Portuguese Irregular Verbs (10 page)

A few days before the lunch party was due to take place, von Igelfeld decided that he could properly call on Dr von Brautheim again to give her directions as to how to reach his house. It was not strictly speaking necessary, as she would undoubtedly have a map of the town, but it would give him an opportunity to see her again.

He made his way up to the dental studio, his heart hammering with excitement. The receptionist greeted him warmly and asked him whether he was experiencing further trouble with his teeth. Von Igelfeld explained his mission, and was disappointed when the receptionist told him that it was Dr von Brautheim’s afternoon off and that she would not be in until tomorrow.

‘You may leave her a note, though,’ she said.

Von Igelfeld glanced towards the studio, the door of which was open. There was the drill apparatus, the couch, the chest of instruments, and there, on the floor beside the chair was
Portuguese
Irregular Verbs
. For a moment he said nothing. Then a wave of emotion flooded through him. She was reading his book in between patients! What a marvellous, wonderful thing!

‘That book,’ he said to the receptionist. ‘Is Dr von Brautheim reading it at present?’

The receptionist glanced in the direction of the studio and smiled. ‘That? Oh no. You know that Dr von Brautheim isn’t very tall, and she’s found that standing on that book brings her up to just the right height for when the chair’s reclined.’

Von Igelfeld left a brief note, confirming the time and place of the lunch. Then he went out into the street, his mind in turmoil. No, he should not take offence, he told himself. It was quite touching really. It was unfair to expect everybody to be interested in philology, and at least she had found a use for the book. Perhaps she even used it because it reminded her of him! Yes, that was it. If he looked at it that way, then the ignominious fate of
Portuguese
Irregular Verbs
was nothing to worry over.

He made his way into the Institute and settled down to the work that had piled up over the last few weeks of distraction. There was a great deal to do, and when six o’clock came he had made little impression on it. Most of the staff of the Institute had left, and von Igelfeld was surprised when Unterholzer knocked at his door.

‘What’s keeping you in, Unterholzer?’ von Igelfeld asked.

Unterholzer stood in the doorway, beaming with pleasure.

‘I’m in because I’ve been out,’ he said. ‘I took the afternoon off and now I’ve come in to do what I wanted to do during the afternoon.’

‘Oh yes,’ said von Igelfeld, with a distinct lack of interest. ‘What did you do?’

Unterholzer stepped forward into the room.

‘I went out . . . ’ he began, halting in his excitement. ‘I went out with my new fiancée. We went to buy a ring.’

Von Igelfeld dropped his pen in amazement.

‘Your new fiancée!’ he exclaimed. ‘Unterholzer, what dramatic news! Who is she?’

‘My dentist!’ crowed Unterholzer. ‘The delightful Dr von Brautheim. I have been seeing her regularly and we have fallen in love with one another. At lunch time she agreed to become my wife. I shall be calling on her father tomorrow. Do you know that he had the Chair of Dentistry in Cologne?’

Von Igelfeld stayed in the Institute until half past eleven, alone with his papers. Then he walked home, following his usual route, reflecting on the sadnesses of life – visions unrealised, love unfulfilled, dental pain.

DEATH IN VENICE

THE WEDDING OF Professor Dr Detlev Amadeus Unterholzer and Dr Lisbetta von Brautheim was a particularly trying occasion for the author of
Portuguese Irregular Verbs.
Von Igelfeld tried to rise above the feelings of resentment he experienced on finding that Unterholzer, of all people, had succeeded in securing the affections of the woman he had been planning to marry, but it was difficult. If only he had not waited; if only he had invited her to lunch immediately, rather than a full five weeks later, then matters would have turned out differently. And, of course, if he had not been so foolish as to recommend that Unterholzer have his teeth seen to, then the couple would never have met and it would have been him, rather than Unterholzer, standing beside Lisbetta at the altar.

Such thoughts, of course, led nowhere. Von Igelfeld put on as brave a face as he could, and tried to show pleasure in the evident happiness of the bride and groom. At the wedding itself, a large occasion attended by over two hundred people, he sat next to Florianus and Ophelia Prinzel, and this helped to take his mind off the thought of what might have been. Ophelia Prinzel found weddings extremely moving occasions and wept voluminously, with Prinzel and von Igelfeld taking it in turns to comfort her.

Later, though, von Igelfeld confessed to Ophelia what had happened, and she was aghast at the story.

‘What awful, awful bad luck,’ she said sympathetically. ‘You would have made a much better husband for her, Moritz-Maria. Unterholzer’s all very well, but . . . ’

Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But it’s too late now, and I suppose we must wish them every happiness.’

Ophelia Prinzel agreed that this was the charitable thing to do, but she was secretly thinking of what it would be like to share a bed with Unterholzer and the notion did not appeal. In fact, she closed her eyes and shuddered.

‘However,’ she said, ‘there’s no point in thinking of what might have been. The important thing is: how do you feel?’

For a moment von Igelfeld said nothing, then he turned to her and said, ‘Terrible! I feel all washed up and finished. I feel as if there’s no point to life any more, even to my work. What’s the use? Where does it all lead?’

Ophelia laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

‘You need to get away,’ she said. ‘You must come with us to Venice, mustn’t he, Florianus?’

Prinzel quickly agreed with his wife. ‘We’re going to go in two months’ time. We shall spend a month there in September, when the worst of the crowds have gone. You’d be very welcome, you know.’

Von Igelfeld thought for a moment. He usually went to Switzerland in the late summer, but it was a good three years since he had been to Venice and perhaps it was just what he needed. In Switzerland he always walked and climbed – it was really no holiday – whereas in Venice he could take things very easily, read, and enjoy good Italian meals. Yes, it was an excellent idea altogether.

The Prinzels travelled down to Venice first, motoring in a leisurely way through the hills of Austria. Von Igelfeld followed by train, and when his carriage eventually drew into Venice station, there was Prinzel to meet him. They boarded a
vaporetto
and were soon heading out across the lagoon, through that waterscape of legend, past the proud liners at anchor, past the tether posts, past the cypress-crowned islands. Von Igelfeld watched as the city retreated and the Lido drew near, and then they were ashore, and a liveried porter of the Grand Hôtel des Bains was struggling with the von Igelfeld cabin trunks, the very same trunks which his grandfather had himself brought to the beguiling city.

Established in his room overlooking the hotel gardens and the beach, von Igelfeld changed out of his suit and donned a white linen jacket and lightweight trousers. Then, with his Panama hat in hand, he made his way down to the main terrace where Prinzel and Ophelia were waiting for him. They sat and drank lemon tea, chatting for over an hour, and then von Igelfeld returned to his room for a siesta. He was already beginning to feel relaxed, and he knew that Ophelia’s advice had been sound. How pointless in such surroundings to worry about lost chances and the petty irritations of life! Here all that mattered was art and beauty.

He slept deeply, awaking shortly after six o’clock. Drawing his curtains, he noticed that the sun was setting over the city, a great red ball sinking behind the distant domes, setting fire to the pale blue water. He stood for a few minutes, quite entranced, and then he left his room and went down to the terrace again. They had all agreed to meet for dinner at eight, and until then, von Igelfeld sat on the terrace, reading the copy of
I Promessi Sposi
which he had extracted from one of his cabin trunks. It was a perfect evening, and the hours before dinner went rather too quickly for von Igelfeld. He could have sat there forever, he thought, looking at his fellow guests and the bobbing lights upon the sea.

They dined in the main dining room. Ophelia chose all the courses, and every one of them was approved of by von Igelfeld. The conversation was light and entertaining: neither Unterholzer nor Dr von Brautheim was mentioned once, although the occasional painful memory momentarily crossed von Igelfeld’s mind. After dinner, they returned to the terrace to drink small cups of strong, scalding coffee.

‘This is perfect,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I could stay here indefinitely, I’m sure.’

Prinzel laughed. ‘You think you could,’ he said. ‘But remember, we’re only visitors. The reality of Venice might be rather different when one’s exposed to it all the time. This city has other moods, remember.’

‘Oh?’ said von Igelfeld. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Prinzel paused before answering. ‘It’s corrupt. Some say that it’s dying. Can’t you smell it? The decay?’

Von Igelfeld thought about this for some time, and later on, in the small hours of the morning, he was troubled by a dreadful nightmare. He was alone in a small Venetian street, a street that appeared to lead nowhere. At every corner there were mocking figures wearing elaborate Venetian masks, laughing at him, ridiculing him. He sat up in bed and shivered. He had left the window slightly open, and a breeze was moving the curtains. He turned on a light, looked at his watch, and took a long draught of mineral water. What was wrong? Why had Prinzel said that Venice was dying? What had he meant?

The next morning, with the sun streaming in through his window, von Igelfeld was able to put the terrors of the night well behind him. He showered, once again donned his light linen jacket, and went downstairs for breakfast. They had agreed to pursue their own activities and interests during the day and to meet each evening for dinner – a good arrangement, von Igelfeld thought, as they didn’t want to be too much on top of one another.

Sitting at the starched white cloth of his table, von Igelfeld smiled as he addressed his breakfast. He looked at the twenty or so other guests who were making an early start to the day. There was a young couple, absorbed in each other, with eyes for nobody else; there was an elderly woman with purple-rinsed hair, American, thought von Igelfeld, and lonely; there was a clergyman of some sort, probably English, von Igelfeld decided; and then there was a large family, of mother, governess and four children. Von Igelfeld watched the family. They were elegantly and expensively dressed, three girls and a boy. The girls wore light blue dresses and ribbons in their hair – almost a family uniform – and the boy, who was about fifteen or sixteen, wore a sailor suit.

Von Igelfeld’s eye passed to the mother. What a beautiful woman she was, he thought, and she was so clearly used to admiration and respect, as she sat with an air of almost palpable authority, speaking to each of her children in turn, occasionally saying something to the governess. ‘Where is father?’ he wondered. Was he still working in some distant city, supporting this expensive family in luxury, or had something terrible happened to him? Certainly the mother did not look like a widow; she was vivacious and carefree, whereas widows, in von Igelfeld’s experience,
pace
Franz Lehár, never were.

Von Igelfeld buttered a further roll and allowed honey to drip all over it. Then he took another sip of coffee and glanced over at the family’s table again. As he did so, the boy turned his head and looked directly at him. Von Igelfeld dropped his gaze, but he felt that the boy was still staring at him. He concentrated on his roll. Had the honey been evenly spread, or was it too concentrated at the one end? He looked up again and the flaxen-haired boy was still staring in his direction with wide, blue, inquisitive eyes. Von Igelfeld fingered the knot in his tie and turned away. He was accustomed to being stared at, being so tall, but it always made him feel uneasy. The mother should teach him not to stare, he thought; but parents appeared to teach their children nothing these days.

After he had finished his roll, von Igelfeld poured himself another large cup of strong, milky coffee, and drained it with pleasure. The family had arisen from the table now, and was trooping out of the dining room. The boy was the last to go, and as he left he turned and glanced at von Igelfeld, tossing his hair back as he did so. Von Igelfeld frowned, and looked down at his tie. Was there something odd in his dress that made the boy look at him? Did his shoes match? Of course they did.

He walked out on to the terrace and felt the morning sun on his face. It was going to be a marvellous day, although it could well become a little warm at noon. He would go to the
Accademia
this morning, he told himself, and then afterwards he would seek out the peace of one of the quieter churches. He had always liked the church of San Giovanni Cristostomo, and perhaps he would spend an hour or so there looking at Bellini’s
St Jerome with St Christopher and St
Augustine
. That would keep him busy until lunchtime, which he would spend in a small restaurant which he always visited when he was in Venice and where he was known to the proprietor. After lunch he could return to the hotel, sleep, and then meet the Prinzels for dinner. It would be a most satisfactory day.

The
Accademia
was surprisingly quiet. Von Igelfeld wandered from room to room, feasting his eyes on the great, brooding paintings. By mid-morning he was in Room Seven, standing before Lotto’s
Portrait of a Young Man in his Study
. Von Igelfeld gazed at the great canvas, his eye moving over the objects which made up the young man’s world – the mandolin, silent, but a reminder of the carefree pleasure of youth (he thought of Heidelberg, and of the easy fellowship of student years, never, never recaptured); the hunting horn (
Als ich ein Junge war
, muttered von Igelfeld); and there, on the ground, the painter had painted the fallen rose petals – his final statement on the transience of life. Von Igelfeld walked away, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the picture. Suddenly, for no reason at all, he thought of the boy in the hotel.
He
could play the mandolin, no doubt, and blow the hunting horn too, for that matter. But would he come back, thirty, forty years from now and look at this picture, just as von Igelfeld was now doing? Perhaps he would.

In San Giovanni Cristostomo von Igelfeld was virtually by himself. He sat on a chair near a confessional, gazing up at the ceiling, letting the stress of the city drain out of his limbs. The sun filtered in through a high window, a dusty yellow shaft, the colour of butter. Von Igelfeld closed his eyes and thought: I’m in a house of God, but who is he? Where is he, this person he had always addressed as God but who had never spoken back to him, ever. He was not sure about the existence of God, but he had always been convinced that if he did exist, he would be the God of Mediterranean Christianity, not the cold, hard God of the Northern churches. But that, perhaps, was to draw too much comfort; he might even turn out to be the God of the quantum physicists, a final point implosion, or perhaps just a single particle, a tiny event. That would be terribly disappointing – if God were to prove to be an electron.

He opened his eyes. A group had entered the church and was making its way across the nave. It was a family, and von Igelfeld noticed with a sudden shock that it was the family from the hotel. He watched cautiously as the mother pointed towards the altar. One of the girls asked a question and the mother handed her a guidebook. Then the boy in the sailor suit stepped forward and tapped at his mother’s elbow. She listened to him for a moment, and then laughed. Sulking, he moved away, walking towards von Igelfeld. Now he was in the shaft of sunlight, and for a moment he appeared to be an angel, from Giorgione’s studio, perhaps, clothed in the softness of the light, glowing with gold.

Suddenly the boy looked in von Igelfeld’s direction. When he saw the professor, he gave a slight start, but then smiled, and again, as at the breakfast table, he stared. Von Igelfeld did not know what to do. Should he acknowledge the youth, or should he ignore him? He could hardly pretend not to have seen him, and yet he had no desire to do anything which would concede to the boy that he had any right to intrude on his privacy as he was so clearly doing. What did this boy want of him after all? The whole situation was peculiar; familiar in a curious, inexplicable way; redolent of something he had read somewhere; but where?