Unusual Uses for Olive Oil

Lunch at

the Schloss Dunkelberg




It would have been easy for von Igelfeld to make much of the invitation he had received to the Schloss Dunkelberg. He did not do this, however, but remained silent on the subject, beyond having a quiet word with the Librarian before morning coffee the following day. Prinzel, it appeared, had already said something to Herr Huber about the previous evening’s dinner, and the Librarian was clearly excited by the subject when von Igelfeld met him in the corridor.

‘So, Herr von Igelfeld,’ he enthused. ‘What is this I hear about your being invited to the Schloss Dunkelberg? What an honour!’

Von Igelfeld made a modest gesture of dismissal. ‘Oh, I don’t know, I really don’t. But how did you hear about this matter, Herr Huber? Did Professor Dr Dr Prinzel …’

‘… tell me? Yes, he did. He said that there appears to be the makings of a close friendship between you and the charming lady who owns the Schloss. And I am very pleased to hear it, I must say.’

Von Igelfeld was secretly gratified. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Herr Huber,’ he said. ‘We are certainly on good terms, but I’m not sure I would describe it as a close friendship. That is, perhaps, going a bit far.’

The Librarian appeared not to have heard him. ‘It will be very pleasant when you are, perhaps, on even closer terms. I take it that we shall be able to call on you at the Schloss?’ He paused. ‘My aunt will be delighted to hear about this. She used to have a book of photographs of the Schloss, taken in the early days of the twentieth century. Not by her, of course, but by a well-known photographer, a certain Herr Noldt, if I remember correctly. You have perhaps heard of him. There is still a family of Noldts that’s active in artistic circles, I believe.’

Von Igelfeld glanced about him. Laying a hand on the Librarian’s sleeve, he addressed him quietly. ‘I have not heard of Herr Noldt, but I shall keep an eye open for that book. However, I must ask you to be discreet about all this, Herr Huber. As you will understand, people like Frau Benz—’

‘Is that her name?’ interrupted the Librarian. ‘It sounds strangely familiar. I wonder if my aunt …’

‘Please, Herr Huber: what I was about to say is that in the circles in which Frau Benz moves, it is not thought to be good form to talk too openly about these personal matters. So I would not want, for example, Professor Dr Unterholzer, for all his many merits, to hear about this … just yet.’

Von Igelfeld was not sure exactly why he wanted to keep his meeting with Frau Benz from Unterholzer. One part of him wanted to boast about it – in order to put Unterholzer in his place. Unterholzer would never receive an invitation to view anybody’s ceiling, let alone so distinguished a ceiling as that which sheltered Frau Benz. It would be satisfying, to say the least, to be able to remind him of that, but somehow to do so struck von Igelfeld as being in some way vaguely dangerous. Unterholzer was quite capable of spoiling anything, and von Igelfeld did not want to risk so delicate a plant as a budding romance by allowing Unterholzer to intrude.

Von Igelfeld had calculated that the Librarian would be flattered by being taken into his confidence, and this proved to be the case. ‘Of course, Herr von Igelfeld,’ said Herr Huber. ‘You and I understand these things perfectly, even if not everybody …’ and here he exchanged a conspiratorial glance with von Igelfeld, ‘even if not everybody does.’

‘Exactly,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘And thank you, Herr Huber. Thank you for your discretion – which, as ever, is much appreciated.’ He paused. There were times when a small scrap of comfort had to be thrown to the Librarian. ‘And tell me, Herr Huber, how is your dear aunt? I must try to visit her some day. Perhaps you and I could make a trip to the nursing home together.’

The Librarian beamed with pleasure. ‘Oh, thank you, Herr von Igelfeld. That would be a very good thing to do. I could introduce you to the new matron, who is from Frankfurt, you’ll be interested to hear, and very charming and well informed.’

Von Igelfeld smiled graciously. ‘That would be very good. But perhaps we should not make any firm arrangements just yet, as I have certain obligations in relation to the Schloss …’

Herr Huber raised a finger to his lips in a gesture of solidarity. ‘Of course,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘There are more important visits for you to make. I understand perfectly.’

They were now at the coffee room door, and von Igelfeld noted with relief that although Prinzel had already arrived, there was no sign of Unterholzer. While the Librarian poured a cup of coffee for both of them, he approached Prinzel. ‘Thank you very much for last evening,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed myself greatly.’

‘So did we, Herr von Igelfeld,’ said Prinzel. ‘And so did Frau Benz, I believe.’

Prinzel made no effort to keep his voice down, and von Igelfeld frowned.

‘Something wrong?’ asked Prinzel.

‘No, there is nothing wrong. It’s just that I would prefer it if you could refrain from mentioning last night to our dear colleague Professor Unterholzer.’ He looked at Prinzel imploringly. This was not a large favour to ask, he felt.

Prinzel shrugged. ‘But I already have,’ he said. ‘I told him earlier this morning that you would be going out to the Schloss Dunkelberg some time soon.’ He looked at von Igelfeld’s expression of dismay. ‘Have I spoken out of turn? I take it that this is not a confidential matter?’

‘I would prefer it not to have been mentioned,’ said von Igelfeld coldly. ‘I wouldn’t take it upon myself to mention your social arrangements to all and sundry.’

‘Why not?’ asked Prinzel. ‘What does it matter who knows what I’m doing? It’s hardly a state secret.’

‘Not in your view,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But not everybody …’

Support now came from an unlikely quarter. ‘Not everybody likes to have their dirty washing done in public,’ said the Librarian, handing a cup of coffee to von Igelfeld and looking defiantly at Prinzel.

‘What’s dirty about this washing?’ countered Prinzel.

The Librarian stood his ground. ‘That is just a metaphor.’ He glanced at von Igelfeld, almost apologetically. ‘I’m not suggesting that Professor von Igelfeld’s washing is dirty, and certainly not dirtier that anybody else’s. But you must remember that there are vulgar people who might wish to make something of his private life. Gossip columnists, for instance.’

Prinzel burst out laughing. ‘I can’t imagine for a moment that any gossip columnists would be the slightest bit interested in what Professor von Igelfeld gets up to, Herr Huber.’

Von Igelfeld looked at Prinzel reproachfully. He could not see why gossip columnists would not be interested. ‘I don’t know,’ he began. ‘There are people who might …’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Prinzel firmly. ‘What any of us does is of no conceivable interest to the people who read these things. They are interested in glamorous people – not in the likes of us. Not even Professor Zimmermann could expect a mention from those people.’

The conversation might have become even more acrimonious had it not been for the arrival of Unterholzer.

‘This sounds very interesting,’ he said breezily, as he helped himself to coffee. ‘Gossip columnists? What about gossip columnists? Have they any interesting titbits for us in the newspapers today? Anything about, shall we say, new romances? Any new and exciting romances involving the chatelaine of a certain Schloss, shall we say?’

The Librarian gasped audibly. This was effrontery on a major scale; no wonder poor Professor von Igelfeld had wanted to keep this information from Unterholzer. But now it appeared that it was too late.

Von Igelfeld glowered at Unterholzer. ‘I’m afraid that none of us is in a position to answer your question, Herr Unterholzer. As you will appreciate, we do not read the sort of newspaper in which such things are speculated upon.’

‘We do not,’ said the Librarian emphatically. ‘Although sometimes when I am at the nursing home – when my aunt is perhaps having a bed-bath and I cannot go into her room for a few minutes – I sit in the waiting room and there are such publications on the table. It is sometimes inevitable that one will see—’

‘Yes, Herr Huber,’ interjected Unterholzer. ‘We all know about that. But what about my question: any romantic news?’

Von Igelfeld did not deign to reply.

‘Oh well,’ said Unterholzer. ‘Let’s hope that those who make new, grand friends won’t forget the rest of us when they get their knees under the table.’

Von Igelfeld glared at his colleague. It was typical of Unterholzer to use such a crude phrase: knees under the table, indeed. He imagined Unterholzer trying to push his own, rather large knees under an elegant, walnut-burr table – the sort of table that one might expect to find in every room in the Schloss Dunkelberg. It was not an edifying picture.

He decided to divert the discussion. ‘Tell us, Herr Huber,’ he began, ‘about this waiting room in the nursing home. Does it face north or south? Or perhaps in some other direction?’

Von Igelfeld saw Unterholzer’s eyes glaze over as the Librarian responded to the question. For the moment the threat had passed, but he would need to be vigilant.

Yet danger can come from an unexpected quarter, and it was while the Librarian was engaged in a long description of the waiting room that Prinzel suddenly interrupted him.

‘Excuse me, Herr Huber,’ he said, holding up a hand to stop the flow. ‘That is all very fascinating but I have something to return to Professor von Igelfeld.’

Von Igelfeld frowned as Prinzel fished in his jacket and took out a folded piece of paper.

‘Last night, Herr von Igelfeld, when you were at our house you dropped this piece of paper. You will recall that it was the paper on which you made some notes.’

Von Igelfeld looked in horror at the piece of paper.

‘It’s so easy,’ Prinzel went on, ‘to let things fall out of one’s pocket – doubly so, if I might say, when one’s suit has so many holes.’

Von Igelfeld said nothing.

‘At first when I found this piece of paper,’ said Prinzel, ‘I had no idea what it was. There are some scribblings on it, but they seem to bear no relationship to any German words. I wondered if perhaps they were in an obscure language that I did not know. There are so many languages and so many scripts, one cannot possibly be on top of them all. What do you think, Herr Unterholzer?’

Prinzel handed the piece of paper to Unterholzer, who examined it eagerly. ‘How interesting,’ he said. ‘I, too, find it difficult to decipher. What is this word here, for example? Hutzzt. That is a fascinating word. Or this one here? Blah-blah? That is very challenging.’

‘Perhaps we should ask Herr von Igelfeld,’ said Prinzel. ‘I assumed that it was in code.’

Von Igelfeld leapt at the opening. ‘That is exactly what it is,’ he said.

Prinzel smiled. ‘But why write in code?’

‘Yes, why?’ echoed Unterholzer. ‘There is no need to write in code – none at all.’

‘I read a book about the encoding machines once,’ said the Librarian. ‘It was by a mathematician who came from—’

‘I’ll tell you why I sometimes make notes in code,’ said von Igelfeld, cutting through the Librarian’s story. ‘It is because there is always a danger that others – those with no authority to do so – will read one’s notes. And that, as you see, sometimes happens.’

This remark was greeted with silence. There was something in von Igelfeld’s tone that indicated that a boundary had been crossed. The silence persisted for the best part of a minute.

‘So, if you’ll forgive me,’ von Igelfeld went on, ‘I shall take my notes – thank you, Herr Prinzel – and return to my room.’

‘Mathematicians are the best code breakers,’ said the Librarian. ‘I have always maintained that.’


Two days later a note arrived from Frau Benz inviting von Igelfeld to have lunch at the Schloss Dunkelberg the following Sunday. ‘Nothing elaborate, I regret,’ she wrote, ‘but if the weather is fine we can eat on the west terrace. Very casual. I am very much looking forward to showing you the ceilings, including the ceiling that is currently being painted. I would welcome your input.’

Von Igelfeld was delighted to receive the invitation, even if slightly puzzled by the final sentence. He was not sure whether he would use the word input himself, and he was not certain quite what was expected of him. Were comments the same thing as input? He could always comment on the ceilings but if Frau Benz was expecting something more, then he felt that he would be unlikely to provide it. Although he was as interested as the next person in art and in questions of architectural design, he would hardly describe himself as an expert in this area. And he had never actually had any input in these matters, or at least not as far as he knew.

Then there were the words very casual to be considered. Did this mean that he was not expected to wear a tie? Or even a jacket? And if one did not wear a jacket, then should one roll one’s sleeves up – a very plebeian practice, von Igelfeld had always felt – or perhaps wear a shirt that had short sleeves. He asked Prinzel, who said, ‘Very casual means what it says. Certainly no tie. And yes, sleeves should be short, if the weather permits, which it looks as if it will.’

Von Igelfeld absorbed this advice. He did not think that he had any short-sleeved shirts, but it occurred to him that it would be a simple matter to cut the sleeves off a long-sleeved shirt. And the same could apply, he believed, if he was expected to wear short trousers, which again he did not possess: a quick snip of scissors to the legs of a pair of long trousers would quickly transform an unsuitable garment into a suitable one.

‘Should I wear short trousers?’ he asked Prinzel. ‘Is that very casual?’

Prinzel thought for a moment. He had never seen von Igelfeld’s legs, but he assumed that he had them, like everybody else. He smiled to himself as he pictured von Igelfeld in short trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. He would look very casual indeed.

‘If the weather permits it,’ he said. ‘Yes, if conditions are right there would be nothing wrong in wearing short trousers to a very casual occasion. Indeed, the rule today, Herr von Igelfeld, is simple. Anything goes. That is the rule, I believe.’


‘Schloss Dunkelberg, please,’ said von Igelfeld to the taxi driver.

The driver looked at him in his rear-view mirror. ‘Not possible,’ he said.

Von Igelfeld stared at the back of the man’s head. Was there something wrong with his car? ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘I believe this is a taxi, and you are a taxi driver, if I’m not mistaken.’

He rather surprised himself with his boldness, and even as he spoke he wondered whether the mistake was possibly his. A few years ago there had been an embarrassing incident in Munich when he had opened the door of a taxi, climbed in, and given his destination to the driver – only to discover that what he thought was a taxi was not one at all, but was the official car of the Land’s chief prosecutor. The prosecutor himself had arrived a few moments later, while his driver was still explaining to von Igelfeld that the car was not a taxi. It had been a deeply embarrassing incident, and von Igelfeld still remembered the looks of condescending amusement he had been given by both driver and prosecutor. It was their fault, of course: the car looked very much like a taxi, and they could hardly complain if innocent members of the public mistook it for one.

Now, as von Igelfeld glared at the back of his head, the driver turned round. ‘Yes, this is a taxi,’ he said. ‘And I’m very happy to take you to your destination. But it cannot be the Schloss Dunkelberg, I’m afraid. This is Sunday, as you may have noticed, and the Schloss is never open on Sundays. That is why I said it was not possible, because it isn’t. See?’

Von Igelfeld found the man’s manner somewhat irritating. ‘I know it’s Sunday,’ he said. ‘And of course I know that the Schloss is not open to the public on Sundays. I, however, am not a member of the public.’

He said this with a flourish. There! That would put this man in his place.

The driver stared at him. ‘You look like one to me,’ he said.

‘I look like what?’

‘Like a member of the public. We’re all members of the public, see. You, me, even the Chancellor. The Pope too, for that matter.’

Von Igelfeld pursed his lips. This was intolerable; one should be able to get into a taxi without becoming involved in a discussion of political and social philosophy.

‘Family,’ he said triumphantly. He did not think before he spoke, and it was perhaps not the best way of describing his role as a guest. But there was something so irritating about the driver that he felt he needed to convey very forcefully his special status in this visit. He was not quite family, of course, but he and Frau Benz had got on very well and there was every chance that in the fullness of time they might progress to first name terms.

‘Ah!’ said the driver. ‘Why didn’t you say so right at the beginning? I thought you were just an ordinary visitor, and I was trying to save you a wasted trip.’

‘Well, there you are,’ said von Igelfeld, sinking back into his seat. ‘That is all settled.’

‘Which entrance?’ asked the driver.

Von Igelfeld thought quickly. He had previously entered the precincts of the Schloss by coach – with the Regensburg Local History Society party – and he had not paid much attention to entrances. Having claimed to be family, though, he could hardly confess ignorance as to how one got into the Schloss. ‘The usual,’ he said.

The driver nodded. ‘All right. I know the private drive well. I do a lot of driving for them, you know. Their own driver goes off on holiday from time to time and I step in for him. I know them all.’

He was looking in his mirror as he spoke, and he probably did not notice von Igelfeld’s sudden stiffening.

‘Oh yes,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘That is very good.’ He paused for a few moments. ‘Yes, very good.’

‘I sometimes take Frau Benz shopping,’ the driver continued. ‘Is she your sister? She sometimes spoke of a brother in Frankfurt. That you?’

Von Igelfeld shook his head. ‘No, that is not me.’

‘What was his name?’ asked the taxi driver. ‘He was a Graf too, wasn’t he?’

Von Igelfeld nodded, and looked out of the window. ‘It has been very dry,’ he observed. ‘I hope it rains. The farmers will need it.’

The taxi driver shook his head. ‘No, they won’t. They’ve had enough. They think it’s been very wet.’

‘I see,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Then I hope that it doesn’t rain. I really hope so.’

‘So are you a cousin, then?’ asked the driver. ‘Are you on Frau Benz’s side or the other one?’

‘It’s very complicated,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘It is a very large family, and some of the members do not know one another, and have never met. That sometimes happens in very large, very formal families.’

‘I see,’ said the driver. ‘Actually, I’d heard that. It’s odd, though, isn’t it? It’s odd that members of the same family have never been introduced to one another.’

‘That is the way it is in some circles,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘That is the way it’s done.’ He paused, before saying with a finality that he hoped would bring the conversation to an end, ‘And it’s not for us to question these things.’

The driver took the hint, and the rest of the trip was passed in silence. Sitting in the back of the car, von Igelfeld allowed himself to reflect on what would happen when he was the master of the Schloss Dunkelberg. He and Frau Benz – Frau von Igelfeld by then, of course – would entertain frequently – and handsomely. They would have a string quartet on call, to play in the north drawing room, and they would dine in the state dining room. He was not sure if there was a state dining room, but if there was not, there shortly would be one. It would be a very impressive room, with pictures of early von Igelfelds lining the walls, interspersed with Flemish tapestry scenes of hunting dogs and the like. And if there were no pictures of early von Igelfelds, that could always be remedied by engaging a suitable portrait painter to imagine what they might have looked like.

The library, of course, would be his redoubt. He would spend the mornings there, perhaps taking coffee on the terrace with Frau von Igelfeld at eleven o’clock. Then he would return to his desk, where he would work on his learned papers, a library table on either side piled high with leather-bound tomes. How agreeable that would be! And he might even do a bit of hunting in the woods surrounding the Schloss, inviting friends from Regensburg to join him – even Herr Huber! That would be highly entertaining: poor Herr Huber dressed in some absurd, ill-fitting set of lederhosen, with one of those odd hunting hats perched on his head! What a priceless image! And he would invite the Unterholzers too – and give them directions to enter by the tradesmen’s entrance! That would be extremely amusing. The Prinzels, of course, would come in by the front drive.

And there would be possibilities for the summer, too, when the Schloss was open to the public. Von Igelfeld would be magnanimous in this respect, and would increase the number of open rooms, allowing visitors to get a glimpse of his study and perhaps even to see him working there. He would get up from his chair and welcome them personally, giving rise to breathless praise afterwards. ‘And did you see how courteous the Graf was when we entered his study? Did you see how he allowed us to touch the leather bindings of those beautiful books? Such a kind man! Of course real aristocrats are like that, aren’t they? They’re not at all standoffish – it’s the jumped-up arrivistes who come over all pompous. Real breeding always shows, you know …’

When they arrived at the Schloss, having swept up the private driveway that circled the elegantly laid out gardens, von Igelfeld paid the driver and they bade each other farewell with the polite reserve of a none-too-successful brief encounter. Von Igelfeld found himself faced by a large doorway that was surmounted by a stone coat of arms. He peered up at the arms – there was an owl, he thought, which was always reassuring. Owls, as symbols of wisdom, were a wiser choice for heraldic purposes than the more usual eagles or other birds of prey. Germany, of course, had an eagle as its symbol, which was not a particularly good idea, in von Igelfeld’s view. A smaller, less aggressive bird might be more appropriate: a sparrow, perhaps, or a robin, neither of which seemed to feature very prominently in heraldry.

There was a bell pull, which he pulled with a sharp tug. It would take a long time, he thought, for a bell to sound in the depths of this great building, and an even longer time, he imagined, before anybody would come to the door. But there was no great delay, and within a very short time he heard a key being turned in the lock and the door opened before him. A small, grey-haired woman greeted him politely.

‘Professor von Igelfeld?’

Von Igelfeld bowed. ‘Yes. I believe that Frau Benz …’

‘Oh, Frau Benz is certainly expecting you. She is very pleased about your visit. It is a great honour.’

Von Igelfeld beamed. The modern world was increasingly casual, and ill-mannered. People took others for granted and paid little attention to status. He did not consider himself immodest – far from it – but he was the author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs, and he was a respected professor of the University of Regensburg, and he did hold several honorary degrees, even if one was only from Belgium and another from an Italian university that had since closed down.

‘The honour,’ he said, ‘is entirely mine.’

The woman smiled as she led him into an entrance hall. It was a room on a comfortable scale, with hunting prints adorning the walls, and a large rack for coats and hats. The only thing singling it out as a room in a Schloss rather than a mere country house was the height of the ceiling, and the elaborate plasterwork cornice that bounded it. And perhaps the carpets too, which were those faded Persian rugs of indeterminate blue that von Igelfeld remembered from boyhood visits to his grandfather’s house; the von Igelfelds did not live on quite this scale, but they need never apologise for the quality of their rugs.

The woman – a housekeeper, von Igelfeld presumed – led him through the hall and into a large drawing room. There, at the other end of the room, was Frau Benz herself, putting the finishing touches to a flower arrangement on a table in the window. She greeted him warmly, beckoning him across the room to admire the floral display.

‘Every one of these flowers is from our own gardens, dear Professor von Igelfeld,’ she said. ‘My gardener has such a marvellous touch with flowers. He is perhaps less accomplished when it comes to vegetables – his heart, you see, is not in it; some gardeners are like that. But flowers are a different matter.’ She paused. ‘Is your own gardener good with flowers?’

Von Igelfeld shook his head. ‘He is not,’ he said.

He did not know why he said this. We sometimes speak without thinking, without meaning to mislead, and this was one such case. He should have admitted that he had no gardener – it is not a difficult thing to say: I have no gardener is not a statement of which anybody should have reason to feel ashamed. But he did not say this, and instead he heard himself say He is not.

‘Then you should send him to my Herr Gunter,’ said Frau Benz. ‘He could spend a day with Herr Gunter and Herr Gunter would tell your Herr … What is your gardener’s name?’

Von Igelfeld looked out of the window.

‘Herr von Igelfeld? What is your gardener’s name?’

‘Herr … Herr Unterholzer.’

‘Well then, you send your Herr Unterholzer to spend a day with Herr Gunter and he will come back to you knowing everything there is to know about flowers! What do you think of that idea?’

Von Igelfeld laughed nervously. ‘A very good idea! I am sure that they would get on very well.’

Frau Benz now drew him gently towards the door. ‘I know that you are interested in ceilings,’ she said. ‘So let’s go and look at the ceiling I mentioned to you. The ceiling that depicts the entry of my dear husband into heaven.’

As they walked along a corridor that led off the drawing room, Frau Benz gave a further explanation of the ceiling. ‘The concept, I must confess, is not original,’ she said. ‘Rubens painted a very similar scene, you know, in London. The Banqueting Hall in Whitehall has a ceiling depicting the apotheosis of King James I of England and VI of Scotland. It is a very fine painting which I have myself inspected on a trip to London.’

‘It is better to see these things in person,’ said von Igelfeld.

Frau Benz was in strong agreement with this. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘There is nothing to equal the direct experience of being in the presence of great art. One can look at a photograph of a great painting and be moved, but one is never moved to the same extent as one is when one stands in front of the real thing. That is quite different.

‘It was when I was in London, standing directly underneath Rubens’ painting, that the idea occurred to me of portraying my dear late husband in a similar situation. That was the moment of insight; that was the moment at which I knew it was the right thing to do.’

‘And it undoubtedly is,’ said von Igelfeld.

She stopped when he said this and placed a hand gently on his forearm. ‘Thank you, dear Professor von Igelfeld. You clearly understand about these things.’

‘He was a great man,’ said von Igelfeld. Again he had no idea why he should say such a thing; he had never met the late Herr Benz and knew nothing about him, other than that he was a manufacturer of some sort. But it seemed to him that to describe him in this way was the right thing to do, at least from the point of view of providing comfort to Frau Benz. She clearly missed her husband keenly, and to hear one whom one misses described as a great man must be a consolation, even if the tribute comes from one who might not have known much about the person so described, or might not have known anything about him, for that matter.

Frau Benz appeared to consider von Igelfeld’s remark for a moment. First looking down at the floor, she raised her eyes slowly, and he saw her gratitude. ‘He was,’ she said quietly. ‘None greater than he. Not one.’

‘No,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘That is surely true.’

They were nearing the end of the corridor. A door led off to the right, and Frau Benz now pushed this open gently, with the air of one anxious not to disturb unduly what lay beyond. Momentarily awed, as if entering a newly decorated Sistine Chapel, von Igelfeld peered into the room beyond the door. The shutters were partly closed, which made the room dim, but there was enough light to make out the shape of a tower, of the sort used by painters and decorators, with a ladder strapped against its side.

Abandoning her guest for the moment, Frau Benz moved purposefully across the room and opened the shutters. In the flood of light that resulted, a long dining room was revealed, with walls covered with elaborate chinois wallpaper, and above that, only partly obscured by the painter’s tower, the depiction, almost complete, of the apotheosis of Herr Benz.

‘There it is,’ said Frau Benz in hushed tones. ‘Herr Benz being admitted to the heavenly realms – just as I imagine it took place in real life.’

Von Igelfeld stared at the picture. It was undoubtedly skilfully executed, in colours and tones reminiscent of the French Baroque. There was God himself, taking something of a back seat in proceedings, but emitting a divine glow that very satisfactorily illuminated the ranks of those angels hovering closest to him; and there were some of the figures from Germany’s past: Goethe, still wearing his earthly clothes, von Igelfeld noted, and flourishing the very pen that must have written The Sorrows of the Young Werther, and Wagner too, flanked in his case by Rhine maidens. These buxom young women were pictured as beaming with relief; a relief that stemmed, von Igelfeld imagined, from having been translated from the murky realms of early German myth into these more luminescent, less riverine surroundings.

And finally, there was Herr Benz himself. He was unmistakable, being dressed in modern clothes – presumably the suit that he wore on his daily trip to his factories. Because of the angle from which he was viewed – an apotheosis being inevitably seen from below – it was possible to make out the soles of his shoes and the wine-red socks he was wearing. These details, von Igelfeld noted, were very finely caught by the painter, and he said as much to Frau Benz.

‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘His red socks. They were so important to him.’

They spent a few more minutes in the dining room before Frau Benz suggested that they move elsewhere. ‘One cannot look at ceilings for too long,’ she said. ‘One’s neck will not allow it.’

‘Michelangelo must have had such a crick in his neck,’ said von Igelfeld.

This witty observation was very well received by Frau Benz, who laughed appreciatively. ‘I never thought of that,’ she said.

Von Igelfeld felt almost light-headed as he tossed out the next remark. ‘Well, I imagine that he did.’

Again, the witticism made Frau Benz laugh. And this, thought von Igelfeld, was beyond any doubt a good thing: it did not do, he felt, to contemplate deceased husbands excessively. Once they had been safely admitted to heaven, as Herr Benz clearly was, then one should perhaps consider moving on. There was very little mischief that one could get up to in heaven, particularly with Goethe and Wagner, not to say God, looking on, and so Frau Benz might well leave him there, so to speak, and concentrate on more earthly matters. He could not say this, of course – he realised that – but at least he could bring her out of herself with light-hearted conversation of the sort that he had now so spontaneously embarked upon. No, it was going very well, he thought, and for a moment he imagined himself as the next male occupant of this charming Schloss, receiving some in one of the elegant drawing rooms, showing others the formal gardens with their playful fountains and elegant paths, so crunchy underfoot with their well-raked gravel. And at his side, supportive and admiring, would be Frau Benz herself, now – dare he entertain the delicious thought? – now Frau Professor Dr Dr (honoris causa) (mult.) von Igelfeld!

There was, of course, the question of whether a wife should restrict herself to being Frau Professor or whether she should include her husband’s doctorates: opinion was divided on the matter, and there had been sharp exchanges in the German academic press. Von Igelfeld found himself uncertain, as he could see that each side of the dispute had something to be said for it. It could certainly be argued that to attribute doctorates to a person who did not have them was frankly misleading. Yet was this form actually doing that? If one thought about it carefully, to call a wife Frau Professor Dr was not actually suggesting that she had a doctorate; it was effectively denoting that she was the wife of a professor who himself had a doctorate. In that sense, there was no intention to deceive, and indeed no possible deception unless one were careless in one’s interpretation of what was said. Of course some people were careless, and could misunderstand matters, and that was a powerful argument for holding that it was safer not to include the doctorate and refer simply to Frau Professor.

But then there was a further issue. What was the position if the wife of a professor had a doctorate in her own right? If one used the form Frau Professor Dr then there was a grave danger that people would think that the doctorate pertained to her husband and not to her. This situation could not be remedied by the simple inclusion of a further doctorate, as Frau Professor Dr Dr would surely normally be read as implying that her husband had, as was often the case, two doctorates. What, then?

Of course there were even more appalling complications. What if a woman who was herself a professor, and the possessor of two doctorates, were to marry another professor, who had only one doctorate? Von Igelfeld knew of no such case, but the fact that something had not yet occurred was no guarantee that it would not. If it did, then perhaps the only solution would be to call such a person Professor Dr Dr Frau Professor Dr. It was cumbersome, yes, but the fact that a term of address was cumbersome did not mean that one should shy away from it: exactitude, von Igelfeld had always maintained, was far more important than mere linguistic convenience.

He had put such thoughts behind him by the time they sat down for lunch on the west terrace. They were served by Ernst, a young manservant in a white linen jacket and black bow-tie. He brought them a consommé, followed by a concoction of fluffed white of eggs over which truffle-impregnated oil had been dribbled.

‘A light lunch is always best,’ said Frau Benz.

‘Yes,’ agreed von Igelfeld. ‘The best sort of lunch is the lunch one sees photographs of these astronauts eating. It’s so light it floats around the cabin.’

Frau Benz thought this very amusing, and complimented von Igelfeld on his wit. ‘It must be wonderful to be able to make such funny remarks,’ she said. ‘What a great talent you have, Professor von Igelfeld. How you must make your colleagues laugh!’

Across von Igelfeld’s mind there flashed a picture of morning coffee at the Institute, with Herr Huber going on about his aunt and the nursing home and Unterholzer rehearsing some grudge or other. It was not quite as Frau Benz imagined it; but then he felt different here, in her company: more vital, more appreciated, more capable of making diverting conversation.

‘Oh, it’s nothing, really,’ he said modestly, but then added, ‘Sometimes these things do slip out.’

‘As they do from those writers of aphorisms,’ said Frau Benz, dipping her fork into the egg. ‘I assume they wake up each morning and wonder what aphorism will occur that day. I imagine that Friedrich von Schlegel’s days began that way.’

‘Or Marcus Aurelius and his Meditations,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘He presumably halted his campaigning in those melancholy fens if he felt a meditation coming on.’

Frau Benz rocked with laughter. ‘Marcus Aurelius …’ she giggled. ‘A meditation’s coming on …’

Von Igelfeld basked in the appreciative laughter. He looked out over the edge of the terrace. The ground sloped sharply away from the Schloss, and down below, so far below as to be a world in miniature, was a tablecloth of ripe fields: golden hay, wheat, oats: the lands of the Schloss. Distance precluded detail, but he imagined that closer inspection would reveal the presence of broad-beamed Brueghelian peasants, busy with their scythes, bringing in the harvest that would be translated soon enough into rents for the Schloss’s coffers. How satisfactory, he thought, must the established order be when one is oneself well established within it.

They rounded off their lunch with coffee and small squares of chocolate-covered marzipan.

‘I have so enjoyed myself,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘You have been most kind to me, Frau Benz.’

She smiled demurely. ‘The pleasure has been mine, Professor von Igelfeld.’

He suddenly felt emboldened. ‘And please, let’s set formality aside. I would be delighted were you to call me Moritz-Maria.’

It was a bold, perhaps reckless step to take, even if the invitation was hedged with an entirely appropriate subjunctive. Frau Benz was a person of conventional views; she lived in a Schloss; she was a respectable widow; one would not normally move on to first-name terms with such a person after no more than two meetings. A year, perhaps, would be about right; a year of formality before venturing – cautiously – into the realms of first-name intimacy. And here am I, he thought; here am I suggesting this after our very first lunch together. And lying about having a gardener too. So much, he reflected ruefully, for the von Igelfeld family motto, Truth Always.

Frau Benz hesitated, but only briefly. ‘Thank you, Moritz-Maria, thank you. And please, I should be delighted if you were to address me as Kitty.’

‘I shall be honoured to do so,’ said von Igelfeld, thinking how fitting the name seemed. ‘Kitty.’

They talked for a few minutes more before he glanced at his watch and told his hostess that it was time for him to go. ‘Perhaps I could reciprocate by taking you to dinner,’ he said. ‘Would you by any chance be free tomorrow evening?’

She would, she said. And so the arrangement was made; they would meet at a French restaurant that von Igelfeld had heard was very good and in line for the imminent award of a Michelin star. ‘Stars are best appreciated before they come out,’ he said.

Frau Benz looked thoughtful. ‘That is a very engaging utterance,’ she said. ‘I shall have to think about its meaning. I suspect that it has many layers.’

‘Like some Viennese cakes,’ said von Igelfeld quickly.

They both laughed. The conversation had been brilliant, and it was entirely fitting that it should end on such a sparkling note.

He rose to leave. He had taken his jacket off – for the heat – and Frau Benz noticed that the sleeves of his shirt were curiously jagged. Perhaps it is the fashion, she thought; one of her nephews had rips in the knees of his jeans and she had been astonished to learn that the trousers had been bought that way and were often more expensive than those that did not have such tears. And here was Professor von Igelfeld, although no teenager, with shirt sleeves that looked as if they had been roughly cut with a pair of blunt scissors. Strange, she thought; very strange.

‘Your driver will be waiting?’ she asked.

Von Igelfeld was momentarily nonplussed. He had given no consideration to the question of how he would get home, having dismissed the taxi without making any arrangements for its return. ‘My driver …’ he muttered.

‘I can ask mine to run you back,’ said Frau Benz. ‘I think he’s still around somewhere. I’ll call him.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said von Igelfeld hurriedly. ‘Mine will be parked outside the gate, I believe.’ He paused. ‘Under a tree.’

‘Very wise,’ said Frau Benz. ‘Cars get so hot in the summer, don’t they? Even good cars, like Mercedes-Benzes.’

Frau Benz smiled as she spoke, and von Igelfeld felt puzzled. There was something humorous, almost teasing, in what she said; but what was it?

‘I do not particularly care for Mercedes-Benzes,’ he said offhandedly. ‘There are many other German cars that are every bit as good – and less flashy, if I might say so.’

Frau Benz stood quite still. For a few moments she said nothing. Then she opened her mouth and said, ‘Oh?’

‘Yes,’ said von Igelfeld, searching his mind for something witty to say. ‘I prefer a car that is less overstated. A Mercedes-Benz is fine for nouveau riche people, but for others, well, something less … less shiny is more appropriate. Or to have no car at all. That is the most fashionable choice, I believe.’

Frau Benz was silent, but had von Igelfeld looked at her, he would have noticed a slight quivering of the chin.

‘No,’ he continued expansively. ‘I have no time for Mercedes-Benzes. None at all.’

Frau Benz moved very slowly towards the door. ‘It was so kind of you to come, Professor von Igelfeld,’ she said.

‘Please: Moritz-Maria, Kitty.’

She appeared not to have heard. ‘And I much appreciated your kind remarks about the ceiling, Professor von Igelfeld.’

Von Igelfeld felt his neck becoming warm. He wondered whether he had done something to offend his hostess; he must have – but what could it be? He looked down at his arms, at the shirt he had converted to short sleeves. Could it be that this amounted to some awful social solecism?

Frau Benz was opening the door.

‘I look forward to our dinner,’ said von Igelfeld, a note of anxiety creeping into his voice. ‘I have read some very promising reviews of that restaurant.’

Frau Benz looked at him. ‘Dinner? Oh, yes. I’m terribly sorry but I’ve just remembered that I have a dental appointment. We shall have to have dinner some other time. I’m so sorry.’

Von Igelfeld frowned. ‘A dental appointment? But dentists don’t work at night.’

Frau Benz looked away. ‘We should never be too dogmatic,’ she said quietly. ‘About the hours that dentists work, or … or about other things.’

He stepped out. Behind him the door clanged shut, a sound so final as to drive away all thoughts of living in a Schloss; of having a wife; of pursuing a life of quiet scholarship in a private library; of not having to listen to Herr Huber going on and on; of being somehow free in a world where freedom was a prize that most of us would never achieve, given that we were ourselves, and usually, if not always, had to remain ourselves for all our days, such as they were.

He frowned once again. Had he spoken out of turn about something? Women were unfathomable beings – even somebody as charming and pleasant as Frau Benz. She had seemed to be very taken with his witticisms – which had flowed quickly and easily for the entire visit – and then it was as if she had suddenly developed a headache. That was it: a headache. He would telephone her the next day and he was sure that he would discover that her good humour had completely returned. They would go out for dinner and then he would come back here for lunch, and all would be back to normal again. There was no need to worry.

He walked down the driveway towards the gate. It was not far from the nearest village and he could ask the people at the local inn to call a car for him. The exercise would do him good, he thought, after that excellent lunch.

There was a path off to the right – a short path that culminated in a paved stone circle on which a sundial had been erected. It was a most unusual sundial, von Igelfeld thought – a metal circle trisected into triangles: a strangely familiar symbol, but quite unexpected in such a setting.

Odd, he thought. Very odd.