Portuguese Irregular Verbs (4 page)

It was at this moment, as the train drew into the small, apparently deserted station at which the two passengers were due to alight, that von Igelfeld realised what his life’s work would be. He would do everything in his power to stop the process of linguistic debasement, and he would pick, as his target, the irregular verb. This moment, then, was the germ of that great work,
Portuguese
Irregular Verbs
.

The station was not deserted. An ancient station master, surprised at the arrival of passengers, emerged from a green wooden building and agreed to take them to the small hotel which was to be found at the nearby loughside. There they settled in, the only guests, and ate a meal, while a succession of people passed by the dining room window, affecting nonchalance, and then staring in hard at the two Germans.

The next day was the first working day of the field trip. Vogelsang had been told of the existence of an extremely old man who lived on a nearby hillside and who spoke a version of Irish which was considered by all to be exceptionally archaic. If there were to be any vestiges of Old Irish extant, then in the words used by this old man might such linguistic remnants be found.

‘You can certainly call on old Sean,’ said the hotel proprietor. ‘But I can’t guarantee your reception. He may speak interesting Irish, but he’s an extremely unpleasant, smelly old man. Not even the priest dares go up there, and that’s saying something in these parts.’

Undaunted, Vogelsang led the way up the narrow, unused track that led to Sean’s cottage. At last they reached it and, carefully negotiating the ramble of surrounding pig-sties, they approached the front door.

Vogelsang knocked loudly, and then called out (in Old Irish): ‘We are here, Sean. I am Professor Vogelsang from Germany. And this young man is my assistant.’

There was silence from within the cottage. Vogelsang knocked again, louder now, and this time elicited a response. A frowning, weather-beaten face, caked with dirt, appeared at the window and grimaced in an unfriendly fashion. Vogelsang bent down and put his face close to the window so that his nose was barely a few inches from Sean, but separated by a pane of clouded glass.

‘Good morning, Sean,’ said Vogelsang. ‘We have come to talk to you.’

Sean appeared enraged. Shouting now, he hurled words out at the visiting philologists, shaking both fists in Vogelsang’s face.

‘Quick,’ said Vogelsang, momentarily turning to von Igelfeld. ‘Transcribe everything he says. Do it phonetically.’

As Sean continued to hurl abuse at Vogelsang, von Igelfeld’s pencil moved swiftly over the paper, noting everything that the cantankerous and malodorous farmer said. Vogelsang nodded all the while, hoping to encourage the Irishman to open the door, but only succeeding in further annoying him. At last, after almost three quarters of an hour, Vogelsang observed that the visit might come to an end, and with the echoing shouts of Sean following them down the hill, they returned to the hotel.

A further attempt to visit Sean was made the next day, and the day after that, but the visitors were never admitted. They did, however, collect a full volume of transcribed notes on what he shouted at them through the door, and this was analysed each evening by a delighted Vogelsang.

‘There is some very rare material here,’ he said, poring over von Igelfeld’s phonetic notations. ‘Look, that verb over there, which is used only when addressing a pig, was thought to have disappeared centuries ago.’

‘And he used it when addressing us?’ said von Igelfeld wryly.

‘Of course,’ snapped Vogelsang. ‘Everything he says to us is, in fact, obscene. Everything you have recorded here is a swear word of the most vulgar nature. But very old. Very, very old!’

They spent a final day in the hotel, this time not attempting to visit Sean, but each engaging in whatever pursuit he wished. Von Igelfeld chose to explore the paths that wound around the lough. He took with him a sandwich lunch prepared for him by the hotel, and spent a contented day looking at the hills and watching the flights of water birds that rose out of the reeds on his approach. He met nobody until, at the very end of the day, he encountered Vogelsang coming in the opposite direction. Vogelsang looked furtive, as if he had been caught doing something illicit, and greeted von Igelfeld curtly and correctly, as one might greet a slight acquaintance on the street of a busy town. Von Igelfeld began to tell him of the wild swans he had seen: ‘Four and twenty were there,’ he began; but Vogelsang ignored him and he stopped.

The next day they returned to the railway station and boarded the train back to Cork. The mountains were now behind them, shrinking into a haze of blue. Von Igelfeld looked back wistfully, knowing, somehow, that he would never return. In Cork they only had a few hours to pass before the steamer sailed. These hours were filled by Patrick Fitzcarron O’Leary, who materialised from the railway station bar and was soon locked in earnest discussion with Vogelsang over the lists of words which had been obtained.

It was dark by the time they boarded the steamer. After they had been shown their cabins (to von Igelfeld’s relief he had been allocated a berth) they both stood at the railings and looked down on the quay. It was raining, but only with that light, warm drizzle that seems always to embrace Ireland, and it did not deter them from standing bare-headed in the dampness. O’Leary had taken up position under the shelter of a crane, and he waved to them as the boat edged out from the quay. He continued to wave until they were out of the harbour, when he extracted a torch from his pocket and waved that. That was the last they saw of Ireland, a tiny pin-prick of light moving in the darkness, winking at them.

Back in Munich, von Igelfeld was greeted warmly by Frau Hugendubel and shown up to his spotlessly clean room. When she withdrew, he unpacked his suitcase, noticing the jar of honey, which he had not touched. This he put on a shelf for future use. Then he sat down and spread out on his desk the lists of words which he had transcribed during their encounters with Sean. Vogelsang wanted them arranged alphabetically and tabulated, with approximate German translations written opposite. Von Igelfeld began his task.

After an hour of work, von Igelfeld felt the desire to go out and have a cup of coffee in his favourite café nearby. He would buy a newspaper, read the Munich news, and then get back to his desk for further work. It would be a way of returning to Germany; his head, he feared, was still full of Ireland. He slipped out and walked briskly to the café.

A short time later, his half-read newspaper under his arm, he returned to the house and made his way upstairs. His door was open, and Frau Hugendubel stood in his room, be-aproned, clutching a feather duster.

‘Dr von Igelfeld,’ she said, her voice shaking with emotion. ‘I must ask you to leave this house immediately.’

Von Igelfeld was astonished.

‘To leave?’ he stuttered. ‘Do you mean to move out?’

Frau Hugendubel nodded.

‘I would never have known you to be a . . . ’ she paused, ‘ . . . a pornographer!’

Von Igelfeld saw her throw a frightened glance towards his desk and he knew at once what it was all about.

‘Oh that!’ he laughed. ‘Those words . . . ’

Frau Hugendubel cut him short.

‘I do not wish to exchange one more word with you,’ she said, her voice firmer now. ‘I shall not ask you for the rent you owe me, but I shall be grateful if you vacate the room within two hours.’

She cast a further disappointed glance into the room, this time at the jar of unopened honey, and then, shuddering her way past her deeply-wronged lodger, she disappeared down the stairs.

When he heard the next day of the misunderstanding and of von Igelfeld’s plight, Vogelsang declined to intervene.

‘It’s most unfortunate,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing I can do. You should not have left obscene words on your desk.’

Von Igelfeld stared at Vogelsang. He knew now that Irish philology was a mistake and that it was time to move on. He would find another professor who would take him on as assistant, and his career would be launched afresh. Enquiries were made and letters were written, leading, at last, to an invitation from Professor Walter Schoeffer-Henschel to join him as his second assistant at the University of Wiesbaden. This was exactly what von Igelfeld wanted, and he accepted with alacrity. The air was filled with the scent of new possibilities.

ITALIAN MATTERS

TEN YEARS PASSED – JUST LIKE THAT –
pouf!
By the time he was thirty-five, after a long period in the service of Schoeffer-Henschel, von Igelfeld had received a call to a chair and was safely established in the Institute. In the years that followed, and particularly after the publication of that great work,
Portuguese Irregular Verbs
, honour upon honour fell upon von Igelfeld’s shoulders. These brought the rewards of recognition – the sense of
value
of one’s work and the knowledge of pre-eminence in the subject. And it also brought frequent invitations to conferences, all of which seemed to be held in most agreeable places, often, to von Igelfeld’s great pleasure, in Italy.

It had been a tedious day at the Comparative Philology Conference in Siena. Professor Alberto Morati, the host, had given his paper on Etruscan pronouns – for the fourth time. Many of the delegates were familiar with it: von Igelfeld had heard it before in Messina five years previously. He had then heard it again in Rome the following year, and had caught the very end of its final section in Montpelier. Prinzel had heard it too, in his case in Buenos Aires, and had found the pace of the argument and its ponderous conclusions quite soporific, even in such an exotic location.

But even if Morati were not enough, the chairman of the conference had called on that legend of the international philology network, Professor J. G. K. L. Singh, of Chandighar. As the great Indian philologist (author of
Terms of Ritual Abuse in the Creditor/
Debtor Relationship in Village India
) ascended the platform, there emanated from the audience a strange sound; an inspiration of breath or a spontaneous communal sigh – it was difficult to tell which. Those delegates nearest the door were able to creep out without too much disturbance; those closer to the platform were trapped. Amongst the escapees was von Igelfeld, who spent the next two hours in the Cathedral Museum, admiring the illuminated manuscripts. Von Igelfeld then had time to take a cup of scalding, strong coffee in a nearby bar, read the front two pages of
Corriere
della Sera
, and post three letters at the post office before returning to face the last five minutes of Professor J. G. K. L. Singh.

‘Do not underestimate the extent of the problem,’ Singh warned the delegates. ‘The usage of the verb prefix “ur-rachi” (sometimes represented as “ur-rasti”) is not necessarily indicative of a close relationship between addressor and addressee.
In fact,
quite the opposite may be the case
. Just as a Frenchman might say to one who assumes excessive familiarity in modes of address: “Don’t you
tutoyer
me,” so too might one who wishes to maintain his distance say: “Don’t you ‘ur-rachi’ me, if you (‘ur-rachi’) please!” In so doing, however, he might himself use the “ur-rachi” form, thus loading his own prohibition with deep irony, even sarcasm.’

Professor J. G. K. L. Singh continued in this fashion for a short time further and then, to enthusiastic applause from his relieved audience, left the platform. This was the signal for von Igelfeld to ask his question. It was the same question which he had asked Professor J. G. K. L. Singh before, but von Igelfeld could think of no other, and the delegates relied on him to save them all the embarrassment of nothing being said.

‘Is it the case, Professor J. G. K. L. Singh,’ asked von Igelfeld, ‘that the imperfect subjunctive has no insulting connotations in India?’

‘Not at all!’ said J. G. K. L. Singh, indignantly. ‘I can’t imagine who told you that! It is quite possible to give an imperfect subjunctive insult in Hindi. There are countless examples.’

So the debate continued. Professor Hurgert Hilpur of Finland delivered his paper, and was replied to by Professor Verloren van Themaat (Amsterdam); Professor Verloren van Themaat then gave his own paper, and was replied to by Professor Hurgert Hilpur. Professor Dr Dr Florianus Prinzel asked a question, which was answered by Professor Alberto Morati, who was contradicted, with some force, by Dr Domenico Palumbieri (Naples). There were many treats.

At the final session of the conference, von Igelfeld announced to Prinzel and Unterholzer that he proposed to visit Montalcino, a village in the Sienese hills, renowned for its Brunello wine and for the subtle beauty of the surrounding countryside. His suggestion enthused the other two, but as they were committed on the Friday and the Saturday, they would be able to join him there only on Sunday afternoon.

‘I shall go first then,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘By the time you arrive on Sunday I shall have identified all the principal sights and shall be able to conduct you to them personally.’

Prinzel and Unterholzer thought this a good idea, and so late on the Friday morning they escorted von Igelfeld to the bus station near the Church of Santa Caterina and duly despatched him. In little more than an hour, von Igelfeld’s blue-grey bus was climbing up the steep, winding road that led to Montalcino. At the small Church of Santa Maria he disembarked, glanced over the low wall at the countryside so far below, and walked the few yards to the Albergo Basilio, of which he had read in his guide to the hotels of Tuscany. The guide said very little, but ended its entry with the curious remark:
Caution advised, if you are German
.

The Albergo Basilio was a small, intimate country inn, of the sort which has so largely died out in all but the most remote corners of Europe. It had no more than ten beds, in plain, whitewashed rooms; a parlour with a few chairs and a glass-topped table; and a dining room that gave off the kitchen. Its charm undoubtedly lay in its simplicity. There were no telephones, no artificial comforts; nothing, in fact, which would not be found in a modest farmhouse.

The owner was Signora Margarita Cossi, the widow of a raisin merchant from Grosseto. She had bought the hotel cheaply from her husband’s cousin, and had made a moderate success of the enterprise. The hotel was well-placed to do considerably better than that, of course; Montalcino drew many wine pilgrims, and one might have expected the hotel to be full all the time. Unfortunately, this was not the case, and many visitors avoided staying there for more than one night and even went so far as to warn their friends against it. And the reason for this, beyond doubt, was the rudeness of Signora Cossi, who was an incorrigible xenophobe. She disliked people from Rome; she detested Venetians; she despised anybody from the South, and her views on the other nations of Europe were cussedly uncomplimentary. About every nation she had a deep-rooted prejudice, and when it came to the Germans this took the form of the conviction that they ate better, and in larger quantities, than any other people in Europe.

The source of this prejudice was a magazine article which Signora Cossi had read in an old issue of C
asa Moderna
, in which the author had disclosed to the readers that the average German was fifteen pounds overweight. Signora Cossi was so horrified by this figure, that it was but a short step to the conclusion that the quantities of food which they must have eaten to achieve this impressive obesity could only have been obtained at the expense of less gluttonous nations, particularly the Italians. On this basis, Signora Cossi took to making disparaging remarks about her German guests and making them feel unwelcome.

Von Igelfeld had no inkling of what lay ahead when he signed the register and handed over his passport to Signora Cossi that morning.

‘I hope that you are comfortable here,’ she said, glancing at his passport, ‘Signor von Whatever. I know you people like your physical comfort.’

Von Igelfeld laughed. ‘I’m sure that I shall be well looked after,’ he assured her. ‘This hotel seems delightful.’

‘You’ve hardly seen it,’ said Signora Cossi dismissively. ‘Do you always make your mind up so quickly?’

Von Igelfeld gave a polite, if somewhat forced smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When a place is so clearly delightful as this is, I see no point in prevarication.’

Signora Cossi looked at him suspiciously, but said nothing more. Silently she handed him his key and pointed to the stairway that led to the bedrooms. Von Igelfeld took the proffered key, bowed slightly, and went off up the stairs with his suitcase. He was unsure whether he had inadvertently said something offensive and whether Signora Cossi had the right to be so short with him. Had he used an unusually familiar term? He thought of Professor J. G. K. L. Singh and his ‘ur-rachis’. Had he unwittingly ‘ur-rachied’ this disagreeable woman?

Although he did not yet realise it, von Igelfeld had been allocated the worst room in the hotel. There was no furniture in it at all apart from a single bed, covered with a threadbare cotton cover. This bed had been bought second-hand from the house of a deceased dwarf in Sant’Amato, and was therefore very short. Von Igelfeld gazed at it in disbelief and then, putting down his suitcase, tried to lie down on the bed. He put his head on the pillow and then hoisted his legs up, but the bed was a good thirty inches too short and his calves, ankles and feet hung down over the edge. It would be impossible to sleep in such a position.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable meditation, von Igelfeld made his way downstairs again. Signora Cossi was still at her desk, and she watched him with narrowed eyes as he came down into the hall.

‘Is everything all right?’ she asked. Her tone was not solicitous.

‘The room itself is charming,’ said von Igelfeld courteously. ‘But I’m afraid that I find the bed somewhat short for my needs.’

Signora Cossi’s eyes flashed.

‘And what might these needs be?’ she challenged. ‘What are you proposing to do in that bed?’

Von Igelfeld gasped.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all. It is just that my legs do not fit. The bed is too short for me to lie down upon. That’s all.’

Signora Cossi was not to be so easily placated.

‘It’s a perfectly good Italian bed,’ she snapped. ‘Are you suggesting that Italians are shorter than . . . than others?’

Von Igelfeld held up his hands in a gesture of horrified denial.

‘Of course not,’ he said quickly. ‘I suggest no such thing. I’m sure I shall sleep very well after all.’

Signora Cossi appeared to subside somewhat.

‘Dinner,’ she said grudgingly, ‘will be served at seven o’clock. Sharp.’

Von Igelfeld thanked her, handed over his key, and set off for his afternoon walk. There were many paths to be explored; paths that went up and down the hillside, through olive groves, vineyards, and forests of cypress. There was much to be seen before Prinzel and Unterholzer arrived, and he was determined to be as familiar as possible with the surroundings before Sunday. In that way he would have a psychological advantage over them which could last for the rest of the Italian trip, and even beyond.

Outside, the air was pleasantly cool. Von Igelfeld thought of how hot it would be in Siena, and how uncomfortable Prinzel and Unterholzer would be feeling. The thought set him in good humour for his walk, although the problem of his bed remained niggling in the back of his mind. It was not true what Signora Cossi had said: Italian beds were by no means all that size. His bed in the Hotel del Palio in Siena had been of generous proportions, and he had encountered no difficulty in sleeping very well in it. Of course, it might be that people in hill towns were naturally shorter – there were such places, particularly in Sicily, where sheer, grinding poverty over the generations had stunted people – but surely not in Tuscany.

Von Igelfeld looked about him for confirmation. There were not many people out in the narrow street that led to the Pineta, but those who were about seemed to be of average height. There was a stout priest, sitting on a stone bench, reading a sporting newspaper; there was a woman standing in her doorway peeling potatoes; there were several boys in the small piazza at the end of the road, taunting and throwing stones at the goldfish in the ornamental pond. If this were a representative selection of the population, there was nothing unusually small about them.

Von Igelfeld was puzzled. There was definitely something abnormal about the bed, and he decided to take it up with the hotel on his return. He began to suspect that it might be some sort of calculated insult. He had experienced this once before at a conference in Hamburg, when a socialist waiter, who no doubt harboured a bone-deep resentment of all
vons
, had deliberately placed his thumb (with its dirt-blackened nail) in his soup.

He reached the Pineta, the small municipal park on the edge of the town. He admired the pines and then struck off along the road that led to Sant’Angelo in Colle. Soon he was in the deep countryside, making his way along a dusty white track that led off to the west. Classical Tuscan vistas now opened up on both sides of him: hills, valleys, red-roofed farmhouses, oaks, somnolent groves. He passed a farmyard with its large, stuccoed barn and a cluster of trees under which rested an ancient wooden-wheeled cart. A man came out of the house, waved a greeting to von Igelfeld, and then disappeared into the barn. A few moments later he re-emerged, herding before him two great white oxen with floppy ears and giant horns. Von Igelfeld smiled to himself. This was the real Italy, unchanged since the days of Virgil. This might be Horace’s farm; the farmer himself a pensioned poet, like Horace, perhaps, tired of the high culture of the city, now seeking the solace of rustic life.