‘You are too kind, Herr von Igelfeld,’ stuttered the Librarian. ‘You are too kind to me.’
‘It is no more than you deserve,’ said von Igelfeld. A Corresponding Fellow of the Colombian Academy of Letters can always afford to be generous, and von Igelfeld was.
Not surprisingly, the arrangements for the bestowal of the honour proved to be immensely complicated. The cultural attache was extremely helpful, but even with his help, the formalities were time-consuming. At last, after several months during which letters were exchanged on an almost weekly basis, the date of the ceremony was settled, and von Igelfeld’s flight to Bogota was booked. Senor Gabriel Marcales de Cinco Fermentaciones, the cultural attache, proposed to travel out with von Igelfeld, as he was being recalled to Bogota anyway, and he thought that it would be convenient to accompany him and ensure a smooth reception at the other end.
Von Igelfeld was doubtful whether this was really necessary, but was pleased with the arrangement on two accounts. Cinco Fermentaciones, it transpired, was most agreeable company, being very well-informed on South American literary affairs. This alone would have made travelling together worthwhile, but there was more. When they arrived in Bogota, there was no question of waiting at the airport for formalities; all of these were disposed of in the face of the diplomatic passport which the cultural attache produced and with a letter which he folded and unfolded in the face of any official and which immediately seemed to open all doors. Von Igelfeld hesitated to ask what was in this letter, but Cinco Fermentaciones, seeing him looking at it with curiosity, offered an explanation of his own accord.
‘I wrote it and signed it myself,’ he said, with a smile. ‘It says that I am to receive every assistance and consideration, and any request of mine is to be attended to with the utmost despatch. Then I stamped it with the Ambassador’s stamp that he keeps on his desk and which seems to have quite magical properties.
Von Igelfeld was impressed, and wondered whether he might try the same tactic himself in future.
‘Another example of South American magical realism,’ said Senor Gabriel Marcales de Cinco Fermentaciones, with a laugh. ‘Magical, but realistic at the same time.’
They travelled to von Igelfeld’s hotel and Cinco Fermentaciones made sure that his guest was settled in before he left him. The letter was unfolded and displayed to the manager of the hotel, who nodded deferentially and gave von Igelfeld a quick salute in response. Then Cinco Fermentaciones promised to pick up von Igelfeld for the ceremony, which would take place at noon the following day.
‘In the meantime, you can recover from the trip,’ he said. ‘This city is at a very great altitude, and you must take things easily.’
‘Perhaps I shall take a look around later this afternoon,’ said von Igelfeld, looking out of the window at the interesting Spanish colonial architecture of the surrounding streets.
Cinco Fermentaciones frowned. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t do that. Definitely not.’
Von Igelfeld was puzzled. ‘But those buildings? May one not inspect them, even just from the outside?’
Cinco Fermentaciones shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You must not leave the hotel. It is for your own safety.’
Von Igelfeld looked at the manager, who nodded his agreement with Cinco Fermentaciones and made a quick, but eloquent, throat-slitting gesture.
‘Outside is extremely dangerous,’ the manager said quietly. ‘The whole country is extremely dangerous.’
‘Surely not in the middle of the city,’ protested von Igelfeld. ‘Look, there are plenty of people outside in the streets.’
‘Yes,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘And most of them are extremely dangerous. Believe me, I know my own country. Even this letter’ – and he held up his potent document – ‘even this wouldn’t help you out there.’
‘But who are these dangerous people?’ asked von Igelfeld.
‘Brigands, desperadoes,
‘Disaffected waiters as well,’ interjected the hotel manager. ‘We regularly receive bomb threats from a movement of disaffected waiters who attack hotels. It is very troublesome.’
Von Igelfeld said nothing. He had heard that Colombia was a troubled society, but he had imagined that the trouble was confined to lawless areas in the south. The way that Cinco Fermentaciones and the hotel manager were talking gave a very different impression. Was anybody safe in this country? Was the Academy of Letters itself safe, or were there disaffected writers who needed to be added to Cinco Fermentaciones’ intimidating list? For a moment he wondered whether he should pose this question, but he decided, on balance, to leave it unasked.
In the face of this unambiguous advice, von Igelfeld remained within the confines of the hotel, venturing out only into the walled garden, where he sat for an hour, admiring a colourful display of red and blue bougainvillaea. That evening, after a light supper in the hotel dining room – a meal which he took in isolation, as there appeared to be no other guests – he slept fitfully, waking frequently through the night and anxiously checking that the door was still locked. There were strange noises in the corridor outside – a cough, the sound of footsteps, and at one point a muttered conversation, seemingly directly outside his door. In the morning, with the sun streaming through his window, the fears of the night receded, and he prepared himself with pleasurable anticipation for the day’s events.
Cinco Fermentaciones called for him on time, dressed in a smart morning coat and sporting a carnation in his buttonhole.
‘I hope that the night passed peacefully,’ he said to von Igelfeld.
‘Extremely peacefully,’ replied von Igelfeld. This reply seemed to disappoint Cinco Fermentaciones, who made a gesture towards the door behind him.
‘This country is unpredictable,’ he said. ‘One night is peaceful and then the next . . . Well, everything comes to a head.’
Von Igelfeld decided that he would not allow this pessimistic view to colour his experience of Colombia. Everyone in the hotel had been charming; the sun was shining benevolently; the air was crisp and clear. Cinco Fermentaciones could brood on political and social conflict if he wished; von Igelfeld, by contrast, was prepared to
