The 2 12 Pillars of Wisdom (6 page)

There were three other guests in the dining room, and all three responded courteously to von Igelfeld’s murmured greeting. Von Igelfeld sat down at a table near the window, and picked up the small hand-written menu. There was not a great deal of choice: soup or mozzarella; pasta; lamb cutlet or stew; ice cream or cake. Von Igelfeld pondered: rural soups could be strong and rich – perhaps that was the delicious smell he had noticed as he came downstairs. He would start, then, with soup and proceed to the lamb cutlets by way of a bowl of pasta. He had walked a considerable distance that day, and he felt justifiably hungry. He would also order half a bottle of Brunello, which may well have come from one of the vineyards he had seen on his walk.

It was a full ten minutes before Signora Cossi appeared and stood before von Igelfeld, pencil poised to take his order for dinner.

‘The cooking smells delicious,’ said von Igelfeld politely. ‘I am looking forward to my meal.’

‘Oh yes, I’m sure you are,’ said Signora Cossi. ‘You Germans certainly enjoy your meals. You polish off most of Europe’s food anyway.’

Von Igelfeld’s mouth dropped open in surprise. He was utterly flabbergasted by the accusation and for a few moments he was quite unable to reply.

‘Not that I blame you,’ went on Signora Cossi, staring pointedly out of the window. ‘If you can afford it, eat it, I always say. And that’s certainly what you people do, even if it means short rations for the rest of us.’

Von Igelfeld looked away. Really, this woman was impossible! He had never been so profoundly insulted in his life, and he was tempted to rise to his feet and walk out with-out further ceremony. But something stopped him. No. That would just play into her hands. Instead, he would show her.

‘You are quite wrong,’ he said. ‘In fact, I was just about to ask you whether you had something lighter – a salad perhaps.’

Signora Cossi curled a lip, clearly annoyed.

‘Is that all?’ she asked abruptly.

‘Yes, please,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘A small mixed salad is all I require.’

‘And to drink?’ said Signora Cossi. ‘A bottle of Brunello?’

‘No thank you,’ said von Igelfeld, through pursed lips. ‘Water, please.’

‘With gas?’ Signora Cossi’s pencil hovered above her pad.

‘No,’ said von Igelfeld firmly. He would deny himself even that. He would show her. ‘Without.’

That night passed in agony. Hungry and uncomfortable, von Igelfeld tried every possible way of arranging his frame on the tiny bed, but was unable to prevent his legs from hanging painfully over the edge. Eventually, by placing a chair at the end and putting his pillow on it, he managed to create an extension to the bed. Although his head and neck were now uncomfortable, he at last dropped off to sleep.

The night was plagued with bad dreams. In one, he was walking through the Pineta, admiring the pine trees, when he suddenly came upon Professor J.G.K.L. Singh. The Indian philologist was delighted to see him, and insisted on raising a hopelessly abstruse point. Von Igelfeld awoke, sweating, cramped and uncomfortable. After a time he drifted off to sleep again, but only to encounter Signora Cossi in his dreams. She looked at him balefully, as if accusing him of some unspoken wrong, and again he awoke, feeling unsettled and vaguely guilty.

The next morning, von Igelfeld went down for breakfast and found a single, frugal roll on his plate. Signora Cossi arrived to give him coffee and asked him whether he would like another roll. Von Igelfeld was about to order three, when he remembered his resolve of the previous evening and checked himself. Signora Cossi, looking somewhat disappointed, walked away to deal with another guest.

After breakfast, von Igelfeld walked out into the village. He bought
La Nazione
from the small paper shop and began to walk down the street, glancing at the headlines. Everything in Italy was coming apart, the newspaper said. The Government was tottering, the currency unsteady. The judiciary and the courts were being held to ransom by organised criminals from Naples and Palermo; there were daily kidnaps and every sort of atrocity. And now, as if to confirm the country’s humiliation, the Japanese were buying up all of Italy’s small-denomination coins and taking them off to Japan to make into buttons! It was infamous. He would read about all this in the piazza, and then set off to inspect the Church of Saint Joseph the Epistulist, to be found in a neighbouring hamlet.

He turned a corner in the street and found himself outside a small grocer’s shop. In the window were loaves of bread, cakes, and thick bars of chocolate. The Italian State might be crumbling, but it would not stop the Italians enjoying pastries and chocolate. Von Igelfeld stopped, and stared at the food. Several cups of coffee had taken the edge off his appetite, but his hunger was still there in the background. And later it would be worse, after his walk, and he would never be able to order a decent meal from the dreadful Signora Cossi.

Von Igelfeld entered the shop. He was the only customer, and the woman who owned the shop appeared to be talking on the telephone in a back room. Von Igelfeld looked at the shelves, which were packed with household provisions of every sort. His eye fell on a packet of almond biscuits and then on a large fruit tart; both of these would do well. He could eat the fruit tart while sitting in the Pineta, and the almond biscuits would do for the walk itself.

The woman put down the telephone and emerged, smiling, into the shop. At that moment, the door from the street opened and in came Signora Cossi.

‘
Buongiorno dottore
,’ said the shopkeeper to von Igelfeld. ‘What can I do for you this morning?’

Von Igelfeld froze, aware of the penetrating stare of Signora Cossi behind him.

‘Do you have a pair of black shoelaces?’ he asked.

The shopkeeper reached for a box behind her and von Igelfeld bought the laces. Signora Cossi said nothing, but nodded curtly to him as he left the shop. Once outside, von Igelfeld bit his lip in anger.

‘I shall not be intimidated by that frightful woman,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I shall make her eat her words.’

He strode off, tossing the shoelaces into a rubbish bin. Ahead of him lay a long walk, fuelled only by hunger. He thought of Prinzel and Unterholzer. They would no doubt be sitting in some outdoor café in Siena, enjoying coffee and cakes. Unterholzer, in particular, had a weakness for cakes; von Igelfeld had seen him on one occasion eat four at one sitting. That was the sort of gluttony which gave Germany a bad name. It was Unterholzer’s fault.

That evening, von Igelfeld again returned from the walk shortly before dinner. The menu was unchanged, and the smell of the soup was as delicious as before. But again, he ordered a small helping of salad and two slices of thin bread. This time, Signora Cossi tried to tempt him by listing the attractions of the lamb cutlets.

‘Thank you, but no,’ said von Igelfeld airily. ‘I do not eat a great deal, you know. There is far too much emphasis on food in Italy, I find.’

He tossed the comment off lightly, as one would throw in a pleasantry, but it found its target. Signora Cossi glared at him, before turning on her heels and marching back into the kitchen. Von Igelfeld’s salad, when it arrived twenty-five minutes later, was smaller than last night, being composed of one tomato, four small lettuce leaves, two slices of cucumber and a shaving of green pepper. The bread, too, was so thinly sliced that through it von Igelfeld was able to read the inscription
Albergo Basilio
on the plate.

Another night of physical agony passed. At least this evening there were no dreams of Professor J. G. K. L. Singh, but as he lay on his sleepless and uncomfortable couch, von Igelfeld thought of what he could say to Signora Cossi when he at last left on Monday morning. Prinzel and Unterholzer were due to arrive at three the following afternoon, and to spend a night in the hotel before they all left for Florence. He would tell them about her insults, and they might be able to suggest suitable retorts. It would be easier, perhaps, when they outnumbered her.

The next day, Sunday, von Igelfeld refused his roll at breakfast and merely drank three cups of coffee. This will show her, he thought grimly; even if she failed to abandon her prejudice after this, she could surely take no pleasure in it. There must, after all, be a limit to the extent of self-deception which people can practise.

He left the hotel at half past ten and set off along the route he had followed on his first walk. By noon he found himself approaching the farm which had so entranced him before, and he saw, to his pleasure, that the farmer was busy unyoking the two large oxen from his cart. Von Igelfeld left the road and offered to help with the harnesses. His offer was gratefully received, and afterwards the farmer, pleased to discover that von Igelfeld spoke Italian, introduced himself and invited von Igelfeld to take a glass of wine with him and his wife.

They sat at a table under one of the oak trees, a flask of home-produced wine before them. Toasts were exchanged, and von Igelfeld closed his eyes with pleasure as the delicious red liquid ran down his parched throat. Glasses were refilled, and it was when these had been emptied that the farmer’s wife invited von Igelfeld to stay for lunch.

‘My wife is one of the best cooks in Tuscany,’ said the farmer, bright-eyed. ‘That’s why I married her.’

‘I should not wish to impose,’ said von Igelfeld, hardly daring to believe his good fortune.

‘It would be no imposition at all,’ he was reassured by the farmer’s wife. ‘We have so much food here, and only two mouths to eat it now that our children have gone to Milan. You would be doing us a favour, truly you would.’

The meal was served at the table under the tree. To begin with they ate
zuppa crema di piselli
, rich and delicious. This was followed by bowls of
tagliatelle alla paesana
, heavy with garlic. Finally, an immense casserole dish of
capretto al vino bianco
was brought out, and of this everybody had three helpings.

Von Igelfeld sat back, quite replete. During the meal, conversation had been somewhat inhibited by the amount of food which required to be consumed, but now it picked up again.

‘You must be a happy man,’ observed von Igelfeld. ‘How lucky you are to live here, in this charming place. It’s so utterly peaceful.’

The farmer nodded.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been to Rome. I’ve never even set foot in Florence, if it comes to that.’

‘Nor Siena,’ interjected his wife. ‘In fact, you’ve never been anywhere at all.’

The farmer nodded. ‘I don’t mind: enough happens here to keep us busy.’

‘Oh it does,’ agreed his wife. ‘Tell the
professore
about the angels.’

The farmer glanced at von Igelfeld.

‘We have seen angels here,’ he said quietly. ‘On several occasions. Once, indeed, while we were sitting under this very tree. Two of them passed more or less overhead and then vanished behind those hills over there.’

Von Igelfeld looked up into the echoing, empty sky. It seemed quite possible that angels might be encountered in such a setting. It was against such landscapes, after all, that Italian artists had painted heavenly flights; it seemed quite natural.

‘I can well believe it,’ he said.

‘The priest didn’t,’ snapped the farmer’s wife. ‘What did he say to you? Accused you of superstition, or something like that.’

‘He said that angels weren’t meant to be taken seriously,’ said the farmer slowly. ‘He said that they were symbols. Can you believe that? A priest saying that?’

‘Astonishing,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Angels are very important.’

‘I’m glad to hear you say that,’ said the farmer. ‘The angels are really our only hope.’

They were silent for a moment, and von Igelfeld thought of angels. He would never see one, he was sure. Visions were reserved for the worthy, for people like this farmer who uncomplainingly spent his entire life on this little corner of land. Visions were a matter of desert.

‘And then,’ said the farmer. ‘We had a major incident during the war – on that very hillside.’

Von Igelfeld looked at the hillside. It was quite unexceptional, with its innocent olive groves and its scattered oaks. What could have happened there? A terrible ambush perhaps?

‘I was only eight then,’ said the farmer. ‘I was standing in the farmyard with my father and two of my uncles. All the trouble had passed us by, and so we were not worried when we saw the large American transport plane fly low overhead. We watched it, wondering where it was going, and then suddenly we saw a door in its side open and several parachutists jumped out. They floated down gently, coming to land on the hillside. Then the plane headed off over Montalcino and disappeared.

‘We ran over to where the men had landed and greeted them. They smiled at us and said: “We’re Americans and we’ve come to free you.”’

‘Well, we told them that we’d already been freed and that there was really nothing for them to do. So they looked a bit disappointed, but they came and had dinner with us. Then, after dinner, they went off to sleep in the barn, using their parachutes for bedding, and one of them went into the village. He never came back. He met a girl in the village and married her. The others were very cross and debated about going into the village to find him and shoot him, but they decided against it and instead went away on some bicycles they had requisitioned. My mother made shirts and underpants out of the parachutes. They lasted indefinitely, and I still occasionally wear them. That was it. That was the war. We’ve never forgotten it. It was so exciting.’

Von Igelfeld eventually bade a late and emotional farewell to his hosts and began the walk back to Montalcino. The pangs of hunger were a dim memory of the past; he would need to eat nothing that evening – that would show Signora Cossi! He entered the hotel, and hung his hat on one of the hat pegs. He was late, and dinner had already started. Then he remembered. Prinzel and Unterholzer had already arrived – he had totally forgotten about them – and there they were, at the table, tucking into the largest helpings of pasta which von Igelfeld had ever seen.