Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

“I intend to establish, as an adjunct to the Institute, an academy for the selection and training of nude models. Beautiful bodies are not sufficient for a painter; they must know how to utilize their anatomy, and this they will learn at our academy. I also intend to mount a campaign against the prejudice that nude models meet up with practically everywhere. Down here you can’t even get a prostitute to sit for you. Women of all classes will soon regard it as a personal and professional honor to be listed in my files with all their anatomical and aesthetic qualifications and idiosyncrasies!”

“And you, you sly old lecher-in-law,” I could not resist interjecting, “you’ll be the meat inspector for your international model-selection bureau. You have a practiced eye and an excellent grasp of womanhood — just as long as they don’t have you by the…”

“Not just a good grasp, my dear Vigoleis! Women are a full half of my life…”

“Sure. The half that lies below the belly-button. And with you, no matter how a mathematician or a geometer might object to the phrase, with you that is the greater half. The other half of you has other preoccupations — art, for example, or at least the visual kind of art. And maybe the Hotel Príncipe Alfonso. Or was that a vehicle from your private motor pool that drove us up the ramp here?”

How rude of me, in light of that classy transportation and the clever style of breakfast, to express doubts about the way he divided up his interests. Zwingli no doubt was about to floor me with a snappy rejoinder. But before he could come out with it, we all heard a noise coming from behind the door that had led me to the enchanting darkroom. This was the prelude to a brand new episode. We didn’t have a revolving stage, and we could already hear the preparations going on backstage for the ensuing scene, but this only heightened our suspense. From two sources of knowledge — from Vigoleis himself who experienced the drama as co-actor, and from my superior perspective as narrator — I am aware of what is about to happen. Otherwise I would now be pressing my hands to my heart, just as I did following the shock I felt in the sleeping girl’s bedchamber. And already I had to steel myself for a new set of confusions. The door opened, and in came…

During the intervening years I have frequently recounted my Iberian adventures in the presence of friends. People have said that I am a brilliant, indeed a peerless story-teller, the master of a rapidly expiring craft. Strictly speaking, there is no such thing as human achievement, just as there is no true human guilt. Rather, we all act at all times in ways that, mysteriously, have been planned out for us. Thus, without fear of sounding pompous, I surely may be permitted here to display in its best light this particular facet of my talents, one which, by the way, never really compensates for my chronic blockheadedness. I practice this art and heaven-sent skill of mine in an era when its specialists can manage to earn a living at it only on the island of Ibiza. What is more, I am very particular about the circumstances under which I practice my craft. The setting for my performances is by no means always ideal. This is how I imagine the optimum surroundings: a comfortable easy chair, but one that doesn’t shift my center of gravity so far back that my ungainly body is unable to rise for climactic moments. A bottle of wine, some candy in a bowl—“No, thank you, I still haven’t taken up smoking”—good ventilation, and a small circle of friends. Women? If possible, and if they are pretty, all the better.

I commence with a few introductory remarks, then with rapid strokes I sketch out the setting and add some people. At this point, while still offering a preliminary overview, I can easily get sidetracked. It often happens that an apparently tangential matter can become the main topic, simply because this or that aspect of the subject, some quirk or other that I had barely noticed up till now, suddenly engages my own attention so urgently that it subsequently turns into a complete, unified story. If I sense that my listeners are falling under my narrative spell, then this has a doubly energizing effect. I lose sight of my normal self and begin to embody all the roles that I intend to present in my tale. I turn into a young girl carrying a jar of oil on her head, or an ancient crone surrounded by a cloud of dust and moths that have eaten away the majestic robe she wanted to show off for me. Or I’m a man with an enormous hat, riding with ridiculous boots and spurs astride a puny jackass, a character who was none other than my own self — I mean the man, though in another tale I star as the ass.

All such characters become flesh of my flesh. They are true, real, and believable. My talent for mimicry is equal to any imaginable subject. Even if I start out with a bald head — which in reality I don’t yet have — and eschew the makeup-artist’s rigamarole, I can conjure the image of a society dame’s towering coiffure. I do it with my fingers or something — I’m not really sure how. I can even do landscape. In my writings, this particular element of narration gets treated rather gingerly if at all (my reader will surely have noticed by now which world I am most at home in). But when I tell stories aloud, the physical surroundings around my characters take tangible shape, and it is here, as the effect of my own sorcery, that I begin to take notice of those surroundings myself. Just how do I do it? I don’t know. It all simply gushes forth like water from a rock touched by a staff. Good raconteurs have always had an air of magic and mystery about them. And we all know that the origins of poetry are to be found in the ancient creation of myth.

To offer a concrete illustration of what I am trying to say: whenever I tell the story of our arrival on the island — and if the wine is good, if the chocolate is bittersweet (from the firm of Lindt, if I’m lucky), all this served up by a comely hand, and if the legs I see opposite me are of alluring shape — then the moment soon comes when with a single motion of my hand I consign Beatrice, Zwingli, and my friend Vigoleis to mute roles as observers of the ongoing drama. As if watching a cinematic closeup, my listeners now concentrate intently on my every move. I arise from my chair and push it back with my knees. My audience, sensing that I need space, spreads apart to allow me to move to the far side of the room. It is never necessary for me to leave the room entirely to produce the desired effect. I have an uncanny ability to stand against a wall and induce the impression that I am nowhere to be seen. When the moment arrives, all eyes are surprised to see me appear, as if I were stepping forth from behind stage scenery, or emerging from the wall itself, just as our double steps out of a mirror to greet us.

Not long ago I had occasion to perform this scene by candlelight in the private quarters of my friend, the writer Talhoff. As before, I vanished from being into nothingness, and suddenly burst forth from nothingness into the quintessence of the woman I was portraying. As soon as the episode was over, my silent but extremely attentive listener could not restrain himself from crying out, “How does the sonofabitch do it!” Well now, the sonofabitch was already working on a second bottle of Orvieto from the private castle winery of the Marchesi Antinori. No wonder that my transincarnation had come off unusually well. Even without the aid of such an exquisite vintage, I am capable of appearing to everyone’s astonishment through that imaginary door. I am ready at any time to match my talent with that of, for example, Christine Brahe at Urnekloster in Rilke’s Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge .

With a single word I indicate that all three of us have heard a noise behind that door, and that Vigoleis has taken his heart in both of his hands. Then I raise my right arm to form an obtuse angle. My lower arm is bent slightly forward, my hand with its raised palm and closed fingers hovers in the balance. Everyone sees a delicate, white hand, the one I am portraying, a hand that by pure coincidence resembles my own in beauty and proportionment — which only heightens the illusion, of course. Then I start walking, or rather striding, with my head raised — a beautiful woman’s head, so beautiful in fact that nobody reading these words will ever believe that my unsightly noggin could ever approximate its loveliness. This exquisite head then moves forward to the gentle rhythm of my steps and my extended hand carrying its imaginary vessel. My left hand holds up the hem of my robe, a brightly flowered albornoz . With each step of my right foot I offer my onlookers the glimpse of an immaculate alabaster limb underneath. The delicate pitter-patter you hear is the sound of my little golden slippers, not much larger than those worn by any fairy-tale princess you might think of. By hunching up my left shoulder and taking a deep breath I force my chest forward. No matter what I happen to be wearing — my housecoat, a colorful Portuguese peasant jersey, or a custom-tailored suit — the effect is just the same every time. A single suggestive word, and my audience observes the illusion of something that will, of course, remain decently concealed, but which surges forward beneath the play of cloth folds. One single additional motion, and these breasts would be as palpable as those of Simonetta Vespucci in the painting by the Florentine master Antonio del Pollaiuolo. Yet my reader must not forget that we are in Spain, where women reveal their bodily charms only sparingly. With every second step just a tiny bit of leg — no more than that.