,’ he said. ‘May the protection of St Nicholas himself be with you now and in the days to come.’
And with that he slipped away, leaving von Igelfeld standing in the tiny, dark courtyard with the holy striped box nestling in his hands and a hammering within his breast. There were still so many questions to be asked, but there would be time enough for that in the future. Von Igelfeld’s immediate task was to stride back to the hotel through the streets of Siena, the box tucked under his jacket. If there were schismatics abroad, even in the heart of Siena, then it would be advisable to have the box safely locked up in his hotel room, away from prying eyes.
They left Siena early the following day, following an indirect, winding route down towards Rome. Von Igelfeld had not mentioned the encounter with the Patriarch, nor had he revealed to the Prinzels the contents of the small overnight bag which he had placed on the seat beside him. Prinzel had attempted to load the bag with the rest of the luggage, but von Igelfeld had resisted.
‘That would be safer beside me,’ he had said.
Prinzel gave his colleague a sideways look. ‘Are you carrying a fortune with you?’ he had joked. ‘Gold bars perhaps?’
Von Igelfeld had ignored the cheap dig. It gave him some pleasure to imagine that he could offer the Prinzels a prize of any amount – thousands and thousands – to guess the contents of his bag and they would never arrive at the truth. It was, quite simply, an unguessable secret.
And when they stopped for lunch, as they did in a small village at the foot of a hill, von Igelfeld took the bag with him from the car and tucked it away carefully under his chair. Seeing him place it there, the waiter had come forward and sought to take it from him.
‘Allow me to put this in the cloakroom, signore,’ said the waiter. ‘It will be quite safe there.’
‘No thank you,’ said von Igelfeld firmly. ‘I would prefer to have it with me.’
‘As signore wishes,’ said the waiter sulkily, looking suspiciously at the bag. ‘I was only trying to help.’
‘Thank you,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘There are important contents in that bag. That is all.’
‘Important contents?’ said Prinzel. ‘What have you got in there, Herr von Igelfeld? You weren’t so protective of it when we left Germany.’
‘No,’ said Ophelia. ‘And I couldn’t help but notice how light it was when we left. Now it is quite a bit heavier. You must have acquired something in Siena.’
Von Igelfeld glared at Ophelia. It was none of her business what he put in his bags. Did he ask her what she had in her luggage? It was a very intrusive thing to do and he was surprised that the Prinzels knew no better.
‘Well?’ said Prinzel, as he looked at the menu. ‘Well?’
‘There is something of purely personal value,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Something I do not wish to discuss.’
‘Oh,’ said Ophelia. ‘I’m sorry. We have been very tactless. It just seems so strange that you should be so protective of that bag and not tell us what is in it. After all, if I had an important bag I should not be so unkind as to make everybody wonder what was in it.’
‘No,’ said Prinzel. ‘She would not. And nor would I. If you came up to me and said: “What’s in your bag?” I would give a civil reply. I would not play some ridiculous game of cat and mouse. I would come straight out and tell you.’
Von Igelfeld stared at the menu. He was again being subjected to intolerable pressure, just as he had been in the museum when they had argued about the significance of hedgehogs. It was as if they were setting out to goad him.
He took a deep breath. It was important not to lose one’s calm in circumstances of this sort.
‘There i
s a secret in this bag,’ he said quietly. ‘You would never imagine – not even in your wildest dreams – how important are the contents of my bag. I have given my word that what is in this bag will not be revealed to others. So please allow me to keep to that undertaking.’
‘Oh,’ said Ophelia. ‘So what is in the bag does not belong to you. You must be carrying it for somebody else.’
‘Yes,’ said von Igelfeld coldly. ‘You could say that.’
The waiter, who had been standing behind von Igelfeld’s chair during this exchange, now joined in.
‘I wonder if it’s anything illegal,’ he said. ‘If it’s so secret, it could be contraband. Are you sure that you aren’t being used as some sort of courier? For a terrorist group, perhaps? In which case, I would look out if I were you. The Carabinieri are always prowling around, looking in other people’s bags. It would be best if you told us what was in it and we could advise you.’
‘Yes,’ said Prinzel. ‘That would be far better.’
Von Igelfeld twisted in his seat to fix the waiter with his most discouraging stare.
‘I am surprised that you should think it your business to enquire as to what your guests have in their bags,’ he said icily.
The waiter pouted. ‘I was only trying to help,’ he said. ‘You Germans think you can carry all sorts of bags around in Italy. Well you can’t.’
Prinzel now rose to von Igelfeld’s defence. ‘It’s none of your business,’ he said abruptly. ‘What is in this bag is between our colleague here and ourselves. It does not concern you in the slightest.’
‘You brought the subject up,’ said the waiter. ‘If this tall gentleman gets himself arrested, then don’t say that I didn’t try to help.’
The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs Page 6