Unusual Uses for Olive Oil

Reading Party




A lesser man – one who, unlike von Igelfeld, had not written a twelve-hundred-page treatise on Portuguese irregular verbs – might have been cast down by such a rebuff as he received at the hands of Frau Benz. A lesser man, not having the history of the von Igelfeld family behind him – a history of insouciance in the face of adversity – might have become dispirited and might have thought that perhaps this social failure was his own doing. Not von Igelfeld: it was true that he felt a momentary disappointment at the frustration of his plans to marry Frau Benz and become the owner of the Schloss Dunkelberg, but this disappointment was moderated by the conviction that what the entire experience demonstrated was the unpredictability and inconstancy of women. And if that was the way that Frau Benz behaved, then he decided that he had had a narrow escape from marriage to such a difficult woman. It would have been all very well having the library at the Schloss Dunkelberg at his disposal, but what pleasure would it have been had he had to worry about what his wife would think and do next? There would be no peace in that, he thought; how much better to remain a bachelor and live in what was, after all, a perfectly comfortable flat with a view that, even if it was not of fertile acres of land which pertained to it, none the less encompassed a perfectly respectable public park. Frau Benz! Who had heard of the Benzes, whoever they were? Where were they in the sixteenth century? And as for the owl in their escutcheon – what a ridiculous device when compared with the hedgehog, whose role as an embodiment of wisdom was well known to anybody with even the slightest knowledge of iconography. And as for the apotheosis of Herr Benz – what an assumption to make that such a person, a mere manufacturer of whatever it was that he made, would be welcomed by luminaries of the voltage of Goethe and Wagner! It was quite preposterous, really, and he felt that he had shown considerable forbearance in not pointing this out to his hostess.

It was unfortunate, though, that Prinzel forgot all about von Igelfeld’s request not to make much of the Benz episode and asked a question that could only lead to embarrassment.

‘How did your visit go?’ he asked over coffee the following day. ‘Plenty to talk about? Good look round – the Schloss that is?’

Herr Huber, who had just sat down, looked up sharply. ‘Oh yes! Yesterday, wasn’t it? And it was such a nice day for it. I said to myself: look at the sun, and just think that Professor von Igelfeld will be walking around the gardens at the Schloss, and will have them all to himself because the Schloss is closed on Sundays, to ordinary members of the public, that is. I thought that, you know, and then I thought that perhaps …’

Prinzel glanced at the Librarian. ‘Very interesting, Herr Huber. But perhaps we should allow Professor von Igelfeld to tell us himself how his visit went.’

They looked at von Igelfeld, who was studying the rim of his coffee cup with sudden intensity.

‘I had lunch at the Schloss,’ he said. ‘It was very pleasant being there without … without the public traipsing about.’ He looked up as he mentioned the public and the implication could not have been clearer: Unterholzer, the Librarian, and even Prinzel were the very public whose absence was so welcome.

‘Oh, I see,’ said Unterholzer. ‘A return to the days of exclusiveness. Perhaps there are those who believe that the public is best excluded from … from the Louvre, for example.’

‘It would be a matter of great regret if that were to happen,’ said Herr Huber. ‘And I’m sure Professor von Igelfeld would not want people like us to be barred from the Louvre. But there is all the difference in the world, surely, between the Louvre and the Schloss Dunkelberg.’

‘I don’t see that at all,’ snapped Unterholzer. ‘Both are part of our artistic patrimony. They should not be just for the privileged. It’s a matter of principle, no less.’

‘Excuse me, Herr Unterholzer,’ said the Librarian. ‘But would you have turned down such an invitation?’

It was an unusually bold remark for Herr Huber, and for a few moments nobody said anything. Then Prinzel spoke. ‘I don’t think we should criticise Herr von Igelfeld unduly. What I’m interested in is the details of the visit. Was the conversation good? What did he see? What about the ceiling depicting the apotheosis of the late Herr Benz? These are the things that interest me.’

‘I was shown the painted ceilings,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Then we sat out on the terrace.’

Prinzel smiled. ‘How very agreeable, I must say.’ He paused. ‘And will you be seeing Frau Benz again in the near future?’

Before von Igelfeld had the chance to answer, the Librarian chipped in brightly. ‘I wonder if she drove you back in one of her cars,’ he said. ‘She must have a large fleet of them, I’d say.’

Von Igelfeld seized the opportunity to divert the conversation. ‘Why on earth would she have a large fleet of cars, Herr Huber?’

‘Mercedes-Benz,’ said Unterholzer slowly. ‘Benz.’

Von Igelfeld was silent. ‘With a z?’ he asked at last, his voice so quiet as to be virtually inaudible. ‘I thought …’

‘You thought it was spelled with an s?’ asked the Librarian. ‘Bens? That is unusual, but there was a nurse in my aunt’s nursing home who married a Herr Bens. He came from Leipzig, I think. Yes he did, come to think of it, because I met him when they had a party for the staff and the nurse brought him along. He told me about Leipzig. They didn’t invite everybody, of course, but they had a few relatives of patients, and they very kindly included me. People are so kind, you know, in these little ways …’

Von Igelfeld was not listening. He remembered his remarks about Mercedes-Benzes, and the way that what he said had seemed to impress Frau Benz into silence. Or perhaps impress was not the right word …

‘And then afterwards,’ continued the Librarian, ‘a number of us went for a walk. I pride myself on taking a reasonable amount of exercise, you know. People say that you should get about an hour or so every day. A lot of people find it difficult, and I can understand how they do. People in desk jobs, for example. Librarians, of course, get a lot of exercise – more than one might imagine. I find that. Putting books back on the shelves – that keeps me fit, even if I don’t manage to get out and walk in the country. Picking up books and taking them to the shelves involves a lot of …’

‘But you don’t have many books to put back each day,’ said Unterholzer. ‘Two or three perhaps, because we’re the only people who use the library, are we not? So if each of us takes a book once a day, this means that you have three books to put back. Forgive me for saying it, but I don’t call that exercise.’

Von Igelfeld made his decision. These things happened, and occasionally one made a remark that was perhaps not quite as tactful as it might be. It was not his fault. How was he to have known that Herr Benz was something to do with cars? And, anyway, who wanted to live in a draughty Schloss halfway up a mountain? Flats were far more convenient.

‘Exercise?’ he said vaguely.

‘Yes,’ said the Librarian. ‘Of course, you get a lot of exercise, Professor von Igelfeld, with the student reading party that you take up to the mountains each summer. Will you be going again this year, as usual? The students so enjoy it, I believe …’


Although von Igelfeld did not have a great deal of contact with the students who made up a large part of the population of Regensburg, the University encouraged the Institute to acknowledge – at least occasionally – its presence. After all, the University paid for the Institute, and von Igelfeld and his colleagues were appointed by it and were on the strength of its professoriat, even if the chief University officer, the Rector – whose official title was His Magnificence the Rector – was so rarely invited to Institute events that one of his predecessors had been actually unaware of the Institute’s existence.

From the Institute’s point of view, the requirements of duty were more than satisfied by taking on postgraduate students and guiding them through the writing of their doctoral theses, and by giving occasional lectures as part of ordinary University courses. Prinzel, for example, had recently completed a course of twenty-five lectures on western orthography – and this had proved highly popular with the students who attended it. Unterholzer lectured on vowels – to a very small audience, von Igelfeld noted – and von Igelfeld himself gave a major lecture on the development of Brazilian Portuguese which had been very well received by the student body. His real contribution, though, came in his leading of a small reading party during the summer – restricted to twenty places – that he had run for the last ten years. This reading party, which was intended for postgraduate students across the humanities, went each year to a small Alpine village where a University benefactor had built a comfortable lodge for precisely this sort of purpose. The reading element of this outing was perhaps less prominent than von Igelfeld would have liked, but he enjoyed the open air and the admiring company of the students, many of whom hoped that he might later be prevailed upon to provide an academic reference.

The popularity of this trip was a matter of pride to von Igelfeld, who had a tendency to claim the credit, even if what appealed to the students was the fact that the benefactor had established a trust that not only paid the expenses of every student attending but also gave each a token, but much appreciated, honorarium. Von Igelfeld, as presiding professor, received a considerably more generous honorarium that amounted to pure profit, as there was nothing to spend it on in the mountains and every conceivable expense was covered by the generous benefactor’s trust.

Unterholzer, perhaps understandably, thought that the task of running the reading party should be shared. ‘I see no reason why our dear colleague should do it year after year,’ he complained to Prinzel. ‘I’m sure that he does it very well, of course, not that I think there’s much to do. All that it requires is making up a programme of discussions and then letting the students get on with it. Hardly onerous, if you ask me.’

Prinzel shrugged. He was not a jealous man by nature, and he did not see why the good fortune of a colleague should be so clearly resented. ‘Moritz-Maria enjoys it,’ he observed mildly. ‘And he has so little else in his life, wouldn’t you say? Don’t you think it’s nice that he gets at least one little treat like this?’

Unterholzer shook his head. ‘I do not think that we should look upon this reading party as a treat,’ he said. ‘It is one of the few opportunities that the Institute has to influence the minds of the next generation of scholars. And that, I would have thought, is a most sacred task. No, this is not a holiday.’

‘Then we should be grateful to him for shouldering the burden so willingly,’ said Prinzel.

‘But I am prepared to assist in that respect,’ said Unterholzer. ‘And what about you? Why can’t you have a chance to lead the party for a change?’

Prinzel shrugged again. ‘I’m afraid that I have no desire to disturb these arrangements,’ he said. ‘The students seem to enjoy themselves and there’s always a waiting list for places. I think we should congratulate our colleague, rather than seek to replace him.’

The matter had been left at that, at least between Unterholzer and Prinzel. But that did not prevent its being raised in the coffee room shortly before the party was due to set off.

‘Off again to the mountains soon, Herr von Igelfeld,’ said Unterholzer. ‘My, you must know the way blindfold! You’ve been there so often.’

Von Igelfeld took a sip of his coffee. ‘Yes, indeed, I am leaving in a day or two. But as for travelling blindfold, that is not something I would recommend, Herr Unterholzer, mountain roads being what they are. You must keep your wits about you at all times in the mountains, and keep a sharp eye open.’

‘I was speaking metaphorically, Herr von Igelfeld,’ Unterholzer retorted. ‘However, I would also make the observation that familiarity has been known to breed contempt. So, for instance – and just as an example – if somebody were, say, to make a habit of taking every chance to go into the mountains, rather than sharing such opportunities with colleagues, such a person might perhaps become a bit careless. I’m not saying that he necessarily would, but there is the safety issue to be addressed. You know how aware people are of risk these days – especially when it comes to situations where one is in charge of young persons.’

Von Igelfeld considered this carefully before he replied. ‘You are undoubtedly right, Herr Unterholzer. Such a person could become a bit blasé – that is perfectly possible; unless, of course, such a person were to be of a background that accustomed him to mountains. If a person came from a family with long roots in a mountainous region – such as my own family, for example – it would mean that he would be unlikely to fall into careless habits. One could not perhaps say the same thing for people who come from very low-lying areas …’

He left the last sentence unfinished, as the reference could not have been clearer. Unterholzer came from a low, potato-producing part of the country; one that was about as far as it was possible to be from any mountains.

Unterholzer bristled, but said nothing. It was clear that von Igelfeld was not going to share this perk and there was very little that could be done to dislodge him. Unless, of course, something went badly wrong, and one of the students was lost … No, he told himself; one should not even think of such a possibility. If it happened, though, it would teach von Igelfeld a lesson and surely it would be very difficult for him to continue to monopolise the reading party after that.

‘There is a long waiting list for the reading party this year,’ von Igelfeld continued. ‘I have had a telephone call from somebody in the trust administration. She told me that there are eighty-seven students who wish to go to the Alps this summer. Eighty-seven!’

‘That is far too many,’ said the Librarian. ‘You cannot take eighty-seven students anywhere. You would need a special train.’

‘I am not proposing to take eighty-seven, Herr Huber,’ von Igelfeld explained patiently. ‘I shall take twenty. The rest will have to wait.’

The Librarian digested this information. ‘Do you think it might be possible for me to come with you this year? The mountain air would do me good, I think, and it would be helpful for you to have an assistant.’

Von Igelfeld opened his mouth to speak, but found that no words came. How could he possibly take Herr Huber, of all people? He was a complete liability even at the best of times, on the valley floor so to speak, and he simply could not imagine the Librarian at higher altitudes. No, it was impossible.

‘There is no call for a librarian in the mountains,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m so sorry, Herr Huber. Perhaps there is some other trip that you could go on.’

Unterholzer, who had begun to read a copy of the Frankfurter Allgemeine, now lowered his paper. ‘I would have thought that there is no call for a professor of Romance philology in the Alps either,’ he observed tartly. ‘And yet you go, Herr von Igelfeld.’

Von Igelfeld pursed his lips. ‘I lead the reading,’ he said. ‘There is every call for a professor to do that.’

‘Or a librarian,’ said Unterholzer. ‘Reading, if I’m not mistaken, involves books. And librarians have a certain expertise in that area, do they not?’

The Librarian, although grateful for Unterholzer’s support, had no wish to provoke conflict. ‘Perhaps I shall do something else,’ he said. ‘Although it would have been nice. Perhaps another year, if you are unable to go, Herr von Igelfeld, then I might be permitted to go. Perhaps as assistant to Professor Unterholzer.’

Von Igelfeld looked out of the window. He was not an ungenerous man, and he realised that he had a great number of things in his life that poor Herr Huber would never have. He had his book; he had his scholarly reputation; he had invitations to go to conferences; he had so much … The memory came to him of his great-uncle, a tall figure with piercing blue eyes, who always dressed in a dark green country suit that smelled of woodsmoke for some reason; who had taken him aside one evening when von Igelfeld was sixteen and had spoken to him about the duties of being a man. Do not deny to others, he said. Remember that as a von Igelfeld, much is given to you. Give what you can to others who are not von Igelfelds.

Herr Huber was decidedly not a von Igelfeld. Nobody was quite sure where he came from, as nobody had ever bothered to ask him. There was the nursing home that he spoke about, but that was hardly a Heimat, except to the unfortunates who resided there. There was no Frau Huber, and no other relatives apart from his aunt, as far as anybody knew. And nobody knew where he lived, although Prinzel had once reported seeing Herr Huber entering a very small house on the edge of the woods.

‘It was very strange,’ he said. ‘We were driving back one evening and just before you get into town proper there’s an extremely small house, rather like the sort of house that you see Hansel and Gretel occupying in the opera. I had never noticed it before. Anyway, there was Herr Huber, no less, going in the front door. He must live there.’

Von Igelfeld remembered this as he looked back from the window. He thought of the librarian in his small house on the edge of the woods; he thought of him sitting in a small room in that small house. The memory of the words came back to him: Give what you can to others who are not von Igelfelds. Herr Huber was certainly not a von Igelfeld; he was just a Huber, and there were so many of them; as the grains of sand are upon the beach, countless and without number. ‘Would you really like to come with us, Herr Huber?’

Herr Huber’s eyes opened wide. ‘Oh, I would,’ he said. ‘It would be so exciting.’ His eyes returned to normal. ‘But I understand that I cannot come and I shall be content to hear about it when you return.’

‘No,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘You must accompany us. Your presence would be a great help in so many respects. You could, for example …’ He stopped. The Librarian looked at him expectantly, as did Unterholzer. ‘You could look after the maps we use for our walks.’

‘Of course I could,’ said Herr Huber enthusiastically. ‘I could file them away at the end of each day and get them out in the morning.’

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

‘And I could set up a system for storing the students’ books,’ Herr Huber continued. ‘I’ve seen a picture of the common room at the lodge. I couldn’t help but notice that the shelves were very badly arranged, with books all over the place.’

‘There you are,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘You’re already proving yourself indispensable.’


The day of departure arrived. Von Igelfeld travelled up to the lodge in a car provided by the trust, and since Herr Huber was now officially involved the Librarian travelled with him. The journey usually took four hours, and von Igelfeld had not been looking forward to spending that time as a captive audience of his colleague. Could anybody talk for four hours without disturbance on the subject of nursing homes and aunts, he wondered. The answer came to him immediately: Herr Huber undoubtedly could.

‘I think that it might be best for you to sit in the front, Herr Huber,’ he said when they picked the Librarian up from his small house on the edge of town. ‘I may need to do some work on the way up to the lodge, and that means I can spread papers out on the back seat. I hope you don’t mind.’

The Librarian, who was brimming with excitement over the trip, indicated that this would not be the slightest inconvenience. ‘And I can perhaps help with the navigation if the driver wishes me to,’ he said.

‘Of course,’ said von Igelfeld. He should have warned the driver, he thought, but it was now too late and he would have to let events take their course; which they did, as the driver was subjected to a lengthy discourse on the relative merits of nursing homes in the Regensburg area. Poor man, thought von Igelfeld, closing his eyes in the back of the car; poor man to have to listen to Herr Huber. But no: the driver, it seemed, was interested.

‘This is all very useful information, Herr Librarian,’ he said as he negotiated his way through the traffic. ‘May I tell you about my own experiences with my aged father? We kept him at home until it became really too difficult for my wife, try as she might.’

‘A common experience, Herr Driver,’ said the Librarian. ‘I was talking to the son-in-law of one of the residents at my aunt’s place only the other day, and he said that they—’

The driver cut him short. ‘My wife has the patience of a saint,’ he went on. ‘She trained as a nurse, you know, and although she has been busy with the children and has not nursed for twenty years – no, let me work it out – we came to Regensburg from Mannheim when our youngest was three, and he’s now twenty-seven, so that’s twenty-four years, close enough. Mind you, as she herself says, “Looking after children – and a husband too – is a sort of nursing …” ’

‘Of course it is,’ said the Librarian. ‘I was talking the other day to a doctor – I think he came from Bielefeld originally – who said that we should not be making all these technical demands of nurses and should instead be trying to get good farm girls who have experience of looking after their younger siblings – they’re the ones who know how to nurse. I said to him …’

And so it continued, for slightly more than four hours, until the car wound its way slowly up the last few yards of the steep driveway in front of the lodge.

‘How quickly a journey passes when one is having an interesting conversation,’ said the Librarian, as he got out of the car.

‘How right you are, Herr Librarian,’ said the driver. ‘I do so look forward to our return drive.’


That evening, with the participants in the reading group all assembled in the lodge’s common room, von Igelfeld made a short speech of welcome. Looking out over the faces of the twenty students, the Librarian and the couple of helpers from the trust staff, he drew attention to the challenges of the week ahead. ‘This is a rare opportunity to spend time with those who share your intellectual interests,’ he said, avoiding, as he said this, Herr Huber’s enthusiastic stare. ‘The whole point of going away on a reading party such as this, is to explore the minds of others. So make sure that you listen, as well as contribute, so that at the end of the week you can say to yourself: I have learned something truly important.’

There were nods of agreement from a number of students, while others expressed their approval of this sentiment by exchanging glances with their fellows. Moving on to deal with one or two administrative points, von Igelfeld then sketched out the shape of the week ahead. They would meet, he said, for two hours each morning to discuss their reading, and then the rest of the day would be free for private reflection and for walking along the paths that ran out in a number of directions from the lodge. These paths crossed Alpine meadow before becoming mountain tracks, not yet the preserve of actual climbers, but becoming so after a short while. ‘Be careful,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘The mountains are a reminder to all of us that what goes up usually has to come down again!’

This amusing line, which von Igelfeld delivered slowly in order to allow the humour to be savoured, met each year with the same response, which came now: smiles from some of the students and open laughter from others. Von Igelfeld beamed: there was a unique pleasure, he felt, in finding oneself in contact with receptive young minds.

‘And what comes down,’ he continued, ‘often does so rather faster than it goes up!’

This brought more laughter from the students, with one or two, he noticed, nudging one another. He inclined his head, acknowledging the appreciation of his humour, and then handed over to the cook, who wanted to say something about arrangements for picnic lunches, which could be ordered each morning from the kitchen.

After this, a glass of mulled wine was offered to students and staff alike, and von Igelfeld went round the room meeting the students. Although he selected them himself from the application forms presented to him by the trust administration, he tried to be as even-handed as possible, not favouring his own field, philology, above the claims of other humanities. So there were several classicists, a literary psychologist, historians and even a couple of artists. And there were men and women, with a slight bias this year in favour of men, although the opposite had been the case the previous year. Most were in their early twenties, which was compatible with the trust philosophy of helping those still engaged in full-time education and needing help at this tender stage of their academic careers; a few, though, were mature students in their thirties.

While circulating, von Igelfeld noticed that the students seemed to be mixing very well with one another. This did not surprise him, as reading groups usually spawned firm friendships that lasted beyond the week in the mountains, but that evening the atmosphere seemed to be particularly warm. In one corner of the room, a small group of students appeared to be getting on especially well, with shrieks of laughter and jovial patting of backs. He smiled at this: oh, to be twenty again! Oh, to be part again of a band of carefree brothers!

He turned to two young men who were standing near a window, looking out at the soaring mountain peaks beyond the glass. They introduced themselves politely: both, as it happened, were called Hans, and both were students of medieval French literature, although they had not met one another before.

‘I have just come to Regensburg,’ said Hans. ‘I was in Berlin before.’

‘And so now here we are: both interested in the same thing!’ said the other Hans.

‘That is the great delight of a reading party,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘One finds people who share one’s interests. And then, as the week progresses, one gets to know them better. It is very satisfactory.’

‘We are certainly hoping to get to know one another better,’ said Hans, smiling as he spoke. ‘Would you not agree, Hans?’

Von Igelfeld left them to their discussion of medieval French literature – or what he assumed was a discussion of medieval French literature – and joined a group of four students – two men and two women – who had just finished talking to Herr Huber. He noticed that two of these seemed to be holding hands, although they disengaged as he came up to them. This was rather moving, he thought; that two young people, not much more than a boy and a girl, should already be encouraging one another in this way, allaying the intellectual uncertainty that must inevitably come from finding oneself in a reading group with so many other enquiring young minds. He smiled benignly at the couple, and they smiled back at him. It is very touching, he thought. Very touching.

Herr Huber appeared at his side. ‘I must tell you, Herr von Igelfeld,’ he began, ‘that your words of welcome to the students were brilliant – quite brilliant!’

Von Igelfeld acknowledged the compliment with an inclination of his head. ‘You are very kind, Herr Huber.’

‘Yes, you were so reassuring. And now, look at these splendid young people – look at them. They are already friends. See that boy over there talking to that girl in the green jersey. See how they have become good friends, and are already talking so earnestly about the reading that lies ahead.’

Von Igelfeld took a sip of his mulled wine. ‘It is very encouraging,’ he said. ‘And it certainly cheers one to think that Germany is still producing these fine young people, with their strong intellectual curiosity and their thirst for knowledge. How fortunate we are, Herr Huber, to be part of that process.’

‘Even if mine is a very small part,’ said the Librarian.

Von Igelfeld turned to face his colleague. Poor Herr Huber, he thought, with his strange view of the world. ‘But you must not be so modest,’ he said, placing his hand briefly on his colleague’s forearm. ‘They also serve who merely stand and wait. You must remember that, Herr Huber!’

Herr Huber looked at von Igelfeld with eyes moist with gratitude. ‘It is very kind of you to say that, Herr von Igelfeld. Sometimes I feel that … well, sometimes I feel that I have nothing to contribute. I am surrounded by such distinguished scholars – by you, by Professor Unterholzer …’

Von Igelfeld could not help a small frown crossing his brow at the mention of Unterholzer.

‘… who is hardly your equal, of course,’ the Librarian continued, ‘but who none the less tills, as you all do, an important furrow of scholarship.’

Von Igelfeld felt that he could afford to be generous. ‘Yes, indeed he does. And even minor scholars have their place, as you have just pointed out. Yes, you are quite right, Herr Huber. But do remember: librarians are at the heart of the scholarly enterprise. Do not be too modest. You must join in our discussions in this reading party as a full and equal member.’

‘Oh, I must not do that,’ said Herr Huber. ‘I shall be in attendance, of course, at all of them, and I shall most certainly assist in any way I can.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘But now, if you wouldn’t mind excusing me, Herr von Igelfeld, I must go to my room and place a telephone call.’

‘To your aunt?’ asked von Igelfeld.

‘To my aunt,’ Herr Huber confirmed. ‘You see, they are thinking of changing some of the rooms around at her nursing home. One of the ladies on the second floor fell out of a window and they want to put her on the ground floor now. That will mean that somebody will have to give up a room on that floor and move to the second floor.’

Von Igelfeld’s eyes glassed over. ‘To replace the defenestrated lady?’ he asked distantly.

‘Yes. But you know it’s an interesting thing. You mentioned defenestration. I wonder whether that word should be used to describe the act of falling out of the window by accident, or whether it should be restricted to those situations where somebody is thrown out of the window, as in the Defenestration of Prague. What do you think, Herr von Igelfeld? Have you given the matter much thought?’

Von Igelfeld looked across the room. Herr Huber was curiously tiring, even in these small doses. Did it matter how one was defenestrated? Surely from the point of view of the defenestrated person the significant feature of the experience was that one fell out of a window, not how one came to do so. He closed his eyes for a moment and saw, briefly but vividly, an image of Herr Huber standing beneath a window and looking up as a figure tumbled out above him. That, he thought, was an important aspect of defenestration that we should not forget: that it could be as dangerous to those below as it was to those above. But even if that were the case, one would not, he thought, use the word defenestration to describe what happened to the person on the ground below. If such a person were to be injured, then that experience could not be said to be a defenestration: it was a consequence of a defenestration. The distinction was important.

The welcome party over, they all had dinner together in the communal dining room. Von Igelfeld did not linger to chat afterwards, as the journey and the attenuated air of the mountainside had combined to make him feel sleepier than usual. He said goodnight to the students and nodded courteously in the direction of Herr Huber, who was engaged in animated conversation with a fair-haired woman, one of the older students, who von Igelfeld believed was interested in Irish drama. Herr Huber waved back in a friendly manner and returned to his conversation. Von Igelfeld smiled to himself; what on earth could that young woman be discussing with the Librarian? Should he go to her rescue and allow her to detach herself from Herr Huber and his monologue? He decided against this; the woman looked as if she was in her thirties somewhere and would clearly be capable of looking after herself. She would no doubt find some excuse to escape Herr Huber when she felt that she could bear his conversation no longer.

As director of the programme, von Igelfeld was entitled to – and had claimed – the best room in the lodge. Although some of the students were doubled up, von Igelfeld and the Librarian did not have to share. It would have been impossible to occupy the same room as Herr Huber, von Igelfeld felt; a recipe for a nightmare – every night. The Librarian would no doubt talk in his sleep – about much the same thing that he talked about when awake, and that would be insupportable.

His own room was in the front of the building, and afforded an unobstructed view of Alpine pasture and mountains. As he prepared for bed, he looked towards the mountains; the moon was full and he could make out the white of the snow-topped peaks. He shivered. He was not a creature of raw nature; he was one for the warmth and security of villages, towns, cities. It astonished him to think that even as he looked out at those peaks there were climbers bivouacked up there, huddled in their flimsy tents, clinging to the tiny ledges where if one rolled over in the wrong direction one might plunge, sleeping bag and all, down into some bottomless abyss.

He went to bed, reading for ten minutes or so before drowsiness overcame him and he turned out the light. At some point in the night he dreamed that he was in a towering building, so high that the roof was shrouded in a blanket of snow. He was in a room, looking out of a window, and there was somebody behind him. He opened the window, the better to see outside, but he could make out little because of low cloud that had descended to envelop the building. He turned round; somebody was addressing him. Unterholzer.

‘Defenestration,’ said Unterholzer menacingly. ‘Defenestration.’

Von Igelfeld cried out, but there was nobody to hear him except Unterholzer, who was now advancing upon him, forcing him to move towards the open window. And then, with a sudden movement from Unterholzer, von Igelfeld was defenestrated.

He awoke, sweating with anxiety. He looked at his watch: it was shortly after three, a bad hour to awaken. He reached for his glass of water, and found that it was empty.

Rising from bed, he made his way out into the corridor and began to walk towards the bathroom. He heard a noise, and turned round sharply. Somebody had come out of one door, lingered for no more than a moment or two in the corridor, and then slipped back into another door. Von Igelfeld wondered what was happening. Perhaps the students were continuing their conversation from the common room; students liked to stay awake, von Igelfeld remembered. In his own day in Heidelberg they sometimes chatted away until two or three in the morning, and would think nothing of staying up until five at weekends.

He filled his glass with water and returned to his room. As he closed the door behind him, he heard a door opening in the corridor, and then the sound of whispering. He put down the glass and returned to the door. Bending down, he looked through the keyhole. There was a movement, blurred and indistinct in the half-light of the corridor, and then nothing. He turned away. Young people! Perhaps they were playing some sort of party game; he had read recently of a game called sardines that young people played, in which one person went off to hide and others then crept about the house, finding the hiding place and attempting to join the person crouching there. It was such a ridiculous game, and yet it was, apparently, very popular. Perhaps he should ask them at breakfast tomorrow. ‘And who was playing sardines last night?’ he might say, with the air of Hercule Poirot in full investigation; that would show the students that he was on top of what was going on.


The first discussion period followed breakfast the next morning. The theme of the discussion was a very general one, so designed as to ensure that everybody had a chance to contribute views. The topic – ‘Should language be allowed to evolve naturally or should it be regulated by a national academy, such as the Académie Française?’ – caused a great stir. Most of the students agreed that language should be left to evolve naturally, although one or two purists took strong exception to this. The Académie Française, they said, deserved everybody’s thanks for standing up against the relentless tide of Anglo-Saxon linguistic pollution that was infecting so many languages. Von Igelfeld agreed, but said nothing: this debate was for the students, and one could hardly expect students to reach the right conclusion about anything. In illustrating their point, one or two of the students in favour of linguistic freedom used words that he did not quite understand, but he did not reveal this: such words were inevitably vulgar and would be forgotten after a year or two, like that American word okay, which he had always felt would never last once the novelty wore off. Or vachement in French: what a ridiculous neologism that was: one would certainly not hear that in the halls of the Académie Française!

At the end of the discussion coffee was served. Von Igelfeld announced that he and the trust administrator would be available afterwards to resolve any administrative issues or deal with any queries about the programme.

‘My door is always open,’ he announced, and then quipped, ‘Except, that is, when it is clearly closed.’

This brought smiles of appreciation from the students, and von Igelfeld basked in their approbation. Perhaps students were not such a nuisance after all; perhaps the Institute should consider having a few more – not too many, of course; an extra three or four a year might be about right. He would take that up with Prinzel, he thought, on his return, and then, if the two of them agreed, they could present the decision as a fait accompli, or even a fait vachement accompli, to Unterholzer. He smiled at the linguistic joke, and wished that he could share it with somebody who would understand. He glanced about him – Herr Huber? No, he was deeply engrossed in conversation with that same young woman he had been talking to the previous evening. Poor young woman, von Igelfeld said to himself. Perhaps I should have a private word with Herr Huber and tell him that he shouldn’t burden her too much with his conversation.

He sat down with the administrator and waited to deal with the first of the students who had indicated that they had an admininstrative issue. This was one of the young men called Hans whom von Igelfeld had spoken to briefly before dinner the night before.

‘I take it that everything is going well,’ said von Igelfeld as the young man sat down in front of him.

‘Oh, yes, Herr Professor. It certainly is.’

Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘Is there anything we can do for you?’

The young man looked down at the floor. ‘I was wondering whether it might be possible to change rooms,’ he said. ‘I’m sharing with Georg over there and I’m afraid that he snores. It’s very difficult to sleep if somebody is snoring.’

‘Of course it is,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Certainly you can change.’

The adminstrator glanced at von Igelfeld. ‘Accommodation’s very tight,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we have anything available.’

Hans looked at von Igelfeld. ‘But I have had an idea, professor,’ he said. ‘I could share with the other Hans. He says that he would be very happy to share with me, to save me from Georg’s snoring.’

The administrator looked at his list. ‘But he has a single room. There is only one bed in that room.’

‘We don’t mind,’ said Hans hurriedly. ‘Hans is not very large and there will be room.’

The administrator frowned. ‘I’m not sure that …’

‘Fine,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘That is very kind of him. You are lucky to have such a generous friend. And at least you will get plenty of sleep now – unless other Hans snores!’

Hans beamed with pleasure. ‘No, he doesn’t. I can tell you …’

‘Good,’ said von Igelfeld.

The next student was a young woman. She, too, wanted to change rooms, and had heard that there might be a chance of getting the bed previously occupied by Hans.

‘But that room is already occupied by Georg,’ said the administrator.

‘That’s fine,’ said the young woman. ‘I’ve spoken to him and he says that he doesn’t mind.’

The administrator looked at von Igelfeld. ‘This is very irregular, Professor von Igelfeld,’ he whispered. ‘We do not put male and female students in the same room. We have never done that. Otherwise …’

Von Igelfeld ignored the administrator and turned to the student. ‘You are a friend of this young man, are you?’

The student smiled at him. ‘We are friends. We read to each other, you see, and it would be nice to be able to do that here.’

‘Of course it would,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘It is very useful to have somebody to read to one when one’s eyes are tired.’

The administrator tried to interrupt. ‘I’m not sure that policy allows …’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I shall authorise this.’

There were several other requests made that morning, all concerned with moving rooms. The administrator became quite sulky. ‘Once this starts,’ he complained to von Igelfeld, ‘it will never end. With the greatest respect, Professor von Igelfeld, in previous years I have handled all the accommodation issues myself, without troubling you. Now that you are taking an interest in them, I’m afraid that it is all going to become excessively complicated.’

‘I do not see that,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘These young people need to be comfortable so that they can apply their minds to the discussions. It is important that they get sound sleep.’

The administrator stared at him incredulously. He hesitated for a while before replying, as if weighing his words carefully. ‘I’m not sure if you appreciate what is happening here, Professor von Igelfeld. The reason why the students are interfering with my perfectly good accommodation arrangements is that they are up to—’

He did not finish. ‘Excuse me, Herr Wolters,’ said von Igelfeld icily. ‘I am perfectly aware of what’s what. But thank you very much for your concern, which is, as always, much appreciated.’

He looked about him in irritation. Really! It was intolerable that mere administrators should think fit to question professorial judgement. He had heard that this had been happening more and more in universities, but he would certainly resist it when he came across it, as he now did. What next? Would it be librarians who started to throw their weight around? Herr Huber telling him what to do?

Where was Herr Huber? Perhaps he should have a word with him and check up that the filing of the maps was in order. Herr Huber, for all his wittering on about all sorts of ephemera, was a highly conscientious librarian and would certainly have filed the maps by now, but seemed to be out of the room. Von Igelfeld rose to look out of the window. He spotted Herr Huber immediately, walking towards a cluster of pine trees with that same young woman. Von Igelfeld sighed; he could just imagine the conversation. ‘There are some pine trees remarkably like this in the grounds of my aunt’s nursing home, you know. I drew the attention of the matron to them and she explained that …’


The next few days passed without incident. There were some very successful discussion sessions, and two lengthy book reports prepared by students chosen by von Igelfeld for this honour. There were also several most enjoyable hikes, in which the entire party participated, even Herr Huber, who was wearing, much to von Igelfeld’s amusement, traditional Bavarian lederhosen.

‘I fear your knees will feel somewhat cold,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But it’s your choice, Herr Huber. I would never presume to comment on a colleague’s clothing, even if he were to look ridiculous.’

‘You are very kind,’ said Herr Huber, as they strode along. ‘I must say that I enjoy wearing this outfit, which belonged to my late uncle, you know. He has nothing to do with the aunt you may have heard me refer to; he is on the other side. He lived in Berlin for many years, you know, and …’

‘Yes, yes, that is all very interesting, Herr Huber, but I was wanting to speak to you about a more delicate matter. I don’t think that one should monopolise the time of any of the young people who are with us, don’t you agree?’

‘I most certainly agree,’ said the Librarian.

‘So you should perhaps give that young woman a bit of a break from your company,’ said von Igelfeld.

Herr Huber’s tread faltered. His knees, visible below the edge of his lederhosen, seemed to tremble slightly. ‘But I cannot be unkind to her,’ he said. ‘She keeps seeking out my company and we get on very well.’

‘She seeks you out?’ asked von Igelfeld.

Herr Huber nodded. ‘And her own company is very delightful. Look, here she is now.’

Herr Huber’s friend came striding towards him. ‘Stoffi, come on. Let’s go and walk at the front. Come along.’

Von Igelfeld looked on in astonishment as the Librarian’s arm was taken and he was led away to the front of the walking party. Stoffi! He had never before heard anybody call the Librarian by his first name, and he was appalled that a student should presume to do so. It was true that she was a postgraduate student, and clearly into her thirties already, but she was still technically a student and therefore of a distinctly lower academic rank even than that occupied by Herr Huber. And he was also astonished at the way she took Herr Huber’s arm; it was almost as if there was something between them – an intimacy even – which of course was frankly unbelievable and need not be thought about any further. Stoffi! Well, none of them would ever dare to call him Moritz-Maria – that was as firm as the very rocks on which they were now walking, high above the distant valley, high in an air that seemed so sweet and pure that to breathe it was to purge the lungs of all staleness and despair. He would rise above these petty matters, he decided, and enjoy the mountain air to the full. He breathed in; it was delightful, quite delightful. He felt content. The problems of the world are far away, he thought, and they need not worry me here. He paused. What exactly were the problems of the world? They were profound, he was sure, but he now realised that he had not exactly exercised himself over them during the past few years. Nor before that either. In fact, he had never really considered them at all, and he decided that now he should perhaps do so. Linguistic pollution? The decline of the subjunctive? The intrusion of English words into Romance languages? This was the sort of thing that the world needed to get to grips with, and he would not flinch in the face of such issues.


He slipped into a most agreeable routine that included an early morning stroll immediately after breakfast and a more ambitious hike in the afternoon. The morning stroll was usually a solitary affair, taken while the students had their morning discussion, in which he used the time by himself to think about the various scholarly projects that he had lined up for the autumn and winter. The possibility of a new edition of Portuguese Irregular Verbs had been raised by the chairman of the Max-Planck Foundation and von Igelfeld was now giving it serious consideration. The chairman’s letter had been persuasive: We are interested in funding the publication of a series that will include the twenty or so most significant works of scholarship in a widely varying range of disciplines. These will be books that are already in print, or that have been in print but are now out of print. They will be, quite simply, the crowning glories of German scholarship of the second half of the twentieth century and the first part of the twenty-first. They are books that will endure in the manner that Horace anticipated for his Odes.

Von Igelfeld had taken considerable satisfaction from the terms of this letter. He knew what Horace had written about his Odes – ‘Exegi monumentum aere perennius: I have created a monument more lasting than bronze.’ It was not the most modest of comments on one’s own work, perhaps, but it was the chairman who had brought it up and not von Igelfeld, and it was hardly immodest to contemplate the compliments passed by others. The appropriate response to such a compliment was to acknowledge it with a slight bow of the head, which von Igelfeld had, in fact, done when he had first read the glowing sentence.

Now, in the mountains, he was able to use the tranquillity of the winding paths to think about how he would tackle the writing of a second edition and of what new material he would incorporate. And there were other things, too, that needed to be thought about: a paper to be delivered in Sweden in November at an important conference of Romance philologists – this would have to be written by the middle of October as it was to be included in the published proceedings of the conference. Then there were several books for review in the Zeitschrift – not an unduly onerous task, but one that would none the less require weeks of work. Yes, he thought, the monumentum aere perennius was still a work in progress.

It was towards the end of the week that von Igelfeld set off for a morning stroll rather earlier than usual. He had risen shortly after six, having left his blind slightly open and thus allowed the morning sun to stream directly into his room. This had woken him up and taken him to the window to gaze out on a morning of quite exceptional beauty. Opening the window, he stuck his head out and breathed in the champagne-like air. It was quite exhilarating and it inspired him to have his walk before breakfast rather than afterwards.

Dressed in his mountain-walking clothes – plus-twos, green knitted socks, a pair of stout climbing boots, and a waterproof jacket – von Igelfeld strode out of the lodge and on to a path that he had not taken before. This path was considerably steeper than most of those that ran from the lodge and was generally thought to be a little too ambitious for those unused to Alpine conditions. Von Igelfeld, however, felt that the week’s practice he had already had equipped him perfectly well for a short walk along this path. If conditions became too difficult he could always turn back; there was no danger.

He walked for fifteen minutes or so. The path rose sharply and there were several points at which he was obliged to clamber rather than walk. It was good exercise, though, and he felt pleased that the level of fitness he had already achieved made it relatively easy for him to cope with the exertions involved. Unterholzer would never manage this, he thought, not without some satisfaction.

Coming to a point where his path converged with another, von Igelfeld decided to take a rest. He sat down on a smooth rock and looked out across the valley below. Then, turning round, he peered up at the mountain behind him. It seemed impossibly high, and he felt dizzy just from looking up at the needle-like crags so high above him.

He was disturbed by the sound of voices. ‘Here, I think. Perhaps a five-minute break …’

He looked round. A party of mountaineers – ten in number – had arrived by the other path and were looking about for places to sit down and rest. Their leader, a tall man dressed entirely in green, smiled at von Igelfeld and came over to greet him.

‘Ah,’ said the leader. ‘We were expecting you.’

Von Igelfeld inclined his head and introduced himself. ‘Von Igelfeld,’ he said. ‘Regensburg.’

‘Of course,’ said the leader. ‘We know several members of your club. We climbed in Spain last year.’

Von Igelfeld was puzzled. Club? He was about to enquire what club was being referred to when the leader asked him, ‘Are you happy to join us today? We’re going up there.’ He tossed his head in the direction of the towering mountainside above them.

‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I’m not all that experienced.’

The leader laughed. ‘You’re very modest,’ he said.

‘Perhaps,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But I’d be happy to come part of the way.’

The leader nodded. ‘That’s fine. You can come down again whenever you like. There are some fixed ropes on that face over there – I used them a few months ago. You’ll be all right with those.’

Von Igelfeld looked in the direction in which the leader was pointing. The rock seemed almost vertical there, but he could turn back well before they reached that point. And it would be good to walk with these agreeable-sounding people, even if only for half an hour or so.

They rested for a few minutes more before setting off again. They were roping together now, and a kind woman in a red jersey helped von Igelfeld to clip up. ‘I’m not surprised you find these clips difficult,’ she said. ‘Stefan introduced them. They’re a new design. Very tricky, but very safe.’

‘It’s best to be safe,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘There can be no doubt about that.’

‘Exactly,’ said the woman. ‘Ever since we lost Martin we’ve been ultra-careful.’

‘I’m sorry to hear about that,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘He had an accident?’

The woman looked down at the ground. ‘He was a little bit foolhardy,’ she said. ‘I know that nobody likes to say that now – not after what happened – but the truth of the matter is that if he hadn’t climbed beyond his competence he’d be with us still.’

Von Igelfeld absorbed this information as they began to make their way up the mountain. The path had all but disappeared and they were advancing across an alarmingly steep field of scree. Small rocks, dislodged by the boots of the climbers, rolled down the hill, gathering others as they did so. The noise made by these tiny landslides, although a danger to nobody, seemed ominously loud to von Igelfeld. He wondered whether that was the sound that a person would make if he were to fall. Was that the sound that poor Martin made when he tumbled? Or would a person fall more soundlessly, at least during the fall itself, until there came a dull thud at the end?

He made a conscious effort to stop these morbid thoughts and instead to enjoy the fact that he was now engaged in what appeared to be real climbing, with real mountaineers. He would be able to report this to the students when he returned to the lodge. He would not be boastful, of course, but he would certainly mention that they had been roped together. That would definitely impress.

After traversing the scree, the lead climbers turned and began to make their way up a steep face of rock. Von Igelfeld, roped to the woman in the red jersey who was directly in front of him, watched what she did and followed suit slavishly. It was not too difficult, he found, and he simply had to use the cracks in the rock that she used to place her hands and her feet. If this was mountaineering, then even if it was not exactly easy, it was not as difficult as it looked. The important thing, he decided, was not to look down. He had snatched the occasional glance earlier on, but had rapidly looked away; now, as they made their way up the face, he stared resolutely ahead.

There were further faces, and each of them he negotiated successfully, following the lead of the woman in front of him. She proved to be a safe and methodical climber, and a good tutor too. ‘You’re doing very well,’ she encouraged him. ‘If you continue like this, then you’ll make the summit with no difficulty.’

Von Igelfeld looked at his watch and frowned. They had been climbing for almost two hours now, and they were high above the point at which he had met the group. If he turned back now, how would he be able to get back by himself? He decided to ask his tutor.

‘Impossible,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t do it by yourself. Out of the question. You’ll have to continue.’

Their progress was slower now, as there were points of real difficulty in that part of the ascent. At one stage he slipped, but did not lose his footing and was immediately caught by his climbing companion. They were now on ice, with large patches of snow on either side of them.

‘Be careful here,’ she said. ‘Ice can be so treacherous.’

Von Igelfeld swallowed hard. ‘Treacherous,’ he muttered.

‘That’s what got poor Martin,’ said the woman.

‘Ice?’

‘Yes. Ice. Just like this.’

Von Igelfeld laughed. ‘Ice holds no fears for me,’ he said. ‘I have dealt with ice on many occasions.’

‘You never know with ice …’ the woman began.

‘Courage,’ said von Igelfeld firmly. ‘Courage is what counts. If you have that, then a climb like this is nothing to worry about.’

The woman looked doubtful. ‘Even the best—’ she said.

‘And determination,’ interjected von Igelfeld. ‘I’ve always said that the most important thing in mountaineering is attitude. If you have the right attitude, then you can deal with everything the mountain confronts you with.’

The woman was silent.

‘So, I suggest we press on,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I am enjoying this climb immensely and am confident that we shall reach the summit in no time at all. Attitude – as I have said – is what counts.’


They reached the summit shortly after two in the afternoon. Von Igelfeld by that stage was utterly exhausted, but felt an immense surge of pride as he shook hands with his companions. He had climbed a high and important mountain; he had not just been for a mountain hike as all the others were doing; he had actually climbed. And it had not been difficult at all: one simply watched the person in front of one and did what that person did. One might even ascend Everest in this way; he had heard that there were guides who would take you up even if you were not particularly experienced. Perhaps he could do that next. This mountain, which he had been told by the woman in the red jersey was called the Devil’s Needles, could be the preparation for Everest itself, or perhaps that other one, K2, or whatever it was called. This could be K1, in the same way as Mozart’s first work must have been K1. He smiled. Did Köchel number mountains as well as symphonies? That was a splendid joke, and he was about to tell it to the woman in the red jersey when he slipped and fell, right at the edge of the flat landing that made up the summit.

It happened very quickly. He sensed that his legs were going from under him – a sheet of ice, of course – and then he felt himself sliding. He heard shouts and he saw a blur of red. He slid and seemed to gather momentum; they had unroped at the top and there was nothing to stop him. He started to fall now, and suddenly was airborne, even if only briefly. He came down, landing on snow that felt much harder than it looked. He tumbled, head over heels now, and was airborne again. Beneath him, nothing, an abyss; trees flashed past, sky, flat expanses of rock, more snow.

For von Igelfeld it was a curiously passive experience. This awful thing that was happening to him was, he realised, death. This was the end, and he felt curiously calm. It did not matter; there was nothing that could be done about it. And he thought: I failed to say thank you to the woman in the red jersey. She helped me so much and I did not thank her. But she will understand; I shall write her a letter and explain. No, I shall not be able to do that for I shall be dead. Well, my lawyer can write to her and say that Professor von Igelfeld would certainly have written to thank you for your kindness were it not for the fact of his untimely death. That was a consolation. And the second edition of Portuguese Irregular Verbs? The lawyer would contact the chairman of the Max-Planck Foundation and explain what had happened. He would understand too. Snow. More trees. He was travelling very fast now and there was a sharp pain in his side. This was most inconvenient. So very … He was airborne again, but the sky was dark and he could see nothing. Perhaps night had come. He saw a face. Herr Huber. And Herr Huber was looking at him in a way that presaged some remark about his aunt, but instead he said: You have been so kind to me.


Von Igelfeld was found not by the Librarian but by a passing mountain guide who was escorting two visiting Japanese climbers. The guide’s heart gave a lurch when he saw the inert form spreadeagled in the snowdrift; he had witnessed a climbing accident a few months ago and the memory was still distressing; for it to happen to him again so soon was surely bad luck. But as he and his clients approached the snowdrift, there was a sudden movement and then, to their astonishment and relief, the figure stood up and began to dust himself down.

It was obvious from the deep indentation in the snow that the fall had been from some height, but the guide was not prepared for the information that von Igelfeld, now quite conscious and suffering from no more than a bruised rib, proceeded to give him.

‘It was very challenging,’ he said. ‘I was at the top of the Devil’s Needles and I began a rapid descent. It was most uncomfortable, and potentially extremely dangerous for a less experienced person.’

The guide looked up at the towering, distant peak of the Needles. The Japanese climbers, who spoke no German, peered at von Igelfeld and exchanged quick, excited remarks intelligible only to themselves. The guide then looked back at von Igelfeld in disbelief. Perhaps this unusual-looking man was concussed; sufferers from concussion could talk the most extraordinary nonsense.

‘Perhaps you were a bit lower when you fell,’ the guide said politely. ‘There’s a ridge up there behind you. Perhaps you fell from there.’

‘I know exactly where I was,’ von Igelfeld replied. ‘And I wouldn’t necessarily say that I fell. I descended rapidly. There is a distinction, you know.’

The guide scratched his head and shrugged. ‘If you say so,’ he said. He did not believe him, of course: no man could survive such a fall.

But it was then that the small radio that he was carrying crackled into life. A message had been transmitted from the party with whom von Igelfeld had been climbing and had been passed to the mountain rescue authorities. There had been a fall from the summit of the Devil’s Needles and assistance was required in the search for what was assumed would be a body.

The guide listened to the message in frank astonishment.

‘You see?’ said von Igelfeld. ‘That was about me.’

The guide nodded and let out a whistle of admiration. ‘A miracle,’ he said. ‘A direct descent from the summit of the Needles. They said it couldn’t be done.’

The Japanese climbers were now marvelling at von Igelfeld’s height, rather than at the nature of the fall, the details of which, for linguistic reasons, they had missed. They now posed on either side of him, giving the guide a camera to record the meeting. Von Igelfeld tried to smile; he was a polite man – in his way – and would not wish to offend visitors to Germany, even when one of his ribs was most uncomfortable and he was now beginning to feel hungry.

He was escorted back to the lodge by the mountain guide and the two Japanese climbers. More photographs were taken along the way and von Igelfeld also signed a small autograph album that one of the Japanese produced from his rucksack. By the time they arrived back at the lodge, the press was already there in the shape of the reporter from the local newspaper and a correspondent from Mountain Gazette who happened to be staying in the area.

Von Igelfeld was examined by a doctor who announced that his only injury – apart from a few scratches – was to a rib, and that would heal naturally, even if it would be uncomfortable for a few days. Von Igelfeld was stoical in these matters and did not think that painkillers would be necessary.

He agreed to speak to the press, but only later that day, once he had had the opportunity to catch up with correspondence and deal with some proofs that had arrived in that day’s post. He did, however, meet his climbing companion, whose party had come down the mountain as quickly as possible – by the conventional route – after von Igelfeld’s tumble.

‘I am so delighted to find you alive,’ she said. ‘I never imagined that anybody could survive such a fall. When I saw you slip …’

Von Igelfeld shook his head. ‘I’m not so sure that it was an actual slip,’ he said.

‘But—’

Von Igelfeld cut her short. ‘No, I certainly left you abruptly, but an abrupt departure is not the same thing as an involuntary one.’

The mountaineeress stared at him. ‘You are a very brave man, Professor von Igelfeld.’

Von Igelfeld gave a modest shrug. ‘All of us are capable of rising to the occasion,’ he pronounced.

‘Or falling to it,’ she muttered.

The reporter from the local newspaper realised that he had a major story on his hands. Sitting in the common room at the lodge, he sent off a piece that would appear the next day in all the major German papers as well as in a slew of foreign ones. Celebrated Professor in Rapid Mountain Descent, he wrote. Professor Dr Dr Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld will go down in mountaineering history as the only man to make a descent of the famous Devil’s Needles by the most direct route.

The following day, when the papers were delivered to the lodge, von Igelfeld, still basking in the attention of all and sundry, waved a hand airily when the Librarian read out the phrase about going down in mountaineering history.

‘I should have thought it better to go up in mountaineering history,’ he said, ‘rather than down.’

There was silence. Then all the students, the administrators, and Herr Huber began to laugh. Von Igelfeld bowed his head modestly, as a further mountaineering reference came to his mind. What had Mallory said when asked why he had attempted to climb Everest? Because it was there. There were some amusing remarks, he thought, that had to be made – because they were there!

He looked about him. It was a relief to be alive, and in appreciative company. Herr Huber was looking at him proudly from the other side of the room and suddenly he remembered how he had seen the Librarian’s face on his way down the mountainside. And what was it that he had said? You have been so kind to me.

He crossed the room and drew the Librarian aside. ‘I appreciate what you have done here,’ he said. ‘You have made this reading party a particular success. Thank you so much for all you have done, Herr Huber.’

Herr Huber beamed with pleasure and made a noise that was difficult to interpret, but was clearly a noise of satisfaction, rather like the purring of a cat.