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?’
Prinzel smiled. ‘Because some people, even if they aren’t barons in the technical sense have – how shall I put it?; this really is a bit embarrassing – some of the qualities that one normally associates with that position in life. That is why, for example, that my friend Charles von Klain is often addressed as Capitano by the proprietors of Italian restaurants. He has the appropriate bearing. He has no military rank, but he could have. Do you see what I mean?’
Unterholzer shook his head. ‘I do not see why people should be called Baron or Count, or even Capitano for that matter, when they are not entitled to these titles.’
‘It is not an important thing,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘It is really nothing.’
‘But it is!’ said the Librarian. ‘These things are important. One of the doctors who visits my aunt’s nursing home is a Polish count. Of course he doesn’t use the title, but do you know, one of the other patients there, a charming lady from Berlin, could spot it. She said to my aunt: “That Dr Wlavoski is an aristocrat. I can tell.” And do you know, when they asked the Director of the nursing home, he confirmed it! He explained that the Wlavoskis had been an important family of landowners in the East and they had been dispossessed – first by our own authorities when they invaded – and that was most unfortunate and regrettable – and then again by the Russians when they came in. They were a very scientifically distinguished family and they all became physicians or astronomers or the like, but the fact that they had been counts somehow shone through.’