Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

“Where I can find a decent place to take a leak?” the urgent fellow concluded his inquiry.

In the course of the centuries the little word “decent” has undergone significant semantic changes, and we can observe further change in our own time. Therefore, it was still not clear to me what the man meant by “decent” with reference to his particular desire. Did he construe the word in a patriotic sense? Probably. I told him that the appropriate facilities at the railroad station had been built by German experts in sanitary installation. No danger of infection, in case he was wary about such things. “But look, just ten paces ahead, that palm tree — just be careful, the Spaniards are a little touchy about their trees. Don’t forget, we’re not back home in Germany.”

The man lifted a finger to his pith helmet and disappeared behind the palm. I turned around, and there was a lady in front of me. “Oh, pardon me, Herr Führer , but I feel the need…”

For the love of God, I was all confused. Surely I couldn’t direct her to the same palm tree! What was this, a kindergarten? Fortunately, all she had in mind was the need to offer me her thanks for my wonderful explanations of all the sights. I was, she said, so very convincing (thank God!), and the whole experience was so educational. Yes, she did travel often, but to find someone who was so well-informed in so many fields of knowledge, and who knew how to stress the most important aspects of every place we visited — she shook my hand tightly and long. There followed an inquiry as to my nationality. Was I German? Just an hour ago I had claimed Spanish citizenship; now I renounced it in favor of the country of my actual birth. We were fellow Germans. How very nice — and she shook my hand anew. I bowed and thanked her for the pleasure of being her fellow countryman, and asked how I might be at her service. Well then, seeing as I was German, did I perhaps know Herr Müller in Barcelona?

Now it should be understood that every single German has, in his lifetime, known a Herr Müller, even if only a solitary individual of that name. I know one such person very well, seven others more or less well, and two dozen more who may have touched the periphery of my existence. As far as I was concerned the Herr Müller in Barcelona could well belong to the latter category, and I promptly said as much to the lady tourist. Mutual acquaintances are surely one of the finest things we can share in this life. The Herr Müller she had in mind was this tall, dark-haired — no, you’re quite right, he’s blond and wears his hair combed smooth, no, right, that marvelous wavy hair of his, the Spaniards are always so amazed, and those blue eyes, no doubt about it, it was our mutual friend Müller. What a small world! This lady’s needs were easier to satisfy than I had originally feared.

A tall, skinny fellow, stripped down to his trousers, came running across the square, his monocle hanging on a black string and bouncing up and down on his chest like a scapular. He was looking for something or somebody. His Führer , perhaps? “Oh there you are! Where have you been keeping yourself? Come join us for a few, Herr Führer !”

He belonged to von Kammerputt’s clique. The Officers’ Club, some of them shirtless and with beet-red faces, but as class-conscious as ever, had set up headquarters over beer at the Bielefeld Station Canteen. The beer was terrible, they said, pure horse-piss. Didn’t this backward country know how to make a decent brew? In accordance with my secret mission I reassured the gentlemen by again passing on some confidential intelligence. This miserable state of affairs wouldn’t last long, I told them. Negotiations were in progress with a major German brewery to begin exporting a special heat-proof lager product. The contacts went through the Consulate General in Barcelona, where my personal friend, Consul General Dr. Köcher, had taken a special interest in the matter. Because of the water situation, they had given up the idea of moving an entire brewery to Spain.

Nods of approval. Yes, yes, the Foreign Office was on its toes. They almost always had the right man in the right place — almost! Mugs were raised to our revered fatherland, our up-and-coming Führer , the new Germany. I much preferred my desperate palm-tree man and the lady with her Herr Müller. I made a mental note to ask Martersteig what breed of sectarians and degenerate aristocrats these were who would travel to Spain to take beery oaths on that resentful proletarian Hitler.

I went out behind a cactus hedge and threw up. Now I had earned 12.50 pesetas. In half an hour my fellow citizens were to be at Sóller Harbor for a ten-minute stay, then we would drive back through Sóller and on up to the summit pass, the Coll de Sóller, 1848 feet above sea level. But now the tour director is drumming his guides together and announcing a change in schedule: a two-hour stopover here, and that means water sports in Sóller Harbor. Arriving at the porto we guides shouted it out: “time for a swim!”

For a swim? Nobody has brought bathing gear, and so there is a general stampede to the single rickety rental booth. Within a few short minutes they have demolished it. Middle-aged men, hefty women, kids, all chase and claw each other over a bathing suit. Men undress on the march and stumble over their own pants; women brandish their ample bosoms; a Spanish bather pulls out somebody’s whimpering kid from where he got stuck under a tent. People knot handkerchiefs together to gird their loins. Modesty compels each one to turn the other way, but no matter what direction they turn their backsides, there is always someone else in front who also turns away. A few shamefaced individuals bend low and sneak into the cooling briny sans figleaf. A handful of professional nudists stride upright into the Mediterranean. The Spaniards are shocked. They are a prudish people and will not tolerate nudity. They protest to the tour director, but he is powerless to halt this natural catastrophe. Nor are we Guides able to put an end to the sinful spectacle.

A couple of tourists have now started a fight over a pair of bathing trunks. Two elderly ladies go off hunting their automobile; they wish to leave this very minute. But their driver can’t understand what they are saying, for one thing because he doesn’t speak German, for another because he’s fast asleep. Only von Kammerwitzputt’s General Staff, men who are, after all, inured to ambushes, melées, and naked violence, continue drinking beer and mixing the ingredients for their creation of the new German Reich. Lieutenant von der Hölle is on a one-man reconnaissance mission with binoculars. He has a fabulous broad in his crosshairs — marvelous superstructure. Back on board ship there might be a chance for some close combat.

The owner of the shore restaurant reports the theft of napkins and tablecloths — purloined no doubt in the interest of chastity. The tour director makes note of every detail; the company will make full restitution.

The two hours are up. Time to leave. No one pays a bit of attention. They’re too busy splashing around and getting sunburns. The car horns let out cacophonous blares, but to no effect. A Guide yells out oceanward: whoever is not in the car in five minutes will be left behind, and will have to arrange return transportation at the traveler’s own expense . That does the trick. People torpedo onto the shore, pull their togs over their wet bodies, leap into the nearest car, and off they go.

Every single car has now left for Sóller except mine. The restaurant owner had let me take a nap in his kitchen. Our driver rushes in to tell me that one of the señoritas is missing and the parents are frantic. I dash out to find them on the beach, and they start beseeching me, “Where is our daughter?” I ask for Daddy’s binoculars, and start scanning the mirror-smooth ocean. Not one young lady to be seen. “Can she swim?” I ask. “Like a fish,” says Mom, but she didn’t have her bathing suit, and without one… No daughter of theirs would ever, not in a million years! The way people had behaved here, she adds, was absolutely atrocious! I wasn’t to imagine that these savages represented Germany.