Unusual Uses for Olive Oil

An Intriguing Meeting




It was only a few days after von Igelfeld’s return from Berlin that the issue of marriage was raised in the Institute’s coffee room. At the end of the discussion nobody was quite sure who had been first to mention the matter; it might have been Professor Dr Dr Florianus Prinzel, or it might have been Unterholzer – von Igelfeld was later unable to recall exactly who had started the debate. He did know, however, that it was not the Librarian, Herr Huber, whose wandering conversation was entirely reactive, and never introduced a new or challenging topic.

And marriage was a challenging topic as far as von Igelfeld was concerned. As a young man, still a student, he had had the occasional girlfriend, but these relationships had never got anywhere very much, as the young women in question rapidly tired of von Igelfeld’s single-minded devotion to scholarship, his tendency to divert any conversation to linguistics, and his utter lack of any sense of romance. You’re a very nice boy, Moritz-Maria, one of these girlfriends had written in her parting letter, but do you really think that girls are interested in hearing about Portuguese verbs, or whatever it is you spend all your time thinking about? If you do, then for your own sake I must tell you that you really don’t understand how we think. Sorry to be so frank, but you really need to know: Portuguese verbs are not romantic!

Von Igelfeld had been puzzled by this letter. He did not mind the rejection so much – his feelings towards the writer of the letter had been barely lukewarm – but he wondered why she should at one and the same time be terminating the relationship as well as describing him as very nice. If she liked him, then why was she ending things? And how could she speak for all girls and say that they were not interested in philology? How did she know that? Then, finally, there was the terrible howler at the end: Portuguese verbs are not romantic. That was terribly funny, unintentionally, of course. Portuguese was a Romance language, everybody knew, which meant if there was one thing that Portuguese verbs were, it was romantic! Silly girl!

Much later, it had occurred to him that marriage would be a desirable state, and he had decided to make an effort to get to know better his dentist, the charming and attractive Dr Lisbetta von Brautheim. To this end he had presented her with a copy of Portuguese Irregular Verbs, which he subsequently discovered she was using to stand on while operating her dental drill, as the bulky book was just the right height in relation to her supine patients. His feelings might have been hurt by this, had not a far greater cause for offence soon presented itself. This arose after he had recommended her to Unterholzer, who needed to see a dentist about a worrisome crown. The encounter had been both professionally and socially productive, as Unterholzer later revealed that he had seen Dr von Brautheim for lunch. It was by then hardly appropriate for von Igelfeld to renew his own invitation for lunch, for Unterholzer had proposed and, mirabile dictu, been accepted.

Von Igelfeld tried to put a brave face on this disappointment, but it was hard. With both Florianus Prinzel and Detlev Amadeus Unterholzer married, he was the only one of the three professors of the Institute who was single. Herr Huber, of course, had never been married and von Igelfeld considered it inconceivable that anybody would ever wish to marry him, but the Librarian was a special case, and was not really counted for most Institute purposes. The difficulty for von Igelfeld was that marriage, it seemed to him, was an impossibly complicated matter. If it were a simple process – on a par with, say, obtaining a passport or answering a call to a university chair – then he would have felt quite up to it. But there was the whole business of asking somebody to marry one, and how on earth was that done? Will you marry me, although an unambiguous enough question, none the less seemed rather abrupt and could always elicit the simple answer no, which would be devastating. And when exactly did one make the proposal? He had read that this could be done over dinner, but it was not specified at what stage of the dinner it was appropriate to pop the question. Did one have to do it before coffee, or was it better to get round to the subject at the coffee stage of the meal? What if the restaurant were noisy, as so many restaurants were, and the question was not heard at all?

But most daunting of all was the task of meeting somebody suitable. Von Igelfeld’s life, revolving as it did around the Institute and its affairs, rarely brought him into contact with suitable, unmarried women. It was true that some of the women staff were single, but they tended to be rather younger than von Igelfeld and he was realistic enough to understand that these young women would hardly be attracted by a man in his late forties, even if he prided himself on carrying no extra flesh and being attractively tall. He had heard that women liked tall men, and in that respect at least he would be a good catch, but height alone would never carry the day with these young secretaries, with all their giggling and their fascination with the glittery world of popular magazines. And of course they had very little in common in terms of intellectual interests, of which, he believed, they had none at all.

He briefly considered Herr Huber’s assistant, a woman in her early thirties, whom he believed to be unmarried. But when he got to know her better, through her occasional appearances in the coffee room, he realised that some of the Librarian’s worst traits had rubbed off on her and he did not think that he could tolerate for any length of time her rambling conversation on matters of very little interest. For the rest, there were few opportunities. There was the odd social occasion, including, now and then, dinner parties, but everybody at these functions appeared to be married or to have other existing arrangements. It sometimes seemed to von Igelfeld that he, alone, was alone.

The conversation about marriage – whoever started it – got on to the topic of the advantages of cooking for two.

‘It’s much cheaper,’ said Prinzel. ‘Indeed, we usually cater for six, and then freeze the remaining four portions for use at a later date. It is called an economy of scale, I believe.’

‘How very interesting,’ said Herr Huber. ‘The chef at the nursing home – the one my aunt is in – was telling me that he has to cater for forty-two and—’

‘Yes, yes, Herr Huber,’ said Unterholzer. ‘The real point is that there is no difference – in labour terms – between making one portion or two. They both take exactly the same time. Another argument in favour of the married state!’

Unterholzer threw von Igelfeld a glance at this stage, which von Igelfeld returned icily.

‘How interesting,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘At the same time, one must not forget that cooking for two reduces one’s culinary choices by exactly fifty per cent.’

There was a silence while this remark was digested. Prinzel looked particularly puzzled. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘I really don’t see …’

‘Nor do I,’ snapped Unterholzer.

Von Igelfeld smiled. ‘A moment’s thought will confirm the truth of what I’ve said. Any two people will naturally like different things. If, therefore, there are, shall we say, twenty available recipes, we may assume that person A will like ten and person B will like ten. These preferences will be different, because people have different tastes. So there will probably only be ten that will be accepted by both people. Some of these will not be the first choice of both. Each person will therefore probably only get five courses that he really likes. That restricts choice by fifty per cent.’

There was a further silence, eventually broken by the Librarian. ‘My aunt cannot abide spinach. If she has spinach—’

He did not finish. ‘I don’t see that at all,’ interjected Unterholzer.

‘Oh, I assure you, Herr Unterholzer, she has never been able to eat—’

Unterholzer ignored the Librarian and addressed von Igelfeld again. ‘A single person would like ten of the twenty, you say? Well then, if he is sharing with somebody else they’re surely going to find ten that they both like, or can eat. So in each case he’s having ten. That’s not less choice – it’s the same.’

Von Igelfeld smiled. Unterholzer was just not getting the point. Prinzel, who was also puzzled, now steered the conversation back to marriage. ‘There are many shared moments in a marriage,’ he said. ‘That is one thing you discover when you marry.’

‘But, forgive me, Herr Prinzel,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Forgive me for pointing out that surely most people would know that before they get married. Spending time together, I would have thought, is a fundamental feature of marriage – something that everybody knows.’

‘There is knowledge and knowledge,’ interjected Unterholzer. ‘You may think that you know something and then you discover that you didn’t really know it – not in the full sense. So …’ and here he glanced at von Igelfeld, ‘so unmarried people – those whom nobody has ever wanted to marry …’ and he looked at von Igelfeld again, ‘those people, with all due respect to them, may be ignorant of some of the more subtle implications of the married state. That is my view, for what it is worth.’

Von Igelfeld bit his lip. It was quite intolerable to have to sit and be condescended to by Unterholzer, of all people. He knew that he should have maintained a dignified silence, but he just could not let this pass. ‘Many unmarried people are unmarried by choice,’ he said. ‘They are often rather more discerning people: people who are not afraid of their own company. Not always, of course – but often.’

‘I’m not sure about that, Herr von Igelfeld,’ Unterholzer replied. He was about to continue, but the Librarian had something to add.

‘My aunt never married,’ he said.


It had been a very unsatisfactory conversation from von Igelfeld’s point of view. He could discount anything that the Librarian said, of course, as Herr Huber had very little knowledge of the world. He knew something about book classification and paper conservation, perhaps, and he appeared to have some arcane – and entirely useless – knowledge of the ins and outs of nursing homes, but when it came to any other topic, including marriage, he was not to be taken at all seriously. Unterholzer could also be ignored most of the time, even if it was important to listen to what he had to say if only to refute it. He was married, of course, but von Igelfeld was very doubtful as to whether his colleague had learned very much from that experience. So he, too, could be safely discounted. But then it came to Prinzel, and here was a fish of an entirely different stripe. Von Igelfeld admired Prinzel, and had done so since their student days, when he had accorded to Prinzel that devotion that the scholar-poet classically gives the hero-athlete. Prinzel knew about women, who had flocked to him even in their student days, and if anybody were going to influence von Igelfeld’s view of marriage, it would be Prinzel.

It was significant, then, that Prinzel should have sauntered into von Igelfeld’s office later that day and taken up the theme of the coffee room conversation. ‘Interesting remarks were made this morning,’ he said, as he walked over to gaze out of von Igelfeld’s window. He often did this, and von Igelfeld tolerated it. Unterholzer, by contrast, was never allowed to look out of that window and was always sharply censured if he did so. ‘I do not mind your admiring my view, Herr Unterholzer,’ von Igelfeld had said. ‘But I would prefer you to ask permission before you do so. It is only common courtesy, I believe.’

Unterholzer had snorted. ‘I did not think that a view is a private thing, Professor von Igelfeld,’ he had said. ‘Perhaps you will feel the need to correct me, but I must point out that the trees and hills at which I am looking do not belong to you. And if they do not belong to you, then I fail to see why I should ask your permission to contemplate them.’ He threw a challenging glance at von Igelfeld, before adding, ‘Or perhaps I’m missing something?’

Von Igelfeld had been unable to answer this, and had been obliged to get up from his desk and draw the blind, so that Unterholzer could not continue to look at the view uninvited. ‘Forgive me, Herr Unterholzer,’ he said. ‘But I find the sunlight a little bit fierce, and, as I’m sure you will agree, it is disconcerting to be blinded by light when one is trying to get on with one’s work.’

Prinzel, of course, needed no such direct reprimands. He could look at the view as much as he liked, as far as von Igelfeld was concerned. Indeed, he would happily provide him with a chair at the window so that he could enjoy the view in comfort, if that proved to be necessary.

‘Yes,’ mused Prinzel. ‘There is no doubt but that marriage is a fascinating subject.’ He paused. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘Of course,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I am aware of that. I am proposing to read a bit more about it. I believe that Montaigne has something to say on it.’

Prinzel raised an eyebrow. ‘Montaigne was the sort who would have something to say on … the physical side of marriage. But that is not the issue. The real issue is the pleasure that marriage brings in the domestic sense. I cannot tell you how comfortable it is not to have to iron one’s shirts.’

Von Igelfeld glanced at Prinzel’s shirt, which was beautifully neat and smooth, with razor-like creases down the sleeves. Then he looked down at his own shirt, which was so badly looked after by his Polish housekeeper, who was becoming distinctly slipshod in her attention to his clothes.

‘You would perhaps benefit from that sort of attention,’ said Prinzel.

‘Perhaps,’ said von Igelfeld.

‘And then there are the delights of the table,’ went on Prinzel. ‘Did I tell you what I had for dinner last night? No? Coquilles St Jacques, followed by a very fine piece of Swiss beef. How about that?’

Von Igelfeld looked up at the ceiling. He had enjoyed a heated-up can of soup and a cellophane-wrapped sandwich that he had bought from a small shop round the corner. ‘Very tasty, no doubt,’ he said. ‘Of course, there is a restaurant nearby that does that sort of thing. I sometimes go there.’

‘But imagine having it in your own home,’ said Prinzel. ‘It always tastes so much better than in a restaurant. And restaurants are always full of rather lonely people, I find. It’s often very melancholy.’

Von Igelfeld said nothing. Prinzel did not intend to offend, but it was clear that von Igelfeld was one of these lonely people who could be encountered in restaurants. He was not lonely, of course; he had the Zeitschrift to keep him company and there were always new articles to read, but it was also undeniably true that when he went to restaurants he usually sat by himself. In fact, he always sat by himself, apart from one occasion when somebody had been put at his table because of a lack of a place elsewhere. That had been an interesting experience, with von Igelfeld snatching the opportunity to glance at his fellow diner from time to time and speculating mentally as to where he came from and what he did. He was a respectable-looking man with a pleasant, prosperous air to him, and von Igelfeld would have rather enjoyed a conversation with him – had they been introduced to one another, which they had not.

He looked at Prinzel; he would have to allay his friend’s concerns. ‘I am quite satisfied with my domestic arrangements, Herr Prinzel,’ he began. ‘You will have observed, I think, that I am not wasting away. I do not think, therefore, that you need concern yourself about whether I am getting enough to eat. But thank you, none the less, for your interest in this matter.’

Prinzel continued to look out of the window. ‘Yes, Herr von Igelfeld, that is clear. You are not in imminent danger of starvation. Nobody is suggesting that. However …’ He paused, turning round to face von Igelfeld. ‘However, it is true, is it not, that you are not exactly overweight. In fact, you are thin. And it is also true that your clothes …’

Von Igelfeld waited for Prinzel to continue. Prinzel, in his view, was in no position to criticise his clothes. He himself liked wearing a completely unsuitable fawn-coloured waistcoat that von Igelfeld had long wanted to discuss with him. Perhaps this would be his opportunity.

‘Yes, my clothes, Herr Prinzel? I am interested to hear about my clothes. It is always useful to get the advice of one whose own sartorial expertise is so clearly of such a high standard. Your waistcoat, for instance—’

He did not have the chance to finish. ‘There is nothing wrong with your clothes,’ Prinzel continued hurriedly. ‘When other people attack them, I never hesitate to defend your wardrobe.’

Von Igelfeld’s eyes narrowed. Why, he wondered, should others attack his clothes? It was not a comfortable discovery to make – to find out that there were people, unnamed people, who were in the habit of singling out one’s clothes for adverse comment.

‘Who are these people?’ he asked.

Prinzel waved a hand towards the window, as if to take in the entire population of central and eastern Bavaria. ‘Oh, there are many of them. People of no consequence, no doubt. I cannot list them all at present; they are too numerous.’ He looked at von Igelfeld almost apologetically. ‘But it is not your clothes that I wish to discuss. That would be very rude. Nobody likes to hear their clothes described as fit only for a second-hand shop or for distribution to the less fortunate members of society. Nobody likes that sort of comment, do they? No, it is not your clothes I wish to talk about, it is rather a very direct question which my wife asked me to raise.’

Von Igelfeld waited. He liked Ophelia Prinzel. He liked Prinzel, too, and it was only for this reason that he was putting up with this increasingly trying personal conversation. Had it been Unterholzer raising such issues, the outcome would certainly have been quite different. The niceties would have been observed, of course – they always were – but Unterholzer would have been left in no doubt at all about the inappropriateness of what was being said.

‘This question, Herr Prinzel: I am most interested to hear it. Has it anything to do, I wonder, with the work of the Institute?’

Prinzel shook his head. ‘Oh, no, it has nothing to do with that.’

‘Well then?’

Prinzel looked embarrassed. ‘It is not a question that I would normally ask of anybody. In my view, such matters are strictly private. But you know how women are.’

Von Igelfeld nodded, which surprised Prinzel. He does not know that, he thought. He knows nothing about that subject, poor Moritz-Maria.

‘Of course you do,’ said Prinzel. ‘Well, my wife, Frau Prinzel—’

‘I am well aware of her name,’ interjected von Igelfeld. ‘I would not expect your wife to be called Frau Unterholzer, would I?’

They both smiled at the joke, which went some way towards dissipating the tension that had grown up through this conversation.

‘Of course not,’ said Prinzel. ‘It would be very strange if I went round saying to people, “This is my wife, Frau Unterholzer.” That would be very strange indeed!’

Von Igelfeld laughed. It was a very good joke, and he felt proud of having made it in the first place. Prinzel had a good sense of humour, he thought, but rarely managed to originate a comment as amusing as this.

‘Or indeed if I introduced her as Frau von Igelfeld!’ continued Prinzel.

Von Igelfeld’s smile faded. ‘But there is no Frau von Igelfeld,’ he said. ‘I do not think, therefore, it would be at all amusing to make such a ridiculous mistake.’

Prinzel agreed. ‘No, you are right. I was merely thinking of another example of the same thing.’

‘An impossible example,’ said von Igelfeld.

Prinzel nodded. ‘Quite.’ He drew himself up. He was every bit as tall as von Igelfeld and his bearing was still almost as impressive as it had been when they were students in Heidelberg and he had cut a dashing figure in the Korps. ‘Quite,’ he repeated. ‘Now, this question that my wife suggested I should ask. It is quite a simple question, but please, do not feel under any compulsion to answer it. You are perfectly free to claim what our American cousins call the Fifth Amendment and to say nothing.’

‘I have no cousins in America,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Do you, Herr Prinzel?’

Prinzel shook his head. ‘Not as far as I am aware. It is a figure of speech.’

‘And a very misleading one,’ snapped von Igelfeld. ‘It could cause considerable confusion if people thought that there were all these cousins in America, when in reality there are not.’

‘Of course; of course. But this question … What my wife wished to know is whether she could possibly introduce you to a lady of her acquaintance. That is what she wanted to know.’

Von Igelfeld frowned. ‘Why?’ he asked.

Prinzel looked at his friend. He was not making it easy. ‘This lady has only recently come to Regensburg,’ he explained. ‘She is from Stuttgart, I believe, and she does not know many people here in Regensburg.’

‘Then why did she come?’ asked von Igelfeld. ‘If you are from Stuttgart, where you know many people, is it wise to come to Regensburg, where you know nobody?’

‘She was left a house here,’ said Prinzel. ‘Her cousin was a bachelor and she is his heir. He was the Graf Hauptdorf. Hauptdorf und Praxis, to give him his full title.’

Von Igelfeld sat quite still. He had seen the Graf’s obituary in the newspapers, and had been reminded of a visit he had paid to the house itself, which was often open to the public. ‘The Schloss Dunkelberg? He left that to her?’

Prinzel nodded. ‘It is a very fine house, as you know. And so she thought that it would be best to leave Stuttgart and come over here to look after the place. It has extensive grounds, as you are no doubt aware.’

‘They are very fine,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘And the house itself is of more than mere passing architectural interest.’ He paused. ‘How did Frau Prinzel meet this lady?’

‘They found themselves seated next to one another at a bridge class,’ said Prinzel. ‘It is a class for complete beginners that my wife has joined.’

Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘Bridge is a very suitable game for ladies,’ he said. ‘One would not want one’s wife to be taking up some more dangerous sport – such as motor-racing, Herr Prinzel.’

‘There is no danger of that,’ said Prinzel. ‘My wife cannot drive, you see.’

‘Then she is unlikely to take up motor-racing,’ agreed von Igelfeld. ‘But to return to this lady – I would be perfectly happy to meet her, if Frau Prinzel would care to arrange an introduction. I will be able to show her round Regensburg, perhaps.’

‘That is precisely what my wife thought you might do,’ said Prinzel.

Von Igelfeld hesitated. ‘And her husband too, if he would care to come.’

Prinzel shook his head. ‘But there is no husband, Herr von Igelfeld. This unfortunate lady lost her husband at least ten years ago, I’m told. He was an industrialist. Herr Benz. The late Herr Friedrich-Martin Benz.’

‘Oh yes?’ said von Igelfeld. ‘And what did this Herr Benz make?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Prinzel.

‘They are very energetic people, these industrialists. They are always making something. I have never heard of the late Herr Benz, but no doubt he made many things.’

Prinzel laughed. ‘He must have been very busy.’

The conversation concluded at that. Prinzel said that they would give von Igelfeld several dates for a possible dinner and he could choose one that fitted with his social commitments. Von Igelfeld thought about this for a moment: he had no social commitments, as far as he knew, but it would not do to make Prinzel aware of that. ‘I’m sure that we shall find a suitable date,’ he said. ‘We might have to wait a few weeks, but we shall certainly find one.’

‘Good,’ said Prinzel. ‘And my wife will no doubt make us all a very tasty meal. Do you know, by the way, what we are having tonight? Venison stew. I have always liked venison, Herr von Igelfeld. Do you like it?’

Von Igelfeld shrugged. He could not remember when he had last eaten venison. It had tasted good, though; he was sure of that. ‘Who doesn’t? But I find that one doesn’t want too much of it.’

‘Of course not.’

Prinzel returned to his own office, leaving von Igelfeld to his thoughts. The Schloss Dunkelberg? Interesting. He had gone there with a small group from the local historical society and he had seen that it had a very interesting library. He had thought at the time: the people who own this place obviously never open any of these books – what a waste! Well, what if a place like the Schloss Dunkelberg were to come into the hands of somebody who really appreciated a library of that size and magnificence: what then?

Nothing more was said of the matter over the next few days, and it might have resulted in nothing had it been left to Prinzel and von Igelfeld themselves. But Ophelia Prinzel, once enthused, was not one to lose interest in something quite as entertaining as matchmaking. She had grave doubts as to the suitability of von Igelfeld for anybody, but she was aware that sheer demographic reality meant that there were many women, particularly those, like Frau Benz, in their late forties, who would never find a husband unless they were prepared to scrape the bottom of the barrel. As a result of this, many otherwise unmarriageable men came under scrutiny by women who would be none too fussy in their assessments. She had a close friend who had, in fact, recently settled for a man who had lost several limbs and an ear in a series of accidents. ‘He is admittedly not complete,’ the friend had said. ‘But when there are so few men available, what choice do we women have? Half a man is surely better than no man at all, would you not say?’ Although this argument might at first have appeared less than compelling, sober reflection revealed it to be a good one, and such reflection, Ophelia felt, might also boost the case for Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld. Granted that he was an impossibly dusty scholar; granted that he was completely set in his ways; granted that he had not the slightest idea of how women thought and behaved; in spite of all of that, he was none the less a man, and a tall and rather distinguished-looking one into the bargain. With a little attention to his clothing, he might pass muster as a very suitable escort for an outing to the opera or a trip on the Rhine. And the rest, surely, could be worked upon; for von Igelfeld could be considered a project, in the same way as one considered an old house or a dilapidated vintage car as a project.

As for Frau Benz, Ophelia thought that there was very little wrong with her. She was a fairly large woman, it had to be admitted, but this gave her an undoubted presence. She was clearly generous, too, as she had on more than one occasion met Ophelia for coffee and cakes in the Café Florian and insisted on paying the bill.

‘Herr Benz left me very comfortably provided for,’ she said. ‘Dear man! He remarked once, “My own memory may fade when I am no longer here, but I shall do all I can to ensure that the memory of my money lingers on.” Coffee and cakes are well within the budget!’

She had frequently spoken of her late husband, and his interests. ‘He was a very active man,’ she said. ‘He loved gardening, riding, flying, carpentry, painting … There were few things Herr Benz could not do.’

‘How useful,’ said Ophelia. ‘Such men are few and far between.’

‘Indeed. Do you know, we never needed to employ a workman to fix anything. My husband would roll up his sleeves and tackle any task that arose. He would not rest until whatever it was that needed to be fixed was fixed.’

‘There must have been many women,’ mused Ophelia, ‘who would have loved to marry Herr Benz. You were very fortunate.’

This compliment was acknowledged with gratitude. ‘You would have liked Herr Benz, Frau Professor Prinzel. And I fear that I shall never find another man who is his equal.’

‘If one turned up, though,’ said Ophelia, ‘I take it that you would be pleased?’

Frau Benz thought for a moment. Then she smiled coyly. ‘Such a man could be a delightful companion.’

This exchange, and a number of others like it, planted the idea in Ophelia Prinzel’s head that were she to come across a suitable man, she should try to introduce that man to Frau Benz. And why not? There is a natural tendency on the part of those who are happily married to assume that those who are not should be similarly placed. And yet this tendency is usually confronted with a marked dearth of available men. In this case, a mental inventory of single men known to the Prinzels resulted in only two names: Herr Huber, the Librarian at the Institute, and Professor Dr Dr von Igelfeld. Herr Huber was impossible, of course, and could be completely ruled out in any circumstances, for any woman, no matter how desperate, and so attention shifted to von Igelfeld, who was also largely impossible, but perhaps not quite so much a lost cause as the unfortunate Herr Huber.

The arrangement of the introduction proved easier than she had imagined. It transpired that neither von Igelfeld nor Frau Benz was occupied on a particular Friday evening two weeks hence. An invitation to dinner was extended, and accepted. Frau Benz, of course, was not told what the purpose of the evening was. ‘We are giving a very small dinner party,’ said Ophelia. ‘Our table, alas, is not large. There will be only two guests.’

‘A large table is no guarantee of a pleasant evening,’ said Frau Benz. ‘The most charming dinner parties I have been to have been very small affairs. Intime is best, I think.’

Von Igelfeld was aware of the purpose of the evening, and felt a certain excitement in the prospect of meeting the new owner of the Schloss Dunkelberg. There was a large illustrated history of the house published by a local publisher, and he obtained a copy and made a point of reading it before the evening took place. It was a very badly written history, in his view, with a very small number of footnotes, but at least it would give him plenty to talk about with Frau Benz and he would be able to keep up with her should she mention – as he thought she well might – the extensions that were built in the late eighteenth century.

He also took great care in the choosing of his clothes for the evening. Ophelia Prinzel had said that it would not be formal, but this did not mean, of course, that all formality would be thrown to the winds. Von Igelfeld was aware that there were those who did not wear a tie to dinner, having been shocked to see a picture in the newspaper of an important dinner in Berlin at which the male guests – or a considerable number of them – did not appear to be wearing ties. He had referred to this in the coffee room one morning and had been further shocked by the response of his colleagues.

‘Lots of people don’t wear ties any more,’ said Unterholzer. ‘It is thought to be more comfortable not to. And why not? Why should people make themselves uncomfortable?’

Von Igelfeld had looked at him with icy disdain. ‘And shirts?’ he said. ‘Are they to be abandoned too? We would undoubtedly be more comfortable without having to bother with things like sleeves and collars, would we not?’

It was an unanswerable objection, a devastating point, but Unterholzer had seemed unmoved. ‘That may be the way we’re going,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we shall eventually see through the need for clothing altogether – other than in the winter, of course. But in summer we can all be children of nature again.’

The conversation had ended there. Von Igelfeld did not feel it wise to encourage Unterholzer in these anarchic, unsettling sentiments, lest his colleague be tempted to start divesting himself of his baggy and badly cut shirt there and then. Children of nature indeed!

And now, standing before his wardrobe, he reached inside and took out his best blue-fleck suit, a suit that he had bought in Cologne fifteen years previously and used only very occasionally – for major family gatherings, such as the seventy-fifth birthday of his uncle, when the entire extant von Igelfeld family – all forty-three members of it, including the Austrian branch – had gathered in Munich for a celebration. The suit had been expensive, made from Scottish tweed, and beautifully tailored. It would be just right, he considered, for an evening such as this; Frau Benz, as the proprietrix of the Schloss Dunkelberg, would undoubtedly appreciate good cloth, and would realise that … well – and he blushed at having to think in these terms – she would realise that he was from the same circle as she was. That was delicately put, he thought. The landed gentry, to whom she belonged thanks to the inheritance of the Schloss Dunkelberg, did not like crude terms such as class – he blushed further; they made the easy assumption that people were either possible or impossible. It was not a judgement based on anything one could put one’s finger on, and it certainly had nothing to do with wealth. A poor man – a man without so much as a bean – could be perfectly possible, while a man of substance might be completely impossible. It was impossible to say how possibility – and impossibility – came about. Impossible. But von Igelfeld was in no doubt that he could not possibly be considered impossible.

He dressed with care and made his way to the Prinzels’ house, arriving at the front door at exactly the time stipulated by Ophelia in her invitation. He knew there were people who arrived for dinner five or ten minutes late, claiming that this was not only fashionable but also considerate towards one’s host or hostess, however von Igelfeld did not subscribe to that view. If people wanted one to arrive at seven thirty-five, he thought, then they would invite one to do so. If they wanted you to arrive at seven thirty, then they would invite you for seven thirty. And the same applied to railways, he reflected. If the railway authorities wanted their trains to leave five minutes late, then they would specify that in the timetable. But they did not.

Prinzel welcomed him at the front door. ‘You’re early,’ he said.

Von Igelfeld pointedly looked at his watch. ‘I don’t believe I am,’ he said. ‘My watch is very accurate, and it says seven thirty precisely. And that I believe is the time for which your wife invited me.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Prinzel. ‘You’re not early, then – you’re prompt. Like Immanuel Kant. He used to go for his walks in Königsberg at the same time each day and the people of the town used to set their watches by him.’

‘That was very good,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Things appear to have deteriorated since then. I imagine that there are very few philosophers today who keep regular hours.’

Ophelia appeared in the hall. ‘You’re early, Moritz-Maria,’ she exclaimed.

Von Igelfeld bowed politely. ‘I am not,’ he said. ‘But if you would prefer it, I can go away and then return again. Some other day perhaps.’

‘No, please don’t do that,’ said Prinzel. ‘Come into the salon while Ophelia finishes with her preparations. Our other guest is yet to arrive. I expect she’ll be here in about ten minutes or so.’

‘About then,’ said Ophelia. ‘That would be normal.’

Prinzel led the way through a corridor to the salon. In this corridor, opposite a coat rack, was a long, ebony-framed mirror, hung on the wall. It was positioned in such a way as to allow one to adjust one’s clothing before setting out, and von Igelfeld could not resist giving his blue-fleck Scottish suit an admiring glance as he walked past. He froze. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the back of his jacket had a hole in it, and through this hole could be seen not only the shirt he was wearing but also the braces that he was using to keep his trousers up. And worse than that – a quick, discreet movement to the jacket revealed that the seat of the trousers was similarly afflicted. Moths, he thought.

‘Everything all right?’ asked Prinzel from the end of the corridor.

Von Igelfeld dragged himself away from the mirror and walked briskly down to where his host was standing. ‘Perfectly all right,’ he said, adding, to cover his dismay, ‘I must say, Herr Prinzel, that you have made a very fine home of this house.’

Prinzel beamed with pleasure. ‘Ophelia has a very good eye for decoration,’ he said. ‘She tells me that when she was a little girl she used to spend many hours decorating and redecorating a large doll’s house that she had. Perhaps her ability stems from those days.’

Von Igelfeld nodded. He was thinking of what he could possibly do to deal with the embarrassing holes that he had discovered. He wondered if he should simply confide in his hosts and ask Ophelia whether she had needle and thread to pull the gaping fabric together. But if he did that, he would have to remove his trousers and hand them over to her to carry out the emergency repairs. And what if Frau Benz arrived and discovered that the other guest had already removed his trousers? She would wonder, surely, what sort of dinner party she had been invited to and, as a respectable widow, would surely leave immediately; unless, of course, Ophelia drew her aside and explained to her the real reason for the removal of the trousers. But then she would think, no doubt, that it was very odd that a guest should come to a dinner party in such a state in the first place. She moved in circles, no doubt, where people did not have holes in their clothes, at least not in Germany; British gentry, of course, regarded it as entirely appropriate and indeed a mark of distinction to have shabby clothing, but then the British were very notably odd about this and most other matters.

‘You’ll have an aperitif, Herr von Igelfeld?’ Prinzel asked. ‘A vermouth perhaps? Or should I offer you a choice between French or German wine? Both are available.’

‘Then I shall have German,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Rhenish, if you have it. The French need no encouragement.’

‘Indeed not,’ agreed Prinzel. ‘There are many people who need no encouragement, and the French are certainly among them.’

Prinzel left the room to fetch the glasses, leaving his guest alone. Looking about him, von Igelfeld searched the room for a possible solution to the problem of the holes in his clothes. He could not expect to find a needle and thread – not in a salon – and anyway, if he did, he had no idea how to use them. Perhaps there would be some sort of paper clip that would do the trick; there was a writing bureau in one corner of the room and that would be an obvious place for such a thing. Moving quickly, he crossed the room, opened the top drawer of the bureau, and rifled through the contents. There were envelopes, letters, a stick of sealing wax – the typical paraphernalia of a writing bureau drawer. There were no paper clips.

‘Are you looking for anything in particular, Herr von Igelfeld?’

Von Igelfeld froze. Then slowly he turned round to see Prinzel standing in the doorway, a glass of wine in each hand. His eyes were fixed on the open drawer.

‘I was looking for a piece of paper,’ said von Igelfeld, slamming the drawer shut as he spoke.

It was clear that Prinzel did not believe him. ‘But why would you need paper, Herr von Igelfeld? Were you thinking of beginning an article for the Zeitschrift perhaps?’

Von Igelfeld laughed nervously. ‘That would be very unusual!’ he joked. ‘One does not normally write an article at a social occasion!’

‘Exactly,’ said Prinzel. ‘So why would one need paper?’

‘I wanted to make a few notes,’ said von Igelfeld. He tried to sound careless, as if taking notes in such circumstances was a matter of the slightest consequence.

Prinzel approached him with his glass of wine. ‘On what?’ he asked.

‘A few lines occurred to me,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘One does not want to let these things escape. Pascal must have had a similar approach with his Pensées, don’t you think? He must have jotted down the pensées as they occurred to him, otherwise he would have forgotten.’

Prinzel passed von Igelfeld his glass. ‘Very commendable,’ he said. ‘So please allow me to find you some paper myself. It’s easier, I think, for me to do it, as I know my way around my own bureau. And I would not want to put you to the trouble of searching through my private papers.’

Von Igelfeld felt himself blushing. ‘I would never wish to read anything private,’ he said. ‘I hope that you didn’t imagine that I …’

‘Of course not,’ said Prinzel. ‘Look, here’s a piece of paper. Please note down your thoughts before our other guest arrives.’

With a certain stiffness, von Igelfeld took the piece of paper that Prinzel offered him.

‘And here’s something to write with,’ added Prinzel, passing a silver propelling pencil to his guest. ‘Please go ahead. We can resume our conversation when you have finished … unless you’re planning to write a whole chapter of notes, that is.’

‘A few lines,’ said von Igelfeld, scribbling casually on the piece of paper. ‘There, that I think will suffice. I find that so many useful thoughts can be lost if one doesn’t jot them down almost immediately.’

‘Or if one is interrupted,’ said Prinzel. ‘Was there not an English poet who was composing an important poem when somebody knocked on the door? Did he not lose his train of thought?’

Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘I believe that was Coleridge. I cannot imagine that the poem was of much value, of course – it would have been a different matter if somebody had knocked on Goethe’s door. Then the world would truly have lost something.’

Prinzel agreed with this sentiment. ‘Indeed, and now is that not the door bell? How fortunate that it should ring only after you have finished writing down your thoughts.’

Von Igelfeld smiled weakly. ‘Indeed. Very fortunate, and fortuitous.’

Left alone for a moment while Prinzel went to join his wife in greeting Frau Benz, von Igelfeld folded the piece of paper and put it in his jacket pocket. Then, after nervously touching the hole in his trousers – it was not all that large, he decided – he chose a position near the fireplace where he could greet Frau Benz without sartorial compromise. It was a good place to stand because if invited to sit, he would be able to walk sideways to a nearby chair and lower himself on to it without displaying either of the holes.

A few minutes later, the new guest was ushered into the salon. Introductions were made, and von Igelfeld bowed formally to Frau Benz.

‘I am most delighted to meet you, Herr von Igelfeld,’ she said. ‘I have heard so much about you from so many people.’

Von Igelfeld smiled. It was no great surprise, of course, that people should know about him; after all, he was the author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs, the definitive treatment of the subject. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘You have read my book, perhaps.’

Frau Benz looked blank. ‘What book?’

Prinzel came to the rescue. ‘Professor Dr Dr von Igelfeld has written a very important book, Frau Benz. It is called Portuguese Irregular Verbs.’

Frau Benz looked interested. ‘Ah yes, I have seen that in the airport.’

‘I do not think so,’ said von Igelfeld.

‘But I have, Herr von Igelfeld,’ protested Frau Benz. ‘They have all those language books for people going off on holiday to places like Portugal. Your book is among them … I’m sure.’

Prinzel laughed politely. ‘Frau Benz is having her little joke,’ he said. ‘They would never sell Professor von Igelfeld’s book at an airport, I’m afraid. It is not what you would call a bestseller.’

Von Igelfeld frowned. ‘There are many libraries that bought it,’ he said defensively.

‘But Florianus is right,’ interjected Ophelia Prinzel. ‘Nobody buys your book, Moritz-Maria. That is not to say that they should not buy it. It’s just that they don’t.’

Frau Benz now made another contribution. ‘There are many good books – very fine books, indeed – that are read by nobody at all. Perhaps Herr von Igelfeld’s book is one of those. They can be very important books, but they are none the less completely ignored. It is undoubtedly very unfair.’

‘But many people—’ von Igelfeld began, only to be interrupted by Prinzel, who reached for a bottle on the table beside him and offered to refresh everybody’s glass.

‘Let us not worry about books, and who’s reading them, or not, as the case may be. I, for one, have read Professor von Igelfeld’s book and greatly enjoyed it.’

‘And I shall read it too,’ added Frau Benz, enthusiastically. ‘When I next go to Portugal, I shall read it before I get on the plane and I’m sure that I shall speak perfect Portuguese by the time we arrive.’

‘You would only be able to say things that required irregular verbs,’ said Ophelia. ‘And that might be difficult. One cannot claim to be really fluent in a language if one knows only the irregular verbs.’

The conversation moved on. Von Igelfeld gave Ophelia Prinzel a couple of reproachful looks for her unwarranted remarks on his book, but she did not appear to notice. It was all very well for her to talk about small sales, he thought, but what book had she ever written? And even to sell one or two copies was better than selling no copies at all – of a non-existent book. Hah! He would tell her that later, if the opportunity arose and the conversation returned to Portuguese Irregular Verbs.

He threw a glance at Frau Benz. She was a large woman, with what his mother had always described as a generous front. She was not tall, and indeed it crossed his mind that close measurement might reveal that she was as wide as she was high – perfectly square, in fact. Her hair, which was blonde, although a curiously faded shade of blonde, had been subjected to waving, and gave her a slightly sporting look, as if she might have spent some time gazing out to sea from the deck of a ship. Her eyes, which seemed somewhat small for her face, were none the less bright – interested eyes, thought von Igelfeld.

They finished their aperitif and went through to the Prinzels’ dining room. As they entered, von Igelfeld noticed Frau Benz cast a glance around the room; well might one, he thought, if one lived, as she did, in the Schloss Dunkelberg. The dining rooms in that palace were immensely long, and it must seem strange to her that people could make do with such modest accommodation as this. Indeed, he wondered whether she might think that the Prinzels’ dining room was in fact a cupboard; presumably there were cupboards in the Schloss Dunkelberg that were every bit as big as this.

Seated opposite Frau Benz, von Igelfeld decided to mention that he had visited her house.

‘I must say, Frau Benz,’ he began, ‘that I find your house very charming. I had occasion to visit it – just as a member of the public. I was most taken with the ceilings.’

Frau Benz seemed pleased with the compliment, even if she took it very much in her stride. When one lives in such a house, von Igelfeld reflected, one must get used to people remarking upon one’s ceilings. ‘They are quite delightful,’ she said. ‘And I do hope that you will come and look at my ceilings again some time. I can give you a personal tour, if you wish.’

‘I would enjoy that very much,’ said von Igelfeld.

‘And you can examine the new one I am currently having painted,’ Frau Benz continued. ‘It portrays a scene that is very dear to my heart.’

‘And what would that be?’ asked Ophelia.

‘The apotheosis of Herr Benz,’ said Frau Benz. ‘My late husband is portrayed being welcomed into the celestial realm by St Peter, who is accompanied by a choir of well-known German personages, including Goethe and Wagner, of course.’

This was greeted with a silence that was eventually broken by von Igelfeld. ‘I am most interested to hear of this project, Frau Benz. And how perceptive of you to discern that the heavenly realms are largely occupied by Germans. That seems to me to be entirely fitting.’

Frau Benz smiled sweetly. ‘Thank you, dear Professor von Igelfeld. It is difficult to be sure about what lies ahead of us on the other side, but I had no difficulty in picturing this particular scene.’

‘I have always imagined that heaven will look rather like Bavaria,’ said Ophelia.

Frau Benz considered this. ‘That is quite probably the case,’ she said.

Prinzel looked doubtful. ‘I do not think that we should extrapolate from what we know,’ he said. ‘If we are likely to find ourselves disembodied, then the actual surroundings of heaven may be similarly disembodied, do you not think?’

‘No,’ said Frau Benz. ‘I’m confident that my artist will capture it perfectly accurately. And I do not believe that Herr Benz has been in any way disembodied since he left us. If anything, I believe that he may have put on weight.’

Ophelia now left the table to fetch the first course of soup. The talk flowed easily, moving lightly from subject to subject. Frau Benz proved to be an easy conversationalist – well informed and witty – and she and von Igelfeld appeared to get on very well. The soup plates were cleared and the next course served, all the while hosts and guests talking animatedly. Then there was cheese and biscuits, accompanied by small cups of strong coffee.

Frau Benz looked at her watch. ‘Time has flown,’ she said.

‘Indeed it has,’ agreed von Igelfeld. ‘And there are so many topics that we have yet to discuss. It is ever thus, I believe.’

Frau Benz reached for the shawl she had hung over the back of her chair. ‘Then we shall have to continue our conversation, Professor von Igelfeld,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you would care to come out to the Schloss Dunkelberg.’

Ophelia looked pointedly at Prinzel, who pretended not to have seen her glance.

‘That would be very agreeable,’ said von Igelfeld.

‘Then shall we meet before too long?’ asked Frau Benz.

Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘That would be very convenient.’

‘And if I might be permitted to mend your clothes,’ Frau Benz went on, ‘I’m a competent seamstress.’

Von Igelfeld blushed. ‘That will not be necessary,’ he muttered. ‘But thank you, Frau Benz.’

Frau Benz was escorted to the door by Ophelia. Prinzel, having said goodbye to her, remained in the dining room with von Igelfeld. ‘There you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘I could have told you, Herr von Igelfeld: you are a gift to eligible widows – a real gift!’

Von Igelfeld looked down at his shoes. ‘Oh, I don’t know …’ he began modestly.

‘And I must say, Herr von Igelfeld,’ went on Prinzel, ‘that was a brilliant stroke – coming in those clothes full of holes! That’s exactly the sort of thing that tugs on the heartstrings of women. They can’t resist the challenge.’

Von Igelfeld stared at his host. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

‘Clever!’ said Prinzel, wagging a finger at his friend. ‘My goodness, Herr von Igelfeld, who would have known what a cunning … Casanova you’ve turned out to be. Who would have guessed?’

‘Oh, I would.’ This was from Ophelia, who had come back into the room after seeing Frau Benz off at the front door. ‘I would certainly have guessed – because it’s almost always the dull and boring ones who have hidden depths. Look behind the dry-as-dust exterior and what do you see? A Lothario! I’ve seen it so often – so often!’