The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs Read Free Page B

would simply have to brazen it out and pretend for the two days of Leflar’s visit that he was, indeed, what he so patently was not. It was not an appealing prospect.
    ‘I shall not be coming into the Institute next week,’ he said to Unterholzer. ‘I shall be . . . ’
    Unterholzer looked at him expectantly.
    ‘In Berlin?’ he asked, a note of jealousy creeping into his voice. ‘Has somebody asked you to go to Berlin?’
    Von Igelfeld shook his head. It was typical of Unterholzer to be immoderately inquisitive. How von Igelfeld spent his time had nothing to do with him and there was no call for him to reveal such vulgar curiosity.
    Unterholzer persisted. ‘Munich?’ he pressed. ‘Wiesbaden?’
    Von Igelfeld felt the irritation well up within him. ‘I shall be right here in Regensburg,’ he snapped. ‘I shall just not be coming into the Institute. That is all.’
    Unterholzer was silent. He knew that von Igelfeld was concealing something, but short of following him about, which he clearly could not do, there was little chance of his discovering what it was. For von Igelfeld’s part, he realised that silence might have been more advisable: if he had simply said nothing, then Unterholzer may never even have noticed his absence. As it was, he would have to make sure that their paths did not cross during Leflar’s visit. Unterholzer was noted for his insecurity. He would surely interpret the presence of a mysterious stranger in von Igelfeld’s company as some sort of threat to himself and could be counted on to try to find out his identity.
    The essential difficulty was that life was unfair, and Unterholzer was one of those who was destined to play second fiddle, or worse. He had the worst office in the Institute; his book was all but ignored by everybody in the field; and he rarely received invitations to lecture anywhere of the remotest interest. His Buenos Aires invitation had come merely because they could get nobody else to attend the conference, although von Igelfeld had generously refrained from telling him that. He had hinted it, though, but Unterholzer, with typical lack of insight, had failed to read his meaning. Poor Unterholzer! reflected von Igelfeld. What it must be to be such a failure and to have so little . . .
    Von Igelfeld’s reveries came to an abrupt end. To have so little in this life and yet to have received – oh, the sheer injustice of it – a medal from the Portuguese Government! A medal which must have been intended for himself, von Igelfeld, not for the hopelessly obscure Unterholzer. All he had ever done for the Lusophile world had been to pen a badly received volume on the Portuguese imperfect subjunctive. This was a book which was barely fit to rest on the same shelf as
Portuguese Irregular Verbs,
and yet some misguided official in Lisbon has recommended the award of a medal! It was quite clear to von Igelfeld that the medals of this world were pinned on quite the wrong chests, just as were the metaphorical barriers inevitably placed in quite the wrong place.
    Leflar arrived on a Tuesday. It was a wonderful spring day and the air was sharp and invigorating.
    ‘A peach of a day!’ the American visitor remarked as von Igelfeld met him at the railway station. ‘The sort of day that in Arkansas makes us go hippety-hop!’
    ‘Hippety-hop?’ said von Igelfeld, slightly taken aback. ‘Oh yes. We Germans like to go hippety-hop too on days like this.’
    They travelled by taxi to the Hotel Angst, where von Igelfeld had booked Leflar in for the two nights of his stay.
    ‘I am sure that you’ll be very comfortable here,’ he explained. ‘The Institute always uses this hotel for its visitors. We put Professor Hutmann here last time. He is an old friend of mine from student days in Heidelberg.’
    Leflar looked surprised. ‘Heidelberg? I didn’t realise they taught veterinary medicine at Heidelberg.’
    Von Igelfeld froze. Leflar had scarcely arrived and he had already made a bad