‘A button,’ said the Librarian. ‘You found a button.’
‘Precisely,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘A button on the carpet.’
They all stared at the button.
‘This button,’ said Prinzel. ‘Is it an important button, or just . . . just a button?’
‘You would have to ask that question of the person who dropped it,’ said von Igelfeld slowly, each word chosen and delivered with care, so as to have maximum effect. ‘That person – whoever it might be – would be able to answer your question. I cannot.’
Von Igelfeld still did not look directly at Unterholzer. He gazed, rather, out of the windows, at the bare branches of the trees, ready for the onset of spring. Those who deceived would always be found out, he reflected. We reap what we sow, or, in this case, what we drop. That, he thought, was quite amusing, but he should not laugh now, nor should he even smile. Perhaps he could express the thought later, in confidence, to Prinzel, or he could write to Zimmermann and put it in as an aside, as a freshly-minted aphorism. Zimmermann had a highly developed sense of humour and always appreciated such remarks.
Unterholzer put down his cup. ‘Could you pass me the button, Herr von Igelfeld?’ he said.
This tactic took von Igelfeld by surprise. Usually the accused does not ask to see the prosecution’s principal exhibit, as he feels too embarrassed to handle it, fearing, perhaps, that he would not be able to conceal his familiarity with the object. But he could hardly refuse, and so he passed the button to its putative owner.
‘Yes,’ said Unterholzer, taking the button. ‘Just as I thought. It’s your own button, Herr von Igelfeld. If you look at the left sleeve of your jacket, you will see that there are only two buttons sewn on behind the cuff. On your right sleeve there are three. This button matches the others. What good fortune that it fell off in your office and not outside. It could have fallen into a tramline and rolled away.’
At this last remark, Prinzel and Unterholzer burst into laughter, although the Librarian, inexplicably, did not. Von Igelfeld, humiliated, said nothing. He did not understand what tramlines had to do with it, and it was outrageous that Unterholzer should have wriggled out of his difficulties in this way. His one consolation was that Nemesis would take note, would stalk Unterholzer, and would trip him up one of these days. It was only a matter of time.
The Librarian realised that von Igelfeld was somehow put out by the way in which the button incident had been concluded, and decided that this would be the right time to mention the Colombian request. He did not like to see von Igelfeld humiliated, particularly when it was at the hands of his colleagues. They were so rude, sometimes; always interrupting him as if they were the only ones who had any right to speak. Well, now he would speak, and they would have to listen this time.
‘Herr von Igelfeld,’ he began. ‘Putting buttons to one side – and who amongst us has not at some time shed a button, Herr Unterholzer? There is no shame in doing so, in my view. But be that as it may, there was a development while you were away. I thought I might mention it to you.’
Everybody looked at the Librarian, who for a few precious moments relished their evident anticipation. They could not interrupt him now.
‘I had a request a month or so ago from a foreign embassy,’ he said. ‘A very particular request.’
The silence deepened. Unterholzer’s lips were pursed, and von Igelfeld noticed that his hands were trembling slightly.
‘Oh yes?’ said von Igelfeld encouragingly. ‘You alluded to something earlier on, Herr Huber. You have the details to hand now, I take it?’
The Librarian nodded. ‘Yes, I do.’ He paused, but only for a moment. ‘The request came from the Colombian Embassy, in fact. They asked me for a copy of Portuguese Irregular Verbs, and I despatched one to them immediately. And . . . ’ Now the tension was almost unbearable. ‘And they asked me to provide a brief biographical note about yourself, including any honours already received, and to confirm the correct spelling of your name.’
The effect of these words was every bit as dramatic as the Librarian had anticipated. The information took a few moments to sink in, but when it had, all thoughts of buttons and such matters were replaced by a real and quite tangible sense of excitement. When all was said and done, what really mattered was the reputation of the Institute, and good news for one was good news for all. There may have been minor jealousies – and these were inevitable in philology – but when there was a whiff, even the merest whiff, of an honour from a foreign institution, then all such matters were swept aside. Now, in the face of this quite extraordinarily exciting news, the only thing that mattered was that they should find out, as soon as possible, what this development meant.
Prinzel was the first to suggest an explanation. ‘I should imagine that it is an honorary degree from a Colombian university,’ he said. ‘There are some very prestigious institutions in Bogotá. The Rosario, for example, is very highly regarded in South America. It is a private university in Bogotá. I should think that is what it is. May I be the first to offer my congratulations, Herr von Igelfeld!’
Von Igelfeld raised a hand in a gesture of modesty. ‘That could be quite premature, Herr Prinzel,’ he protested. ‘I cannot imagine that it will be an honour of any sort. I imagine that it is just for some small article in a government journal or newspaper. It will be no more than that.’
‘Nonsense,’ said the Librarian. ‘They could get that sort of information from a press-cuttings agency. They would not need a copy of the book for that.’
‘Herr Huber has a very good point,’ said Unterholzer. ‘There is more to this than meets the eye.’
‘Please!’ protested von Igelfeld. ‘I would not wish to tempt Providence. You are all most generous in your assumptions, but I think it would be a grave error to think any more of this. Please let us talk about other matters. The Zeitschrift, for example. How is work progressing on the next issue? Have we sent everything off to the printer yet?’
His suggestion that they should think no more of this mysterious approach from the Colombian Embassy was, of course, not advice that he could himself follow. Over the next week, he thought of nothing else, flicking through each delivery of post to see whether there was a letter from Colombia or something that looked as if it came from the Colombian Embassy. And as for Prinzel and Unterholzer, they had several private meetings in which they discussed the situation at length, speculating as to whether they had missed any possible interpretation of the Embassy’s request. They thought they had not. They had covered every possibility, and all of them looked good.
Eight days after the Librarian’s announcement, the letter arrived. It was postmarked Bogotá, and von Igelfeld stared at it for a full ten minutes before he slit it open with his letter-knife and unfolded the heavy sheet of cotton-weave paper within. It was written in Spanish, a language of which he had a near perfect command, and it began by addressing him in that rather flowery way of South American institutions. The President of the Colombian Academy of Letters presented his compliments to the most distinguished Professor Dr von Igelfeld. From time to time, it went on, the Academy recognised the contribution of a foreign scholar, to whom it extended the privilege of Distinguished Corresponding Fellowship. This award was the highest honour which they could bestow and this year, ‘in anticipation and in the strongest hope of a favourable response from your distinguished self’, the Academy had decided to bestow this honour on von Igelfeld. There would be a ceremony in Bogotá, which they hoped he would be able to attend.
He read the letter through twice, and then he stood up at his desk. He walked around the room, twice, allowing his elation to settle. Colombia! This was no mere Belgian honour, handed out indiscriminately to virtually anybody who bothered to visit Belgium; this came from the Academy of an influential South American state. He looked at his watch. Coffee time was at least an hour away and he had to tell somebody. He would write to Zimmermann, of course, but in the meantime he could start by telling the Librarian, who had played such an important role in all this. He found him alone in the Library, a sheaf of old-fashioned catalogue cards before him. After he had broken the news, he informed the Librarian that he was the first person to know of what had happened.