EINS
ON BEING LIGHT BLUE
Professor Dr Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld's birthday fell on
the first of May. He would not always have remembered it
had the anniversary not occurred on May Day itself; as a
small boy he had been convinced that the newspaper
photographs of parades in Red Square, those intimidating
displays of missiles, and the grim-faced line-up of
Politburo officials, all had something to do with the fact
that he was turning six or seven, or whatever birthday it
was. Such is the complete confidence of childhood that we
are each of us at the centre of the world — a conviction
out of which not all of us grow, and those who do grow out
of it sometimes do so only with some difficulty. And this
is so very understandable; as Auden remarked, how
fascinating is that class of which I am the only member.
Nobody observed von Igelfeld's birthday now. It was true
that he was not entirely alone in the world — there were
cousins in Graz, but they were on the Austrian side of the
family and the two branches of von Igelfelds, separated by
both distance and nationality, had drifted apart. There
was an elderly aunt in Munich, and another aged female
relative in Baden-Baden, but they had both forgotten more
or less everything and it had been many years since they
had sent him a birthday card. If he had married, as he had
firmly intended to do, then he undoubtedly would now have
been surrounded by a loving wife and children, who would
have made much of his birthday; but his resolution to
propose to a charming dentist, Dr Lisbetta von Brautheim,
had been thwarted by his colleague, Professor Dr Detlev
Amadeus Unterholzer. That was a humiliation which
vonIgelfeld had found hard to bear. That Unterholzer of
all people — a man whose work on the orthography of
Romance languages was barely mentioned these days; a man
whose idea of art was coloured reproductions of views of
the Rhine; a man whose nose was so large and obtrusive,
vulgar even, the sort of nose one saw on head-waiters —
that Unterholzer should succeed in marrying Dr von
Brautheim when he himself had planned to do so, was quite
unacceptable. But the fact remained that there was nothing
one could do about it; Unterholzer's birthday never went
unmarked. Indeed, there were always cakes at coffee time
in the Institute on Unterholzer's birthday, made by Frau
Dr Unterholzer herself; as Unterholzer pointed out, she
might be a dentist but she had a sweet tooth nonetheless
and made wonderful, quite wonderful cakes and pastries.
And then there were the cards prominently displayed on his
desk, not only from Unterholzer's wife but from the
receptionist and dental nurse in her practice. What did
they care about Unterholzer? von Igelfeld asked himself.
They could hardly like him, and so they must have sent the
cards out of deference to their employer. That was not
only wrong — a form of exploitation indeed — but it was
also sickeningly sentimental, and if that was what
happened on birthdays then he was best off without one, or
at least best off without one to which anybody paid any
attention.
On the first of May in question, von Igelfeld was in the
Institute coffee room before anybody else. They normally
all arrived at the same time, with a degree of punctuality
which would have been admired by Immanuel Kant himself,
but on that particular morning von Igelfeld would treat
himself to an extra ten minutes' break. Besides, if he
arrived early, he could sit in the chair which Unterholzer
normally contrived to occupy, and which von Igelfeld
believed was more comfortable than any other in the room.
As the best chair in the room it should by rights have
gone to him, as he was, after all, the senior scholar, but
these things were difficult to articulate in a formal way
and he had been obliged to tolerate Unterholzer's
occupation of the chair. It would have been different, of
course, if Professor Dr Florianus Prinzel had taken that
chair; von Igelfeld would have been delighted to let
Prinzel have it, as he undoubtedly deserved it. He and
Prinzel had been friends together at Heidelberg, in their
youth, and he still thought of Prinzel as the scholar-
athlete, the noble youth, deserving of every
consideration. Yes, there was little he would not have
done for Prinzel, and it was a matter of secret regret to
von Igelfeld that he had never actually been called upon
to save Prinzel's life. That would have secured Prinzel's
undying admiration and indebtedness, which von Igelfeld
would have worn lightly. 'It was nothing,' he imagined
himself saying. 'One's own personal safety is irrelevant
in such circumstances. Believe me, I know that you would
have done the same for me.'
In fact, the only time that Prinzel had been in danger von
Igelfeld had either been responsible for creating the
peril in the first place, or Prinzel had been able to
handle the situation quite well without any assistance
from him. In their student days in Heidelberg, von
Igelfeld had unwisely persuaded Prinzel to engage in a
duel with a shady member of some student Korps, and this,
of course, had been disastrous. The very tip of Prinzel's
nose had been sliced off by his opponent's sword, and
although it had been sewn back on in hospital, the doctor,
who had been slightly drunk, had sewn it on upside down.
Prinzel had never said anything about this, being too
gentlemanly to complain about such an affair (no true
gentleman ever notices it if the tip of his nose is sliced
off), and indeed it had occurred to von Igelfeld that he
had not even been aware of what had happened. But it
remained a reminder of an unfortunate incident, and von
Igelfeld preferred not to think about it.
That was one incident. The other occasion on which Prinzel
had been in danger was when von Igelfeld had accompanied
him and his wife to Venice, at a time when the city was
threatened by an insidious corruption. The corruption
turned out not to be cholera, as so graphically portrayed
by Thomas Mann, but radioactivity in the water, and
Prinzel had become mildly radioactive as a result of
swimming off the Lido. Again von Igelfeld was unable to
come to the rescue, and Prinzel, quite calmly, had taken
the situation in hand and returned to Germany for iodine
treatment at the University of Mainz. There he had been
decontaminated and pronounced safe, or as safe as one
could be after ingesting small quantities of strontium-90.
Thoughts of radioactivity, however, were far from von
Igelfeld's mind as he enjoyed his first cup of coffee in
the Institute coffee room and glanced at the headlines in
the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. There was nothing of
note, of course. Industrialists were sounding off about
interest rates, as they always did, and there was a
picture of an earnest finance minister pointing a finger
at a chart. The chart could have been upside down, like
Prinzel's nose, for all that von Igelfeld cared; matters
of this sort left him unmoved. It was the job of
politicians and bankers to run the economy and he could
not understand why they often failed to do so in a
competent way. It was, he assumed, something to do with
their general venality and with the fact that quite the
wrong type went into politics and finance. But it seemed
as if there would never be any change in that, and so they
would have to put up with these insolent people and with
their persistent mismanagement. Far more interesting was
the front-page item about a row which was developing over
the appointment of a new director to a museum in Wiesbaden.
The new director, a man of modern tastes, had thrown out
the old cases of fossils and rocks, and had replaced them
with installations by contemporary artists. This had the
effect of confusing those people who came to the museum
hoping to see items of interest and found only empty
galleries with a small pile of wooden boxes in a corner or
a heap of old clothing, artistically arranged under a
skylight and labelled: The Garments of Identity. These
visitors peered into the wooden boxes, hoping to see
fossils or rocks within, and found that they were empty,
and that the boxes themselves were the exhibit. And as for
the piles of clothing, what was the difference between
them and the museum cloakroom, where people hung their
overcoats? Were both not Garments of Identity, or would it
be confusing to label the cloakroom Garments of Identity?
Would people know that it was a cloakroom, or would they
search in vain for a room labelled Cloakroom? Von Igelfeld
frowned. This sort of thing was becoming far too common in
Germany, and he had every sympathy with the friends of the
fossils and rocks who were attempting to secure the new
director's resignation. This was far more interesting than
news of interest rates, and far more significant, too, von
Igelfeld thought. What if the levers of power at
universities were to fall into similar hands to the hands
of this new director? Would he himself be considered a
fossil or a rock, and thrown out, to be replaced, perhaps,
by a wooden box? How would Romance philology survive in a
world that honoured the works of Joseph Beuys and the like?
It was while von Igelfeld was thinking of these dire
possibilities that he heard the door of the coffee room
open. He looked up, to see his colleagues entering, deep
in what appeared to be animated conversation. There was
sudden silence when they saw von Igelfeld.
'Good morning,' said von Igelfeld, laying the newspaper to
one side. 'It seems that I am here first today.'
For a moment nothing was said. Then the Librarian cleared
his throat and spoke. 'That would appear to be so, Herr
von Igelfeld. And seeing you here solves the mystery which
I was discussing with Professor Dr Prinzel outside, in the
corridor. "Where is Professor Dr von Igelfeld?" I asked.
And Professor Dr Prinzel said that he did not know. Well,
now we all know. You are here, in the coffee room, sitting
in . . .' He tailed off, and moved quickly to the table
where the coffee pot and cups stood in readiness.
They served themselves coffee in silence, and then came to
join von Igelfeld around his table. 'How is your aunt?'
von Igelfeld asked the Librarian. 'This spring weather
will be cheering her up, no doubt.' The health of his
demanding aunt was the Librarian's main topic of
conversation, and it was rare for anybody to raise it, as
they had all heard everything there was to be said about
this aunt.
'That is very kind of you to ask,' said the
Librarian. 'Very thoughtful. I shall tell my aunt that you
asked after her. That will make her very happy. So few
people care about people like her these days. It's good
that at least somebody remembers.' He paused, throwing a
sideways glance at Unterholzer and Prinzel. 'She will be
very pleased indeed, I can assure you. And she does need
some cheering up, now that they have changed her medicine
and the new one takes some getting used to. It's Dutch,
you know. I wasn't aware that the Dutch made medicines at
all, but this one is said to be very good. The only
problem is that it irritates her stomach and that makes
her querulous at times. Not that she is always like that;
it seems to be at its worst about twenty minutes after
taking the pill in question. They come in peculiar yellow
and white capsules, which are actually quite difficult to
swallow. The last ones were white, and had the
manufacturers' initials stamped into every capsule. Quite
remarkable . . .'
It was Unterholzer who interrupted him. 'So,' he said. 'So
this is a special day, is it not?'
Prinzel glanced nervously at Unterholzer. He had been
hoping that he would not make an issue of the chair, but
it seemed that he might. Really, this was most unwise.
Everybody knew that von Igelfeld could be difficult, and
Unterholzer really had no legal claim on that chair. He
might have a moral claim, as people undoubtedly did
develop moral claims to chairs, but this was quite
different from a claim which could be defended in the face
of a direct challenge. It would be far better to pass over
the whole incident and for Unterholzer simply to arrive
slightly early the following morning and secure the chair
for himself. He could surely count on their moral support
in any such manoeuvre.
'Today, you see,' Unterholzer went on, 'today is special
because it is the birthday of our dear colleague,
Professor Dr von Igelfeld.'
'My!' exclaimed the Librarian. 'The same month as my aunt!
Hers is on the twelfth. What a coincidence!'
'May Day,' said Prinzel. 'A distress signal at sea, but
for you quite the opposite!'
They all laughed at the witticism. Prinzel was so amusing
and could be counted upon to bring a welcome note of
levity, particularly to a potentially difficult situation.
Von Igelfeld smiled. 'It is very kind of you to remember,
Herr Unterholzer,' he said. 'I had not intended to
celebrate it.'
Unterholzer looked thoughtful. 'I suppose not,' he
said. 'A birthday can't be much fun when one has to
celebrate it all by oneself. There's no point, really.'
Von Igelfeld stared at him. Unterholzer often took the
opportunity to condescend to him, if he thought he could
get away with it, and this was quite intolerable. If
anybody deserved to be pitied, it was Unterholzer himself,
with his wretched, out-of-date book on Portuguese
subjunctives, and that nose. Who was he even to hint that
von Igelfeld's life might be incomplete in some way? It
defied belief; it really did. He would tell Zimmermann
himself about it, and Zimmermann, he knew, would laugh. He
always laughed when Unterholzer's name was mentioned, even
before anything else was said.
Prinzel intervened rapidly. 'I remember, Moritz-Maria, how
we used to celebrate our birthdays, back in Heidelberg,
when we were students. Do you remember when we went to
that inn where the innkeeper gave us free steins of beer
when he heard it was your birthday. He always used to call
you the Baron! "Free beer for the Baron's birthday," he
said. Those were his very words, were they not?'
Unterholzer listened closely, but with increasing
impatience. This Heidelberg story had irritated him, and
he was beginning to regret his act of generosity —
supererogatory in the provocative circumstances — in
drawing attention to von Igelfeld's birthday. He had not
anticipated that Prinzel would launch into this
embarrassing tribute to von Igelfeld. 'So why did he call
Professor Dr von Igelfeld a baron, when he isn't one?' he
asked. 'Why would anyone do that?'