Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

“But Richard, look at the mistake you made! The guide didn’t say Don Bosco. It’s Boskop, or something like that. You know, that famous name!” What did she mean, Richard protested; he was sure it was Bosco. Then turning to me he explained that his wife was thinking of those apples in her garden, Noble Boskops. But wait, wasn’t Bosco the guy who sailed around the world? In school they read his travel books.

Navigare necesse est . A little education can’t hurt either.

I wanted to hunt out the tavern assigned to the General Staff, join in with the gentlemen and do my bit to ensure a glorious future for the Reich. So I took leave of my own group, placing them in the safekeeping of Cervantes’ ghost as they ate, wrote postcards, and prided themselves on the greatness of the historic moment.

At the entrance to another fonda the proprietor stood wringing his hands, protecting himself against two tourists who were apparently about to attack him. As a Führer I intervened in the fray. Ah, said one of the Germans, finally a guide shows up! And did I realize what a scandalous mess this place was? “Just come with us!”

This fonda wasn’t as emphatically romantic as the Cervantes Inn I had just left, but it too was typically Spanish, even typically Mallorcan. Three dozen tourists fixed me with fire in their eyes. Had there been a holdup? Rape?

“Herr Führer , are you a German?”

“Spanish, but I grew up in Germany.”

“Then you are familiar enough with our language to know the word ‘swill.’ This stuff here is swill. It belongs in a pigsty.”

The spokesman for the mob pointed to his plate, which contained a broiled fish biting its tail in desperation; in the language of haute cuisine it was “curled.” I knew the dish; it was rather bland, though tasty enough if you added lots of lemon juice, and it had a high protein content, very nutritious. In a small town like this one, when thousands of tourists have to be fed on short notice, the cooks often reach for this fish, one that can be netted easily and in large quantities. The inn owner couldn’t make himself understood. The waiters threw hostile glances at the foreigners, who like a gang of convicts had now gone on a hunger strike. Back home they thought nothing of a meal of pickled herring and sauerkraut. I would have to act. Blessed Saint Peter, come to the aid of thy servant Vigoleis! I tapped on a glass and asked for their attention.

The Germans, I said, were a great nation, a gifted nation, a clever nation. The whole world, though it may not want to admit it, owed much to the Germans. The tourists’ faces brightened a bit. True enough, I wasn’t able to transform the curled fish into pig’s knuckles and sauerkraut, or even into pickled herring. Eschewing such miracles, I decided to go the route of heroism — always a sensation for my fellow Germans. The ancient Germanic tribes, I proclaimed, were extremely fond of fish. The Rhine-Valley tribe of the Bructeri had gone so far as to elevate the salmon to the status of a divinity (murmurings of “Hear, hear!” from my audience). During the World Conflict, I continued, German U-boats under the outstanding leadership of their heroic captains had dominated the world’s oceans, not only destroying enemy tonnage, but also causing the man-eating shark to flee for its life. Not one of the world’s oceans was safe from the German undersea navy — except for the peaceful, golden, sun-drenched Mediterranean. The sharks got wind of this and swarmed into the mare nostrum through the Straits of Gibraltar. Accordingly, the science of marine biology listed this sea for the period from 1914 to 1918 as a new habitat for the notorious man-eater.

Ladies and gentlemen, what you see before you on your respective plates is the killer shark, but at an age when he is as yet quite harmless. In these parts he is considered a rare delicacy. In Paris, Chez Nogarette , a meal like this would cost a fortune. And incidentally, you are lucky that you didn’t arrive here one month later. This is the peak of shark season for the Balearics. The neighboring island of Ibiza lives almost exclusively on the infant man-eater. Note particularly the somewhat gamey taste. With a sip of Felanitx white you can lend this dish a piquant note that not even the Parisians can emulate. Shall I order a few bottles of Felanitx?

Within seconds all plates were clean. Not a man-eating shark in this world could have gobbled its meal as fast as these sauerkraut connoisseurs finished theirs. People called to the waiters for more shark, more Felanitx, and postcards. They wrote, “Dear Aunt Gertrude, we are in a fabulous Spanish restaurant in Sóller. You’ll never guess what we just had for dinner: curled shark with a very gamey taste. As we ate it we thought of you, and we hope you are well. Our guide told us all about this special treat. Later we’re going swimming in the Bay of Sóller. I hope there aren’t any sharks there. Our guide told us about an uncle of his who got eaten up by one.”

The owner of the inn embraced me in sight of the voracious throng and pressed two shiny duros into my palm. Then he pulled me into the kitchen. I had to explain to his help how I had converted the barbarians. A miracle at high noon! “ Hombre ,” he cried (and that means “man” to the highest power), “we almost lost the whole show! Nobody’s got sick? You probably know that shark is really a rare item. The fins are a gourmet’s delight.” This was an indication of how close I had once again come to the abyss. St. Peter, the miraculous fisherman, had held me just above water with his angling rod. But meanwhile I had myself become nauseous. I departed from the Curled Shark Inn and went in search of a place where I could lie down flat for an hour. My appetite was gone.

Out on the town the Master Race held sway. They were tipsy, some of them blotto. I hid my face. They were behaving just like back home; after all, this was only Spain. No one could begrudge them their patriotic songs, I suppose. But there under a blistering sun and palm trees, their “Blonde Rhineland Maiden” sounded even odder than “ Deutschland über alles .” Oh, my dear fellow Germans, if only you would stay at home! For this you’re shelling out a thousand marks?

I had no luck finding a place to snooze. “Herr Führer !” It started up all over again. “Over here! They’re trying to gyp us. They want three pesetas for this thing! Back home we could buy it for half a mark!”

You stupid nitwits, I thought. The very fact that it’s “Made in Germany”—that’s precisely why it costs three pesetas here! The talent for haggling is a matter of human self-respect. I don’t have that talent, and never did have it. I can’t haggle with God, or the devil, or with a vegetable hawker at the Saturday market. I always pay the advertised price in full, and as I walk away God, the devil, and the vegetable hawker chuckle to themselves. Nevertheless I was able to arbitrate this particular marketplace dispute — in favor of the Spanish salesman and in disfavor of the German invaders. I ascribed to the desired commercial article such a unique value that the tourists were eventually willing to pay nothing but the stated price. The sidewalk merchant flourished.

Soon thereafter my gifts as mediator and fount of information came in demand in a much more sensitive area. A tourist called me over, rapped his Baedeker and asked, “All right, you expert, tell me a thing or two that’s not in Baedeker!”

“Be happy to! I have a Führer’s license and I’m enrolled in a special course on unexpected tourist inquiries.”

“Fine. Then kindly inform me where I can find a decent…”

The gentleman’s language suddenly became cryptical. But I knew very well what he was in search of. Back at the Cathedral I had already had occasion to give a couple of clients some discreet hints as to where they might locate certain casas that catered to their wishes. After a plate of curled shark, this guy had begun to feel certain urges. He was out for something quite gamey and man-eating, something that could fight him with fin and fang. But I had no addresses in Sóller.