Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

During the years when Don José worked as a physician and inspector of public hygiene in Valldemosa, the mortality rate declined by half. In addition, like any good country doctor, Don José knew a thing or two about agriculture and animal husbandry.

Since he disliked death, he was always reluctant to fill out death certificates. So it was lucky for him that as a result of the declining death rate, this mournful obligation was also curtailed by half. But then came the Civil War. People died in the thousands — of heart attack, it was said, right here in Valldemosa, and Don José was forced to certify this epidemic cause of death for the authorities and for the historical record. This is a customary procedure in all civilized countries, no matter how bestially the populace might start massacring one another. Whatever is dead must be confirmed as dead in black and white by an expert, and once it is confirmed it stays confirmed. The young epileptic in Palma had six weeks of experience of this phenomenon. And incidentally, Don José claimed that he could have revived the fellow from his pseudo-exitus by means of his wax-nose shock therapy — and I believe he could have.

And so Don José wrote out death certificates in mass-production. There was no end to it, for the war was not just a one-time pronunciamiento . It attached itself to the population like a parasite, and murder was a natural component of its metabolism. Until one day when this physician refused to fill out any more such certificates, and started swearing as only he knew how to swear. On top of everything else, he said, he was a Catholic Christian. The others were Catholic Christians, too, and because they were in the majority they murdered Don José for refusing to be their brother. If only this wonderful man had heeded the maxim of Don Patuco, many of whose exploits I recounted to him: “Don’t count the corpses, my friend! What’s the use? Nature doesn’t count your individual life!”

Delivering babies was likewise not a forte of this physician. He held the sane opinion that Nature was much better at this procedure if left to itself. One could perhaps assist with a few chores, such as heating some water and keeping towels and a sponge ready, and soon the new citizen of the world would emerge on its own and start crowing plaintively. My grandmother would have been an ideal midwife for Don José, for she liked this job and did it all by and for herself, with increasing skill from newborn to newborn. After her final self-delivery, as she showed the little heap of human misery to her amazed husband, she said, “Wöllem, count ’em up. Is this number twenty?” My grandfather reached for the bottle and drank himself, uncounted, under the table of his own tavern.

Thus it is quite understandable that one day Don José said to his German emigré assistant, “Bobby, I’m going to train you as a midwife. In six month’s time you’ll be initiated in the secrets of human birth, so you can accompany me when I go out on deliveries. I’ll wait outside until you’re finished. Or better yet, I’ll send you out all by yourself right from the start. That way we’ll need one less mule.”

Bobby, who was born in Essen, grew up in the shadow of the Ruhr factory chimneys. At the age of twenty he was already the youngest, most talented, and most promising teacher at the Folkwang School. His specialties were photography and calligraphy. For purely aesthetic reasons he wrote everything in small-case letters, with no concern for the philological problems that this usage might give rise to. His penmanship caused the Nazis to suspect him from the start, for their own custom was to write everything as big as possible, if necessary with blood. Bobby stuck by his habit of writing in minuscules and with home-made ink. This got him branded as a cultural Bolshevist. “Concentration camp! Shoot him!”

Bobby fled to Paris, after having enlisted the aid of a high party functionary in converting his savings into foreign currency and transferring them in monthly installments to France. For this, the functionary was shot. But Bobby had money and, as such things go, he eventually landed on Mallorca. There he fell into the hands of a kleptomaniacal German woman, who in turn was in cahoots with a kleptomaniacal Spaniard, who in turn was involved in odd jobs for the German consulate. His story became a rat-cluster of forged signatures, confiscated letters, and extortion, until the Spanish police finally stepped in and liberated Bobby from the hands of the crooks. The Consul wanted to have him deported at the expense of the Third Reich, which would have snuffed out the whole case along with Bobby. Then Manolo appeared on the scene. Manolo, Doña Clara’s son, a painter and a man of artistic sensibility, said, “Bobby, you dare not go back home to the Reich. Come to Valldemosa. You’re much too precious for Nazi bullets.” The old jalopy of a bus provided transport. Bobby became the darling of Don Juan’s household, and he continued writing everything small, subject only to his own self-criticism.

This German fellow was skilled not only with pen and pencil, but also with hammer and saw, awl and paintbrush, glue pot and asparagus knife, grafting tool and soup spoon, enema syringe and larding-needle. Don José noticed all of this. Bobby was inventive, too — just the right combination of talents for any respectable doctor. Why shouldn’t he also learn to handle delivery forceps, too? “He will be my assistant. No one else is going to take over my practice.”

At that time, former judges of the Reich Court were eking out a living on the island by selling sauerkraut and chickpeas. Famous U-boat captains were smuggling opium and cocaine. University professors were tilling gardens and making apricot jelly. Clergymen were reaching for vials of poison. Famous physicians wearing false beards were sneaking through the night to patients whom they could not treat in broad daylight for lack of a Spanish medical license. A German whore, on the other hand, could walk with pride the streets of the Borne, as if she were on the Friedrichstrasse in Berlin. And Bobby of the Folkwang School now refused to accept an honorable job! He eventually did put on a white physician’s smock, but instead of holding visiting hours or going off to treat patients, he painted the entire Hospedage del Artista in Folkwang hues, and created for Doña Clara a brooding Madonna al fresco on the wall above the staircase. But he went no further. He had no desire to assist a woman in her hours of labor — I won’t speculate about women in their hours of relaxation. Don José was desperate. His intuitions about human nature had failed him. His wax-nose method had no effect on this beleaguered German emigré. Bobby remained true to his artistic calling. He never again took up serious painting, but his hobby was serious typography. Today his name is well-known. He is presenting his business card with the type design of these jottings of mine, as evidence that nobody shot either him or his author.

When we first entered the doctor’s house, we met with turmoil that was unusual even by Spanish standards. Don José was passing through all the phases of annoyance and displeasure, from simple vexation to unbridled anger and wild, passionate fury. Don José the Wise? The friend of mankind? Had he been bitten by a tarantula? Pedro was certain that this raging individual was in fact the physician. His coat-tails were fluttering and his mustachios were aquiver, but he was still a handsome man having a handsome fit. Had someone stolen a three-penny Mauritius from his collection? Had someone damaged his pickled multuplets? He ran into the house, then back out again. He waved his arms around and shooed away people who were trying to calm him down, they too cursing and waving their arms. We were given a display of the strict family hierarchy of helpfulness: first Doña Clara, then Manolo, then Paquito. They shouted a mixture of Spanish and Mallorquin; I couldn’t understand a word, so I was at a loss to figure out what kind of catastrophe had befallen the hospedage at the very moment when we were to be introduced as new guests. This was embarrassing. In situations like this, one doesn’t know how to behave, and thus one doesn’t behave at all — which is exactly what we did. It usually turns out later that this form of sympathy with distress has created bonds that not even apparent death can break asunder.