and a feeling of foreboding remained with him throughout the rest of the night and was still there in the morning.
The second day of the conference was worse than the first. Von Igelfeld delivered his own paper, and was immediately thereafter assaulted by a barrage of irrelevant and unhelpful questions. He was in a bad mood at lunch, and spoke to nobody, and in the afternoon his mind was too exercised with the prophecy and its implications to pay any attention to the proceedings. At the end of the afternoon, when the conference came to its end, he avoided the final reception and slipped off to the hotel to pack his bags. Then, settling his account and bidding farewell to the manager of the hotel, he drove out to the airport in an old, cream-coloured taxi and waited for the first available seat on a plane to Europe.
India, with all its colours, confusions and heartbreak, slipped below him in a smudge of brown. Von Igelfeld sat at his window seat and looked out over the silver wing of steel. It had been a mistake to visit Goa, he concluded. It might be that some achieved spiritual solace in India, but this had been denied him. His one encounter with a Holy Man – perhaps the only such encounter he would be vouchsafed in his life – had turned into a nightmare. There was no peace in that – only horrible, gnawing doubt. And at the back of his mind, too, was the image of Professor J. G. K. L. Singh in the muddy waters of the river and of the great jaws of the crocodile poised to close upon the helpless philologist. It was an awful, haunting image, and it brought home to von Igelfeld his great lack of charity in relation to Professor J. G. K. L. Singh. He would make up for it, he determined. He would send a letter to Chandighar with an invitation to the Institute in Regensburg, which could be taken up once Professor J. G.
K. L. Singh got better. He would make it clear, though, that the invitation was only for one week; that was very important.
Dear, friendly, safe, comfortable Germany! Von Igelfeld could have kissed the ground on his arrival, but wasted no time in rushing home. His house was in order, and Frau Gunter, who housekept for him, assured him that nothing untoward had happened. For a moment von Igelfeld wondered whether she was a plotter, but he rapidly dismissed the unworthy thought from his mind.
He took a bath, dressed in an appropriate suit, and made his way hurriedly to the Institute. There he attended to his mail, none of which was in the slightest bit threatening, and then sat at his desk and looked out of the window. Perhaps there was nothing in it after all. Certainly the clear, rational light of Germany made it all seem less threatening: a Holy Man made no sense here.
Von Igelfeld decided to visit the Institute library to glance at the latest journals. He put away his letters, picked up his briefcase, and sauntered down the corridor to the library.
‘Professor Dr von Igelfeld!’ said the Librarian in hushed tones. ‘We thought you would be away for another three days.’
‘I have come back early,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘The conference was not very successful.’
He looked about him. Something was happening in the library. Two of the junior librarians were taking books out of the shelves in the entrance hall and placing them on a trolley.
‘What’s happening here?’ asked von Igelfeld. Librarians were always busy rearranging and recataloguing; von Igelfeld thought that it was all that stood between them and complete boredom.
The Librarian looked at his assistants.
‘Oh, a little reorganisation. A few books in here are being taken into the back room.’
Von Igelfeld said nothing for a moment. His eye had fallen on the trolley and on one book in particular placed there and destined for the obscurity of the back room. Portuguese Irregular Verbs !
Slowly he recovered his speech. ‘Who suggested this reorganisation?’ he asked, his voice steady in spite of the turbulent emotions within
The second day of the conference was worse than the first. Von Igelfeld delivered his own paper, and was immediately thereafter assaulted by a barrage of irrelevant and unhelpful questions. He was in a bad mood at lunch, and spoke to nobody, and in the afternoon his mind was too exercised with the prophecy and its implications to pay any attention to the proceedings. At the end of the afternoon, when the conference came to its end, he avoided the final reception and slipped off to the hotel to pack his bags. Then, settling his account and bidding farewell to the manager of the hotel, he drove out to the airport in an old, cream-coloured taxi and waited for the first available seat on a plane to Europe.
India, with all its colours, confusions and heartbreak, slipped below him in a smudge of brown. Von Igelfeld sat at his window seat and looked out over the silver wing of steel. It had been a mistake to visit Goa, he concluded. It might be that some achieved spiritual solace in India, but this had been denied him. His one encounter with a Holy Man – perhaps the only such encounter he would be vouchsafed in his life – had turned into a nightmare. There was no peace in that – only horrible, gnawing doubt. And at the back of his mind, too, was the image of Professor J. G. K. L. Singh in the muddy waters of the river and of the great jaws of the crocodile poised to close upon the helpless philologist. It was an awful, haunting image, and it brought home to von Igelfeld his great lack of charity in relation to Professor J. G. K. L. Singh. He would make up for it, he determined. He would send a letter to Chandighar with an invitation to the Institute in Regensburg, which could be taken up once Professor J. G.
K. L. Singh got better. He would make it clear, though, that the invitation was only for one week; that was very important.
Dear, friendly, safe, comfortable Germany! Von Igelfeld could have kissed the ground on his arrival, but wasted no time in rushing home. His house was in order, and Frau Gunter, who housekept for him, assured him that nothing untoward had happened. For a moment von Igelfeld wondered whether she was a plotter, but he rapidly dismissed the unworthy thought from his mind.
He took a bath, dressed in an appropriate suit, and made his way hurriedly to the Institute. There he attended to his mail, none of which was in the slightest bit threatening, and then sat at his desk and looked out of the window. Perhaps there was nothing in it after all. Certainly the clear, rational light of Germany made it all seem less threatening: a Holy Man made no sense here.
Von Igelfeld decided to visit the Institute library to glance at the latest journals. He put away his letters, picked up his briefcase, and sauntered down the corridor to the library.
‘Professor Dr von Igelfeld!’ said the Librarian in hushed tones. ‘We thought you would be away for another three days.’
‘I have come back early,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘The conference was not very successful.’
He looked about him. Something was happening in the library. Two of the junior librarians were taking books out of the shelves in the entrance hall and placing them on a trolley.
‘What’s happening here?’ asked von Igelfeld. Librarians were always busy rearranging and recataloguing; von Igelfeld thought that it was all that stood between them and complete boredom.
The Librarian looked at his assistants.
‘Oh, a little reorganisation. A few books in here are being taken into the back room.’
Von Igelfeld said nothing for a moment. His eye had fallen on the trolley and on one book in particular placed there and destined for the obscurity of the back room. Portuguese Irregular Verbs !
Slowly he recovered his speech. ‘Who suggested this reorganisation?’ he asked, his voice steady in spite of the turbulent emotions within
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