The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs Read online

There were several other points before it was time to stop. After thanking Leflar and the University of Arkansas, von Igelfeld sat down, to thunderous applause.

  Leflar leant over to von Igelfeld as the sound of clapping filled the room.

  ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘That went down very well. Guest speakers are sometimes far too technical for an open lecture like this. You hit just the right note.’

  Von Igelfeld nodded gravely.

  ‘I hope I lived up to expectations,’ he said modestly.

  ‘Oh you did,’ said Leflar. ‘It was a resounding success. Even if you were somewhat brief.’

  From his seat on the aeroplane, von Igelfeld looked down at the Ozarks as they became smaller and smaller beneath him. It was a good place, America, and Arkansas was a good state. He had been invited to return, but how could he, particularly when the news of Professor Igelfold’s death became widespread? Besides, he reflected, he had nothing further to say about sausage dogs; indeed he had already said more than enough.

  A LEG TO STAND ON

  ARKANSAS HAD BEEN A WELCOME diversion for von Igelfeld. He had felt quite exhausted before embarking on the trip but had returned entirely refreshed, ready to face the pressing burdens of daily life at the Institute for Romance Philology in Regensburg.

  The reason for von Igelfeld’s fatigue before his departure was the effort that he had been obliged to expend – at very short notice – on the writing of a radio talk on Portuguese orthography. He had taken great care with this talk, and the programme had eventually been broadcast by German State Radio at five o’clock on a particularly wet Thursday evening.

  Von Igelfeld had been pleased with his talk, which he felt had achieved the requisite delicate balance between the rival theories on the issue. Some weeks later he had telephoned the producer to establish whether there had been any reaction to what he had said.

  The producer had sounded evasive.

  ‘It’s rather difficult to gauge reaction,’ he had said. ‘That’s a tricky slot on Thursday evening. Many people are still on their way home from work.’

  ‘I know that,’ snapped von Igelfeld. ‘But there are still plenty of people at home. They could have listened.’

  ‘Well . . . ’ said the producer. ‘It’s a difficult time. And the audience research reports . . . ’

  ‘Is that some sort of survey?’ interrupted von Igelfeld. ‘Does it show how many people listened?’

  ‘Well,’ said the producer, hesitantly. ‘I’m afraid it was not all that encouraging. In fact, we had a negative result. Apparently nobody tuned in at all. Nobody heard you.’

  There was a silence at the other end of the line.

  ‘Nobody?’

  ‘Of course, these things are often unreliable.’

  ‘I should think they are,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I, for one, listened. And then there’s my colleague, Professor Dr Unterholzer. He listened, I can assure you.’

  ‘There you are,’ said the producer. ‘That’s something.’

  In fact, unbeknown to von Igelfeld, Unterholzer had not listened. He had fully intended to do so, having been reminded by von Igelfeld on four separate occasions of the time of the broadcast, but had become so absorbed in a musical concert that he had forgotten to switch stations. So, as far as anybody knew, von Igelfeld was the only person in Germany to hear his own talk.

  But the radio broadcast seemed distant now, and other challenges were on the horizon. There was the Berlin meeting on Celtic philology – always a major date in von Igelfeld’s calendar – and there was a lecture to prepare for Salzburg. And then there was, of course, the work which had to be done on The Portuguese Pluperfect, the book on which von Igelfeld had been working for the last few years and which, in the opinion of all those who had glimpsed the manuscript, was sure to become a worthy successor to Portuguese Irregular Verbs itself.

  When the letter arrived from Professor R. B. Leflar, von Igelfeld opened it almost absent-mindedly. He was aware of the fact that it bore an American stamp; American stamps, he had observed, always showed people doing things, whereas German stamps were designed not to excite people too much and were somehow more appropriate. He was reflecting on this when he noticed the fateful post-mark: Fayetteville, Arkansas. Had he seen that, he would have known at once the authorship of the letter.

  ‘Dear Professor von Igelfeld,’ the letter began. ‘I would never have imagined, when we said farewell to one another in Arkansas barely nine months ago, that I should be seeing you so soon. But I now find myself having to come to Germany and I should therefore like to take you up on your kind invitation to visit Regensburg . . . ’

  Von Igelfeld smiled as he read the letter. He had enjoyed Professor Leflar’s company and the thought of showing him around Regensburg was an attractive one. He would take him down to the river and, if the weather was fine, perhaps they could . . . He stopped. The awful thought had occurred that as far as Leflar was concerned, von Igelfeld was still a professor of veterinary medicine and the world’s leading authority on the sausage dog. He had not disabused him of this misconception, although he should perhaps have done this right at the outset. But once he had allowed matters to persist and had delivered the lecture on sausage dogs, then it had been too late. Now it was impossible to confess that he had enjoyed the hospitality of his hosts in Fayetteville under entirely false pretences.

  That would not have been too troubling had it not been for the fact of Leflar’s impending arrival. It would be impossible to maintain the pretence of being a professor of veterinary medicine right here in Regensburg, where everybody knew that he was a Romance philologist. But did he have any alternative? It would be simply too embarrassing to tell the truth now, to confess to an utter ignorance of sausage dogs; he 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 ye
t 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 mistake.

  ‘Heidelberg?’ he said quickly. ‘Who said anything about Heidelberg?’

  ‘You did,’ said Leflar. ‘You referred to being a student at Heidelberg. You said you studied at Heidelberg.’

  ‘I did not,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘You must have misheard me. I said that Professor Hutmann was an old friend, in Heidelberg, from student days. That is, we were friends, in student days, but now he is in Heidelberg.

  ‘So,’ he went on quickly. ‘I shall leave you here for a while, but I shall be back soon to take you out to lunch. In the afternoon, I can show you round the town.’

  They bade farewell and von Igelfeld made his way home, deep in thought. If matters were difficult at this stage, then how much more complicated they would become when it came to taking Leflar to the Veterinary Institute tomorrow, as he had requested.

  Tuesday afternoon was a considerable success. Leflar enjoyed a walk in the hills above the town and they both ate a hearty meal in a small inn on the river. But von Igelfeld’s pleasure at his friend’s delight in the beauty of Regensburg was tinged with apprehension. The moment was fast approaching when he would have to present himself at the Veterinary Institute and join Leflar in the tour which had been arranged for him. That, at least, had been easy. He had simply informed the Director of the Institute that a personal friend, a prominent American expert in animal health, was visiting and that he would like to show him the Institute. The Director had promised to conduct the tour himself and had invited von Igelfeld to join them. What would happen if the Director made some remark which indicated that von Igelfeld was an outsider from a totally different part of the university? And would Leflar expect von Igelfeld to join in any debate engaged in by himself and the Director? If that happened, there would be no alternative but to claim an urgent appointment elsewhere.

  By the time they arrived at the Institute, von Igelfeld was already beginning to feel a cold chill of dread. But when the Director, a charming man wearing a neat bow-tie, welcomed them both, his fear dissipated somewhat. The Director addressed all his technical remarks to Leflar and all that von Igelfeld had to do was to nod in agreement.

  ‘We’re engaged in a major programme of research on the genetics of degenerative disease in turkeys,’ said the Director, and von Igelfeld nodded, as if to convey that he, too, was heavily involved.

  ‘It’s an important topic,’ said Leflar.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed von Igelfeld. ‘Very important. From the . . . from the . . . turkey point of view.’

  The Director threw him a glance. Now they moved on to the laboratories, where humming centrifuges and bubbling flasks attested to a high level of research activity.

  ‘Mg2 H2O + HgSO4,’ explained the Director, pointing to a vat of curiously coloured powder.

  ‘H2?’ asked Leflar.

  ‘MgCO2,’ responded the Director.

  ‘O,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘H.’

  ‘O?’ asked Leflar.

  Von Igelfeld stroked his chin. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Definitely,’ interjected the Director. ‘H2O + NaCl 3.’

  They moved on to the physiology laboratory, where Leflar found a great deal to interest him. Von Igelfeld felt relaxed now; there seemed to be no reason why Leflar should suspect anything and all that remained was to join the Director for a social cup of coffee in his office. That, it transpired, was even easier, as the conversation was restricted to small talk and a discussion of the relative merits of Fayetteville and Regensburg. Then the Director took his leave, as he had a meeting to attend, leaving von Igelfeld to escort Leflar towards the front door. And it was at this point that the movement of the planets brought about what, for von Igelfeld, was a thoroughly disagreeable concatenation of events.

  Nemesis took the form of a young man, evidently a student, who suddenly dashed out of a door and seized von Igelfeld’s arm.

  ‘Herr Professor,’ he said. ‘You must come in immediately. We’ve had a casualty brought into the clinic. I can’t find Dr Steenbock and the staff in the lab said that I should ask you.’

  Von Igelfeld found himself being ushered into a small room, the stark white walls of which were lit by a large overhead light. There was a high table with a stainless steel top and stretched out on that, connected by a tube to a cylinder of gas, was the anaesthetised form of a sausage dog.

  ‘He was brought in a few minutes ago,’ said the young man. ‘One of his legs has been crushed by a car. I’ve just developed the X-rays.’

  He flicked the switch of a light box, illuminating a ghostly picture of bones and tissue.

  ‘The trouble is,’ went on the young man. ‘I’m only a third-year student. Dr Steenbock would normally supervise me. I’m not allowed to do unsupervised surgery yet.’

  Von Igelfeld looked about him wildly. This was worse – far worse – than his ordeal in Arkansas. He was utterly cornered. But he would cope with the situation, just as he had coped with everything that had gone before. This was no time for defeat.

  ‘Well, I’ll just stand back and let you get on with it,’ said Leflar helpfully. ‘I do very little small-animal surgery. I’ll just watch.’

  ‘You do it,’ von Igelfeld to the student. ‘I’m sure that you’ll be fine.’

  ‘But what shall I do?’ asked the student.

  Von Igelfeld craned his neck to examine the X-ray.

  ‘The leg is broken,’ he said. ‘Look at this.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the student. ‘It’s a badly impacted fracture.’

  ‘Then we shall have to amputate it,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Cut it off.’

  The student nodded. Then, opening a drawer below the table he extracted a scalpel and a large, terrifying instrument that looked to all intents and purposes like a pair of garden secateurs.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said von Igelfeld.

  The student took the rear leg of the dog in his hand and made an incision. Bright canine blood appeared like a line of tiny flowers, but that was only the beginning. Soon the deeper structures were exposed and then, with a firm snip, the bone was cut neatly by the secateurs. It did not take long for the wound to be sewn up and there, in a metal dish, lay a small, detached leg.

  ‘Good,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Well done.’

  The student leaned forward to peer at the X-ray. Suddenly he groaned.

  ‘Oh no, Herr Professor! That was the wrong leg!’

  Von Igelfeld looked at the plate. The broken leg was on the ri
ght, as was the leg which had been removed, but now, looking more closely, it was clearly in the front.

  ‘Take the right one off,’ he said sharply. ‘You have been very careless.’

  The student reached again for his instruments and began the process of cutting into the injured leg. Again there was a bloodflow, quickly stemmed with a smouldering cauteriser, and soon another leg joined the one already in the dish.

  ‘Good,’ said von Igelfeld, emboldened. ‘I shall now assist you, in order to give you more confidence.’

  He reached forward and took the scalpel from the student’s shaking hand. But as he did so, he slipped, and the sharp blade plunged deep into the remaining back leg. There was a fountain of blood and the student gave a shout.

  ‘You’ve severed an artery, Herr Professor!’

  ‘Take the leg off then,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Hurry.’

  Again the amputation procedure went ahead, leaving the poor sausage dog with a sole leg, in the front. Leflar, who had been watching intently, had been silent, save for a sharp intake of breath at the more dramatic events.

  ‘Poor dog,’ he said at last. ‘He’s not going to be able to get around very well with only one leg.’

  Von Igelfeld looked at the sadly diminished sausage dog.

  ‘He can roll,’ he pronounced. ‘He will be able to get around by rolling.’

  In the meantime, the student who had gone outside to sterilise the instruments had returned.

  ‘The owner is waiting outside, Herr Professor,’ he said. ‘Could you explain to him what has happened?’

  Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘I shall tell him that it has been necessary to perform extensive surgery,’ he said. ‘Bring him in and I shall tell him what we have done.’

  The student retreated and returned a few moments later with the anxious owner.

  It was Unterholzer.

  ON THE COUCH

  RELATIONS BETWEEN Professor Dr Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld, author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs, and Professor Dr Detlev Amadeus Unterholzer, author of a considerably less well-regarded work on the Portuguese imperfect subjunctive, were somewhat strained. Nothing was said, of course, but it was clear to von Igelfeld that Unterholzer continued to harbour a grudge against him over the unfortunate incident involving his dog. It was von Igelfeld’s view that he was entirely blameless in this affair, and that if anyone bore any responsibility for it, then Unterholzer himself might be the most appropriate candidate. After all, it was his own failure to supervise the dog adequately that had left it free to run out into the road and collide with a passing motorist. Unterholzer should feel ashamed of this; if people failed to take adequate care of their sausage dogs, then accidents were only to be expected. And anyway, von Igelfeld reflected, the outcome could have been infinitely worse. It was true that the dog had lost three legs in the incident, but the Veterinary Institute had gone out of its way to fit it with a prosthetic appliance that appeared to be working very well. An elaborate harness was secured round the dog’s body and attached to this were three small wheels. By using its remaining leg as a paddle, the dog could propel itself on its wheels and get anywhere it wished to get. Only very occasionally did the system not work, as had happened once or twice on a hill, when the dog had got out of control and careered down the pavement on its tiny wheels, unable to stop itself, and had ended up on a lawn or in a bush. But these were minor inconveniences, and it was quite wrong for Unterholzer to maintain a coldness in his dealings with his senior colleague; Romance philology was too small a field to allow for animosity, at least with regard to personal disputes. Academic questions were another matter, of course; the issues there were real and it was sometimes inevitable that one had to be direct in one’s criticisms of a colleague’s misconceptions.