Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

In fact, Beatrice left the scene with this Frau Sopzin, or Sarasin, or Phischer (ph as in “photo”), or whatever. The gentlemen in the company of Herr von Witzprittkammer put on amazed faces — now then, wasn’t that Swiss German we just heard? I enlightened them: “Her mother’s Swiss.” —Ach so! And then they wanted to learn more about my “secret mission.” Although I had given my word of honor, this much I could tell them: never again a Marne outrage, never again a Compiègne. I was about to add “Never again a Kaiser on the lam,” but caught myself just in time to avoid such a gaffe. For all I knew, these guys might be members of a monarchist cadre serving under the man from Braunau.

“Gentlemen, it has been an honor! Führer duties, you know how it is. But by all means don’t miss the little town of Deyá, on the left up on a hill — I’ll tell your driver. That’s where he lives, our Herr von Martersteig, in a tower called Atalaya . Within the foreseeable future Germany’s fate could well be affected in no small measure from that little place, where a great man still exercises quiet heroism. His enemy lives there, too. Surely you all have heard of him: Graves, Robert von Ranke Graves?”

Someone slowly puffed air through his lips, and then said, “Good-bye To All That?”

“The very same.”

“That miserable swine?”

I heard no more, for again I made myself scarce, leaving the General Staff to itself in the shadow of the Charterhouse, which in its day had dealt with other powerful personages. Pedro’s Papá surely would have liked to speak a word or two in that gathering, and to show around certain objects bearing labels.

In Sóller new challenges awaited the Führer . The farther this tour took him, all the more tenuous did his hold on German culture become. We were to have our noontime meal in this town, which we knew from previous visits. The tourists were distributed according to precise lists among the restaurants and fondas of the little railway junction. The train station, of recent vintage, had a very good restaurant named “Ferrocarril,” where up to a hundred guests could be fed at a given time. The tables were already set, an elating sight for starved, dusty, sweaty tourists. The guides had to direct the guests to their tables: You over here, you over there. Truly a game of patience. I had to accompany ten people to a small fonda , which I myself couldn’t locate without the help of a street urchin. It was an ancient house with a dining terrace not much lower than the roof that covered it. Grapevines were everywhere, their fruit hanging in huge bundles right down to the tables. There was a glow and a fragrance over everything; it smelled of wine and olive oil. Dust and flies filled the air and covered the entire scene. It couldn’t have been more Spanish. But my guests turned up their noses. Protest! Were they worth any less than the people eating in fine style over at the “Ferrocarril?” And did their Führer realize how much they had paid for this trip? A thousand marks per, jawoll ! And did he expect them to be fed like common laborers in some greasy spoon? Where were the complaint forms?

Actually, only one man had spoken up — in such situations it is always one man who does the talking, the lead stallion who sets the more or less melodious tone. Later all the others chime in together in uproarious babble. It was no different here. Leicas got put back in their cases, jackets got thrown over shoulders à l’espagnol , and even less well-to-do travelers knew pretty exactly what their tourist-class tickets were supposed to be paying for. The Guide was requested to lead the group to the train station so they could have a decent meal. He was to see to the necessary arrangements — they were hungry! What a scandal, to eat in such a filthy dive!

Here in the land of saints, I again found myself in need of someone to protect me from this mob of philistines. No saint appeared. So I thought I would give my home town’s patroness, St. Irmgardis, a try. Legend has it that she miraculously pulverized the castle of some robber knights who were pursuing her with dishonorable intentions. “Blessed Irmgardis, come to the aid of thy servant Vigoleis!” I calmed down, my fever abated, and I clearly saw ahead of me the path that I should follow. It was the path of money. I was going to have to do some arithmetic for my rebellious clients.

“Excuse me, sir, but did I hear you correctly? 1000 marks?”

“Well, what did you think? Jawoll , a shiny G-note! You can go cheaper on the Monte Rosa, or didn’t you know?”

Oh, I do know. But now tell me, do you know Bielefeld? Ever heard of it?”

“The city? I know it on a map. Why?”

“How many of you know Bielefeld?”

Not one of them knew the city. I’d never been there either, but that was beside the point. Then I asked what city the rabble-rouser came from. Central Germany, so now I could figure out roughly what it would cost him to go First Class by train to Bielefeld: 20 marks. Now the electric railway from Palma to Sóller, I explained, was a product of German ingenuity, designed and built by Siemens & Schuckert. The train station: German enterprise, German architecture. The station restaurant: German art and, coincidentally, built by the same architect who did the railroad station restaurant in Bielefeld, only there things were a little larger in scale. The food at the “Ferrocarril” was good, you might even say excellent, but 1000 marks was much too much to pay for it. The same was true in Bielefeld, and there the beer was no doubt much better, Dortmund Union brand. When in Spain one ought to do as the Spaniards do — drink wine instead of beer, and instead of parking oneself in a German railway station diner, one should take one’s place on the terrace of a fonda . And this particular fonda was world-famous to boot.

They pricked up their ears. Famous places can be photographed. A wave of questions came at me.

“Well, you see, in this house, and on this balcony, Cervantes wrote his Don Quixote , in 95 nights by the light of an oil wick. During the day he slept, as many writers do. This is sacred ground. Surely I need say no more.”

No one noticed that the ground beneath my alpargatas was getting very warm. A few seconds passed. Nobody raised any objections to my travesty of literary history. On the contrary, they were already busy taking snapshots of the holy shrine, doffing their jackets again, examining every stone and every wooden beam with the intentness of connoisseurs. I gave a sign to the proprietor, who had been watching the proceedings with interest, to bring out our meals. I explained the various dishes, recommended them all without reservation, and they thanked me. The women went wild-eyed: what a marvelous Führer !

When a German sits down at a historic place, he takes a deep breath, rolls up his sleeves (if he hasn’t done so already), yanks forth his automatic pencil and writes a picture postcard. That is the way it has been ever since the world has known Germans and picture postcards, two creations that supplement each other. In the fonda where Cervantes wrote his Don Quixote my German clients behaved no differently. The owner brought over his box of pictures, people licked their graphites, and soon the homeland would be all ears:

“Dear folks, we owe these special greetings to our Führer . We’re writing this at a historic place, which is something our Führer got us into. It’s where Don Bosco wrote his famous Infant of Spain , all at night. Our Führer told us all about it, and we’ll tell you more when we get home. Oranges are more expensive here, and the beer back home is a lot better. Love,…”