The 2 12 Pillars of Wisdom

by Alexander McCall Smith

  vier

  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 preeminence 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, white-washed 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 Casa 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 glut-tonous 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 s
hort 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.

  Von Igelfeld’s walk continued for some miles more. Then, as evening approached, he turned and made his way back to Montalcino. By the time he reached the Albergo Basilio it was already dusk, and the lights were on in the streets and in the piazza. He retrieved his key, ventured under the shower in the small bathroom off his room (he was unable to persuade the hot tap to work) and then, refreshed and more formally dressed, he made his way downstairs for dinner.

  There were three other guests in the dining room, and all three responded courteously to von Igelfeld’s murmured greeting. Von Igelfeld sat down at a table near the window, and picked up the small hand-written menu. There was not a great deal of choice: soup or mozzarella; pasta; lamb cutlet or stew; ice cream or cake. Von Igelfeld pondered: rural soups could be strong and rich – perhaps that was the delicious smell he had noticed as he came downstairs. He would start, then, with soup and proceed to the lamb cutlets by way of a bowl of pasta. He had walked a considerable distance that day, and he felt justifiably hungry. He would also order half a bottle of Brunello, which may well have come from one of the vineyards he had seen on his walk.

  It was a full ten minutes before Signora Cossi appeared and stood before von Igelfeld, pencil poised to take his order for dinner.

  ‘The cooking smells delicious,’ said von Igelfeld politely. ‘I am looking forward to my meal.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sure you are,’ said Signora Cossi. ‘You Germans certainly enjoy your meals. You polish off most of Europe’s food anyway.’

  Von Igelfeld’s mouth dropped open in surprise. He was utterly flabbergasted by the accusation and for a few moments he was quite unable to reply.

  ‘Not that I blame you,’ went on Signora Cossi, staring pointedly out of the window. ‘If you can afford it, eat it, I always say. And that’s certainly what you people do, even if it means short rations for the rest of us.’

  Von Igelfeld looked away. Really, this woman was impossible! He had never been so profoundly insulted in his life, and he was tempted to rise to his feet and walk out with-out further ceremony. But something stopped him. No. That would just play into her hands. Instead, he would show her.

  ‘You are quite wrong,’ he said. ‘In fact, I was just about to ask you whether you had something lighter – a salad perhaps.’

  Signora Cossi curled a lip, clearly annoyed.

  ‘Is that all?’ she asked abruptly.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘A small mixed salad is all I require.’

  ‘And to drink?’ said Signora Cossi. ‘A bottle of Brunello?’

  ‘No thank you,’ said von Igelfeld, through pursed lips. ‘Water, please.’

  ‘With gas?’ Signora Cossi’s pencil hovered above her pad.

  ‘No,’ said von Igelfeld firmly. He would deny himself even that. He would show her. ‘Without.’

  That night passed in agony. Hungry and uncomfortable, von Igelfeld tried every possible way of arranging his frame on the tiny bed, but was unable to prevent his legs from
hanging painfully over the edge. Eventually, by placing a chair at the end and putting his pillow on it, he managed to create an extension to the bed. Although his head and neck were now uncomfortable, he at last dropped off to sleep.

  The night was plagued with bad dreams. In one, he was walking through the Pineta, admiring the pine trees, when he suddenly came upon Professor J.G.K.L. Singh. The Indian philologist was delighted to see him, and insisted on raising a hopelessly abstruse point. Von Igelfeld awoke, sweating, cramped and uncomfortable. After a time he drifted off to sleep again, but only to encounter Signora Cossi in his dreams. She looked at him balefully, as if accusing him of some unspoken wrong, and again he awoke, feeling unsettled and vaguely guilty.

  The next morning, von Igelfeld went down for breakfast and found a single, frugal roll on his plate. Signora Cossi arrived to give him coffee and asked him whether he would like another roll. Von Igelfeld was about to order three, when he remembered his resolve of the previous evening and checked himself. Signora Cossi, looking somewhat disappointed, walked away to deal with another guest.

  After breakfast, von Igelfeld walked out into the village. He bought La Nazione from the small paper shop and began to walk down the street, glancing at the headlines. Everything in Italy was coming apart, the newspaper said. The Government was tottering, the currency unsteady. The judiciary and the courts were being held to ransom by organised criminals from Naples and Palermo; there were daily kidnaps and every sort of atrocity. And now, as if to confirm the country’s humiliation, the Japanese were buying up all of Italy’s small-denomination coins and taking them off to Japan to make into buttons! It was infamous. He would read about all this in the piazza, and then set off to inspect the Church of Saint Joseph the Epistulist, to be found in a neighbouring hamlet.