Unusual Uses for Olive Oil (13 page)

‘Of course it is,’ said the Librarian. ‘I was talking the other day to a doctor – I think he came from Bielefeld originally – who said that we should not be making all these technical demands of nurses and should instead be trying to get good farm girls who have experience of looking after their younger siblings – they’re the ones who know how to nurse. I said to him …’

And so it continued, for slightly more than four hours, until the car wound its way slowly up the last few yards of the steep driveway in front of the lodge.

‘How quickly a journey passes when one is having an interesting conversation,’ said the Librarian, as he got out of the car.

‘How right you are, Herr Librarian,’ said the driver. ‘I do so look forward to our return drive.’

That evening, with the participants in the reading group all assembled in the lodge’s common room, von Igelfeld
made a short speech of welcome. Looking out over the faces of the twenty students, the Librarian and the couple of helpers from the trust staff, he drew attention to the challenges of the week ahead. ‘This is a rare opportunity to spend time with those who share your intellectual interests,’ he said, avoiding, as he said this, Herr Huber’s enthusiastic stare. ‘The whole point of going away on a reading party such as this, is to explore the minds of others. So make sure that you listen, as well as contribute, so that at the end of the week you can say to yourself:
I have learned something truly important.
’

There were nods of agreement from a number of students, while others expressed their approval of this sentiment by exchanging glances with their fellows. Moving on to deal with one or two administrative points, von Igelfeld then sketched out the shape of the week ahead. They would meet, he said, for two hours each morning to discuss their reading, and then the rest of the day would be free for private reflection and for walking along the paths that ran out in a number of directions from the lodge. These paths crossed Alpine meadow before becoming mountain tracks, not yet the preserve of actual climbers, but becoming so after a short while. ‘Be careful,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘The mountains are a reminder to all of us that what goes up usually has to come down again!’

This amusing line, which von Igelfeld delivered slowly in order to allow the humour to be savoured, met each year with the same response, which came now: smiles from some of the students and open laughter from others. Von Igelfeld beamed: there was a unique pleasure, he felt, in finding oneself in contact with receptive young minds.

‘And what comes down,’ he continued, ‘often does so rather faster than it goes up!’

This brought more laughter from the students, with one or two, he noticed, nudging one another. He inclined his head, acknowledging the appreciation of his humour, and then handed over to the cook, who wanted to say something about arrangements for picnic lunches, which could be ordered each morning from the kitchen.

After this, a glass of mulled wine was offered to students and staff alike, and von Igelfeld went round the room meeting the students. Although he selected them himself from the application forms presented to him by the trust administration, he tried to be as even-handed as possible, not favouring his own field, philology, above the claims of other humanities. So there were several classicists, a literary psychologist, historians and even a couple of artists. And there were men and women, with a slight bias this year in favour of men, although the opposite had been the case the
previous year. Most were in their early twenties, which was compatible with the trust philosophy of helping those still engaged in full-time education and needing help at this tender stage of their academic careers; a few, though, were mature students in their thirties.

While circulating, von Igelfeld noticed that the students seemed to be mixing very well with one another. This did not surprise him, as reading groups usually spawned firm friendships that lasted beyond the week in the mountains, but that evening the atmosphere seemed to be particularly warm. In one corner of the room, a small group of students appeared to be getting on especially well, with shrieks of laughter and jovial patting of backs. He smiled at this: oh, to be twenty again! Oh, to be part again of a band of carefree brothers!

He turned to two young men who were standing near a window, looking out at the soaring mountain peaks beyond the glass. They introduced themselves politely: both, as it happened, were called Hans, and both were students of medieval French literature, although they had not met one another before.

‘I have just come to Regensburg,’ said Hans. ‘I was in Berlin before.’

‘And so now here we are: both interested in the same thing!’ said the other Hans.

‘That is the great delight of a reading party,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘One finds people who share one’s interests.
And then, as the week progresses, one gets to know them better. It is very satisfactory.’

‘We are certainly hoping to get to know one another better,’ said Hans, smiling as he spoke. ‘Would you not agree, Hans?’

Von Igelfeld left them to their discussion of medieval French literature – or what he assumed was a discussion of medieval French literature – and joined a group of four students – two men and two women – who had just finished talking to Herr Huber. He noticed that two of these seemed to be holding hands, although they disengaged as he came up to them. This was rather moving, he thought; that two young people, not much more than a boy and a girl, should already be encouraging one another in this way, allaying the intellectual uncertainty that must inevitably come from finding oneself in a reading group with so many other enquiring young minds. He smiled benignly at the couple, and they smiled back at him. It is very touching, he thought. Very touching.

Herr Huber appeared at his side. ‘I must tell you, Herr von Igelfeld,’ he began, ‘that your words of welcome to the students were brilliant – quite brilliant!’

Von Igelfeld acknowledged the compliment with an inclination of his head. ‘You are very kind, Herr Huber.’

‘Yes, you were so reassuring. And now, look at these
splendid young people – look at them. They are already friends. See that boy over there talking to that girl in the green jersey. See how they have become good friends, and are already talking so earnestly about the reading that lies ahead.’

Von Igelfeld took a sip of his mulled wine. ‘It is very encouraging,’ he said. ‘And it certainly cheers one to think that Germany is still producing these fine young people, with their strong intellectual curiosity and their thirst for knowledge. How fortunate we are, Herr Huber, to be part of that process.’

‘Even if mine is a very small part,’ said the Librarian.

Von Igelfeld turned to face his colleague. Poor Herr Huber, he thought, with his strange view of the world. ‘But you must not be so modest,’ he said, placing his hand briefly on his colleague’s forearm. ‘They also serve who merely stand and wait. You must remember that, Herr Huber!’

Herr Huber looked at von Igelfeld with eyes moist with gratitude. ‘It is very kind of you to say that, Herr von Igelfeld. Sometimes I feel that … well, sometimes I feel that I have nothing to contribute. I am surrounded by such distinguished scholars – by you, by Professor Unterholzer …’

Von Igelfeld could not help a small frown crossing his brow at the mention of Unterholzer.

‘… who is hardly your equal, of course,’ the Librarian
continued, ‘but who none the less tills, as you all do, an important furrow of scholarship.’

Von Igelfeld felt that he could afford to be generous. ‘Yes, indeed he does. And even minor scholars have their place, as you have just pointed out. Yes, you are quite right, Herr Huber. But do remember: librarians are at the heart of the scholarly enterprise. Do not be too modest. You must join in our discussions in this reading party as a full and equal member.’

‘Oh, I must not do that,’ said Herr Huber. ‘I shall be in attendance, of course, at all of them, and I shall most certainly assist in any way I can.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘But now, if you wouldn’t mind excusing me, Herr von Igelfeld, I must go to my room and place a telephone call.’

‘To your aunt?’ asked von Igelfeld.

‘To my aunt,’ Herr Huber confirmed. ‘You see, they are thinking of changing some of the rooms around at her nursing home. One of the ladies on the second floor fell out of a window and they want to put her on the ground floor now. That will mean that somebody will have to give up a room on that floor and move to the second floor.’

Von Igelfeld’s eyes glassed over. ‘To replace the defenestrated lady?’ he asked distantly.

‘Yes. But you know it’s an interesting thing. You mentioned defenestration. I wonder whether that word
should be used to describe the act of falling out of the window by accident, or whether it should be restricted to those situations where somebody is thrown out of the window, as in the Defenestration of Prague. What do you think, Herr von Igelfeld? Have you given the matter much thought?’

Von Igelfeld looked across the room. Herr Huber was curiously tiring, even in these small doses. Did it matter how one was defenestrated? Surely from the point of view of the defenestrated person the significant feature of the experience was that one fell out of a window, not how one came to do so. He closed his eyes for a moment and saw, briefly but vividly, an image of Herr Huber standing beneath a window and looking up as a figure tumbled out above him. That, he thought, was an important aspect of defenestration that we should not forget: that it could be as dangerous to those below as it was to those above. But even if that were the case, one would not, he thought, use the word defenestration to describe what happened to the person on the ground below. If such a person were to be injured, then that experience could not be said to be a defenestration: it was a
consequence
of a defenestration. The distinction was important.

The welcome party over, they all had dinner together in the communal dining room. Von Igelfeld did not linger to chat afterwards, as the journey and the
attenuated air of the mountainside had combined to make him feel sleepier than usual. He said goodnight to the students and nodded courteously in the direction of Herr Huber, who was engaged in animated conversation with a fair-haired woman, one of the older students, who von Igelfeld believed was interested in Irish drama. Herr Huber waved back in a friendly manner and returned to his conversation. Von Igelfeld smiled to himself; what on earth could that young woman be discussing with the Librarian? Should he go to her rescue and allow her to detach herself from Herr Huber and his monologue? He decided against this; the woman looked as if she was in her thirties somewhere and would clearly be capable of looking after herself. She would no doubt find some excuse to escape Herr Huber when she felt that she could bear his conversation no longer.

As director of the programme, von Igelfeld was entitled to – and had claimed – the best room in the lodge. Although some of the students were doubled up, von Igelfeld and the Librarian did not have to share. It would have been impossible to occupy the same room as Herr Huber, von Igelfeld felt; a recipe for a nightmare – every night. The Librarian would no doubt talk in his sleep – about much the same thing that he talked about when awake, and that would be insupportable.

His own room was in the front of the building, and afforded an unobstructed view of Alpine pasture and mountains. As he prepared for bed, he looked towards the mountains; the moon was full and he could make out the white of the snow-topped peaks. He shivered. He was not a creature of raw nature; he was one for the warmth and security of villages, towns, cities. It astonished him to think that even as he looked out at those peaks there were climbers bivouacked up there, huddled in their flimsy tents, clinging to the tiny ledges where if one rolled over in the wrong direction one might plunge, sleeping bag and all, down into some bottomless abyss.

He went to bed, reading for ten minutes or so before drowsiness overcame him and he turned out the light. At some point in the night he dreamed that he was in a towering building, so high that the roof was shrouded in a blanket of snow. He was in a room, looking out of a window, and there was somebody behind him. He opened the window, the better to see outside, but he could make out little because of low cloud that had descended to envelop the building. He turned round; somebody was addressing him. Unterholzer.

‘Defenestration,’ said Unterholzer menacingly. ‘Defenestration.’

Von Igelfeld cried out, but there was nobody to hear him except Unterholzer, who was now advancing upon
him, forcing him to move towards the open window. And then, with a sudden movement from Unterholzer, von Igelfeld was defenestrated.

He awoke, sweating with anxiety. He looked at his watch: it was shortly after three, a bad hour to awaken. He reached for his glass of water, and found that it was empty.

Rising from bed, he made his way out into the corridor and began to walk towards the bathroom. He heard a noise, and turned round sharply. Somebody had come out of one door, lingered for no more than a moment or two in the corridor, and then slipped back into another door. Von Igelfeld wondered what was happening. Perhaps the students were continuing their conversation from the common room; students liked to stay awake, von Igelfeld remembered. In his own day in Heidelberg they sometimes chatted away until two or three in the morning, and would think nothing of staying up until five at weekends.

He filled his glass with water and returned to his room. As he closed the door behind him, he heard a door opening in the corridor, and then the sound of whispering. He put down the glass and returned to the door. Bending down, he looked through the keyhole. There was a movement, blurred and indistinct in the half-light of the corridor, and then nothing. He turned away. Young people! Perhaps they were playing
some sort of party game; he had read recently of a game called
sardines
that young people played, in which one person went off to hide and others then crept about the house, finding the hiding place and attempting to join the person crouching there. It was such a ridiculous game, and yet it was, apparently, very popular. Perhaps he should ask them at breakfast tomorrow. ‘And who was playing sardines last night?’ he might say, with the air of Hercule Poirot in full investigation; that would show the students that he was on top of what was going on.