Free Portuguese Irregular Verbs by Alexander McCall Smith Page B

coming!
    There had as yet been no sign of Professor J. G. K. L. Singh. One of the other committee members, Professor Rasi Henderson Paliwalar, had been detailed to meet von Igelfeld and to make sure that he was well settled in his hotel. Professor Rasi Henderson Paliwalar appeared to have an intimate knowledge of the timetables of the Indian State Railways and explained that Professor J. G. K. L. Singh was on his way to Goa, but was travelling by train and could not be expected to arrive for another thirty-six hours. This news had been conveyed to von Igelfeld apologetically, but it had in fact gladdened the recipient’s heart. The Congress was not due to start for another three days, and of those three days at least one and a half could be enjoyed without any fear of encountering the author of Dravidian Verb Shifts .
    Professor Rasi Henderson Paliwalar was much taken up with arrangements for the Congress and was relieved when von Igelfeld indicated that he could easily take care of himself until the opening session.
    ‘I should like to look about Goa,’ explained von Igelfeld. ‘There is so much interesting architecture to see.’
    ‘Indeed,’ said Professor Rasi Henderson Paliwalar, sounding somewhat doubtful. ‘Much of it is falling down, I’m afraid to say. In fact, all of India is falling down, all the time. Soon we shall have nothing but a fallen-down country, all over. I am telling you. These people here appreciate none of the finer things of life.’
    As he made these disparaging remarks, the professor pointed dismissively at the manager of hotel, who beamed encouragingly and made a small bow. Von Igelfeld looked up at the ceiling of the Hotel Lisboa. There was an elaborate cornice, but several parts were missing, having fallen down.
    That evening, after he had taken a refreshing drink of mango juice on the main verandah, von Igelfeld ventured out on to the road outside the hotel. Within a few seconds he had been surrounded by several men in red tunics, who started to quarrel over him until a villainous-looking man with a moustache appeared to win the argument and led von Igelfeld over to his cycle-driven rickshaw.
    ‘I shall show you this fine town,’ he said to von Igelfeld as the philologist eased himself into the small, cracked leather seat. ‘What do you wish to see? The prison? The library? The grave of the last Portuguese governor?’
    Von Igelfeld chose the library, which seemed the least disturbing of the options, and soon they were bowling down the road, overtaking pedestrians and slower rickshaws, the sinister rickshaw man ringing his bell energetically at every possible hazard.
    The library was, of course, closed, but this did not deter the rickshaw man. Beckoning for von Igelfeld to follow him, he took him through the library gardens and walked up to the back door. Glancing about him, the rickshaw man took out a small bunch of implements, and started to try each in the lock. Von Igelfeld watched in amazement as his guide picked the lock; he knew he should have protested, but, faced with such effrontery, words completely failed him. Then, when the door swung open, equally passively he followed the rickshaw driver into the cool interior of the Goa State Library.
    The building smelled of damp and mildew; the characteristic odour of books which have been allowed to rot.
    ‘Here we are,’ said the rickshaw man. ‘These books are very, very old, and contain a great deal of Portuguese knowledge. The Portuguese brought them and now they have gone away and left their books behind.’
    Von Igelfeld moved over to a shelf to examine the contents. He picked up a large, leather-bound tome, and turned the pages. The paper was yellowed and rotting, but he could make out the title quite clearly: A J e suit in Portuguese Goa by Father Gonçalves Persquites SJ. He laid it down and picked up the next one: The Lives of the Portuguese Sailors by Luis Valatar. This was in an even worse condition, and the binding