Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

One day I was out for a stroll with Pedro on the Borne. This was at the hour when the Mallorquin either takes his promenade, or rents a metal chair from the Tourist Office and makes the pedestrians run the gauntlet. We had no money for a chair, and so we bumped our way through the crowds. Suddenly there was a commotion. The promenade came to a halt, and all eyes went upward. A bird of prey of the falcon family came plunging out of the blue sky, aiming for a domestic pigeon. The pigeon made a few twists and turns in the air, and then fell among the crowd as good as dead. The attacking bird broke its plunge just above our heads and soared away into the air. The pigeon lay on the Borne with outstretched wings. This aerial combat took place so rapidly that the Spaniards had no opportunity to cheer it on with “ Olé! ” Now everyone was gazing at the lame and frightened bird. Then a new hubbub arose on the boulevard. An elderly gentleman in a white linen suit and with an armful of books was running as fast as his long legs could carry him straight across the Borne; the throng parted to let him through. He narrowly missed crushing the pigeon with his foot. Some people laughed, others cursed. A boy picked up the pigeon and carried it safely away from further attempts at assassination.

“Great heavens, Pedro, just take a look at that sprinter all dressed in white! I wonder who’s chasing him?”

“Nobody’s chasing him. That’s Papá. He’s racing over to the ‘Circulo’ to read French newspapers. He’s just finished reading the English ones in some other club, and afterwards he’ll race off to grab the German papers. It’s high time that you were introduced to Papá. You’ll take a novelistic interest in the man. No one could ever invent such a character.”

It was Don Juan Sureda Bimet of the House of Verdugo, the wacky aristocrat who in his youth had been one of the wealthiest landowners on the island. He became so important for my own intellectual development that he deserves his own chapter in my recollections. I shall make no attempt to give shape to this balmy hidalgo beyond his own anecdotal self, nor do I intend to out-gossip Diogenes Laërtius, the ancient inventor of the historical bisbigliamento .

Was it a coincidence that I made the acquaintance of Don Juan Sureda at the time when the intelligentsia of the Western world was gearing up to celebrate the 100th anniversary of Goethe’s death?

The book dealer Emmerich had a bottle of bubbly in readiness for offering toasts with his customers to the greatest sales triumph of German literature since the beginning of the “Library of Golden Classics,” whose interests he represented in the Balearics. In Mulet’s tertulia I was asked to say a few profound words, and chose as my topic “Goethe and Germans in Foreign Lands.” Mulet was thrilled, and asked me to write down my speech so that I could deliver it as a bonafide conferencia before an invited audience. Nothing came of this, because in this case Mulet was his twin brother, and the other Mulet, to whom I handed my essay a few days later, corrected by Pedro and neatly typed out, didn’t or couldn’t know anything about this arrangement since he probably wasn’t the right Mulet anyway. The Goethe celebrations reached their climax on the evening of March 22nd, the unforgettable date when we were invited for a stand-up visit with Pedro’s parents.

Beatrice was a frequent visitor in this apartment, so she was familiar with the customs one had to observe in order to avoid being odd man out. She knew, for example, that there was only a single chair in the reception room, one that had never been sat in by any famous personages, for the simple reason that it had only three legs. In this townhouse it stood against a wall, not in the company of its one-hundred kinsmen in the Sureda arsenal in Valldemosa. Pedro’s mother, the princess, Doña Pilar by name, was of course a consummate hostess. But she was not only a representative of the highest aristocracy, she was also an artist, and as such she possessed a different sense of social hierarchy, and at times forgot to observe the niceties. It was up to her, for example, to indicate to her guest with a smile that he should take his seat very carefully, placing the weight of his so very welcome body as far as possible toward the back of the chair, so as to prevent it from tipping forward, since oddly enough there was a leg missing and no one knew where it was. Usually the guest would say, “Oh, that’s quite all right, I’ll manage just fine, thanks.” But things wouldn’t go just fine at all. It takes practice to sit down politely on a three-legged chair. But the family was used to such mishaps; they always stood in front of the guest with open hands, ready to catch him as he fell or at least to warn him by means of this gesture to lean back against the wall. This usually succeeded in keeping him put. Beatrice knew how to take her seat, but getting back up was always a problem. Still, her years-long experience with the Mensendieck technique of gymnastics came through at the critical moment: just a quick lunge forward, and you’re already standing.

Pedro had also instructed her in the second rule of decorum among the Suredas: when asked if you would like some tea, you must say, “Oh no, thank you!” There were no useable teacups in the house, since famous people had drunk from them and now piles of them were preserved in moldy straw out at the Valldemosa arsenal. Papá could never bring himself to free them up for domestic use, and ever since they were forced to vacate the Valldemosa palace for lack of funds, famous people no longer came to visit them in their townhouse.

Don Juan and Doña Pilar welcome their son’s language teacher’s husband. The latter glances intently at the parental couple. He is standing. Beatrice takes a seat on the chair as Vigoleis presses it firmly against the wall, smiling all the while as if he were having his picture taken. Down deep I am not in a light-hearted mood. I know Beatrice. She has no technical savvy, and in the heat of her conversation with the princess, in French, she will forget that there are certain laws of statics that must be observed. And sure enough, the moment arrives when she starts getting up to approach our hosts. With remarkable presence of mind I place one foot on the chair brace. It cracks, but equilibrium is maintained. No one pays any attention to the little accident — a bagatelle for these aristocrats who have already had an entire palace come crumbling down on them. People like me, who come from the bourgeois milieu, can be disturbed by the merest ripple of trouble.

Pedro’s mother is a small woman who dresses very casually. She was respected as a portrait painter; the King posed for her at a time when portraits of kings were only copies made from postcards. It was rather confusing that her name was Pilar. For me this name had become a symbol of merchandized carnal lust, whereas this woman could not deny her dignified lineage even when dressed, as she was now, in an artist’s smock smeared with blobs of paint. Unlike the slut of the Street of Solitude, she obviously rejected the idea of standing on a pillar.

Behind her stood Don Juan.

In his hand he held a trumpet and, prepared as I was for all eventualities, I imagined that he might treat us to a military march or a romantic song from Des Knaben Wunderhorn . If he were to do so, how could I keep from laughing? When I feel that I can’t behave, it usually helps if I press the nail of my middle finger under my thumbnail. But here? As a precautionary measure I stiffened the part of my body that ought to have been relaxed, and asked the aristocrat, “Oh, you play a wind instrument? Please play us something!” The grande placed the mouthpiece to his ear and the bell to my mouth, and said, “How’s that?” He was not a musician, but simply deaf.