The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs (6 page)

‘Not a large party,’ said the Duke. ‘Just one or two people who are passing through and, of course, my research assistant.’

Von Igelfeld was delighted to accept. He was pleased to hear about the research assistant, too, as this confirmed that the Duke himself was a serious scholar. All in all, it seemed a most agreeable prospect and, after the Duke had gone, he rushed off to inform the Prinzels that he would not be joining them for dinner in the hotel that night. As it happened, this suited his companions well. Ophelia Prinzel had a slight headache and was proposing to have an early night and the heat had destroyed Prinzel’s appetite. It was agreed that they would meet for breakfast and then spend the earlier part of the morning in the Cathedral Library, admiring the illuminated manuscripts, before hordes of schoolchildren and parties of chattering Japanese tourists began to flock in. Von Igelfeld found Japanese tourists particularly trying. They were often fascinated by tall Germans, and he found it most disconcerting to be photographed by them. It was sobering to contemplate how many photograph albums in Tokyo or Kyoto contained his image, frozen in time, quite out of context, pored over and pointed out to interested relatives of the travellers. Why should they want to photograph him? Had they not seen a German professor before? It was another vexing thought, and so he put it out of his mind in favour of the contemplation of dinner at the Duke’s house and the warm prospect of edifying conversation and a good table. The Duke’s nose was a good portent. Its colour at the end suggested that a considerable quantity of fine Chianti had suffused upwards, by some process of osmosis. This implied the existence of a good cellar, and a generous hand. Let the Prinzels call room service and gnaw at some inedible little morsel; finer things were in store for him.

The Duke’s house was in a narrow street off the Piazza del Risorgimento. An inconspicuous door led off the street into a courtyard dominated by a small fountain. Stunted fig trees grew in terracotta pots against the walls and a large black cat sat on a stone bench, grooming its fur. The cat looked up and stared at von Igelfeld for a moment or two before returning to its task.

The main door of the house, on the other side of the courtyard, was ajar and von Igelfeld found no bell to ring. He entered somewhat cautiously, finding himself in a large, well-lit entrance hall. The floor, of black and white marble, was clearly an architectural reference to the famous striped cathedral tower which dominated the skyline a few winding streets away. On the walls, framed on either side by gilt sconces, were paintings of Tuscan scenes, one of a cypress-crossed hillside, another of a young man in the Renaissance style, a notary perhaps, seated at his desk before an open window. The window framed a hillside on which deer grazed and improbable birds strutted.

A door opened at the other end of the hall and a young woman – of nineteen at the most, little more than a girl – emerged into the hall. It was a moment or two before she saw von Igelfeld, and when she did, she gave a start.

She raised a hand to her mouth as if to stifle a gasp. Then she spoke, in foreign-accented but correct Italian. ‘You gave me a fright. I was not expecting to find anybody in here.’

Von Igelfeld made a self-deprecating gesture.

‘There was no bell,’ he said apologetically. ‘I should have rung had I found a bell. I do not like to walk into the houses of other people without giving them notice.’

The girl laughed. ‘Johannesburg doesn’t mind,’ she said. ‘All sorts of people walk in here. He’s always happy to see them.’

‘I am glad,’ said von Igelfeld. Then, after a short pause, he introduced himself and explained that he had been invited for dinner.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘So you are the German professor he met earlier today when he slipped out for his Martini. He told me about you. He said you were very . . . ’

She broke off suddenly, the hand going to the mouth. Von Igelfeld frowned. Very what? he wondered.

‘Anyway,’ said the girl, quickly recovering her composure. ‘You must be wondering who I am. I am Beatrice. I’m the Duke’s research assistant.’

Von Igelfeld had been wondering who she was and he was pleased that the research assistant was so refreshingly attractive. His research assistants had been uniformly plain and he had always envied colleagues who seemed to have assistants who were glamorous and vivacious. Indeed, he had once raised the matter with Prinzel, drawing attention to the strikingly beautiful young Russian recently recruited by Professor Vochsenkuhn. She had turned every head at the last Romance Philology Congress and had been utterly charming in spite of her linguistic limitations. She spoke only Russian, which von Igelfeld thought must have restricted her ability to conduct research in Romance philology, particularly since Professor Vochsenkuhn himself was not known to speak any Russian.

Prinzel had laughed. ‘The reason why other people have attractive research assistants, Moritz-Maria, is because they don’t recruit them on academic ability. In fact, academic ability is probably the last criterion for selection.’

Von Igelfeld had found himself at a loss to understand.

‘But if they have no academic ability,’ he had objected, ‘why recruit them as research assistants?’

Again Prinzel had laughed.

‘Because research assistants often have talents which go beyond pure research,’ he had said. ‘That is widely known. They provide . . .
inspiration
for the professors who employ them. Inspiration is very important.’

Von Igelfeld was not convinced. ‘I still cannot see the justification,’ he had said. But Prinzel had merely shaken his head and changed the subject. Now here, clearly, was one of those attractive young research assistants who provided inspiration. Prinzel was evidently right.

Beatrice gestured towards the door from which she had emerged.

‘They’re in the salon,’ she said. ‘We should join them.’

She led von Igelfeld through a corridor and into a large room at the rear of the building. One of the walls was entirely covered with bookshelves; the others were hung with paintings of the sort von Igelfeld had already encountered in the hall. At the far end, standing before the gaping mouth of a high marble fireplace, stood the Duke, glass in hand; in a chair to his left sat a grey-bearded man dressed in the long black cassock of an Orthodox priest.

‘My dear Professor von Igelfeld,’ said the Duke, putting down his glass and advancing towards his guest. ‘You are most welcome to this house.’

Von Igelfeld bowed slightly to the Duke and then turned towards the priest, who had risen to his feet and had extended a ring-encrusted hand. For a moment von Igelfeld was uncertain whether he was expected to kiss one of the rings, but the gesture very quickly made itself apparent as a handshake.

‘And this,’ said the Duke genially. ‘This is my old friend, Angelos Evangelis, Patriarch of Alexandria and All Africa Down as Far as Somalia.’

Von Igelfeld shook hands with the Patriarch, who smiled and inclined his head slightly.

‘We are a very small party tonight,’ the Duke went on. ‘But, in a way, that is always preferable.’

‘Very much better,’ agreed von Igelfeld. ‘I cannot abide large parties.’

‘Then you should not come to this house too often,’ said Beatrice. ‘Johannesburg gives large parties every other night, more or less.’

Von Igelfeld felt a flush of embarrassment. He had been unwise to condemn large parties; it was obvious that somebody like the Duke of Johannesburg would entertain on a splendid scale.

‘Of course, I like large parties too,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s just that I can’t abide them when I’m in the mood for a small party. It all depends, you see.’

‘Of course,’ said the Duke. ‘I know in my bones when I get up whether it’s going to be a large party day or a small party day.’

As this conversation was unfolding, Beatrice had busied herself in obtaining a drink for von Igelfeld and in filling up the glasses of the Patriarch and the Duke. There was then a brief silence, during which the Patriarch stared at von Igelfeld and the Duke adjusted the blue cravat which he had donned for the evening.

In an attempt to stimulate conversation, von Igelfeld turned to the Patriarch and asked him where he lived.

The Patriarch looked at von Igelfeld with mournful eyes.

‘I live in many places,’ he said. ‘I live here. I live there. It is given to me to move a great deal. At present I am in Rome, but last year I was in Beirut. Where shall I be next year? That is uncertain. Perhaps you can tell me.’

‘Well,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I’m not sure . . . ’ He tailed off.

‘I must explain that the Patriarch is currently afflicted with schisms,’ interjected the Duke. ‘He has been so afflicted for some years.’

Von Igelfeld was about to express his sympathy, but Beatrice now intervened.

‘The Patriarch is a very brave man,’ she said. ‘If I had schisms I would not know where to turn. Is there a cure?’

The Duke took a sip of his wine. He was smiling.

‘Dear Beatrice,’ he said. ‘Your question is so utterly pertinent, but, alas, one thousand years of Coptic history cannot be so easily resolved. I suggest, therefore, that we go to table. Signora Tagliatti has prepared some wild boar for us and my uncorked wines will rapidly lose their impact if we keep them waiting much longer. Shall we go through?’

In the Duke’s dining room, von Igelfeld sat flanked by Beatrice and the Patriarch, with the Duke, a beaming host, at the head of the table. The Duke spoke of his researches – an investigation of the concept of empathy in Hume and compassion in Schopenhauer.

‘Much the same thing, don’t you think?’ he asked von Igelfeld.

Von Igelfeld was not sure. He remembered reading that Hume believed that our minds vibrated in sympathy, and that this ability – to vibrate in unison with one another – was the origin of the ethical impulse. And Schopenhauer’s moral theory was about feeling, was it not; so perhaps they were one and the same phenomenon. But he could hardly pronounce on the matter with any authority, having not read Schopenhauer since boyhood, and he looked to Beatrice for support.

‘Schopenhauer!’ she murmured dreamily.

‘You must know a lot about him,’ encouraged von Igelfeld.

‘Hardly,’ she said.

Von Igelfeld was silent for a moment. Was it her role, then, merely to
inspire?
He looked at the Patriarch, who stared back at him with melancholy, rheumy eyes.

‘I have known many who have lacked compassion,’ the Patriarch said suddenly. ‘The pretender to the Bishopric of Khartoum, for example. And the Syrian Ordinary at Constantinople.’

‘Especially him,’ agreed the Duke.

Von Igelfeld was surprised at the bitterness with which the Patriarch spoke – a bitterness which seemed to find a ready echo in the Duke’s response.

‘Your schisms,’ von Igelfeld began. ‘They are clearly very deep. But what are they actually
about?
’

‘A variety of important matters,’ said the Duke. ‘For example, there is a serious dispute as to whether a saint’s halo goes out when he dies or whether it remains lit up.’

‘It does not go out,’ said the Patriarch, in the tone of one pronouncing on the self-evident.

‘Then there’s the question of miracles,’ went on the Duke. ‘There is a major schism on the issue of miracles. Are they possible? Does God choose to show himself through the miraculous? That sort of schism.’

‘But of course miracles exist,’ said Beatrice. ‘Miracles occur every day. We all know that. You yourself said that it was a miracle when you and I . . . ’

The Duke cut her off, rather sharply, von Igelfeld thought.

‘Be that as it may,’ he said. ‘But it is not really the personal miracles that are at issue. It’s the miracles of ecclesiastical significance that are the real substance of the debate. The Miracle of the Holy House, for example. Did angels carry the Virgin Mary’s house all the way to Italy from the Holy Land, as is claimed?’

‘Of course they did,’ said the Patriarch. ‘No sensible person doubts that.’

Von Igelfeld looked down at his plate. Had five fish appeared on it at that moment, it seemed that nobody would have been in the slightest bit surprised. But, for his part, he had always found the story of the Holy House rather too far-fetched to believe. How would the house have withstood the flight, even in the care of angels? It seemed to him highly improbable.

Over breakfast the next morning, von Igelfeld reflected on the experiences of the evening. He had enjoyed himself at the Duke’s dinner party, but had come away moderately perplexed. Who was Beatrice, and why did she know so little about Schopenhauer? Who was the Patriarch, and who was behind the schisms which seemed to cause him such distress? If he were the Patriarch, then could he not unilaterally put an end to schism simply by expelling schismatics? That is what von Igelfeld himself would have done. Unterholzer, after all, was a sort of schismatic, and von Igelfeld had found no difficulty in dealing with him decisively. Presumably patriarchs had at their disposal a variety of ecclesiastical remedies that put fear into the heart of any dissident. Inverted candles – snuffed out; that was the ritual which von Igelfeld associated with such matters and that would surely silence all but the most headstrong of rebels.