Von Igelfeld stood quite still. He had taken in what his friends had said, but he found it difficult to believe what he was hearing. This sort of thing – falling into the hands of guerrillas – was not something that happened to professors of philology, and yet Pedro was real enough, as was the fear that he appeared to have engendered in his hosts. Oh, if only he had been wise enough not to come! This is what happened to one when one went off in pursuit of honours; Nemesis, ever vigilant, was looking out for hubris, and he had given her a fine target indeed. Now it was too late. They would all be shot – or so Pedro seemed to assume – and that would be the end of everything. For a moment he imagined the others at coffee on the day on which the news came through. The Librarian would be tearful, Prinzel would be silenced with grief, and Unterholzer . . . Unterholzer would regret him, no doubt, but would even then be planning to move into his room on a permanent basis. Was that not exactly what had happened when he had been thought to have been lost at sea?
Von Igelfeld’s thoughts were interrupted by Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. ‘I am truly sorry, Professor von Igelfeld,’ she said. ‘This is no way for a country to treat a distinguished visitor. Shooting a visitor is the height, the absolute height, of impoliteness.’
‘Certainly it is,’ agreed Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘This is a matter of the greatest possible regret to me too.’
Von Igelfeld thanked them for their concern. ‘Perhaps they will change their minds,’ he said. ‘We might even be rescued.’
‘No chance of that,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘The Army is pretty useless and, anyway, they probably have no idea that the place has been taken by these . . . these desperadoes.’ He looked up as he uttered this last phrase. Pedro had appeared at the door and was looking in, relishing the discomfort of his prisoners.
‘You may move around if you wish,’ he said. ‘You may enjoy the open air. The sky. The sound of the birds singing. Enjoy them and reflect on them while you may.’ He laughed, and moved away.
‘What a cruel and unpleasant man,’ said von Igelfeld.
‘They are all like that,’ sighed Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘They have no heart.’
Dolores Quinta Barranquilla seemed lost in thought. ‘Not everyone can be entirely bad,’ she said. ‘Even the entirely bad.’
Von Igelfeld and Cinco Fermentaciones stared at her uncomprehendingly, but she seemed in no mood to explain her puzzling utterance. Rising to her feet, she announced that she would go for a walk, would do some sketching, and looked forward to seeing them both at dinner.
Von Igelfeld was aware of a great deal of coming and going among the guerrillas during the course of the day, but paid them little attention. He went for a brief walk in the late morning, but found the constant tailing presence of a young guerrilla disconcerting and he returned to the villa after ten minutes or so. It seemed that although Pedro was prepared to allow them to wander about the villa, he was determined that they should not escape.
After an afternoon of reading in his room, von Igelfeld dressed carefully for dinner. Whatever the uncertain future held, and however truncated that future might be, he was not prepared to allow his personal standards to slip. Dressed in the smart white suit which he had brought on the trip he crossed the courtyard and made his way into the salon where Cinco Fermentaciones and Dolores Quinta Barranquilla were already sipping glasses of wine. They were not the only ones present, however: Pedro, dressed now in a black jacket, a pair of smartly pressed red trousers, and a pair of highly polished knee-high boots was standing with them, glass of wine in hand, engaged in conversation.
‘That’s very interesting,’ he said, referring to a point which Dolores Quinta Barranquilla had made just before von Igelfeld’s entry into the room. ‘Do you mean to say that Adolfo Bioy Casares himself was here. In this very room?’
‘Absolutely,’ replied Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. ‘He spent many hours talking to my father. I was a young girl, of course, but I remember him well. He wrote us long letters from Buenos Aires. I used to write to him and ask him about his first novel,
‘Remarkable,’ said Pedro.
‘I remember telling Che about that,’ Dolores Quinta Barranquilla went on. ‘He was very intrigued.’
Pedro gave a start. ‘Che?’
‘Guevara,’ Dolores Quinta Barranquilla said smoothly. ‘Che Guevara. He called on a number of occasions. Discreetly, of course. But my father and I always got on so well with him. I miss him terribly.’
‘He was in this house?’ said Pedro.
‘Of course,’ said Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. ‘Such a nice man.’
Pedro nodded. ‘He is sorely missed.’
‘But now we have you!’ said Dolores Quinta Barranquilla. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll be as well-known as dear Che. Who knows.’
Pedro smiled modestly and took a sip of his wine. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’re too modest,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘You never know. I used to be unknown. Now I am a bit better known.’
‘That is true,’ said Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘And now Professor von Igelfeld has become a Corresponding Fellow of the Academy of Letters.’
‘Really?’ exclaimed Pedro. ‘Well, my congratulations on that.’ He looked at von Igelfeld, as if with new eyes. ‘You don’t think . . . ’ he began. ‘Might it be possible . . . ’
Von Igelfeld did not require any more pressing. ‘I would be honoured to propose you as a Member of the Academy. I should be delighted, in fact.’
‘And I would support your nomination,’ chipped in Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘I am virtually a Member myself and could expect to become a full Member provided . . . provided I survive.’
‘But of course you’ll survive,’ laughed Pedro. ‘Whatever made you think to the contrary?’
‘Something you said,’ muttered Cinco Fermentaciones. ‘I thought that . . . ’
