Unusual Uses for Olive Oil (6 page)

Prinzel agreed. ‘No, you are right. I was merely thinking of another example of the same thing.’

‘An impossible example,’ said von Igelfeld.

Prinzel nodded. ‘Quite.’ He drew himself up. He was every bit as tall as von Igelfeld and his bearing was still almost as impressive as it had been when they were students in Heidelberg and he had cut a dashing figure in the Korps. ‘Quite,’ he repeated. ‘Now, this question that my wife suggested I should ask. It is quite a simple question, but please, do not feel under any compulsion to answer it. You are perfectly free to claim what our American cousins call the Fifth Amendment and to say nothing.’

‘I have no cousins in America,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Do you, Herr Prinzel?’

Prinzel shook his head. ‘Not as far as I am aware. It is a figure of speech.’

‘And a very misleading one,’ snapped von Igelfeld. ‘It could cause considerable confusion if people thought that there were all these cousins in America, when in reality there are not.’

‘Of course; of course. But this question … What my
wife wished to know is whether she could possibly introduce you to a lady of her acquaintance. That is what she wanted to know.’

Von Igelfeld frowned. ‘Why?’ he asked.

Prinzel looked at his friend. He was not making it easy. ‘This lady has only recently come to Regensburg,’ he explained. ‘She is from Stuttgart, I believe, and she does not know many people here in Regensburg.’

‘Then why did she come?’ asked von Igelfeld. ‘If you are from Stuttgart, where you know many people, is it wise to come to Regensburg, where you know nobody?’

‘She was left a house here,’ said Prinzel. ‘Her cousin was a bachelor and she is his heir. He was the Graf Hauptdorf. Hauptdorf und Praxis, to give him his full title.’

Von Igelfeld sat quite still. He had seen the Graf’s obituary in the newspapers, and had been reminded of a visit he had paid to the house itself, which was often open to the public. ‘The Schloss Dunkelberg? He left that to her?’

Prinzel nodded. ‘It is a very fine house, as you know. And so she thought that it would be best to leave Stuttgart and come over here to look after the place. It has extensive grounds, as you are no doubt aware.’

‘They are very fine,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘And the house
itself is of more than mere passing architectural interest.’ He paused. ‘How did Frau Prinzel meet this lady?’

‘They found themselves seated next to one another at a bridge class,’ said Prinzel. ‘It is a class for complete beginners that my wife has joined.’

Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘Bridge is a very suitable game for ladies,’ he said. ‘One would not want one’s wife to be taking up some more dangerous sport – such as motor-racing, Herr Prinzel.’

‘There is no danger of that,’ said Prinzel. ‘My wife cannot drive, you see.’

‘Then she is unlikely to take up motor-racing,’ agreed von Igelfeld. ‘But to return to this lady – I would be perfectly happy to meet her, if Frau Prinzel would care to arrange an introduction. I will be able to show her round Regensburg, perhaps.’

‘That is precisely what my wife thought you might do,’ said Prinzel.

Von Igelfeld hesitated. ‘And her husband too, if he would care to come.’

Prinzel shook his head. ‘But there is no husband, Herr von Igelfeld. This unfortunate lady lost her husband at least ten years ago, I’m told. He was an industrialist. Herr Benz. The late Herr Friedrich-Martin Benz.’

‘Oh yes?’ said von Igelfeld. ‘And what did this Herr Benz make?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Prinzel.

‘They are very energetic people, these industrialists. They are always making something. I have never heard of the late Herr Benz, but no doubt he made many things.’

Prinzel laughed. ‘He must have been very busy.’

The conversation concluded at that. Prinzel said that they would give von Igelfeld several dates for a possible dinner and he could choose one that fitted with his social commitments. Von Igelfeld thought about this for a moment: he had no social commitments, as far as he knew, but it would not do to make Prinzel aware of that. ‘I’m sure that we shall find a suitable date,’ he said. ‘We might have to wait a few weeks, but we shall certainly find one.’

‘Good,’ said Prinzel. ‘And my wife will no doubt make us all a very tasty meal. Do you know, by the way, what we are having tonight? Venison stew. I have always liked venison, Herr von Igelfeld. Do you like it?’

Von Igelfeld shrugged. He could not remember when he had last eaten venison. It had tasted good, though; he was sure of that. ‘Who doesn’t? But I find that one doesn’t want too much of it.’

‘Of course not.’

Prinzel returned to his own office, leaving von Igelfeld to his thoughts. The Schloss Dunkelberg? Interesting. He had gone there with a small group from the local
historical society and he had seen that it had a very interesting library. He had thought at the time: the people who own this place obviously never open any of these books – what a waste! Well, what if a place like the Schloss Dunkelberg were to come into the hands of somebody who really appreciated a library of that size and magnificence: what then?

Nothing more was said of the matter over the next few days, and it might have resulted in nothing had it been left to Prinzel and von Igelfeld themselves. But Ophelia Prinzel, once enthused, was not one to lose interest in something quite as entertaining as matchmaking. She had grave doubts as to the suitability of von Igelfeld for anybody, but she was aware that sheer demographic reality meant that there were many women, particularly those, like Frau Benz, in their late forties, who would never find a husband unless they were prepared to scrape the bottom of the barrel. As a result of this, many otherwise unmarriageable men came under scrutiny by women who would be none too fussy in their assessments. She had a close friend who had, in fact, recently settled for a man who had lost several limbs and an ear in a series of accidents. ‘He is admittedly not complete,’ the friend had said. ‘But when there are so few men available, what choice do we women have? Half a man is surely better than no man at all, would you not say?’ Although this argument
might at first have appeared less than compelling, sober reflection revealed it to be a good one, and such reflection, Ophelia felt, might also boost the case for Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld. Granted that he was an impossibly dusty scholar; granted that he was completely set in his ways; granted that he had not the slightest idea of how women thought and behaved; in spite of all of that, he was none the less a man, and a tall and rather distinguished-looking one into the bargain. With a little attention to his clothing, he might pass muster as a very suitable escort for an outing to the opera or a trip on the Rhine. And the rest, surely, could be worked upon; for von Igelfeld could be considered a
project
, in the same way as one considered an old house or a dilapidated vintage car as a project.

As for Frau Benz, Ophelia thought that there was very little wrong with her. She was a fairly large woman, it had to be admitted, but this gave her an undoubted presence. She was clearly generous, too, as she had on more than one occasion met Ophelia for coffee and cakes in the Café Florian and insisted on paying the bill.

‘Herr Benz left me very comfortably provided for,’ she said. ‘Dear man! He remarked once, “My own memory may fade when I am no longer here, but I shall do all I can to ensure that the memory of my money lingers on.” Coffee and cakes are well within the budget!’

She had frequently spoken of her late husband, and his interests. ‘He was a very active man,’ she said. ‘He loved gardening, riding, flying, carpentry, painting … There were few things Herr Benz could not do.’

‘How useful,’ said Ophelia. ‘Such men are few and far between.’

‘Indeed. Do you know, we never needed to employ a workman to fix anything. My husband would roll up his sleeves and tackle any task that arose. He would not rest until whatever it was that needed to be fixed was fixed.’

‘There must have been many women,’ mused Ophelia, ‘who would have loved to marry Herr Benz. You were very fortunate.’

This compliment was acknowledged with gratitude. ‘You would have liked Herr Benz, Frau Professor Prinzel. And I fear that I shall never find another man who is his equal.’

‘If one turned up, though,’ said Ophelia, ‘I take it that you would be pleased?’

Frau Benz thought for a moment. Then she smiled coyly. ‘Such a man could be a delightful companion.’

This exchange, and a number of others like it, planted the idea in Ophelia Prinzel’s head that were she to come across a suitable man, she should try to introduce that man to Frau Benz. And why not? There is a natural tendency on the part of those who are happily married
to assume that those who are not should be similarly placed. And yet this tendency is usually confronted with a marked dearth of available men. In this case, a mental inventory of single men known to the Prinzels resulted in only two names: Herr Huber, the Librarian at the Institute, and Professor Dr Dr von Igelfeld. Herr Huber was impossible, of course, and could be completely ruled out in any circumstances, for any woman, no matter how desperate, and so attention shifted to von Igelfeld, who was also largely impossible, but perhaps not quite so much a lost cause as the unfortunate Herr Huber.

The arrangement of the introduction proved easier than she had imagined. It transpired that neither von Igelfeld nor Frau Benz was occupied on a particular Friday evening two weeks hence. An invitation to dinner was extended, and accepted. Frau Benz, of course, was not told what the purpose of the evening was. ‘We are giving a very small dinner party,’ said Ophelia. ‘Our table, alas, is not large. There will be only two guests.’

‘A large table is no guarantee of a pleasant evening,’ said Frau Benz. ‘The most charming dinner parties I have been to have been very small affairs.
Intime
is best, I think.’

Von Igelfeld was aware of the purpose of the evening, and felt a certain excitement in the prospect of meeting the new owner of the Schloss Dunkelberg. There was
a large illustrated history of the house published by a local publisher, and he obtained a copy and made a point of reading it before the evening took place. It was a very badly written history, in his view, with a very small number of footnotes, but at least it would give him plenty to talk about with Frau Benz and he would be able to keep up with her should she mention – as he thought she well might – the extensions that were built in the late eighteenth century.

He also took great care in the choosing of his clothes for the evening. Ophelia Prinzel had said that it would not be formal, but this did not mean, of course, that all formality would be thrown to the winds. Von Igelfeld was aware that there were those who did not wear a tie to dinner, having been shocked to see a picture in the newspaper of an important dinner in Berlin at which the male guests – or a considerable number of them – did not appear to be wearing ties. He had referred to this in the coffee room one morning and had been further shocked by the response of his colleagues.

‘Lots of people don’t wear ties any more,’ said Unterholzer. ‘It is thought to be more comfortable not to. And why not? Why should people make themselves uncomfortable?’

Von Igelfeld had looked at him with icy disdain. ‘And shirts?’ he said. ‘Are they to be abandoned too? We would undoubtedly be more comfortable without
having to bother with things like sleeves and collars, would we not?’

It was an unanswerable objection, a devastating point, but Unterholzer had seemed unmoved. ‘That may be the way we’re going,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we shall eventually see through the need for clothing altogether – other than in the winter, of course. But in summer we can all be children of nature again.’

The conversation had ended there. Von Igelfeld did not feel it wise to encourage Unterholzer in these anarchic, unsettling sentiments, lest his colleague be tempted to start divesting himself of his baggy and badly cut shirt there and then. Children of nature indeed!

And now, standing before his wardrobe, he reached inside and took out his best blue-fleck suit, a suit that he had bought in Cologne fifteen years previously and used only very occasionally – for major family gatherings, such as the seventy-fifth birthday of his uncle, when the entire extant von Igelfeld family – all forty-three members of it, including the Austrian branch – had gathered in Munich for a celebration. The suit had been expensive, made from Scottish tweed, and beautifully tailored. It would be just right, he considered, for an evening such as this; Frau Benz, as the proprietrix of the Schloss Dunkelberg, would undoubtedly appreciate good cloth, and would realise that … well – and he blushed at having to think in
these terms – she would realise that he was from the same
circle
as she was. That was delicately put, he thought. The landed gentry, to whom she belonged thanks to the inheritance of the Schloss Dunkelberg, did not like crude terms such as
class
– he blushed further; they made the easy assumption that people were either
possible
or
impossible
. It was not a judgement based on anything one could put one’s finger on, and it certainly had nothing to do with wealth. A poor man – a man without so much as a bean – could be perfectly possible, while a man of substance might be completely impossible. It was impossible to say how possibility – and impossibility – came about. Impossible. But von Igelfeld was in no doubt that he could not possibly be considered impossible.

He dressed with care and made his way to the Prinzels’ house, arriving at the front door at exactly the time stipulated by Ophelia in her invitation. He knew there were people who arrived for dinner five or ten minutes late, claiming that this was not only fashionable but also considerate towards one’s host or hostess, however von Igelfeld did not subscribe to that view. If people wanted one to arrive at seven thirty-five, he thought, then they would invite one to do so. If they wanted you to arrive at seven thirty, then they would invite you for seven thirty. And the same applied to railways, he reflected. If the railway
authorities wanted their trains to leave five minutes late, then they would specify that in the timetable. But they did not.