At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances (10 page)

Von Igelfeld had little time for Belgium. In the first place, he was not at all sure that the country was even necessary, in the way in which France and Germany were obviously necessary. It would have been more convenient all round if part of Belgium had remained with France, as Napoleon had so wisely intended, and the Flemish part could then have been tacked on to the Netherlands, on linguistic grounds. And then there was the question of the Belgian monarchs, and in particular, Leopold, whose unapologetic behaviour in the Belgian Congo left a great deal to be desired. All in all, then, the Belgian order was something which was better not mentioned, although it was likely, on balance, to impress the Colombians.

The inauguration was simple: a medal was pinned to von Igelfeld’s lapel, the President embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks, the large moustache tickling von Igelfeld’s face, and then the Members of the Academy pressed forward to shake the hand of their new Corresponding Fellow. Thereafter, a light lunch was served, at which there was more hand-shaking, and the Members then dispersed. Von Igelfeld had prepared a lecture, just in case he should be asked to deliver one, but no opportunity presented itself. Nor did the President or any of the Members suggest that anything else should be done; the President, indeed, disappeared before von Igelfeld had the chance to thank him properly, and von Igelfeld found himself outside the Academy building, in the clear Andean sunshine, in the company only of Señor Gabriel Marcales de Cinco Fermentaciones.

‘A moving ceremony,’ said his host. ‘I am not a Member of the Academy myself, although I feel that it would be very appropriate to be one.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said von Igelfeld soothingly. ‘But I am sure that somebody will propose you for membership one of these days.’

‘I hope so,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. He paused, and looked at von Igelfeld. ‘You wouldn’t care to do that, would you?’

Von Igelfeld gave a start. ‘I?’ he said. ‘I am only a Corresponding Fellow, and a new one at that. Surely it would be improper for me to propose a new member.’

‘Not in the slightest,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘Indeed, it would be virtually impossible for them to turn me down if you proposed me. It would imply a lack of confidence in your judgement.’ He reached into his pocket as he spoke and extracted a piece of paper. ‘As it happens,’ he went on, ‘I have the proposal form with me here, already filled in. All that you would need to do is to sign it. Thank you so much for doing this.’

Von Igelfeld looked about him. Señor Gabriel Marcales de Cinco Fermentaciones had placed him in an acutely embarrassing position. If he turned him down, it would be an act of gross ingratitude to the man who, presumably, had arranged his own nomination as Corresponding Fellow. And yet, if he proposed him, the President and Members could be placed in a situation where they would be obliged to elect somebody whom, for all von Igelfeld knew, they may not have wished to elect in the first place.

‘This is where you sign,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones, placing the paper, and a pen, in von Igelfeld’s hands.

There was really no alternative, and so von Igelfeld signed, handing the paper back to Cinco Fermentaciones with an angry glance. This glance either went unnoticed, or was ignored.

‘You are very kind,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘Now I am in,’ adding, ‘at last.’ He leant forward and embraced von Igelfeld, muttering further words of gratitude as he did so.

Von Igelfeld bore the embrace and the words of thanks with fortitude. He had walked right into a South American trap, and perhaps he should have realised it earlier. But the important thing was that whatever the motive of Cinco Fermentaciones had been in proposing him, the fact remained that he was now a Corresponding Fellow of the Academy of Letters of Colombia, an honour which had eluded even Zimmermann. And even if the President of the Academy were to be annoyed with him for proposing Cinco Fermentaciones, he would probably never encounter the President in the future and thus there would be few occasions for awkwardness.

Cinco Fermentaciones beamed with satisfaction. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we – or, rather I, have planned a few days for you in the country, as a reward, so to speak, for your having come all this way. A very well-known lady, who has perhaps the finest literary salon in all South America, has specially invited us to her villa in the hills. It will be a real treat.’

‘I am most grateful,’ said von Igelfeld. A few days in the country, being well looked after, would suit him very well. He was not due back in Germany for over a week, and what could be more enjoyable than sitting on a shady verandah, listening to the sounds of flocks of tropical birds, and knowing that at the end of the day a fine meal awaited one.

They returned to the hotel, where von Igelfeld packed his bags and had them carried to the car which Cinco Fermentaciones provided. Then, after a fortifying cup of coffee, they set off down a pot-holed road, through sprawling crowded suburbs, into the countryside. The warmth of the car and the drone of the engine made von Igelfeld feel drowsy, and by the time he woke up, they were driving down what appeared to be a private road, through plantations of fruit trees, towards a large, ochre-coloured house on the lower slopes of a mountain.

‘The home of Señora Dolores Quinta Barranquilla,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘Our journey is at an end. We have arrived at the Villa of Reduced Circumstances.’

A servant met them at the large front door of the villa. He was a small man in an ill-fitting black jacket and wearing grubby white gloves. He took the suitcases from the back of the car and gestured for Cinco Fermentaciones and von Igelfeld to follow him. They went inside, into a house of high-ceilinged cool rooms, furnished with dark mahogany chairs and tables in the Spanish colonial style, with painted cupboards on which fruits,Virgins and hunting dogs competed for space with pink-faced cherubs. Then they passed through a portico into a courtyard, around the sides of which were arranged the doors which gave on to their respective bedrooms.

Left by himself in his bedroom, von Igelfeld unpacked his suitcase and noticed, with satisfaction, a spacious writing desk on which supplies of paper, along with bottles of ink and a stick pen, had been laid. To the right of the desk was a bookcase housing several shelves of books. He glanced at the titles: there were collected essays, novels, works of philosophy, and several volumes of the poems of Pablo Neruda. He picked up one of the Neruda volumes, noting an inscription on the fly leaf:
Quinta Barranquilla,
from his life-long friend, Pablo Neruda: I am not worthy of your friendship, but I have it nonetheless, and am content.
Von Igelfeld was intrigued; the salon run by Dolores Quinta Barranquilla was clearly every bit as distinguished as Cinco Fermentaciones had implied. He replaced the book and picked up the volume next to it, a Spanish translation of Hemingway. Von Igelfeld was not impressed by Hemingway, whom he had never read and whom he had no intention of reading. In his view, those who practised hunting and fighting in wars should not write books, as there was nothing of any interest to literature in those pursuits. Hemingway was a fine example of this. No German writer would have gone bull-fighting in Spain or deep-sea fishing off Cuba, and this showed in the almost total absence of these themes in German literature. He placed the Hemingway back on the shelf with distaste and looked out of the window. In the middle of the courtyard there was a small fountain, out of which water played gently. On a stone bench beside the fountain sat Cinco Fermentaciones, and at his side, engaged in earnest conversation with him, was a middle-aged woman in a red skirt and white blouse. This, von Igelfeld assumed, was Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. He moved closer to the window and stared at her, struck by her peaceful expression. It was a Madonna-like face of the sort that is not all that unusual in the Latin world; a face which Botticelli or Mantegna might have painted. He gazed at her, and as he did so, she suddenly looked up and met his eyes. Von Igelfeld froze, unable to move away from the window, but mortified to be caught in the act of spying upon his hostess. Then the spell broke, and he withdrew from the window, back into the shadows of his room.

A few minutes later, when he heard the knock on the door, he imagined that it was Dolores Quinta Barranquilla, and that she was coming to ask him to explain himself. He answered with some trepidation, but found that it was only the manservant in his ill-fitting jacket, who announced that drinks would be served in the salon at seven o’clock that evening and that the Señora would be honoured by Professor von Igelfeld’s presence at that time. Von Igelfeld thanked him and the manservant nodded. If His Excellency was in need of anything, he was only to ring the bell which he would find in his room; they were short-staffed, alas! as things were not quite what they were in the past, but they would do their best.

‘We are deeply honoured, Professor von Igelfeld,’ said Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. ‘Is that not so, Gabriel?’

‘Indeed it is,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones.

‘To have a Fellow of the Academy of Letters in the house is always rewarding,’ went on Dolores Quinta Barranquilla, ‘but to have a Corresponding Fellow, why, that’s a very particular distinction! Indeed, I cannot remember when last that happened.’

‘Five years ago,’ offered Cinco Fermentaciones.

Dolores Quinta Barranquilla thanked him for the information. ‘Five long years!’ she said. ‘Five arid years now ended!’

Cinco Fermentaciones smiled. ‘Indeed, this evening is almost like a meeting of the Academy.’

Dolores Quinta Barranquilla looked at him blankly, and he continued: ‘You see, my dear Señora Dolores, we almost have two Members of the Academy in the room. I myself . . . ’

Dolores Quinta Barranquilla clasped her hands together in delight. ‘ . . . have been elected! I am thrilled, Gabriel. At last those provincial fools have begun to understand . . . ’

‘Not quite,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones quickly. ‘Please note that I said
almost
two Members. I have been nominated. Indeed, my nomination is quite recent, but I have every reason to believe that it will lead to my election to the Academy.’

Dolores Quinta Barranquilla turned to von Igelfeld and fixed him with a warm smile. ‘I suspect that we might have you to thank for this,’ she said. ‘Our dear friend Gabriel has not been given the recognition that he deserves, I’m afraid. It comes from being out of Colombia.’

Cinco Fermentaciones held up a hand to protest. ‘You are too kind, Señora Dolores. My contribution is small.’

‘It was an honour to be able to propose Señor Gabriel Marcales de Cinco Fermentaciones,’ contributed von Igelfeld. ‘His work in . . . ’ he paused, and there was an awkward silence as they both turned to look at him. Von Igelfeld was quite unaware of his candidate’s work. Had Cinco Fermentaciones written a book? Possibly, but if he had, then he had no means of telling what it was and whether it was good or bad. Of course, one did not become a cultural attaché for nothing, and he must have done something, possibly more than enough to deserve membership of the Academy of Letters. He took a deep breath. ‘His work in all respects is well-known.’

Dolores Quinta Barranquilla raised an eyebrow. ‘There are those who say that he bought the job,’ she said, going on quickly. ‘But I hasten to say that I am most certainly not one of those! There are so many people in this country who are consumed by envy. There are even some who say that I bought this villa, would you believe it?’

‘And you did not?’ asked von Igelfeld.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. ‘Everything you see about you belonged to my paternal grandfather, Don Alfonso Quinta Barranquilla. I have bought nothing – nothing at all.’

‘The Señora is modest,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones unctuously. ‘Even in her grandfather’s day, the villa was the centre of intellectual life in Colombia. Everybody of any note came out from the capital at weekends and participated in the discussion that took place in this very room. Everybody. And then, more recently, in the days of her father, Neruda began to call when he was in this country. He would spend weeks here. He wrote many poems in this very room.’

‘I am a great admirer of his work,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘His Spanish is very fine.’

‘He is still with us, I feel,’ said Dolores Quinta Barranquilla dreamily. ‘Do you not feel that, Gabriel? Do you not feel Pablo’s presence?’

‘I do,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘I feel that he is with us here at the moment.’

‘As are all the others,’ went on Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. ‘Marquez. Valderrama. Pessoa. Yes, Pessoa, dear Professor von Igelfeld. He travelled up from Brazil and spent several weeks in this house, in the time of my father. They talked and talked, he told me. My father, like you, was fluent in Portuguese. He and Pessoa sat here, in this very room, and talked the night away.’

Von Igelfeld looked about the room. He could imagine Pessoa sitting here, with his large hat on the table by the window, or on his knee perhaps; really, these were most agreeable surroundings, and the hostess, too, was utterly charming, with her mellifluous voice and her sympathetic understanding of literature. He could talk the night away, he felt, and perhaps they would.