Free Portuguese Irregular Verbs by Alexander McCall Smith

Igelfeld coldly. ‘Just you direct me to the bathroom and I’ll attend to it myself.’
    Von Igelfeld left Unterholzer in the study and walked angrily down the corridor to the bathroom. There he sponged off the two small coffee splashes and adjusted his tie. He closed the bathroom door behind him and started back along the corridor. There was a large bookshelf on his right, and from ancient habit he stooped to look at the contents. There, on the bottom shelf, standing out with their excellent bindings, stood not one, but two copies of Portuguese Irregular Verbs .
    Von Igelfeld stood stock still. Then, cautiously, drew out the first copy and paged through it. It was well-used and had been annotated here and there in Unterholzer’s characteristic script. Precisely read one comment; confirmed by Zimmermann said another.
    He put the book back in its place and took out the second copy. This was in pristine condition, and had clearly been little used. He looked at the flyleaf to see if Unterholzer had stuck in his book plate, which he had not. Instead, in Unterholzer’s writing again, there was the following inscription: To my dear friend and colleague, in gratitude: the author, Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld.
    For a moment Von Igelfeld did not know what to think. Of course he had never given Unterholzer a copy; it had never occurred to him. But why should he then have decided to write his own inscription, as if a presentation had been made?
    Von Igelfeld replaced the book on the shelf, straightened his tie again, and went back into the study. As he entered the room, he paused, looked at the views of the Rhine again, and stroked his chin pensively.
    ‘You do know I was just joking a few minutes ago,’ he said. ‘Those really are very attractive pictures.’
    Unterholzer looked up sharply, his eyes bright with pleasure. ‘You don’t think them kitsch ? ’
    ‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed von Igelfeld. ‘Can’t you take a joke, Herr Unterholzer? Kitsch! If those are kitsch, then I don’t know what good taste is.’
    Unterholzer beamed up at his guest.
    ‘I have a cake in the kitchen,’ he said eagerly. ‘It’s a cake cooked by Frau Kapicinska. Should I bring it through?’
    Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘That would be very nice,’ he said warmly. ‘A piece of cake is just what’s required.’
    While Unterholzer was out of the room, von Igelfeld put down his cup of coffee and moved over to examine the alleged crest of the von Unterholzers, and he was standing there when Unterholzer returned.
    ‘It’s a funny thing, Herr Unterholzer,’ said von Igelfeld, ‘but I’ve always thought that you might be von Unterholzer.’
    Unterholzer laughed. ‘It’s not absolutely established,’ he said. ‘So I don’t really use the von in public.’
    ‘Of course not,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But it’s good to know you’re entitled to it, isn’t it?’
    Unterholzer did not reply. He was busy cutting a large piece of cake. Frau Kapicinska had baked it five weeks ago and he hoped that it would still be fresh; he had no idea how long cakes could be expected to last.
    Von Igelfeld’s teeth sank into the cake. It was heavy and stale, but he would eat every crumb of it, he decided, and thank Unterholzer for it at the end. Indeed, he would ask for another piece.

HOLY MAN
    AUDEN HAD CALLED SUCH PLACES ‘weeds from Catholic Europe’, and this is how Professor Dr Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld thought of them too; as usual, Auden’s imagery struck him as so rich, so laden with associations, and when he received the letter from Goa, with its unfamiliar, faded stamp, the haunting metaphor crossed his mind again.
    It was a thin, dejected-looking envelope, much tattered by its journey. Indeed, in one corner it appeared that some animal, possibly a dog, had bitten it, leaving small tooth holes. In another corner, the paper had split, revealing a single sheet of greying parchment within. Von Igelfeld turned it over and saw the address of the sender,