Portuguese Irregular Verbs (3 page)

Prinzel stood quite still. Then, with a low moan, he dropped his sword and went down on to his hands and knees, as if searching for his severed flesh. For a few moments von Igelfeld was paralysed, unable to believe what he had seen. But then, remembering his duties as second, he shot forward, picked up the tip of the nose, a tiny, crumpled thing, and pressed it against his friend’s face, as if to stick it back on.

Slowly Prinzel rose to his feet. There was not much blood – at least there was not as much as one might have expected – and he was able to maintain an aloof dignity.

‘Take me to the hospital,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘And keep your hand where it is.’

Prinzel’s opponent watched impassively.

‘Well fought!’ he said. ‘You almost had me at the beginning.’ Then, almost as an afterthought: ‘Don’t worry about that nick. It always seems so much worse than it really is. Imagine what a distinguished scar you will have! Bang in the middle of your face – can’t be missed!’

The landlord of the inn called an ambulance, complaining all the while about the inconvenience to which students put him.

‘They’re always up to no good,’ he grumbled, peering at Prinzel. ‘I see you’ve been fencing. Would you believe it? This is the Federal Republic of Germany, you know, not Weimar. And we’re meant to be in the second half of the twentieth century.’

Von Igelfeld looked at him scornfully.

‘You don’t even know what this is all about,’ he said. ‘It’s a student matter; nothing to do with you. Nothing at all.’

It was Prinzel’s misfortune to be attended at the hospital by a doctor who was drunk. Von Igelfeld thought that he could smell the fumes of whisky emanating from behind the surgical mask, but said nothing, reckoning it might be ether, or it might indeed be whisky, but used for medicinal purposes. Prinzel by now had closed his eyes, and was determined to hear, see and smell nothing. He felt von Igelfeld release the pressure on his face, and he felt the doctor’s fumbling fingers. He felt a cold swab on his exposed arm, and then the prick of an injection. And after that, there was only numbness.

The drunken doctor examined the severed tip and realised that all that was required were several well-placed stitches. These he inserted rapidly. Then he stood back, admired his handiwork, and asked a nurse to apply a dressing. It had been a simple procedure, and there was no doubt but that the nose would heal up well within a few weeks. There would be a scar, of course, but that’s what these young men wanted after all.

‘You’ve made a very good recovery,’ von Igelfeld said to Prinzel a fortnight later. ‘You can hardly see the scar.’

Prinzel gazed at himself in the mirror. It was all very well for von Igelfeld to congratulate him on his recovery, but there was still something wrong. His nose looked different, somehow, although he could not decide exactly why this should be so.

Von Igelfeld had also studied Prinzel’s nose and had come to a dreadful conclusion. The drunken doctor had sewn the tip on
upside
down
. Of course he could not tell Prinzel that, as such knowledge could be devastating – to anyone.

‘I shall remain silent,’ thought von Igelfeld. ‘In time he’ll become accustomed to it, and that’ll be the end of the matter.’

For Prinzel there was one consolation. Von Igelfeld no longer talked about his sporting prowess, and whenever references were made by others to such matters as fencing, or even noses, von Igelfeld immediately changed the subject.

EARLY IRISH PORNOGRAPHY

IN THE FINAL YEARS OF his doctoral studies it had been von Igelfeld’s dream to be invited to serve as assistant to one of the world’s greatest authorities on Early Irish. This language, so complicated and arcane that there was considerable doubt as to whether anyone ever actually spoke it, had attracted the attention of German philologists from the late nineteenth century onwards. The great Professor Siegfried Ehrenwalt of Berlin, founder of the
Review of Celtic Philology,
had devoted his life to the reconstruction of the syntactical rules of the language, and he had been followed by a long line of philologists, the latest of whom was Professor Dr Dr Dr Dieter Vogelsang. It was with Vogelsang that von Igelfeld wished to work, and when the call at last came, he was overjoyed.

‘I couldn’t have hoped for a better start to my career,’ he confided in Prinzel. ‘Vogelsang knows more about past anterior verbs in Early Irish than anybody else in the world.’

‘More than anyone in Ireland?’ asked Prinzel dubiously. ‘Surely they have their own institutes in Dublin?’

Von Igelfeld shook his head. ‘Nobody in Ireland knows anything about Early Irish. This is a well-established fact.’

Prinzel was not convinced, but did not allow his doubt to diminish his friend’s delight in his first post. He himself was still waiting. He had written to several institutes in Germany and Switzerland, but had received few encouraging replies. He could continue to study, of course, and complete another doctorate after the one on which he was currently engaged, but there would come a point at which without an assistantship he would seriously have to reconsider his academic career.

The post as assistant to Professor Dr Vogelsang involved a move to Munich. Von Igelfeld acquired lodgings in the house of Frau Elvira Hugendubel, the widow of the retired lawyer and dachshund breeder, Aloys Hugendubel. Dr Hugendubel had been the author of
Einführung in die Grundlagen des Bayerischen
Bienenrechtes
, and Frau Hugendubel felt, as a result, that she was a part of the greater intellectual life. The presence of an academic lodger provided reassurance of this, as well as providing the widow with something to do.

Von Igelfeld settled happily into his new life. Each morning he would walk the three miles to Vogelsang’s institute, arriving at exactly nine-fifteen and leaving in the evening at six o’clock. The hours in between were spent checking Vogelsang’s references, searching out articles in the dustier corners of the library, and preparing tables of adjectives. It was the lowest form of work in the academic hierarchy, made all the more difficult by the tendency of Professor Vogelsang to publish papers based almost entirely on von Igelfeld’s work, but under the Vogelsang name and with no mention made of von Igelfeld’s contribution. In one case – which eventually prompted von Igelfeld to protest (in the gentlest, most indirect terms) – Vogelsang took a paper which von Igelfeld asked him to read and immediately published it under
his own name.
So brazen was this conduct that von Igelfeld felt moved to draw his superior’s attention to the fact that he had been hoping to submit the paper to a learned journal himself.

‘I can’t see why you are objecting,’ said Vogelsang haughtily. ‘The paper will achieve a far wider readership under my name than under the name of an unknown. Surely these scholarly considerations are more important than mere personal vanity?’

As he often did, Vogelsang had managed to shift the grounds of argument to make von Igelfeld feel guilty for making a perfectly reasonable point. It was a technique which von Igelfeld had himself used on many occasions, but which he was to perfect in the year of his assistantship with Professor Vogelsang.

Frau Hugendubel, of course, provided copious amounts of sympathy.

‘Young scholars have a difficult time,’ she mused. ‘Herr Dr Hugendubel never treated his young assistants with anything but the greatest courtesy. Herr Dr Hugendubel gave them books and encouraged them in every way. He was a very kind man.’

There were, of course, some benefits to which von Igelfeld was able to look forward. At the beginning of his assistantship, Vogelsang had alluded to a field trip to Ireland at some future date, and had implied that von Igelfeld could expect to accompany him. For some months, nothing more was said of this until the day when Vogelsang announced that they would be leaving in a fortnight’s time and told von Igelfeld to arrange the tickets.

Frau Hugendubel insisted on packing von Igelfeld’s suitcase herself. She starched his collars particularly carefully, folded his night-shirts and ironed the creases. A pile of freshly laundered handkerchiefs was tucked into a corner of the case and beside these she put a small jar of Bavarian honey for her lodger’s breakfast toast.

They travelled by train to St Malo, where they caught the night steamer to Cork. Vogelsang and von Igelfeld had been allocated a shared cabin, an arrangement over which Vogelsang protested vociferously until von Igelfeld offered to sit up all night on the deck. By the time the coast of Ireland hove into sight through the morning mist, von Igelfeld was yawning and bleary-eyed; Vogelsang, fresh from his comfortable berth, greeted him cheerfully but berated him over his lack of enthusiasm for the sight of the Irish coast.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘There, before us, is the blessed coast of Ireland, the island of saints. Can you not manage more than a yawn?’

They docked, and the German party made its way down the gangway of the steamer, into the welcoming arms of Dr Patrick Fitzcarron O’Leary, formerly of the Advanced Technical College, Limerick, and now Reader in Irish in the University College of Cork. He and Vogelsang knew one another well, and addressed one another as old friends. Then, turning to von Igelfeld, Vogelsang introduced his assistant.

‘My assistant – Dr Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld.’

‘Good heavens!’ said Patrick Fitzcarron O’Leary opaquely, seizing von Igelfeld’s hand. ‘How are you then, Maria old chap?’

Von Igelfeld blanched. Maria? What a strange way to address somebody whom one had only just met. Did the Irish use the second Christian name in such circumstances? If that indeed was the custom, then how should he address O’Leary? Would it be rude to call him Dr O’Leary, which seemed the most correct thing to do?

For a few moments, von Igelfeld was utterly perplexed. So concerned was he to follow correct usage at all times, and in all places (even in Ireland), that it seemed appalling to him that he should run the risk of committing a social solecism virtually the moment he set foot on Irish soil. He looked to Vogelsang for assistance, but his superior just stared back at him blandly, and then looked pointedly at the suitcases, which he was clearly expecting von Igelfeld to carry.

‘Very well,’ mumbled von Igelfeld. Adding, in his confusion, ‘Not bad, in fact.’

‘Good fellow,’ said O’Leary. ‘Absolutely. Good for you.’

O’Leary now seized both suitcases and led the visitors off to a somewhat battered car which he had parked up against the edge of the quay. Then, with von Igelfeld in the back seat and Vogelsang sitting beside the Irishman, they drove off erratically in the direction of the red-brick guest house in which the two visitors were to spend their first night in Ireland. It was all very strange to von Igelfeld, who had never before been further than France and Italy. Everything was so
here and there
; so well-loved and used; so lived-in. There were men with caps, standing on the street corners, doing nothing; there were women with jugs propped up in their doorways; there were orange cats prowling on the top of walls; churches with red walls and white marble lintels, and white religious statuary.

The next two days were spent largely in the company of O’Leary. He showed his visitors the university; he took them to lunch in hotels where the proprietors greeted him by name and appeared to make a great fuss of him; and he spent long hours locked in his study with Vogelsang – meetings to which von Igelfeld was not admitted. On these occasions, von Igelfeld walked through the streets of Cork, marvelling at the softness of the light on the warm brick buildings, sniffing at the heavy, languid air, savouring the feel of Ireland. Occasionally, small groups of boys followed him on these walks, calling out to the tall German in a language which von Igelfeld did not understand, but which he assumed to be the local dialect of English. Once, on a bridge, a woman threw a stone at him, and then crossed herself vigorously, but this occurrence did not trouble von Igelfeld in the slightest, as the stone missed, making a satisfactory plop in the water below.

That evening, O’Leary forsook Vogelsang, who wanted to retire early, and took von Igelfeld to a bar. It was a splendid, mirrored room, in which men in dark, shapeless suits leaned against the counter drinking black stout.

The barman greeted O’Leary with the same warmth that seemed to herald his every appearance in Cork.

‘Now then, Paddy,’ said the white-aproned tender. ‘What is it this evening for you and your Teutonic friend over there.’

Paddy! thought von Igelfeld. That must be the name to use, and he replied to O’Leary’s offer of a drink: ‘A beer, if you don’t mind, Paddy!’

The drinks poured, O’Leary guided von Igelfeld towards a section of the bar, where two of the men in dark suits were standing.

‘Fitz, my friend,’ said one of the men, slapping O’Leary on the back. ‘Sure it’s yourself, so it is!’

Fitz! thought von Igelfeld. Perhaps this was an alternative name which close friends used, just as his childhood friends had called him Morri, until they had put behind them the childish things. If that were the case, then he should avoid it, as its use would claim an intimacy which did not exist and the Irishman would think him rude. But just as this was resolved, the other man said: ‘Pat, if it isn’t you, then who is it?’

Von Igelfeld frowned. Here was another name – obviously a contraction of Patrick. That was plain enough, but what puzzled him was the choice of names. Was it an entirely free one? Could Pat become Paddy if one felt like it? Or could Fitzcarron become Fitz if a change seemed desirable? And what about O’Leary – was that ever used? He gazed down upon the white head to the glass of dark beer and wondered whether it was wise to leave the certainties of home. He had read that to travel is to expose oneself to all sorts of vulnerabilities, and surely this was true.

‘Now then, von,’ said O’Leary cheerfully. ‘Tell me about yourself. You seem a fairly tall sort of person.’

The drinking companions nodded their heads in agreement, looking up at von Igelfeld with a mixture of awe and amusement.

‘He is that,’ said one, gravely. ‘You’re right there, O.’

Von Igelfeld put down his glass. O? Was that yet another contraction? Really, there was something very strange – and unsettling – about Ireland.

The two days in Cork ended with a trip to the railway station in O’Leary’s old car and prolonged, emotional farewells on the platform. O’Leary slapped von Igelfeld on the back several times, to his considerable discomfort, while Vogelsang, with whom he had only shaken hands, looked on in undisguised amusement. Then their train drew out and they passed from the warm warren of red brick into the lush greenness of the countryside. Hedgerow-lined fields, low, folding hills; stone houses, white-washed, red-doored; lanes that wandered off into tight valleys; a blue curtain of sky that would without warning turn white, releasing sifting veils of rain; a sudden sight of children on a wall, tousle-haired, bare-legged, waving at the train; thus were they drawn deep into Ireland.

And then, in the distance, the hills appeared. The soft slopes merged into blue expanses, and the skies opened to wide canvases of cloud. The houses shrank, transformed themselves into clusters of tiny stone dwellings; and beyond was the sea, silver-blue, stretching out towards the pale, glowing horizon, and America.

‘This is where Irish is spoken,’ pronounced Vogelsang sacramentally. ‘In these farmhouses, the verbs, the nouns, the differentiated adjectives – they’re all still there.’

Von Igelfeld looked out of the window. Little droplets of rain coursed across the glass and made the countryside quiver. He had been thinking of how landscape moulds a language. It was impossible to imagine these hills giving forth anything but the soft syllables of Irish, just as only certain forms of German could be spoken on the high crags of Europe; or Dutch in the muddy, guttural, phlegmish lowlands. How sad it was that the language had been so largely lost; that it should survive only in these small pockets of the countryside. This was happening everywhere. The crudities of the modern world were simplifying or even destroying linguistic subtleties. Irregular verbs were becoming regular, the imperfect subjunctive was becoming the present subjunctive or, more frequently, disappearing altogether. Where previously there might have been four adjectives to describe a favoured hill, or the scent of new-mown hay, or the action of threading the warp of a loom, now there would only be one, or none. And as we lost the words, von Igelfeld thought, we lost the texture of the world that went with them.