The 2 12 Pillars of Wisdom

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Von Igelfeld himself was quite unaware of all the excitement amongst the passengers. That afternoon, there were due to be two more lectures: Portuguese: a Deviant Spanish? from him, and Romantic Heroes from Hans-Dieter Dietermann. Von Igelfeld was reconciled to an audience of twenty-five – composed of obedient crew members and the hard core of his own attenders – with the result that he was astonished when he went into the room and found that it was so packed with people as to allow standing room only for late-comers. For a few moments he thought that he had come to the wrong room; that he had wandered, by mistake, into the auditorium in which Hans-Dieter Dietermann was due to speak. But the officer who was accompanying him assured him that they had come to the right place and that the audience was expecting him to lecture.

  For the next hour, von Igelfeld lectured to an enraptured audience, composed, with the exception of the crew members, entirely of ladies. Everything that von Igelfeld said, every move and gesture, was followed with rapt attention by the excited ladies, and after the lecture, when von Igelfeld tried to leave, he was mobbed by eager questioners.

  ‘Tell me, Herr Professor,’ said one matron. ‘Is Portuguese all that different from Spanish? I’ve been dying to know the answer to that question. And my name, by the way, is Frau Libmann. I am from Munich. Do you know Munich well? My late husband had a large printing works there.’

  And: ‘Dear Professor von Igelfeld! What a marvellous lecture. I hung on every word – every word! I am Frau Baum from Regensburg. Yes, Regensburg too! Do you know Professor Zimmermann? I have known him for many years. Will you perhaps come and have dinner with Professor Zimmermann and myself some day?’

  And: ‘Herr Professor! I can’t wait to read your book! I am trying to read Herr Dietermann’s at the moment, but I am sure that your own book is far more interesting. Do they stock it in the ship’s book shop, I wonder? Could you perhaps come and help me find it there?’

  Von Igelfeld tried valiantly to deal with all these questions, but eventually, after an hour and a half, when it was apparent that the tenacity of his audience knew no bounds, he was rescued by one of the officers and escorted back to his cabin. On the way they passed the bar where, had they looked, they might have seen a disconsolate Hans-Dieter Dietermann sitting on a stool, wondering why it was that his audience had dwindled to eight.

  ‘You were a real hit back there,’ said the officer. ‘They loved everything you said. It was quite surprising.’

  ‘Oh?’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Why should it be surprising? Is Romance philology not intrinsically interesting? Why should those agreeable ladies not find it fascinating?’

  ‘Oh, of course, of course,’ said the officer quickly. ‘It’s just that I have never seen so many of our passengers become so . . . how shall I put it? So intrigued by one of our lecturers.’

  Von Igelfeld bade farewell to the officer and entered the cabin. He felt quite exhausted after the demanding question session and he looked forward to a short siesta before he ventured out onto the deck for a walk. But as he sat down on his easy chair, he noticed that there were several parcels on the table. He rose to his feet and crossed the cabin. He was puzzled: the steward must have delivered something while he was lecturing. But who would be sending him parcels?

  There were three. One was a large box of chocolates, to which a card had been attached: To one who is lonely, from one who knows what loneliness means. Else Martinhaus (Cabin 256). The second parcel, which von Igelfeld opened with fumbling, rather alarmed hands, was a handsome edition of Rilke’s poems, on the fly leaf of which had been inscribed: A woman’s soul is a huntress, forever in search of him who can quench the soul’s fire. To dear Moritz-Maria, from Margarita Jens (second table from yours in the dining room). And finally there was a framed picture of the ship, again a purchase from the on-board shop, signed with the following motto: I will go to the end of the seven seas for you. The signature on this present, regrettably, was illegible.

  Von Igelfeld sat down weakly. This was extraordinary. Why should three ladies whom he had never met take it upon themselves to send him presents? And why, moreover, should they make these protestations of affection when he had done nothing to encourage them to do so? Was this the way that respectable German widows behaved these days? If it was, then Germany had changed utterly and profoundly from the Germany he had once known. It was still necessary, however, to observe the formalities and to thank the donors of the gifts. He would write a note to Frau Jens and ask the stew-ard to deliver it to her table. Frau Martinhaus had given him the number of her cabin and so he could simply slip a note under her door. And as for the donor of the picture, if she could not identify herself properly on her gifts then she should not be surprised to receive no acknowledgment.

  Von Igelfeld sat at the Captain’s desk and wrote out the notes. He thanked the donors for their kind gifts and expressed his pleasure that they had enjoyed his lecture so much. He trusted that they would enjoy the remaining lectures, and assured them that if he could help them at all – on any point of philology or Portuguese grammar – they had only to ask. The notes written, he had a long, luxuriant bath in the Captain’s bath, and then dressed for dinner.

  In the dining room, there was a murmur of excitement as von Igelfeld made his entry. This was the signal for five determined ladies, including Frau Jens and Frau Martinhaus, to rise to their feet simultaneously, all with the thought of intercepting von Igelfeld before he reached his table and inviting him to dine at theirs. Victory went to the fastest of these. Frau Jens’s legs, unfortunately, were too short to carry her across the room with sufficient despatch, and the first person to reach von Igelfeld’s side was Frau Magda Holtmann, the widow of a Bonn lawyer, whose previous skills as a member, some forty years ago, of the University of Gottingen’s Women’s Sprint Team gave her a distinct advantage over the other four.

  Von Igelfeld had no wish to have dinner with anybody, but felt unable to turn down the invitation. So, under glares of barely concealed anger from other tables, the ladies of Frau Holtmann’s table enjoyed his company over dinner, each of them thinking privately what a perfect match he would make for them individually and wondering whether fourteen days would be enough to accomplish the task of securing an offer of marriage. Each had gone over the advantages which she might have over her rivals – and rivals there undoubtedly were. In many cases it was fortune – perhaps the Professor had had enough of working in his Institute and would appreciate the life of a private scholar? In some cases it was social prowess – a small, but appreciative salon, perhaps, for the society of Wiesbaden? And in other cases, it was skill in culinary matters. How did a mere man survive without somebody to ensure that the table was always properly furnished with good German delicacies? Did the poor Herr Professor eat in restaurants all the time? Did he even get enough to eat? Men needed their food – it was well known. He was very thin; marriage would change all that.

  By the end of dinner, von Igelfeld was exhausted. He had spent the entire meal dealing with the ladies’ questions. What were his hobbies? Did he have relatives in Munster, by any chance? There had been a Professor Igelfold there, had there not, and the Igelfolds could be a branch of the same family, could they not? Did he enjoy walking? The hills above Freiburg were very suitable for that purpose! Was he ever in Freiburg? Did he know the von Kersell family? There had been a Professor von Kersell once, but something had happened to him. Did he know, by any chance, what that was?

  After coffee had been served, von Igelfeld had looked very publicly at his watch and had excused himself.

  ‘I always have to do an hour or so’s reading before I go to bed,’ he announced. ‘And this sea air makes me so sleepy.’

  The ladies had nodded their agreement. It was very important, they felt, to get a good night’s sleep when at sea, and, indeed, on land as well.

  Von Igelfeld rose to his feet, thanked his hostess, and made his way out of the dining room. Frau Jens, who had been waiting for her moment, reached the door just a
s he did.

  ‘Why, Herr Professor!’ she said. ‘It’s you!’

  Von Igelfeld nodded weakly.

  ‘I was just going for a stroll on the deck,’ said Frau Jens. ‘It would be a great pleasure if you were able to accompany me.’

  Without waiting for an answer, she took him by the arm and led him away. Within the dining room there were sharp intakes of breath at several tables.

  ‘Did you see that!’ hissed Frau Martinhaus. ‘That shameless woman!’

  ‘Desperation knows no bounds,’ agreed her table companion. ‘Inter arma silent leges.’

  ‘Auf Englisch könnte Mann sagen: Fat arms, tiny legs,’ said Frau Martinhaus, somewhat less than charitably.

  Von Igelfeld walked round the deck with Frau Jens for five minutes. Then, wresting his arm from her grip, he excused himself and rushed back to his cabin. There were several ladies in the corridor, and these stopped him briefly, under the pretext of finding out details of tomorrow’s lecture.

  ‘We shall all be there!’ said one of them brightly. ‘Notebooks at the ready!’

  Again, it took von Igelfeld several minutes to extricate himself, but eventually he succeeded in reaching the sanctuary of his cabin. Once inside, he locked the door firmly and collapsed into his chair. The day had been a night-mare from start to finish, and he wondered how he could possibly last out for two further weeks. It was all that journalist’s fault. If she had not asked him about marriage, then all these ladies would not have had the idea placed in their heads that he was a suitable candidate for them. Perhaps he could ask her to publish a correction: to say that there had been a misunderstanding, and that he actually was married? The problems with that scheme were that she would presumably refuse – as it would make her look foolish – and that it was inherently very improbable that anybody could make so fundamental a mistake. There seemed to be no way out of it: he would have to brave it out for the remaining two weeks, taking as many meals as possible in his cabin and remaining locked up there for as much of the day as was consistent with remaining sane.

  The next day, as it transpired, was even worse. Von Igelfeld was pestered from breakfast onwards, constantly being approached by ladies claiming to have an interest in Romance philology. When he retreated to his cabin there was no peace. Either the telephone rang, with an invitation from one of the ladies to join a bridge four or play table tennis, or there was a knock on the door from a caller with the same sort of invitation. The lecture, of course, was now even better attended, and the ladies attempted to outdo one another in donning their finest outfits and more extravagant jewellery. Hans-Dieter Dietermann’s audience had now gone down to three, and the third lecturer, who was giving a short series of talks on the history of Gibraltar had nobody at all to listen to him.

  After a further two days, they reached Naples. Von Igelfeld, who had now completed his lectures, received numerous offers to have dinner ashore, but politely turned them all down. The ship stood offshore, rather than docking, and the passengers were conveyed to land in large launches hired for the occasion. Von Igelfeld’s launch was dangerously overloaded, as most of the ladies tried to secure a place on it once they knew he was on board, with the result that it almost overturned on the way in. For von Igelfeld, this was the final straw. When he got ashore, he rushed off, leaving the ladies, and hailed a taxi. This he instructed to take him to the railway station. Then, paying off the taxi driver, he gave him a substantial tip on the understanding that the driver would return to the harbour and leave word with the launch office to the effect that he had been called away on urgent business and was not returning on board for the rest of the cruise. It being Naples, however, where research has revealed that sixty eight per cent of the population is profoundly dishonest, the taxi driver merely pocketed the money and did not perform this commission. But von Igelfeld was not to know this; he merely purchased a single ticket to Siena, via Rome, and boarded the next available train. He did not care about his possessions on board ship. These could be sent on to him when the ship returned to Hamburg. He had simply had enough: the whole venture had been misconceived from start to finish.

  The ship left Naples early the following morning. Von Igelfeld’s absence was noticed at eleven o’clock, when they were five hours out to sea. Enquiries were made and the Captain concluded that the most likely explanation was that he had gone ashore in Naples and simply not returned. This was investigated, and it was at this point that the disturbing information surfaced that the launch tallies added up. Three hundred and eighteen people had gone ashore in Naples and three hundred and eighteen appeared to have returned. This was a miscount, in fact; only three hundred and seventeen had returned, but in these circumstances the Captain was obliged to reach a more sinister conclusion.

  Man overboard procedures were begun. The ship stopped in its tracks and a thorough search was made of the entire vessel. There were announcements made on the public address system and the shocked passengers were asked if anybody had seen Professor von Igelfeld that morning. Unfortunately at this point another fatal error was made. Two elderly sisters, of failing eyesight, went to report that they had seen him on the deck that morning at eight o’clock. He had been leaning over the rails, they said, and they were, moreover, sure that it was him. They had been at all his lectures and they knew exactly who he was. They had, in fact, been looking at one of the stewards, who was not yet in uniform, and who was looking out for flying fish at the time.

  The Captain ordered the ship about and a slow, melancholy search was made of the portion of sea which the ship had been traversing at roughly eight thirty that morning. Alas, nothing was found, and by the time light faded that evening the grim conclusion was reached that Professor von Igelfeld had been lost at sea. A signal was sent to the company in Hamburg and early the next morning a telephone call was made to the Institute of Romance Philology in Regensburg informing them of the tragedy.

  Von Igelfeld had reached Siena on the same day as his sudden departure from the ship and had spent the evening in his usual hotel there. The next morning he had contacted his friend, Professor Roberto Guerini, who had immediately invited him to spend some time on his wine estate near Montalcino. This suited von Igelfeld very well, and the next few days there were many enjoyable walks through the woods and evenings spent in the company of his Italian friends. There was even a dinner party at the house of the Conte Vittorio Fantozzi, which was, as such occasions inevitably were, a noted success.

  After the pleasant interlude in Montalcino, it was time to return home. Von Igelfeld, who had been provided by Guerini with clothing and a small suitcase, packed his bag and bade farewell to his friends. Then, thoroughly rested by the break, he caught an express train from Siena to Munich. When he arrived in Regensburg, he decided to go straight from the railway station to the Institute to deal with his mail. Then he would go home and answer the letters that had no doubt built up there in his absence.

  Not having seen the German press while he was in Italy, he had of course failed to read the item which was carried by most of the nationals: GERMAN PROFESSOR LOST AT SEA! Nor had he read the fulsome tribute from Prinzel, quoted at length in the same newspapers, or the remarks of other members of the philological community, including Unterholzer, who had referred in most generous terms to Portuguese Irregular Verbs and had commented that it was a very great loss indeed that there would now be no successor volume. Even had he read these, he might not have expected to find, on his return to the Institute, that things had been changed, and that a new name had appeared on his door.

  ‘Why are you in my room?’ he asked, as he opened the door of his office, to find Unterholzer sitting at his desk.

  Unterholzer looked up, and turned quite white. It was as if he had seen a ghost.

  ‘But you’re dead!’ he blurted out after a few moments.

  ‘I most certainly am not!’ said von Igelfeld.

  ‘Are you sure?’ stammered Unterholzer. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Herr Unterholzer,’
said von Igelfeld. ‘There are very few things of which we can be sure in this life, but that, I should have thought, is one of them.’

  ‘I see,’ said Unterholzer, lamely. ‘The only reason why I am here in this office is that the papers said that you had been lost at sea. I thought that you would like the thought of my having your office after you’ve gone.’

  Von Igelfeld bristled. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ he said sharply. ‘I might well have quite different ideas.’

  Unterholzer had risen to his feet. ‘Oh, Moritz-Maria, I am so pleased that you are alive! I cannot tell you how sad I was . . .’ He stopped as he realized his terrible solecism. He had addressed von Igelfeld by his first name, and they had only known one another for, what was it, fifteen years?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he rapidly continued. ‘I didn’t mean to call you that. It was the emotion of the occasion . . .’

  Von Igelfeld raised a hand to stop him. He was touched that Unterholzer, for all his faults, had been so upset at his death. One might even overlook his presumption in taking his room, or almost . . .

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ he said, adding, ‘Detlev.’

  It was a terrible effort for von Igelfeld to utter Unterholzer’s first name, but it had to be done.

  ‘Yes, Detlev, we have known one another for many years now, and it might be appropriate to move to first name terms. So it will be du from now on.’

  Unterholzer looked immensely relieved. ‘Let us go down to the café and drink . . .’

  ‘And drink a toast to Brüderschaft,’ said von Igelfeld kindly. It was good to be alive, he thought. Life was so precious, so unexpected in its developments, and so very rich in possibilities.

  They left the Institute and walked down to the café.

  ‘To Brüderschaft!’ said Unterholzer, raising his glass. ‘To brotherhood.’