Unusual Uses for Olive Oil

Unusual Uses for Olive Oil




The news of von Igelfeld’s narrow escape from death was still being talked about in Regensburg a few days later, after the reading party returned from the mountains. The public reaction was generally favourable, with pride being expressed in the ability of the local professoriat to survive the apparently unsurvivable. People are, by and large, keen to find instances of human heroism, and the view soon emerged that surviving the fall was somehow an achievement akin to battling one’s way down a mountain against extreme odds or reaching the South Pole single-handed. This is a mountaineering triumph, wrote one correspondent to the local paper. In an age when even the climbing of mountains has become a high-tech business, here we have an enthusiastic amateur showing that what counts is determination and character. Professor von Igelfeld may be an unlikely hero, but he is certainly an authentic one. The city fathers should name a street after him – at the very least.

This letter was read out loud in the coffee room by Herr Huber – in the absence of von Igelfeld – and the Librarian nodded in vigorous agreement when he came to the final sentence.

‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I have often thought that it would be a good idea to have a street named after our dear colleague. I thought this even before this latest incident. I pointed out to my aunt …’

‘Well really!’ exclaimed Unterholzer. ‘I have every admiration for Professor von Igelfeld, as we all know, but naming a street after him is ridiculous.’

‘Why not?’ asked Herr Huber. ‘Professor von Igelfeld did a remarkable thing. It is quite appropriate to name a street after somebody who pulls off a major sporting achievement.’

Unterholzer snorted. ‘A major sporting achievement? Come now, Herr Huber; what did Professor von Igelfeld actually do? He fell. Now I don’t think that’s a major sporting achievement at all. It’s just a fall. And he turned out to be lucky enough to survive. That is not an achievement in my view. It is an outcome. That’s all.’

The Librarian looked down into his coffee. ‘I was there,’ he muttered. ‘And I saw how high that mountain was.’

Unterholzer pursed his lips. ‘Mountains are, by definition, high, Herr Huber. That is why only very experienced climbers should try to get to the top of them. Rank amateurs – professors and the like – should not venture beyond the very lowest slopes lest they stand the risk of falling – as a recent event has clearly demonstrated to us. And I fail to see what credit there is in falling – I really do. I could fall down the stairs outside my office any day, but I would not expect a street to be named after me as a result.’

‘Well, he certainly managed to stay alive,’ ventured Prinzel. ‘And I, for one, would be happy to see a street named after Professor von Igelfeld.’

‘Yes,’ said the Librarian, emboldened by this show of support. ‘And imagine how amusing it would be, Professor Prinzel, if you found yourself living on Von Igelfeld Street and he found himself on Prinzel Street! That would require, of course, that you do something heroic too, and I wouldn’t want you to think that I would wish you to fall off anything. Perish the thought! I am sure there are many other reasons why a street should be named after you. For example, if …’

Unterholzer glared at the Librarian. ‘Von Igelfeld Street?’ he mocked. ‘Let us remind ourselves what Professor von Igelfeld’s name actually means: hedgehog-field. People would drive down it very carefully because they might think that it was a street much favoured by hedgehogs. People do not like to drive over hedgehogs in their car. No, it would be very impractical.’

The suggestion that a street be named after von Igelfeld was taken no further, but the effect of the incident continued to be felt and von Igelfeld found that invitations to speak on the radio flooded in. There were several television appearances too, and requests for interviews from journalists. He tried to accept as many of these invitations as he could – not out of any personal vanity, but because he believed that it was in the Institute’s interest to have exposure in the press and also because he believed that a measure of publicity would do no harm to the prospects of Portuguese Irregular Verbs. Von Igelfeld had always believed that his magnum opus should reach a wider readership, and it was a regular affront to him to be informed by the publishers that on average only two or three copies left their warehouse every six months. If further public mention could be made of it, then surely more copies would be bought and his work might perhaps nudge its way on to those lists of bestselling books he had seen in the papers. After all, there was no doubt but that many people were interested in language, and if even a small proportion of these were to read Portuguese Irregular Verbs it would make a difference.

In due course the interest in the mountain incident subsided. There was still the occasional invitation to make a public appearance, but the papers, having extracted all they could from the story, had other events to cover. What did arrive, though, was an approach from a speakers’ bureau in Cologne, asking von Igelfeld whether he might consider becoming what the writer termed an ‘inspirational speaker’.

He read the letter with some interest. We represent a wide range of public figures, it said. These are figures from the business world, the world of politics, or, as in your case, the world of sporting achievement. There are many clubs and other organisations that are keen to engage such speakers for their meetings and dinners. Might we interest you in this? We have already received an enquiry from a business association in Hamburg asking us whether we can secure an engagement with you. Would that be possible?

Von Igelfeld looked thoughtful. Hamburg was an interesting proposition, as that was where Zimmermann lived and if he went up there he could combine the speaking engagement with a call on Zimmermann. He and Zimmermann had a great deal to discuss and on the last two occasions he had visited Hamburg Zimmermann had been away. And it would be helpful if Zimmermann were to realise that he, von Igelfeld, had public speaking engagements. He could write to him and say, quite casually, that he happened to be coming to Hamburg to speak at a large dinner and would it be possible to call?

Von Igelfeld mentioned the letter in the coffee room that morning.

‘A speakers’ bureau?’ said Prinzel. ‘Interesting. I’ve read about such things. I heard of one retired politician who went on the speaking circuit and became a very wealthy man just speaking to people about things. An agreeable way to earn a living, if you ask me. And free dinners too!’

‘It would be very nice for Professor von Igelfeld to do that too,’ said the Librarian. ‘I’m sure that there are many people – not just in Hamburg – who would like to hear him speak. I would certainly pay for a ticket, wouldn’t you, Professor Prinzel?’

‘I certainly would,’ said Prinzel.

Unterholzer lowered the paper he was reading. ‘I am sure that you would be very popular, Herr von Igelfeld,’ he said. ‘But what would you speak about, I wonder?’

Von Igelfeld shrugged. ‘There are many things to speak about, Herr Unterholzer. But I might observe that the letter goes on to say something about an inspirational subject.’

‘Your recent experiences in the mountains would be very interesting to people,’ said Herr Huber. ‘You could perhaps entitle your talk “Going Up and Coming Down”. You could talk about how in life we are sometimes faced with circumstances that take us up, and then we encounter circumstances that bring us down. Up and down. That is how it is. And then you could tell them how to make sure that they go up more than they go down. And it would all be to do with your remarkable recent descent of the Devil’s Needles, where you went up, and then came down.’

Unterholzer listened with increasing irritation. ‘Or going sideways, perhaps?’ he said sarcastically. ‘There are plenty of people who might prefer to go sideways. What about them? How are we to inspire them?’

The Librarian, momentarily nonplussed, looked to von Igelfeld for help.

‘It’s all very well to mock at such things, Professor Unterholzer,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘All this talk of going sideways cannot obscure the essential truth that there are many people who do not know where they are going, whether it be up or down, or, indeed, sideways.’

‘Backwards too,’ said the Librarian. ‘I imagine that there are many people who feel that they are going backwards. These are the people to whom we should reach out.’

‘Nonsense,’ snapped Unterholzer. ‘Most people aren’t going anywhere. And they certainly don’t need inspirational speakers to tell them that. Not in my view, anyway.’ He paused. ‘Although I’m sure that Professor von Igelfeld would be a very entertaining and much appreciated after-dinner speaker.’

‘Exactly,’ said the Librarian. ‘And do you think that you might perhaps come and speak at my aunt’s nursing home, Professor von Igelfeld? There are plenty of people there who could do with a bit of inspiration.’

‘I would be very happy to do that, Herr Huber,’ said von Igelfeld, glancing reproachfully at Unterholzer. ‘After all, we should all be willing to shoulder our broader responsibilities to the wider community.’

And at that point the discussion ended. Going back to his room, von Igelfeld looked again at the letter from the speakers’ bureau and dictated a reply. He would be happy, he said, to accept the Hamburg invitation and he suggested that his talk might be called ‘Going Up and Coming Down’. He hoped that the organisers would find this title acceptable, and he looked forward to the occasion in Hamburg.

I am delighted, wrote back the director of the bureau several days later. I have already spoken to our clients and they are extremely pleased that you will be coming to speak to them. They are sure that their membership will be most interested in hearing you and they look forward to being your hosts in Hamburg.

Now that the invitation was confirmed, von Igelfeld began to write his speech. He had a great deal to say on both going up and coming down. Going up, he pointed out, was a matter of commitment, preparation, and careful execution. Commitment required one to be determined to achieve the objective in question. Do not be half-hearted, he wrote. Those who are half-hearted often only get halfway. He stopped. The aphorism was neatly stated and utterly memorable. He was proud of it. And as for preparation, there could be no doubt but that this was the key to successful execution. A prepared position is a position, he wrote. Those who are not prepared do not have positions. They may be keen to move into positions, but they are not there until they have made their preparations. When I go climbing, I always ensure that I have my ice-axe and my …’ He paused to think about what other pieces of equipment the well-prepared climber should have. And my other pieces of necessary equipment, he wrote. Again he was struck by the aptness of the advice and its elegant expression. Being an inspirational speaker, he decided, was not a difficult job at all – very much easier than being a professor of Romance linguistics, and rather better paid too, it seemed.

* * *

‘Exciting news,’ said Herr Huber that evening, as he sat in the small Italian restaurant that he had recently taken to frequenting.

His companion, Aalina, was the young woman he had met on the reading party.

The friendship that had blossomed in the mountains had survived the transition to lower altitudes – indeed it had become more intense. Now, sitting in a discreet corner of La Tavola Sienese, they held hands across the table, gazing at each other with an intensity of fondness that impressed itself even upon the waiters who had witnessed numerous romantic trysts.

‘Oh, Stoffi,’ enthused Aalina. ‘I love exciting news. I love, love, love it!’

‘Don’t we all?’ said the Librarian. ‘It’s about Professor von Igelfeld.’

Aalina’s eyes widened. She stood in awe of von Igelfeld – an impossibly remote and grand figure if you were, as she was, a lowly postgraduate student. And now, to be in a position to hear first-hand gossip of his doings …

‘Hamburg,’ announced the Librarian. ‘He’s going to Hamburg to give a talk to a group of businessmen. This isn’t a lecture: this is a talk. The sort of talk that prominent politicians or famous actors give. That sort of talk.’

Aalina absorbed this. ‘You’d give lovely talks, Stoffi,’ she said.

The Librarian laughed. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. You’d be really popular and there’d be big turnouts. Why don’t you?’

Herr Huber shook his head. ‘Impossible. Nobody would ask me.’

‘I would.’

He pressed her hand. ‘That’s because you’re kind. No, nobody would come to any talk I gave. Nobody wants to listen to me.’

She returned the pressure of his clasp. ‘But I do! I love listening to you, Stoffi. You make me laugh. You make me feel … well, you make me feel as if anything could happen. You know that feeling?’

‘Me? I do that?’

‘Of course you do.’ She paused. ‘You know, I didn’t tell you this when we were up in the mountains, but all my life – all thirty-whatever years of it – I’ve wanted to meet somebody just like you. A nice man. A good-looking, exciting man. Somebody who would make me feel … well, the way I feel when I’m with you.’

The Librarian said nothing. He looked down at the pattern of the tablecloth. Was he really a good-looking, exciting man? Would she say such things if she did not mean them? He thought not.

‘You’re so kind,’ he said eventually. ‘And I have also been looking for much the same thing, mutatis mutandis, of course. Now Fate has brought you to me.’

‘And you to me.’

‘Exactly.’

There was a silence.

‘Yes?’

‘Yes?’

Laughter. ‘We must try not to speak at the same time,’ he admonished. ‘We must wait. I’m afraid that that is a lesson that Professor Dr Unterholzer needs to learn. He’s always interrupting me when I’m telling a story.’

‘Nasty man.’

‘Not really nasty – it’s just that he does not think very highly of me. Professor von Igelfeld is different, you know. He has always been good to me. He’s a good man, you know. Not everyone realises what a good man he is.’

She nodded. ‘They know about Portuguese Irregular Verbs and they’re … they’re blinded by his eminence. They don’t ask themselves what sort of man lies behind the book. How kind and understanding he is.’

They were well-expressed sentiments, and Herr Huber entirely agreed with them. He entirely agreed with everything that Aalina said, in fact. He cleared his throat. ‘Aalina?’

‘Yes?’

‘I hardly know how to put this, but I was wondering whether it might be an idea for us to get married. I was just wondering.’

‘That would be very nice. I would love it. Seriously love it.’

The waiter appeared with their first course and they were both silent while the plates were placed on the tables. Then, when he had gone, Herr Huber took her hand again and said, ‘My aunt will be very pleased with this news. She has often said to me, you know, that I should get married. I remember her saying something to this effect only a couple of weeks ago, just before the reading party. One of the nurses in the nursing home had recently got married – to a man who came from Düsseldorf, I think. I believe the nurse was from Düsseldorf too, because of the way she spoke. You can always tell, you know …’


Von Igelfeld travelled to Hamburg by train and was met at the railway station by the secretary of the businessmen’s association he was due to address. A room had been reserved for him at the Hotel Vier Jahrezeiten and he was taken there directly from the station.

‘It is our finest hotel, Herr Professor,’ said the secretary. ‘And they have the Association’s instructions to attend to any needs that you have. We shall have our dinner in one of their dining rooms. They have very fine chefs.’

Von Igelfeld nodded.

‘And your talk, Herr Professor? How long will it take, do you think? This is just so that we can make arrangements for the dinner. And I must say the title is very intriguing. “Going Up and Coming Down”. Very intriguing.’

‘Thank you,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Two hours. Perhaps slightly longer.’

The secretary froze. ‘Two hours, did you say, Herr Professor?’

‘Yes,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘It will be in four parts, you see. Two will deal with going up, one with coming down, and one will consist of a summary and conclusions.’

The secretary looked about him furtively. ‘Is that not perhaps a little long, Herr Professor? This is a dinner, you see, and …’

‘I do not think it at all long,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘It is very difficult to deal adequately with a topic in a shorter time, in my view.’

‘But most of our speakers in the past have confined themselves to about twenty minutes,’ said the secretary desperately. ‘After a dinner our members tend to feel … somewhat replete. They are quite prepared to listen to longer addresses during the day, but in the evening, well … they are human.’

Von Igelfeld looked at the secretary with disapproval. ‘Are you suggesting that I cut my talk? Is that what you’re suggesting? That I should perhaps just talk about going up and say nothing of coming down?’

The secretary looked miserable. ‘I shall have to discuss this with the committee,’ he said. ‘But I fear that its view will be the same as mine: two hours is a very long after-dinner talk, I fear.’

They were standing in the hotel lobby. Von Igelfeld looked up at the ceiling in an attempt to master his irritation. ‘This is most vexing,’ he said. ‘It truly is. But the last thing I should like to do is to cause any ill-feeling. And therefore I shall speak for no more than one hour.’

The secretary cleared his throat. ‘I would never wish to appear difficult,’ he said. ‘But we were thinking more in terms of … fifteen minutes. I am sure, Herr Professor, that you can be admirably concise. It’s a great art, don’t you think? Conciseness. In the days of telegrams people knew all about it. Now, with all this e-mail and what-not, people have lost all sense of economy when it comes to words, don’t you think?’

Von Igelfeld stared at the secretary. He would not answer this question, he decided. One did not have to answer all the questions put to one in life, particularly ones so otiose as this was, posed by one who had just deliberately insulted him by suggesting that a carefully prepared speech be butchered. He remained tight-lipped: he would have no alternative but to teach these people a lesson.


The dinner began with a reception in one of the hotel’s public rooms. Von Igelfeld, having been collected from his room by a nervous and now rather uncomfortable secretary, had been introduced to the chairman, Herr Lehmann-Wolf, and the five or six members of his committee. They had then taken him around to meet the members, of whom there seemed to be at least one hundred and fifty, all talking at the tops of their voices. He was warmly received.

‘We are very honoured indeed,’ said Herr Lehmann-Wolf. ‘We pride ourselves on getting the very best speakers. And you are certainly in that category, Herr von Igelfeld. And something of a celebrity, too, after your mountaineering achievements.’

Von Igelfeld inclined his head. He was beginning to feel mollified, but he was still smarting at the discourtesy of having his prepared speech cut by such an amount. What could one say in fifteen minutes? Very little worth saying, in his view. But if that was the way they wanted it, then he would show them. They asked for brevity: they would get it.

There was a great deal of champagne. White-jacketed waiters, unctuous in the way in which the staff of all great hotels are, appeared at the elbow of every guest to ensure that no glass remained unfilled for long. Von Igelfeld, who drank very little, sipped modestly at his glass and resisted attempts to refill it. Such restraint was not evident in the broader membership, who became rowdier and rowdier as the reception continued. By the time Herr Lehmann-Wolf announced that the company should go through for dinner, the volume of noise was such that von Igelfeld could barely hear anything that was said to him. Was this the way businessmen behaved at their associations? Imagine if this sort of thing happened at philological congresses, sedate affairs at which champagne had never been offered as far as von Igelfeld could recall.

They sat down to dinner. The champagne was now replaced by white wine, which the same waiters, with the same persistence, poured into the members’ glasses. This seemed to increase the volume of conversational noise, augmented by the sound of knives and forks on china.

‘Our members rather enjoy these occasions,’ said Herr Lehmann-Wolf. ‘They perhaps rather let their hair down, you know. Hard work, I suppose, is often followed by hard play.’

Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘Others work hard too,’ he said.

Herr Lehmann-Wolf glanced at his guest with concern. ‘Of course, of course. I wasn’t suggesting …’

‘They might work very hard on a speech, for example,’ went on von Igelfeld, ‘only to discover that it is to be truncated.’

Herr Lehmann-Wolf did not hear this, as the remark coincided with his neighbour on the other side saying something about protective tariffs. ‘Of course,’ he said politely, to both. ‘How interesting.’

The dinner continued. Over the dessert, an elaborate chocolate confection, Herr Lehmann-Wolf explained to von Igelfeld what his own firm did, which was to make guidance systems for small aircraft. Business was good, he said, as there seemed to be more and more small aircraft about.

‘They are very noisy,’ said von Igelfeld.

Then came coffee. By this point the membership was in a thoroughly good mood, and there had even been a suggestion from one table that there should be a sing-song. This was politely rejected by the chairman, who tapped on his glass with a spoon to restore order and to introduce the evening’s speaker.

‘Our speaker this evening requires no introduction,’ he said. ‘Not only is he a distinguished mountaineer, but he is the author of a book in Portuguese. He is very well known in Regensburg, and places like that. He is, of course, Professor Moritz-Maria von Igel, and I now call upon him to speak to us.’

This brought prolonged and enthusiastic applause, and even one or two hooting sounds from a table at the back of the room. Von Igelfeld stared down at the table. This was quite intolerable. A book in Portuguese! Places like that! And then, of course, the final insult: von Igel simpliciter. Professor Hedgehog. There was no excuse for such rudeness, even from a man whose name, when translated, meant Serf-Wolf. Hah! Not even a land-owning wolf, but a serf-wolf! He would show them.

He stood up. ‘I am most grateful for this invitation,’ he said, ‘and for the opportunity to speak to such a distinguished group.’

Distinguished by their noisiness, he thought. Hah!

‘I have been asked to be brief, and I believe that brevity is indeed a great virtue. The title of my talk is “Going Up and Coming Down”. Now what does this mean? That which goes up, can go down. That is the meaning we can extract from the title. That which is long can become short. That which is brief, can become even briefer. So be careful in your dealings. Remember that those of you who are up – or high, in your case this evening – can also go down. Don’t forget that. That is all I have to say.’

He sat down, tight-lipped. He had taught them a lesson; it had to be done. But then, no sooner had he resumed his seat than a wave of sound, of wild applause, surging like the currents of an incoming tide, reached him. The members were delighted. They clapped and clapped. Then they started to rise to their feet to give him a standing ovation. There were cheers ringing in the air.

‘A very good speech indeed,’ said Herr Lehmann-Wolf. ‘As you can see, the members are quite delighted.’

Von Igelfeld did not know what to say. The secretary, who came up from the end of the table to congratulate him, said, ‘I must say, Professor von Igelfeld, that you have charmed the membership with your speech tonight. You have very cleverly assessed our needs. So kind of you.’

Von Igelfeld nodded graciously. His hand was being seized by members seated nearby and, as he rose to leave, a further round of applause broke out.

‘A triumph,’ shouted one of the members.

‘Brilliant,’ called out another.

‘They like you,’ said Herr Lehmann-Wolf, smiling broadly. ‘Ever thought of being a Hamburg businessman, alter Schwede?’

Von Igelfeld was too shocked to say anything. Herr Lehmann-Wolf had addressed him as old Swede, a very familiar mode of address indeed, and quite uncalled for in this context.

‘No?’ said Herr Lehmann-Wolf in answer to his own question. ‘Oh, well …’


Herr Huber looked at von Igelfeld from behind his desk in the Institute’s library. There was nobody else in the room, but the Librarian made it a rule to talk in a muted voice in the library, even if nobody else was there.

‘Hamburg,’ he whispered. ‘How did it go?’

Von Igelfeld made a casual gesture with his hands. ‘You know how they are up there. Very good hosts. Nice people.’

The Librarian nodded. ‘I knew a man from Hamburg,’ he said. ‘He was a librarian too. We studied together …’

‘Yes,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Yes indeed.’

‘And Professor Zimmermann?’ asked the Librarian. ‘Did you see him?’

Von Igelfeld shook his head. ‘He was away,’ he said. ‘But he left a note for me saying that we should meet soon. Those were his words: meet soon.’

‘Very satisfactory,’ said Herr Huber. ‘And they liked your talk? I knew they would. Will they invite you back, do you think?’

Von Igelfeld smiled. Poor, unworldly Herr Huber; he clearly did not know that guest speakers were usually invited only once. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘They have different speakers each year, you see.’

Herr Huber looked disappointed. ‘Oh, well. There will be many other invitations stemming from this one, when word gets out.’ He paused. ‘And in fact one has already come in. Have you looked in your in-tray yet?’

Von Igelfeld had not. He was busy working on the final draft of a piece for the Zeitschrift and had found no time so far for correspondence.

The Librarian explained. ‘Professor Unterholzer and Frau Professor Unterholzer have invited everybody for dinner – as they did last year. That’s you and Professor Prinzel and Frau Professor Prinzel and me and …’ He hesitated, smiling shyly.

‘Is there anybody else?’ asked von Igelfeld.

‘My fiancée,’ whispered Herr Huber. ‘She is invited as well. Specifically. By name. The future Frau Huber.’

It took von Igelfeld a few moments to absorb what had been said. ‘Your fiancée, Herr Huber? You have a fiancée?’

Herr Huber beamed with pleasure. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘And you’ve met her …’

Again a few moments were required for von Igelfeld to order his thoughts. Then the memory came back of the sight of Herr Huber walking in the mountains with that young woman whose name he could not quite recall; of the comment that she sought out the Librarian’s company. So that was it …

‘I must congratulate you, Herr Huber,’ he said. ‘I never thought it possible …’ He paused. No, he could not say what he was thinking. ‘That is, I never thought it possible that you would find somebody who met your high standards. I am delighted that you have.’

Herr Huber accepted the compliment gravely. ‘I have been very lucky,’ he said.

‘And she has been lucky too!’ said von Igelfeld. ‘She has been lucky to get you!’

‘Do you really think so?’ asked the Librarian.

Von Igelfeld wanted to say no, but could not. ‘Of course I do,’ he lied. ‘You will both be very happy.’

‘Well that’s very kind, Herr von Igelfeld. And you’ll all have the chance to get to know her better when we meet at Herr Unterholzer’s house next week.’

Von Igelfeld looked down at his colleague’s left hand. Yes, the Librarian was wearing a ring – a large gold band on which, even at this distance, could be made out an incised pair of entwined hearts. He glanced down at his own, discreet signet ring with its tiny hedgehog motif, drawn from the crest of the von Igelfeld family. He could never wear a ring with entwined hearts, but somehow, now, it seemed less lonely, less demanding than a single figure of a hedgehog rampant.


After his experience of arriving too early at the Prinzel house, von Igelfeld was careful to arrive somewhat later at the Unterholzers’. This meant he was last, everybody else having arrived at exactly the time stipulated by Frau Professor Unterholzer.

‘Ah, there you are, Herr von Igelfeld,’ said Unterholzer, adding, ‘at last.’

Von Igelfeld looked at his watch. It was ten minutes after the appointed time.

‘I have always believed that it is polite to arrive a few minutes after the time on an invitation,’ he said. ‘This gives one’s hosts the opportunity to make last-minute preparations.’

‘Not necessary in this household,’ said Unterholzer. ‘This meal has been ready since yesterday. And the table was laid two days before that.’

They went into the sitting room where the other guests were already seated. Herr Huber sprang to his feet and introduced Aalina. ‘You’ve met my fiancée, of course,’ he said proudly.

Von Igelfeld shook hands with Aalina and proceeded to greet Frau Unterholzer and the Prinzels.

‘What a happy gathering,’ said Prinzel. ‘And how opportune it is to be able to wish every happiness to our newly engaged friends.’

‘A very good development,’ said Unterholzer. ‘May you have many happy years together, Herr Huber and … and the future Frau Huber.’

Von Igelfeld raised the glass that had been pressed into his hands by Frau Unterholzer. He thought, even as he drank the toast, how bleak was the prospect of many years with Herr Huber. Could such years really be happy? How many hours of sheer boredom lay before the unfortunate Aalina – hours of tedium stretching out like the great German plain itself. And yet women were funny about that sort of thing. So many of them appeared to be perfectly satisfied with the most unlikely men, failing to see their manifest drawbacks, failing to object to their monotonous conversation, their wretched hobbies: fishing, motor-sport, beer – that sort of thing. Not that Herr Huber was interested in those pursuits; he was more focused on nursing homes and the issue of where people came from and how long they had lived there. Poor woman! Did she know that, he wondered. Was she aware of what she was doing?

‘Herr Huber tells us that you had a very successful visit to Hamburg, Herr von Igelfeld,’ said Prinzel. ‘A standing ovation, no less!’

Unterholzer’s eyes flashed. ‘Sometimes people are very keen to get out,’ he said. ‘That may look like a standing ovation, but it is just getting up to go. Not that this was the case with Herr von Igelfeld. I’m sure that his standing ovation was quite genuine.’

‘I’m sure it was,’ said Ophelia Prinzel. ‘Well done, Moritz-Maria! It will be London next. Then New York.’

Von Igelfeld smiled. ‘I shall not be accepting any more such invitations,’ he said. ‘Like all of us, I have work to do here in Regensburg.’

‘A very noble sentiment, I must say,’ said Prinzel. ‘There is nothing worse than these people who dash about the place shamelessly giving talks. Have they nothing better to do?’

There were murmurs of agreement from all, and the next subject was broached. This was a discussion of road repairs near the Prinzels’ house. Then they moved on to talk about Venice, and whether it was best to go there in the summer or the winter. Then there was something about a concert that Ophelia had attended recently where she was sure the piano was out of tune. ‘The pianist looked most uncomfortable throughout the performance and at the end he banged the lid shut and swore. I heard him. I was in the front row.’

‘That is quite inexcusable,’ said Frau Unterholzer. ‘It does not help to do such things.’

There was further agreement on this matter, and that took them to the point at which dinner was served. Over the meal, the conversation was congenial, with everybody making an effort to include Aalina in what was said. She proved to be an easy conversationalist, smiling charmingly at anybody who spoke to her and nodding agreement with everything that the host or hostess said. For the rest, she gazed upon Herr Huber with intense pride, not noticing, it appeared, that he told the same story twice, once at the beginning of the meal and once towards the end. This was a story of a man who came from Bonn but moved to Frankfurt, and then went back to Bonn.

Halfway through the meal, von Igelfeld spilled a small amount of gravy on the cuff of his shirt. Attempts to remove the stain with his table napkin having failed, he asked permission to use the tap in the bathroom for this purpose. ‘I know exactly where it is,’ he said. ‘Please continue for a few minutes without me.’

He went out into the long, book-lined corridor that led to the bathroom at the back of the house. Halfway down this corridor, sitting strategically on the carpet, was the Unterholzers’ dachshund, the unfortunate Walter, with his three-wheeled prosthetic appliance strapped round his sausage-like stomach. On seeing von Igelfeld approach, Walter rose to his remaining foot and attempted to wheel himself out of the way. He was not fast enough, and von Igelfeld, who was not looking where he was placing his feet, tripped over him.

The dog gave a yelp and attempted to move further out of the way. Unfortunately this was not possible, as von Igelfeld’s foot had kicked off one of the dog’s wheels. Now unbalanced, the dachshund simply fell on his chest, letting out a whimper as he did so.

Von Igelfeld looked down at the dog at his feet, its little wheel clearly detached, lying beside him. Bending down, von Igelfeld picked up the wheel and, calming the dog as best he could, attempted to fit it back on the appliance. It was very stiff, and he had to give it a good push before it found its place, but this had the effect of driving all the breath out of the dog, who had to gasp for air.

The wheel in place, von Igelfeld gave the dog a further push, to see whether all was working correctly. It was not. The wheel that he had replaced now refused to go round at all, so that the dog turned in little circles as he paddled with his remaining leg.

Von Igelfeld had no difficulty in arriving at a diagnosis: the wheel needed oiling. But how to do that?

The dog, in the interim, had moved in circles through the kitchen door, and it was in the kitchen that the solution presented itself. Reaching up to the shelf above the sink, von Igelfeld took down a bottle of extra virgin olive oil and dripped a small quantity over the bearings of the non-functioning wheel. Then he tried to ease the wheel by spinning it. Unfortunately he forgot that he was holding an open bottle of olive oil in his other hand, and as he leaned forward he tipped the contents of this bottle all over Walter and the surrounding parts of the kitchen floor.

Walter, alarmed by being covered with olive oil, let out a howl of protest and ran – in so far as a dog with a prosthetic appliance and three wheels can run – back along the corridor and into the dining room, to seek the succour of his owners.

Von Igelfeld put the now empty bottle of olive oil back on the shelf, made an unsuccessful attempt to mop up the spillage on the floor, and returned to the dining room. The conversation was still in full swing, although Frau Unterholzer was looking down in puzzlement at the floor beside her chair where Walter, covered in olive oil, was licking at his coat. She glanced up at von Igelfeld and frowned, but he avoided her gaze.

At the end of the meal, Professor Unterholzer left the table to turn on the coffee-making machine in the kitchen. A moment or two after his departure, there was a loud thud from the kitchen. Frau Unterholzer gasped and hurried from the room, to return a few moments later with her husband, who looked flustered and uncomfortable. They both glared at von Igelfeld.

‘My husband slipped,’ said Frau Unterholzer. ‘But he is uninjured.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ said Herr Huber. ‘At my aunt’s nursing home they have these special non-slip floors. You can’t slip on them – it’s just impossible.’

‘If one covered them with olive oil, one might,’ said Frau Unterholzer darkly.

‘Possibly,’ said Herr Huber. ‘But why would one do a thing like that?’


The Prinzels had come by car, and they gave von Igelfeld a lift back to his apartment. As they drove through the night, Prinzel said, ‘A very pleasant evening, don’t you think, Herr von Igelfeld?’

Von Igelfeld looked out of the window; a city looked so different by night; indifferent too. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very pleasant.’

Ophelia Prinzel turned to look at von Igelfeld in the rear seat. She was fond of him – and always had been. Poor Moritz-Maria: all alone with nobody to go home to. And there appeared to be oil stains all over the front of his shirt and on the sleeves of his jacket. How strange.

‘Are you happy, Moritz-Maria?’ she asked suddenly. She did not know why she asked this; it just seemed to be the question that needed to be asked at the time.

‘Happy?’ he asked. ‘Why should I be anything but happy?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s just that the world sometimes seems a bit unkind, doesn’t it? It can be unkind to people who just want to be loved, like everybody else; who just want that – no more, just that.’

‘Well, it’s not been unkind to me,’ said von Igelfeld.

He looked out of the window again, at the passing world – a world of night and loneliness. A world in which there was a place for some but not for all. Did he believe the words that he had just uttered – that the world had not been unkind to him? He tried to believe what he said – he tried – and that, perhaps, sometimes enables us to believe what we wish to be true.

‘Yes,’ he muttered, half to Frau Prinzel and half to himself. ‘I have much to be thankful for, as most of us do.’

‘That’s true,’ she said, reaching out over the back of the seat to place a comforting hand upon his forearm. She felt the olive oil on the fabric of his sleeve, but did not worry about that, because sympathy – and friendship – can rise above, can negate, the misfortunes that so consistently and so unfairly beset others. Sympathy and friendship can rise above these things – and almost always do.