Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

Had Zwingli bought the bogus Cranach himself and then shoved it on to some museum for a cool million? Before our expert could offer some comment along these lines, the doorbell rang again. It wasn’t more workmen, just a man. All alone, short, limping, and dirty: Don Darío.

Yes, good reader, it was one and the same Don Darío from the Príncipe, Don Helvecio’s personal spokesman, the crippled goad to his virility, the originator of the winged words about a man having to stand up like a man to avoid falling down; the anarchist who had been tossed out of the Conde’s gunpowder chamber, the sworn enemy of the Pope and all of God’s black-robed subalterns; the owner of a bullfighting arena in Felanitx; the political schemer, the man who swore bloody revenge on the banker Juan March. It was the man, in a word, who was everything but a martyr to his wardrobe. Just to imagine that I almost missed out on this character! This book of mine has grown in size; chapter has followed upon finished chapter. But Don Darío has been seemingly reluctant to submit his person to my chronicling research. Just a while ago I promised my reader to stage a special parade in which he would appear in the festive get-up of his filthiest suit, a set of duds to which I might attach a fleck of Juan March’s blood as a decoration Pour le mérite , the highest order issued by the Mallorcan vendetta.

Well, here he finally is, a latecomer, just in time. His murderous intentions haven’t mollified his awkward limp, but you can easily read them in his glistening eyes, as always just visible behind his permanently fogged-up pince-nez. He is given a cup of coffee, and straightaway he spills it. He smokes a clumsily rolled cigarette, and lets the dropping embers burn holes in his pants, his underpants, and his skin. He refers to this behavior proudly as his own form of Inquisition, a quest for liberty, backed up by a sizeable bank account — though decidedly not one at Juan March’s bank.

Beatrice would never touch Don Darío with a ten-foot pole. Happily, she didn’t even have to try, for Don Helvecio had his rooms in a part of the house that was several flea-jumps away from ours. Don Darío had fleas, too. And because there is nothing in the world more infectious than these animals, Beatrice was already imagining that her beloved Zwingli was scratching himself again. “No doubt it’s typhus,” she said. “Just you wait.”

The two gentlemen slunk around like conspirators inside the lavishly furnished General Secretariat, making obscure remarks to each other. At my inquiry as to what they were planning, and what my function might be in their International University, I received a reply that sounded like a rebuke: “First we’re going to get legally incorporated. Then things will start up.” It was Zwingli who made this announcement. Don Darío seconded his partner’s plan, and added, almost like a command, that they would start out by testing the utility of certain inventions—“Let’s see your list!”

My hour had arrived!

I brought them the list of all my inventions, which by now had grown to considerable length. From my doodad for factory outlet shops to my revolutionary thingamabob for book production, it contained a broad display of possibilities for a company with limited liability and unlimited resourcefulness.

Wielding a silver automatic pencil, Don Darío checked over everything. Far-sighted businessman that he was, he crossed out anything he “felt rather sure” had already been invented — which is how he expressed himself, probably to avoid offending me. He didn’t know me, my notions concerning creativity, or my lyrical tendency toward excessive modesty. In short, he didn’t know Vigoleis. Nevertheless, quite a few items remained on the list; apparently my inventive vein hadn’t dried up like Zwingli’s godmother’s largesse. I recommended that the Sociedad Anónima test out my idea for an adhesive writing tool, a gizmo that today is known the world over as a “ball-point pen” and can be had for one Mark. A soda bottle with its neck broken off just below the stopper gave me the idea of having a spherical stopper rotate inside the point of the pen, an economical way of supplying ink. To Beatrice’s amazement, I succeeded in scribbling something on our whitewashed apartment wall using the bottle. But Don Darío and Don Helvecio were skeptical. My ink-delivering sphere, they opined, would be practical only as a micro-mechanism, and such tiny balls were impossible to manufacture. So — cross it out; it’s only a toy; we are a serious enterprise. I insisted on the practicality of my invention. What were the advantages of an adhesive pen? I explained to the terrorist that it could be used to write under water, based as it was on the principle of adhesion. All that was necessary was waterproof ink and waterproof paper — essential materials for anarchists who suddenly are forced to submerge. Pearl fishers, coral divers, or sponge gatherers could calmly take notes under water; victims of shipwrecks could preserve their diaries. There were hundreds of possible applications above and beyond traditional handwriting, which was in itself a strong recommendation for my invention.

“Cross it out. Typical German pobretería !” Likewise my self-watering flower pot, my compressed-air bicycle wheel spoke, my Unkulunkulu, my Kwik-Stitch Wheel, my fluorescent typewriter platen for composers of late-night love letters, my zippered envelope — these all got crossed out. My city map with electrical direction indicator? Don Darío swung his pince-nez and asked me to explain this contraption. The unlimited entrepreneurs suddenly came alive. Zwingli went out on the balcony and whistled to a passing beggar boy: “Wine, coffee, on the double!” Coins bounced on the street below. Using a hotplate, he brewed himself some ascetic tea. I delivered my report, drew some sketches, and demonstrated my technical brilliance down to the last detail, before I let the wine plunge me into the ecstatic notion of possessing millions as a result of what these two coldly calculating businessmen would accomplish with my invention.

Some months later, the first automatic city map in the world was hanging on the wall at the Café Alhambra. And the world didn’t even observe a moment of silence, as happens at the grave of even the most unknown soldier. The Spaniards up on the terrace kept on drinking their café negro , kept on playing billiards, and kept on gabbing about their whores. The famous writers kept on writing their undying works: Marsman, Kessler, Keyserling, Helman, Graves, Miomandre, Don Gracias a Dios, Martersteig, Franz Blei, Verdaguer, Bernanos… But why list them all, when there were countless more of them? Down below, the nameless inventor stood in constant awe of the streets, squares, department stores, and touristic sights of all sorts that he illuminated with the press of a button. The commercial circles of Palma had given generous support to this installation. Any business that wished to appear progressive rented a little square on the electric board, and was given its own little lamp within the maze of the city plan. The legal rights to the invention had already been sold to Barcelona, Madrid, and Buenos Aires. Why varnish the truth in a book that, like any set of memoirs, stands or fall with truth itself? Vigoleis’ pockets never received a single centimo. To be sure, the two crafty entrepreneurs didn’t cash in millions, either. But many, many thousands of pesetas flowed into their Emmanuel-style strongbox.

The company and its owners flourished, especially once they intuited that all they had to do was pour wine — and let it be said to his shame, not always the best vintage — down Vigoleis’ inventive gullet. Each time, the result was a copious flow of ideas, in confused abundance. I shall spare my reader further details, considering that it would require another bottle of wine to continue the list, and considering that my inventive ideas have never even yielded enough cash to buy ink for setting them down on paper. How much might Hitler have paid me directly in 1939 for my U-boat respirator? And would Don Darío, with his benighted entrepreneurship, have crossed out my adhesive pen if I had described its practical applications more accurately within the framework of the real world?