The Squire Quartet. Brian Aldiss
‘My belief is that the cuisine is gelling into rather a success. Too much of this pasta and I may undergo a slight phase-change myself in the region of my middle.’
After the meal, the Russians excused themselves and Frenza slipped away to consult d’Exiteuil. Squire and Fittich decided to take a turn in the street; Krawstadt crossed the foyer with them and excused himself at the doors. He had no English, as Squire had no German worth mentioning.
They walked in silence along the Via Milano, or exchanged small talk about the goods on display in shop windows.
‘It must be important to you that this conference succeeds,’ said Fittich, as they waited to cross the next intersection. ‘Although I believe – or I’m given to understand – that many of the Italians are well-known in their own specialized fields, yours is the only celebrity name. I wondered why you chose to associate yourself with the proceedings.’
‘I’ve known Jacques d’Exiteuil for some years. And his wife, Séverine. That’s one answer. Another answer is that I am not an academic so, unlike the academics here, I have little at stake. Also – third reason – well, I am rather at a loss at home.’
‘I should not have thought that to be possible.’
After a silence, when they turned down a side street towards the sea, Fittich said, ‘Sorry, you may have thought I was probing. Perhaps I was. My expression of admiration over lunch for your work was not idle. I forget you probably will not know of me, since my work goes on in Germany, and is in any case not on the scale of your “Frankenstein Among the Arts”.
‘I should tell you that I am a rather old-fashioned teacher of literature at the University of Bad Neustadt, which is not all that far from Würzburg and rather too close to the frontier with the so-called German Democratic Republic.’
‘Of course I know Würzburg, and the Residenz with its beautiful Tiepolos. For that matter, I know the GDR … What literature do you teach?’
‘German and English. Mainly old-fashioned literature, before this century. But as a matter of fact I am not averse to the contemporary forms of fiction, and have held courses on the masters of crime, such as Hammett, Chandler, and Bardin, a personal favourite. I’m also devoted to science fiction, on which topic I am to deliver my paper tomorrow.’
When they were half-way down the steep little street, Squire pointed ahead.
‘There’s the Mediterranean, still looking inviting. Well, I’m looking forward to hearing your paper, though the interpreters will do their best to make sure that we all hear something other than your intention.’
‘Isn’t it awful? The German translation is terrible. Well, it isn’t even German. However, I shall do my best. You may sight a few dim landmarks here and there, through the fog. For instance, I shall have an opportunity to mention the writings of Aldous Huxley rather more favourably than was done by the American lady this morning.’
He shot Squire a quick interrogative look, a mild smile playing about his lips.
‘You could hardly speak more adversely. “Acting out prophetically the suicidal tendencies of the West …”’
‘Exactly.’ Fittich exhaled. He walked with his arms hanging relaxedly by his side.
They came to the bottom of the street and paused. Ahead, beyond a double line of traffic, were flats, walls, and then sheds, shutting them off from the Mediterranean which, from farther up the steep side road, had been visible as an inviting strip of blue.
‘The entrance to the harbour’s farther along. This is about as near as I got to the sea this morning.’
‘Oh well, we must resign ourselves,’ said Fittich, in the tone of one well-accustomed to resigning himself. ‘At least we had our sight of the sea, and a little exercise. Now I shall return happily to the hotel. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘The next session is not until four o’clock. We could walk along this way.’
‘I wish to have a siesta, thanks all the same.’ He smiled apologetically and tugged at his neat grey sideburns.
‘Then I’ll walk back with you. I flew in rather late last night, and an hour’s snooze will help keep me awake through the afternoon papers.’
They turned, walking side by side.
After a silence, Fittich said, ‘My considered opinion is that it really requires more delicacy to form critical opinions about the popular culture of today which we find all around us than it is to deal with the illustrious dead, such as Beethoven or Goethe. One needs an open mind and a specific vocabulary.’
‘We got a lot of Marxist-Leninist vocabulary this morning, didn’t we?’
‘Are they only talking to themselves? Do they not enjoy what they speak about? Well, I shall console myself with your remark – “If you like whisky, never get a teetotaller to write about it.”’
They laughed. ‘Let’s have a whisky together this evening,’ said Squire. ‘I have to go out for an hour or two, but will be back by about ten o’clock.’
‘Fine. A great pleasure.’ They had reached the doors of the hotel. ‘I want to talk more with Vasili Rugorsky. He seemed a decent enough chap.’
‘I thought so too.’
‘Of course, the decent ones generally turn out to be KGB men, don’t they?’
In the foyer, Squire checked his stride and went to look at the rack of postcards.
‘We shan’t see much of the island. Might as well buy a postcard.’
‘Well, I will detain you no longer. Some of the more important people here will wish to speak with you.’
‘Oh, don’t say that, Herr Fittich. I’m delighted to have your company. Look at this, the Villa Igiea. Beautiful, eh? I’d like a villa right there, pitched on the cliff.’
He waved a postcard of the ruins of a Roman dwelling, reduced to no more than half a dozen columns, set on the edge of the sea among pines, looking out to distant islands.
‘You also have a pleasant house in England, Pippet Hall,’ said Fittich.
Squire turned to face him. ‘Why do you say that?’
Fittich looked nervous. ‘My apologies, I should not have made the silly remark. To be honest with you, in the spring I visited your home in Norfolk. Pippet Hall. It was when your television series was actually being shown and your name was everywhere. I happened to stay with an English friend who, like me, is an admirer of your series. Well, we passed by your gates. I was astonished to find such a grand house visible from the road, not hidden, and close to the village, unlike most fine houses.
‘To be frank with you, I stuck my camera through your gates. You will think it a terrible cheek. And as I was about to snap, a charming lady appeared in my lens, strolling along with a young man towards the gate. It was exactly what I needed to complete the composition. I opened the gate for her. She smiled at me and said she hoped I had got a good shot. Back at my friend’s car, I looked at the photograph of you with your family on the back jacket of your book. It was your wife I had passed a word with. We drove off, I in great delight. And it turned out to be a good picture. I should have had the decency to have posted your wife a copy of it.’
‘I’m glad it turned out well. Excuse me, I’ll see you later.’
Looking slightly puzzled at Squire’s abruptness, Fittich said, ‘My apologies for detaining you. But knowing you would be here as our star guest, I brought you a copy of the photograph. Please allow me.’ As he spoke, he was bringing a leather wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket. He removed a colour print from the recesses of the wallet and, smiling, passed it to Squire.
The house in its mellow red brick appeared to nestle among trees and the giant rhododendron bushes which served as windbreaks on its east side. All looked serene and peaceful in the