At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances

‘He is still with us, I feel,’ said Dolores Quinta Barranquilla dreamily. ‘Do you not feel that, Gabriel? Do you not feel Pablo’s presence?’

‘I do,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘I feel that he is with us here at the moment.’

‘As are all the others,’ went on Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. ‘Marquez. Valderrama. Pessoa. Yes, Pessoa, dear Professor von Igelfeld. He travelled up from Brazil and spent several weeks in this house, in the time of my father. They talked and talked, he told me. My father, like you, was fluent in Portuguese. He and Pessoa sat here, in this very room, and talked the night away.’

Von Igelfeld looked about the room. He could imagine Pessoa sitting here, with his large hat on the table by the window, or on his knee perhaps; really, these were most agreeable surroundings, and the hostess, too, was utterly charming, with her mellifluous voice and her sympathetic understanding of literature. He could talk the night away, he felt, and perhaps they would.

The conversation continued in this pleasant way for an hour or so before they moved through for dinner. This was served in an adjoining room, by a middle-aged cook in an apron. Von Igelfeld had expected generous fare, but the portions were small and the wine was thin. The conversation, of course, more than made up for this, but he found himself reflecting on the name of the villa and the parsimony of the table. These thoughts distressed him: there was something inexpressibly sad about faded grandeur. There may well have been a salon in this house, and it may well have been a distinguished one, but what was left now? Only memories, it would seem.

Von Igelfeld slept soundly. It had been an exhilarating evening, and he had listened attentively to his hostess’s observations on a wide range of topics. All of these observations had struck him as being both perceptive and sound, which made the evening one of rare agreement. Now, standing at his window the following morning, he looked out on to the courtyard with its small fountain, its stone bench, and its display of brilliant flowering shrubs. It was a magnificent morning and von Igelfeld decided that he would take a brief walk about the fruit groves before breakfast was served.

Donning his newly acquired Panama hat, he walked through the courtyard and made his way towards the front door. It was at this point, as he walked through one of the salons, that he noticed a number of rather ill-kempt men standing about. They looked at him suspiciously and did not respond when von Igelfeld politely said, ‘Buenos Dias.’ Perhaps they were the estate workers, thought von Igelfeld, and they were simply taciturn. When he reached the front door, however, a man moved out in front of him and blocked his way.

‘Who are you?’ the man asked roughly.

Von Igelfeld looked at the man before him. He was wearing dark breeches, a red shirt, and was unshaven. His manner could only be described as insolent, and von Igelfeld decided that much as one did not like to complain to one’s hostess, this was a case which might merit a complaint. Who was he indeed! He was the author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs, that’s who he was, and he was minded to tell this man just that. But instead he merely said: ‘I am Professor Dr Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld. That’s who I am. And who are you?’

The man, who had been leaning against the jamb of the door, now straightened up and approached von Igelfeld threateningly. ‘I? I?’ he said, his tone unambiguously hostile. ‘I am Pedro. That’s who I am. Pedro, leader of Moviemento Veintitres.’

‘Moviemento Veintitres?’ said von Igelfeld, trying to sound confident, but suddenly feeling somewhat concerned. He remembered the warnings uttered by Cinco Fermentaciones in the hotel in Bogota. Had Moviemento Veintitres featured in the list of those who were dangerous? He could not remember, but as he looked at Pedro, standing there with his hands in the pockets of his black breeches and his eyes glinting dangerously, he thought that perhaps it had.

Von Igelfeld swallowed. ‘How do you do, Senor Pedro,’ he said.

Pedro did not respond to the greeting. After a while, however, he turned his head to one side and spat on the floor.

‘Oh,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I hope that you are in good health.’

Pedro spat again. ‘We have taken over this house and this land,’ said Pedro. ‘You are now a captive of the people of Colombia, as are the so-called Senora Barranquilla and Senor Gabriel. You will all be subject to the revolutionary justice of Moviemento Veintitres.’

Von Igelfeld stood stock still. ‘I am a prisoner?’ he stuttered. ‘I?’ Pedro nodded. ‘You are under arrest. But you will be given a fair trial before you are shot. I can give you my word as to that.’

Von Igelfeld stared at Pedro. Perhaps he had misheard. Perhaps this was an elaborate practical joke; in which case it was in extremely poor taste. ‘Hah!’ he said, trying to smile. ‘That is very amusing. Very amusing.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Pedro. ‘It is not amusing at all. It is very sad . . . for you, that is.’

‘But I am a visitor,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I have nothing to do with whatever is going on. I don’t even know what you are talking about.’

‘Then you’ll find out soon enough,’ said Pedro. ‘In the meantime, you must join the others. They are in that room over there. They will explain the situation to you.’

Von Igelfeld moved over towards the door pointed out by Pedro.

‘Go on,’ said Pedro, taunting him. ‘They are in there. You go and join them, Senor German. Your pampered friends are in there. They are expecting you.’

Von Igelfeld entered the room. Sitting on a sofa in the middle of the floor were Senora Dolores Quinta Barranquilla and Cinco Fermentaciones. As he opened the door, they looked up expectantly.

‘Senor Gabriel Marcales de Cinco Fermentaciones,’ said von Igelfeld, ‘what is the meaning of all this, may I ask you? Will you kindly explain?’

Cinco Fermentaciones sighed. ‘We have fallen into the hands of guerrillas,’ he said. ‘That is what’s happened.’

‘It’s the end for us,’ added Dolores Quinta Barranquilla, shaking her head miserably. ‘Moviemento Veintitres! The very worst.’

‘The worst of the worst,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘I’m afraid that there is no hope. No hope at all.’