The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs by Alexander McCall Smith

of the past, to apologise for all sorts of terrible things that happened a long time ago. And nobody ever comes to apologise to me! Except you. It’s really quite refreshing.’
    ‘Well,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I am very sorry indeed.’
    ‘No need to say any more,’ said the Pope. ‘It’s very good to have the chance to chat to you. I have a wretchedly boring time for the most part. You’ve got no idea what a tedious life it is being Pope. I’m totally isolated from the rest of humanity. You saw me yesterday on one of my rare busy days. Do you know how many social invitations I received last year? No? Well, I shall tell you. None. Not one. Nobody dares to invite the Pope to anything. They all assume that I would never be able to come, or that it would be presumptuous to invite me. So I get none. And I sit here most days and play solitaire. That’s what I do.’
    The Pope pointed to a table at the side of the room and von Igelfeld saw that it was covered with cards in a solitaire pattern.
    ‘Do you play solitaire yourself?’ asked the Pope.
    ‘No,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I used to. But not any more.’
    The Pope nodded, looking slightly despondent. He took a sip of his coffee and stared out of the window. For a few minutes nothing was said and the only sound in the room was that of ticking from a long-case clock behind the Pope’s chair. Then the Pope sighed.
    ‘I look out of my window and see the Vatican gardens,’ he said. ‘The trees. The greenery. The paths where I take my walks. The fountains. And I remember a field behind my house in my native village. And I remember the river beyond it where we used to swim as boys. We had a rope tied on to the branch of a tree and we used to swing out over the water. And I’ve never had any greater pleasure since then. Never. And I’ve never had any better friends than I had then. Never.’
    ‘We all have a land of lost content,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I used to go and stay on my grandfather’s estate near Graz. I liked that. Then, a bit later, when I was a student, my friend Prinzel and I used to go walking along the river and drink a glass of beer in a riverside inn. That’s what we used to do.’
    The Pope said nothing. But, after a moment, he spoke in a quiet voice: ‘Now I have my solitaire. I suppose that is something.’
    The clock chimed. ‘Heavens,’ said the Pope. ‘That’s the end of the coffee break. I must get back to my solitaire. Could you possibly show yourself out? The Swiss Guards will direct you.’
    The Pope rose to his feet and ushered von Igelfeld to the door.
    ‘Goodbye, dear Professor von Igelfeld,’ he said. ‘Goodbye. We shall not meet again in this life, I fear, but I have enjoyed our brief talk. Please remember me.’
    And with that he turned and went back to his solitaire table, leaving von Igelfeld in the care of the guards.
    The Prinzels insisted on being told every detail of von Igelfeld’s remarkable day. Ophelia quizzed him closely as to the decoration of the Pope’s private apartment and as to the precise exchange of views which had taken place between them. Prinzel was more interested in the geography of the Vatican and in the mechanism of obtaining an audience; it had seemed so easy for von Igelfeld, but surely it could not be that easy for others. Perhaps all one had to do was to insult the Pope first – if one had the chance – and then insist on an audience of apology.
    But there had been more to von Igelfeld’s day. After he had left the Pope’s apartment he had returned to the Vatican Library for some time before the Cardinal had come to collect him for lunch. Then they had gone downstairs to a remarkable restaurant, patronised only by clerics and their guests, where a magnificent Roman meal of six courses had been served. He and the Cardinal had got on extremely well, discussing a variety of philological matters, and von Igelfeld had enjoyed himself immensely. But just as the last dish was being cleared