be more sanguine.
They set off for the premises of the Academy and ten minutes later arrived in front of a comfortable, colonial- style building in the old centre of Bogota. There they were met by the President of the Academy, who came to the door to greet them. He was a distinguished-looking man in his late sixties, with a large moustache and round, unframed glasses. He led them into the Hall, where a group of about forty Members of the Academy, all formally dressed for the occasion, were seated in rows, every face turned towards the new Corresponding Fellow, every expression one of welcome.
‘Most distinguished Academicians,’ began the President, as he faced the membership. ‘We have in our midst this morning one whose contribution to Romance philology has been exceeded by no other in the last one hundred years. When Professor von Igelfeld set aside his pen after writing the final sentence of that great work
Von Igelfeld listened attentively as the roll of his honours and achievements was sonorously recited. It was a matter of regret, he felt, that the President saw fit to mention the Order of Leopold; he had accepted that before he realised that it was only third class (a fact which he had discovered at the installation ceremony) and he had tended therefore not to mention it. Herr Huber, as a librarian, was not one to allow a detail to escape his attention, and so he could not be blamed if he had listed it in the biographical information he had provided. After all, Herr Huber himself had nothing, and even a third-class award from the Belgians would have seemed worthwhile to him.
Von Igelfeld had little time for Belgium. In the first place, he was not at all sure that the country was even necessary, in the way in which France and Germany were obviously necessary. It would have been more convenient all round if part of Belgium had remained with France, as Napoleon had so wisely intended, and the Flemish part could then have been tacked on to the Netherlands, on linguistic grounds. And then there was the question of the Belgian monarchs, and in particular, Leopold, whose unapologetic behaviour in the Belgian Congo left a great deal to be desired. All in all, then, the Belgian order was something which was better not mentioned, although it was likely, on balance, to impress the Colombians.
The inauguration was simple: a medal was pinned to von Igelfeld’s lapel, the President embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks, the large moustache tickling von Igelfeld’s face, and then the Members of the Academy pressed forward to shake the hand of their new Corresponding Fellow. Thereafter, a light lunch was served, at which there was more hand-shaking, and the Members then dispersed. Von Igelfeld had prepared a lecture, just in case he should be asked to deliver one, but no opportunity presented itself. Nor did the President or any of the Members suggest that anything else should be done; the President, indeed, disappeared before von Igelfeld had the chance to thank him properly, and von Igelfeld found himself outside the Academy building, in the clear Andean sunshine, in the company only of Senor Gabriel Marcales de Cinco Fermentaciones.
‘A moving ceremony,’ said his host. ‘I am not a Member of the Academy myself, although I feel that it would be very appropriate to be one.’
‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said von Igelfeld soothingly. ‘But I am sure that somebody will propose you for membership one of these days.’
‘I hope so,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. He paused, and looked at von Igelfeld. ‘You wouldn’t care to do that, would you?’
Von Igelfeld gave a start. ‘I?’ he said. ‘I am only a Corresponding Fellow, and a new one at that. Surely it would be improper for me to propose a new member.’
‘Not in the slightest,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘Indeed, it would be virtually impossible for them to turn me down if you proposed me. It would imply a lack of confidence in your judgement.’ He reached into his pocket as he spoke and extracted a piece of paper. ‘As it happens,’ he went on, ‘I have the proposal form with me here, already filled in. All that you would need to do is to sign it. Thank you so much for doing this.’
Von Igelfeld looked about him. Senor Gabriel Marcales de Cinco Fermentaciones had placed him in an acutely embarrassing position. If he turned him down, it would be an act of gross ingratitude to the man who, presumably, had arranged his own nomination as Corresponding Fellow. And yet, if he proposed him, the President and Members could be placed in a situation where they would be obliged to elect somebody whom, for all von Igelfeld knew, they may not have wished to elect in the first place.
‘This is where you sign,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones, placing the paper, and a pen, in von Igelfeld’s hands.
There was really no alternative, and so von Igelfeld signed, handing the paper back to Cinco Fermentaciones with an angry glance. This glance either went unnoticed, or was ignored.
‘You are very kind,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘Now I am in,’ adding, ‘at last.’ He leant forward and embraced von Igelfeld, muttering further words of gratitude as he did so.
Von Igelfeld bore the embrace and the words of thanks with fortitude. He had walked right into a South American trap, and perhaps he should have realised it earlier. But the important thing was that whatever the motive of Cinco Fermentaciones had been in proposing him, the fact remained that he was now a Corresponding Fellow of the Academy of Letters of Colombia, an honour which had eluded even Zimmermann. And even if the President of the Academy were to be annoyed with him for proposing Cinco Fermentaciones, he would probably never encounter the President in the future and thus there would be few occasions for awkwardness.
Cinco Fermentaciones beamed with satisfaction. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we – or, rather I, have planned a few days for you in the country, as a reward, so to speak, for your having come all this way. A very well-known lady, who has perhaps the finest literary salon in all South America, has specially invited us to her villa in the hills. It will be a real treat.’
‘I am most grateful,’ said von Igelfeld. A few days in the country, being well looked after, would suit him very well. He was not due back in Germany for over a week, and what could be more enjoyable than sitting on a shady verandah, listening to the sounds of flocks of tropical birds, and knowing that at the end of the day a fine meal awaited one.
They returned to the hotel, where von Igelfeld packed his bags and had them carried to the car which Cinco Fermentaciones provided. Then, after a fortifying cup of coffee, they set off down a pot-holed road, through sprawling crowded suburbs, into the countryside. The warmth of the car and the drone of the engine made von Igelfeld feel drowsy, and by the time he woke up, they were driving down what appeared to be a private road, through plantations of fruit trees, towards a large, ochre-coloured house on the lower slopes of a mountain.
‘The home of Senora Dolores Quinta Barranquilla,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘Our journey is at an end. We
