The 2 12 Pillars of Wisdom

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Professor Rasi Henderson Paliwalar was much taken up with arrangements for the Congress and was relieved when von Igelfeld indicated that he could easily take care of himself until the opening session.

  ‘I should like to look about Goa,’ explained von Igelfeld. ‘There is so much interesting architecture to see.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Professor Rasi Henderson Paliwalar, sounding somewhat doubtful. ‘Much of it is falling down, I’m afraid to say. In fact, all of India is falling down, all the time. Soon we shall have nothing but a fallen down country, all over. I am telling you. These people here appreciate none of the finer things of life.’

  As he made these disparaging remarks, the professor pointed dismissively at the manager of hotel, who beamed encouragingly and made a small bow. Von Igelfeld looked up at the ceiling of the Hotel Lisboa. There was an elaborate cornice, but several parts were missing, having fallen down.

  That evening, after he had taken a refreshing drink of mango juice on the main verandah, von Igelfeld ventured out onto the road outside the hotel. Within a few seconds he had been surrounded by several men in red tunics, who started to quarrel over him until a villainous-looking man with a moustache appeared to win the argument and led von Igelfeld over to his cycle-driven rickshaw.

  ‘I shall show you this fine town,’ he said to von Igelfeld as the philologist eased himself into the small, cracked leather seat. ‘What do you wish to see? The prison? The library? The grave of the last Portuguese governor?’

  Von Igelfeld chose the library, which seemed the least disturbing of the options, and soon they were bowling down the road, overtaking pedestrians and slower rick-shaws, the sinister rickshaw man ringing his bell energetically at every possible hazard.

  The library was, of course, closed, but this did not deter the rickshaw man. Beckoning for von Igelfeld to follow him, he took him through the library gardens and walked up to the back door. Glancing about him, the rickshaw man took out a small bunch of implements, and started to try each in the lock. Von Igelfeld watched in amazement as his guide picked the lock; he knew he should have protested, but, faced with such effrontery, words completely failed him. Then, when the door swung open, equally passively he followed the rickshaw driver into the cool interior of the Goa State Library.

  The building smelled of damp and mildew; the characteristic odour of books which have been allowed to rot.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the rickshaw man. ‘These books are very, very old, and contain a great deal of Portuguese knowledge. The Portuguese brought them and now they have gone away and left their books behind.’

  Von Igelfeld moved over to a shelf to examine the contents. He picked up a large, leather-bound tome, and turned the pages. The paper was yellowed and rotting, but he could make out the title quite clearly: A Jesuit in Portuguese Goa by Father Goncavles Persquites SJ. He laid it down and picked up the next one: The Lives of the Portuguese Sailors by Luis Valatar. This was in an even worse condition, and the binding fell away in his hands as he attempted to open the book.

  ‘It is time to go now,’ said the rickshaw man suddenly. ‘I shall take you to the prison. There is more to see there.’

  Von Igelfeld left the library sadly, imagining the desolation of the deserted, decaying books. Could Father Persquites have envisaged that Goa would come to this, and that his book would lie rotting and undisturbed until a chance hand should pick it up for a few moments? Could Valatar have envisaged his covers coming off at the hands of a casual visitor, who had effectively broken into the library to view its utter abandonment, in an era when the Portuguese navigators meant nothing any more?

  The prison was just around the corner, an imposing fort of a building. Von Igelfeld wondered whether his guide would repeat his key-picking trick, but they rode past the front gate and turned round the corner. Here the rickshaw man dismounted and indicated to von Igelfeld that he should follow him to a small window in the outer wall of the prison.

  ‘Look through there,’ he said, gesturing to the window.

  Von Igelfeld peered through the tiny opening. On the other side, through the thickness of the fortress wall, was the very heart of the prison, a vast hall topped by great barred skylights. Around the edges of the hall, men sat at tables and benches, quietly absorbed in their work of sewing pieces of cloth together.

  ‘It is the tailoring workshop,’ whispered the rickshaw man in von Igelfeld’s ear. ‘They are trying to make these no-good characters into good tailors, but they are wasting their time.’

  Von Igelfeld found himself fascinated by the scene within. He watched intently as a stout man walked into the hall from the other end, accompanied by a warder. The prisoners momentarily stopped sewing and looked expectantly at their visitor.

  ‘That is one of the governors of the prison,’ whispered his guide. ‘He is called Mr Majipondi and he is very rich because he sells all these suits these bad fellows make to merchants in the town. He is also a wellknown murderer.’

  Von Igelfeld stared as several of the prisoners approached the governor with their work. The governor nodded, and suits were given to the warder. Then he turned on his heels and left the room.

  ‘Whom did he murder?’ asked von Igelfeld.

  The rickshaw man looked about him. ‘He murdered his wife’s brother’s second wife’s son,’ he said in a surprised tone, as if that was something that von Igelfeld should have known. ‘The Portuguese would have shot him. Now that they’ve gone, there’s nobody to shoot people any more.’ For a few moments he looked saddened, as if bereft. Then he added brightly: ‘And now, would you like to see the municipal park?’

  Von Igelfeld had had enough, and asked to be taken back to the Hotel Lisboa. The unorthodox approach of his guide was somewhat disturbing, and he could not imagine what strange angle he might present on the municipal park. It was safer, he thought, to return to the hotel and its restful gardens. He would have a mango juice, write a brief note to Prinzel and Unterholzer, and then retire early to bed. There would be time enough for the municipal park tomorrow.

  The rickshaw driver was somewhat unwilling to bring the tour to an end, but eventually reluctantly agreed to return to the hotel.

  ‘There are many interesting things happening in the municipal park,’ he said sulkily. ‘They should not be missed.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s true,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But I have letters to write,’ adding, for effect, ‘Many letters.’

  This appeared to impress the driver, who immediately nodded his compliance and began to cycle back with considerably more energy than before. Von Igelfeld sat back in the cracked red leather seat and reflected on what he had seen. He wondered whether anybody ever used the library, and who looked after it. He wondered about the prisoners in their hall: what crimes had they committed, what weight of guilt pressed upon their shoulders? And as for Mr Majipondi: how had his murder remained unpunished if everybody, including the rickshaw drivers of the town, knew about it? Then, what transpired in the municipal park

  – what dealings, what trysts, what tragedies? Was that, perhaps, where Mr Majipondi had murdered his wife’s brother’s second wife’s son? He sighed. These were all such difficult questions, and they remained obstinately unresolved in von Igelfeld’s mind for the rest of the journey and well into the hot, sleepless hours of the night.

  Von Igelfeld awoke early the next morning and took his breakfast on the main verandah. The morning sky was white and brilliant; the trees were filled with chattering birds; and there were two fresh hibiscus flowers in a vase on his table. All of this effectively dispelled the anxieties of the night and put von Igelfeld in a good mood for the day’s exploring. He was determined to resist any imprecations from rick-shaw drivers and he would see what he wanted to see on foot. There were interesting old buildings all around the hotel, and these would suffice for the moment.

  Von Igelfeld had noticed that there was a back entrance to the hotel gardens, used by the staff and for deliveries. He decided to leave by t
his route rather than by the front, as in this way he would be able to avoid the rickshaw drivers. Adjusting his broad-brimmed white hat, he walked briskly out of the back gate into the undistinguished service road that lay outside.

  Not far along this road he came upon a building which seemed to invite inspection. It was an extraordinary edifice, three storeys high, and built in that curious, heavy style which the Portuguese so admire. There were scrolls above each window, a top-heavy neoclassical portico, and a courtyard which appeared to be harbouring an uncontrolled jungle. Von Igelfeld stepped back and looked at the building. Many of the windows were broken, and there was a general air of desertion about the place. He was struck by the feeling of melancholy which seemed to hang about the building, as if the very stones felt the loss of pride.

  Von Igelfeld ventured through the portico. There was a bench directly to the right, and a doorway boarded up. Another door was slightly ajar, but the room within seemed sunk in darkness. Von Igelfeld moved on and peered into the courtyard.

  It was not quite as much a jungle as it had appeared from outside. Certainly there was a profusion of plants, but they had been cut back here and there, revealing odd pieces of broken statuary. There was a stone urn in the Roman style, a figure of a boy caught in mid-leap, both arms broken off, and a toppled stone vase which had been covered in creepers.

  It was then that von Igelfeld saw the Holy Man. He was sitting on the ground, at the side of the courtyard, a small bag at his side and a staff propped up against the wall behind. He was watching von Igelfeld, and when the philologist gave a start of surprise, the Holy Man raised an arm in salute.

  ‘Do not be afraid of me,’ he called out. ‘I am just sitting here.’

  Von Igelfeld was at a loss as to what to do. He was an intruder, and felt almost guilty, but the friendly salute and the reassuring message had set him at his ease. He walked across to where the Holy Man was sitting and reached out to shake his hand.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ he said. ‘I was merely admiring this beautiful old building.’

  The Holy Man lifted his eyes and cast a glance around the courtyard.

  ‘Is this beauty?’ he said. He seemed to reflect for a moment, then: ‘Yes, perhaps it is. There is beauty in everything, even an old building that is now just a home for rats and mice.’

  ‘That is true,’ said von Igelfeld. He thought of Germany, where there were no rats or mice any more. ‘Sometimes it’s difficult to find beauty in my own country. Even the very earth is sick there.’

  The Holy Man shook his head sadly. ‘Man is very destructive. That is why he can never be like God.’

  ‘That is very true,’ agreed von Igelfeld. ‘If only God would show us.’

  The Holy Man closed his eyes. ‘He does show us, sir. Oh yes, he does show us. If only we are prepared to see.’

  Von Igelfeld was silent. His suspicion that this was a Holy Man was being proved correct. But how should he address him? Should he call him guru, as he had read one might do in such circumstances? Was he a real guru, though, or was he of some lower, or even higher, rank in the gradations of holiness? The situation was distinctly difficult.

  ‘You are quite right, O guru,’ he ventured hesitantly. ‘If only we would see.’

  The Holy Man did not appear to object to being called guru, and this put von Igelfeld at his ease. He was beginning to feel excited about the encounter. This was the real East, and he felt as if he was being vouchsafed a glimpse of something denied to so many casual visitors who presumably saw nothing more than the library or the prison. He imagined, with pleasure, the envy which Prinzel and Unterholzer would feel when he came to tell them about his meeting with the Holy Man. It would be quite outside their experience, and they would really have nothing at all to say. They would have no alternative but to listen.

  ‘May I sit down, guru?’ he asked, pointing to the ground next to the Holy Man.

  The Holy Man smiled, and patted the earth affectionately. ‘This is the earth on which we may all sit down,’ he said. ‘Even the poorest, most miserable man may sit down on the earth. It is your friend. Yes, sit down; your friend is beckoning you.’

  Von Igelfeld sat down, next to the small bag, and waited for the Holy Man to say something. For a few minutes there was silence, but not an awkward one. The Holy Man seemed to be concentrating on something in the middle distance, but after a while he turned and looked at his guest.

  ‘I have a gift of seeing things in the lives of people,’ he said suddenly. ‘God has entrusted me with this power.’

  ‘I see,’ said von Igelfeld, adding, rather lamely, ‘Most of us cannot see very far, I suppose.’

  The Holy Man nodded. ‘God has been very good to me. I have nothing in this life other than my stick here and this small bag. But I have great riches otherwise.’

  Von Igelfeld made a mental note to remember this sentiment: it was exactly what a Holy Man should say. He would repeat it to Prinzel and Unterholzer, and they would, he hoped, feel humbled.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Holy Man. ‘And I can see some things about your life. Would you like to hear them?’

  Von Igelfeld felt his heart racing. Did he want to receive a message, whatever it might turn out to be, from this Holy Man? It could be something disturbing, of course, something quite discouraging; but when would another chance like this present itself? He would have to seize the opportunity.

  ‘You are very kind,’ he said. ‘I should like to hear.’

  The Holy Man closed his eyes. For a few moments he mumbled a chant of some sort, and then he spoke.

  ‘There is one thing which is close, and one thing which is far,’ he began. ‘The close thing is a man who is coming here to meet you, in this place. I see water, and I see the water all about the man. He is from the North. That is all I see of that.’ He paused. What on earth could that be, thought von Igelfeld? It made no sense at all.

  ‘Then,’ went on the Holy Man. ‘There is the far thing. That is a plot. There are people plotting against you in a distant land. They are plotting something terrible. You must go back as soon as you can and deal with these wicked people and their plot. That is all I see in that department now.’

  Von Igelfeld drew in his breath. This was a clear, unequivocal warning, of the sort that one could not ignore. Suddenly, Goa seemed threatening. Suddenly, the sense of optimism he had felt at the breakfast table departed and he felt only foreboding. How stupid to have asked the Holy Man for his visions. He had been as foolish as Faust: only torment lay that way.

  The Holy Man now stood up and picked up his bag.

  ‘I must continue with my search,’ he said. ‘There are many paths and it is late.’

  Von Igelfeld rose to his feet, and fished in his pocket for a bank note. This he pressed into the Holy Man’s hand.

  ‘These are alms for you,’ he said. ‘They are to assist you on your way.’

  The Holy Man did not look at the money, but quickly slipped it into his dhoti.

  ‘You are a good, kind man,’ he said to von Igelfeld. ‘God will illumine your path. Most surely he will.’

  Then, without further words, he strode away, leaving von Igelfeld alone in the courtyard with the broken statues and the sound of the rats creeping around in the undergrowth.

  Back at the Hotel Lisboa, von Igelfeld was handed a large, cream-coloured envelope on which his name had been written in an ornate script. He thought it might be a letter from Professor Rasi Henderson Paliwalar, with some news of the next day’s conference proceedings, but it was not. It was, in fact, a letter from the President of the Portuguese Chamber of Commerce, inviting von Igelfeld to be the guest of honour, and speaker, at that evening’s dinner of the Chamber. Von Igelfeld was astonished at the brevity of the notice, but assumed that this must be quite normal in Goa, where things appeared to be ordered differently from the way in which they were ordered in Germany, or anywhere else for that matter.

  He spent the rest of the day reading and preparing a shor
t talk for the meeting. He had decided that he would explain to the businessmen what philology was all about, and in particular draw their attention to recent developments in Portuguese philology. He was pleased with the talk, when he had finished it: it was not too simple, so he could not be accused of talking down to his audience; yet it assumed only the barest acquaintance with linguistic and philological terms. It would be ideal for such an audience.

  The Portuguese Chamber of Commerce turned out to be one of the best buildings in Goa. The home of a seventeenth-century merchant, it had subsequently been converted into a banking hall, and when the bank failed, the merchants had taken it over as a club. Von Igelfeld was shown the Members’ Room, a marvellous saloon with leather armchairs and mahogany writing tables, and then, when the members had assembled in the dining room, he was accompanied in by the President and seated at the top table.

  The meal was delicious, and the conversation of the President most entertaining. He was an exporter of sultanas, as his father and grandfather had been before him. The world of sultanas, he informed von Igelfeld, was full of intrigue, and he revealed a few of the juicier details over the soup.

  After the meal, while they were waiting for coffee, and before his speech, von Igelfeld ran his eye about the room. There were about eighty guests, all men, all dressed in formal attire. Von Igelfeld looked at the physical types represented: the fat, prosperous merchants; the thin, nervous-looking accountants; the sly bankers; and then he stopped. There, halfway down the third table, was the prison governor, Mr Majipondi. Von Igelfeld was astonished. Surely it was inappropriate for a prison governor, even if he did have dealings with the town’s merchants, to mix socially with those who corrupted him? And what about the murder? Did the members of the Chamber of Commerce know all about that? Was a blind eye turned here, as apparently it was everywhere else?