Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

Nina had started early on to put her perfect physique in the service of her selfish desires. She traded successfully on this capital, and soon enough, as was only natural with a build like hers, she had no need to lead a goat to munch on desiccated weeds along the tracks, as piously Catholic as that particular line was between Neuss and Cologne. At our very first meeting, I felt the need to tell Nina that I had traveled that stretch of track dozens of times, and perhaps I had even sat in the train that was her father’s tragic undoing. This information brought us closer together. Herr Silberstern wasn’t pleased, and started calculating that my chronology must be wrong. So we dropped the subject.

When Nina was sixteen, she consulted her drab mirror for advice, took off her maidenly little dress, and became a full-fledged girl. At eighteen she was discovered at “Grubby Kunibert’s” in downtown Cologne by a university student who once heard her belting out some song and, on the basis of these noises, drew certain conclusions about the usefulness of her voice for her future. Some months later, she was dancing and singing in Berlin, Paris, and Lisbon — one naked Nina together with 30 other naked Ninas. The troupe went on tour, embarking in Leixões for Rio de Janeiro. With no further ado, the Portuguese count, always quick on the draw, selected her from among the 30: “That one and none other!” For a shepherd, each sheep has its own personality. He got her all right, but their pastoral bliss lasted only a short while. They promised to meet again in Cologne. “ Minha alma! ” said the Count. “ Tschüss! ” said Nina.

This Count, who was also a baron and a marquis, horny as only a Portuguese can be, and Catholic, reacted to Nina’s “I’m back!” telegram by traveling to Cologne. Together they prayed in the Cathedral and in St. Mary on the Capitol, and they also sought out the secular venues that had made Nina into Nina — above all, “Grubby Kunibert’s.” But they stayed away from the railroad crossing where Mother Jensen was now tending a goat and a goose. When the Count ran out of money and objects to hock — his last landholdings in Portugal had already gone under the hammer— he returned to the land of his forefathers, did some calculating, and married a menina who had no body to speak of but owned some vineyards in the Douro Valley. Their union was consecrated; old nobility gave rise to new nobility, and two kids were already in the cradle when Nina showed up on Mallorca. Now she wanted nothing more than to dash off to her Conde in Lisbon.

What was Silberstern to do, buffeted as he was between vanity and avarice? “It’s not the end of the world,” I whispered to him., “so, better now than never.” Once he’d got hooked on the charms of this super-chick, separation would be all the harder, even for just a few days. During this period, as Silberstern wrestled with the angel of his own stinginess, Nina kept everything under lock and key: her room, her chastity belt, and even her pretty lips. They communicated in writing, passing slips of paper under her door. She took meals only when the besieging general was out of the house. Behind her narrow brow there resided the instinct of all females who know how to hold off until their hour has come. Nina’s hour now involved the Count. And now Silberstern’s angel tapped on his wallet. Wringing his hands once again, he bought her a ticket to Lisbon. Nina saw fit to thank me for my service as an intermediary. Whereupon she shoved off, in regal fashion. The shabby Silberstern was left holding the bag, but he also had the satisfaction of entrusting his Nina to the care of a conde, marquês , and barão for one week.

Now Silberstern began to fret like an Albigensian undergoing the endura —or rather, since that simile does seem a little grandiose for this goofy erotomane, like a goat that for unexplained reasons suddenly refuses to eat anything. The bordellos of Palma were unable to cheer him up. Nina wasn’t writing to him, not even a postcard view of her Count’s castle. His money was gone, and the traveling coat he had bought her on Vigoleis’ advice — gone too! It was enough, he lamented, to make him tear his hair out! That’s fine with me, I thought, but please do that in your own apartment.

Was this one more night with millions of stars? Were dreams again floating around in the palm trees? Was the beautiful girls’ pet armadillo once again poking along under the bushes? I just can’t recall. And it doesn’t really matter in which astrological sign Mother Nature was located as, hour after hour, I tapped my noiseless way through the Hunnish tombs of my pagan tribes. Like all history, this account pretty much wrote itself. In order to graft onto the Thousand-Year Reich a few memorable shoots, all I usually had to do was look in my hometown newspaper to watch the nationwide German depravity send forth its most grotesque sprouts. But then our doorbell rang, and after a moment or two of fear — I am a night owl — I opened for Mr. Silberstern and, pleading that the late hour belonged to me and my brainless characters, I asked him what was wrong this time. He looked terrible. I went to get him some water.

He said I had to come with him immediately — no time for Huns, no time for Kessler, no time for my own wife. No man who considered himself a man, he averred, would stand for anything like this! And on top of it all she had insulted him , the brother of Privy Councilor Silberstern of Würzburg!

So it was Nina. Was she back? And was she back with him…?

In brief, with no ifs, ands, or buts, I was being asked to accompany him to the Casa del Fortunón —as Palma’s outstanding tourist guide I was aware what kind of place that was— to let this “fortune” lady know in no uncertain terms exactly what was on his mind. He would be demanding the return of his money, or another lady entirely. The one he had got was simply not of his caliber. “One whole shiny duro! Just think of it, Herr Doktor!”

“I see. It’s another case of affûtage , but this time in the literal sense of the word. That’s not my specialty. And besides, I don’t have the necessary probing instruments.”

Resistance was useless. This disturber of my nocturnal peace was not to be shooed away. I just had to come with him, he said. One whole duro was at stake, as was his reputation as a German. I was to step in once again as interpreter and legal advisor… “Oh, but wait,” I said. “If I’m supposed to be your advisor, then only in sexual matters. And as for having your honor besmirched as a German man, that’s what the German consulate is for. As long as you haven’t been officially deprived of your citizenship, you have a right to seek assistance. You know where the Consul lives. Take a taxi from the Alhambra.”

At this, Silberstern went raging mad. He lowered his head like a bull and started threatening me. Fine, I was leaving him in the lurch. Fine, I didn’t want to help him. Fine, but this wasn’t the end of the matter. Not that he needed me at all — he would now go straight to my wife and ask for her opinion, her advice, her assistance, and…

The man was almost weeping with despair. Knowing the lay of our apartment, he placed his pigeon-toed feet on the first newspaper page in our hallway, with the intention of rushing from paper to paper on his way to our sala immaculata , where the pages were piled on top of each other, and where Beatrice lay fast asleep. Suddenly sensing the courage of my Huns, I grabbed my crazed client by the collar and thundered at him, “Don’t you dare harass my wife with your thermopylic tribulations! If you do, you could suffer the same fate as Origenes — and by my own hand!”