Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

“Just a minute,” said Adelfried. “Before you go on: are we talking about Willem Mengelberg, the conductor, the Concertgebouw?”—“Not exactly. The first names are different, the batons, the achievements, the fees, the attitudes — they’re all different. It’s the last name that’s identical: Mengelberg.”—“A son?”—“A nephew. His mother’s maiden name is Huflattich, and his wife, Rahel, is first harpist at the Berlin Opera.”—“You mean: used to be.”—“You’re right, used to be. Just as all of are used-to-be’s.”—“So you will swear to me that these people are genuine Mengelbergs?”—“I swear by all the Mengelbergs that they are the real McCoy.”

Upon hearing this, Silberstern immediately declared his willingness to lend Mr. Mengelberg and his wife the mattress given to him by the Nina who jilted him back in Cologne. I could come pick it up, load it on my back, and lay it down for the Mengelbergs in one of our unused rooms. If this was in fact the nephew of the truly famous Willem M. of Amsterdam — did I know whom that man slept with? First with… and then with… and especially with…? And as for Rahel, she was the daughter of Hindemith — if it’s the same one who was in the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra… Yes, he knew them all, all of them! Fine people, the whole lot! All of them distinguished musicians! And that’s why they could get to sleep on Nina’s mattress. Would the writer Helman be joining them? Is he distinguished, too? “Much more so, Herr Stern — pardon, Silberstern. He’s West Indian Rimbu aristocracy, hand-pulled with watermark.”

“I’m telling you, not only will I let these eminent people sleep on Nina’s mattress, they must sleep on it. They must , do you understand?”

I understood, and it seemed like gratitude. The human being in Silberstern was finally stirring, just as he himself had so often stirred on that mattress. I concluded that there must be something called compensatory bedroom justice.

It was already past midnight. As on p.612 above, the moon was wandering through the park of the beautiful daughters, where there was likewise a rustling, chirping, and fluttering of the coconut trees, the field mice, and the bats. The girls’ monthly laundry was a reminder of the transitoriness of the years, once again in this night of a million stars and a single Mr. Silver Star, gentleman and millionaire.

There was a dull thump at our door. But this time I wasn’t startled, because it was my own self, breaking down under the weight of the mattress. Bathed in sweat as if emerging from the sea, there I lay on the patamar . On top of me, at least fifty pounds of wool from contented Mallorquin sheep were redolent with lanolin, Nina, the brother of a Privy Councilor, plus the sine qua non of all mattresses.

“How come you smell so strange,” asked Beatrice as I lay down next to her on the Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung . “Where are you coming from?”

Unfortunately, Beatrice is one of those talented people who can tell whether a hard-boiled egg was laid in hay, straw, or into the farmer’s open hand.

“What you’re smelling is lanolin, Nina, the brother of a Privy Councilor, and what happens when people lie down on a mattress. When I take it back, it will have added further aromas: Carel, Rahel, Lou… Or should we let them have our heap of newspapers so we can sleep on a real bed for a change?”

Beatrice was already back asleep as I continued to ponder my special blend of aromas.

Next day, the famous people arrived. That night they slept on Nina’s wool, while the philanthropic mattress-provider was accommodated in some establishment costing two pesetas, and Nina was offering her delights to some sheikh on his camel-hair blanket, beneath the stars of Marrakesh.

Once Silberstern had converted his Hitlerian marks into pesetas, I told him that he could now afford a visit to the Casa Marguerita for one duro, tip included. The penny-pincher just laughed. I told him that now that he was again a millionaire he could afford a cardinal’s mistress in her boudoir all decorated in scarlet silk. I knew of one, I said, a randy cookie, at the moment on leave of absence. My miserly client smiled.

He smiled and twiddled his thumbs. He was not one of those moneybags who try to pretend that they are poorer than a churchmouse — an animal that, according to Iberian legend, feeds on the rancid oil in liturgical lamps. No, this nickel-nurser was proud of his millions, and prouder still of the clever ruse that had filched his fortune, a non-Aryan’s fortune, from the Nazis. I hastened to agree with him. Only someone of his stature could have pulled off a stunt like that one. It was further proof, I said, that there will always be a blind chicken around that can find some corn to peck. “But let’s get down to business,” I said. “What would you like me to do now?”

Well now, he said, he was approaching me on a rather delicate matter. Things were getting too expensive for him. If I was able, he said, I should figure out how much life was costing him, despite his modest needs and despite careful scrimping. So he had started thinking that he ought to look around for something reliable — a woman. It must be somebody he could talk to about these matters, and so the only kind of woman he was thinking about was a German citizen — because of the language and because of his feelings about the homeland. He was, he said, still attached to his German fatherland — unlike me, the by now thoroughly cosmopolized Vigoleis—“Or let’s say I’ve been ‘cosmocratized.’” Whenever our conversations hit the subject of Germany, this scum-bag’s eyes went moist. His yearning for Würzburg was getting more and more intense. Whenever such strong emotions came to the fore, I told him that nostalgia was basically a question of money. I offered to buy him a rail ticket at “Viajes Marsans.”

He knew a woman in Cologne or near Cologne, up there in my own German bailiwick. She was Aryan, he said, very Aryan — that he could swear to. But unfortunately, she looked Jewish. Her father was hit by a train, and her mother was still alive. She was getting by with a modest pension supervised by General Director Dr. Dorpmüller — he meant the mother, not Nina. Somebody had set the rail switch the wrong way. Nina was a manniqueen —surely I knew what that was — in one of the finest department stores on Hohestrasse in Cologne, where Mayor Adenauer’s daughter was a regular customer. Everything was sewn by hand, and because of her non-Aryan looks Nina couldn’t work there any more, and he wanted to send for her, and what did I think of that? A dependable girl! And what a set of boobs! And legs! And she’s tall! And just think, she’s educated, too!

I told him that with such qualities, plus a father who was hit by a train, I couldn’t imagine any girl who would be better fit for calibrating my client’s Mallorcan bedroom budget with his bank account. And so I advised him to send Fräulein Nina a postcard.

“A postcard? Don’t you know that you don’t send postcards to ladies? Nina is a perfect lady, I tell you!”

Adelfried Silberstern loved to write letters. His talent lay in his dictating skills, which allowed him to conceal his weakness: orthography. Orthography was not his concern, but his secretary’s — that is to say, in this case, it was my concern. My client would have preferred a female employee, one with boobs. And with legs! No inhibitions, no panties, the kind of female employee who in novels and movies likes to jump on her boss’ lap and eventually has the whole company tied to her little finger. Be that as it may, Silberstern’s sense of importance was satisfied with Vigoleis. All he had to do was say, “Take dictation!” and then start twirling his thumbs and pacing back and forth.