Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

I pointed to my badge and told him he could start with me, and that I would pass his words on to higher authorities. Had he not had enough to eat in Sóller? Was he taking into consideration that today’s tour had unusually numerous participation? Could I offer him another sandwich…?

The gentleman, a German compatriot of the nationalist persuasion, pointed to Beatrice and said that he had been bothered by that suspect person all along, especially when every time he heard her speak she was using a different language. It was an insult, he said, on a tour with Strength Through Joy, on a German ship, to be served up a Jew as a guide at a time when the Reich was trying to get rid of those people. And this woman is supposed to be some kind of Führer ? Incredible! This was followed by the usual obscenities. This was a German group, so there was no need to tolerate the use of foreign languages. The world would just have to learn to employ the German tongue. Anybody who claimed to be a guest on German ships of the line must speak German, and not the gibberish this lady was talking.

This man, feeling so humiliated in his racist proclivities, was unfortunately making a valid point. Aboard the Monte Rosa were many non-Germans, bunched together in Babel-like fashion. Beatrice greatly enjoyed leading such a group, passing from one language into another, since it allowed her to forget for the length of one difficult day her inborn mistrust of the human race.

The gentleman worked himself into such a lather that he could hardly restrain himself from rushing at Beatrice. As long as he exhibited such self-control, I felt I could let him bluster away. The scene had already upset a number of other tourists. The only person noticing nothing was the foreign tarantula, the ‘lady’ who had stung my compatriot so fiercely. This guy was probably some fancy Party official, since nobody tried to stop his harangue. On the contrary, the group moved sullenly away — the hole in the cliff no longer had their attention. My German compatriot kept up his barrage of expletives. I nodded in his direction, a gesture that he took to mean encouragement — and this prevented me from doing what I wanted most to do. Once he was finished tossing up his bile, I wanted to grab him by the sleeve and whisper to him, “Watch out! One never knows the company one is in. This ‘lady’—you could get yourself into trouble with her, diplomatic trouble. The woman you regard as a Jewish sow is no more and no less than Madame Enderun, wife of the Persian Consul to the Balearics. As such she is hyper-Aryan, maybe even Ur-Aryan. Have things come the point where the Führer is willing to unleash international incidents?”

Madame Enderun, now surrounded by a little band of steadfast admirers, finally noticed that something unpleasant was going on. The Ponta de la Foradada was no longer an attraction. At this moment the Center of Creation was the irate Teuton, all in a froth. Another gentleman in the group had listened to his tirade, and felt that this was the moment to do something about it. This was a quite ordinary guy in his sixties, with a battered Panama hat, a starched collar, and a flat-black necktie. From his vest, on a heavy silver chain, hung a medallion that no doubt bore his family crest. His shoes were of crude leather, his hiking stick had wrought-iron inserts, and his speech was replete with gutterals. Woe to whoever maligns a citizen of Switzerland!

The German guy, the chaibe Schwob , was now summarily upbraided in the mode of Schwyzerdütsch that gets spoken in Basel and environs. He was given a thorough dressing-down. But did he understand a word of it? If so, he learned that a specific aristocratic family had been living in Basel since the 11th century, and that this lady, hei jo —the hiking stick was pointed toward Beatrice — was part of the very same family with all its ck’s and ck-dt’s in spite of her Spanish skin color. And he was told, in addition, just what a Löli was, how he should be ashamed of himself and that — here the hiking stick was again pointed, but now directly at the Schwob, who stepped back a pace — goddamned Prussian that he was, he should immediately get out of sight, or else…

William Tell had shot his arrow!

Several other Swiss tourists stepped forward from guarding Beatrice and assumed a threatening stance, which announced that they wouldn’t abide a fellow citizen being defamed, thus forcing the defamer to face a small crowd. The Swiss hiker warned the German that he was obviously outnumbered. I told my fuming compatriot that it would be best if he just gave up, and added that the man from Basel bore the renowned name of Strub.

Condemnation of the German’s behavior resounded from a dozen throats. But he kept standing there, like an owl at midday being attacked by flocks of angry birds. He was speechless, since he was unaware whether his true Führer was alive or dead. Just one push of a Basel hiking stick, and this racist crackpot would have plunged into the arms of the octopus down below, his ghostly shade wafting down over a Mallorcan cliff.

Back at my official Führer car, the tourists were waiting impatiently. What was that scene all about at the Foradada, they asked. Did it have to do with the lady guide? Was somebody mad at her? She was probably a Jewess, as you might expect in this day and age. But then again, in a foreign country one shouldn’t be quite so picky, should one? It’s too bad about the beautiful landscape, though, and with the ocean so very, very blue, and that green octopus down there! Politics should be left back home, or maybe some people shouldn’t even leave home if they’re political. But then again, that fellow probably was right to protest. The trip was happening with German money, and people had a right to demand German treatment.

I gave my charges the long and involved personal history of Madame Enderun, the daughter of the Persian Consul General in Madrid, who owned a finca on the island of Mallorca. I told them I would show them his estate, with its subtropical garden and all. The German protester, I said, had been thinking that she was just another Jewish sow, which caused the Swiss delegation to man the ramparts, since Madame Enderun had attended Basel University, and besides many other languages spoke Swiss German. As that German fellow must have known, dialects are a binding force.

If she was Persian — and that man actually took her for a Jewess — then she was not only Aryan but hyper-Aryan. And her father, the Consul General—“What a delightful posting,” interjected a German lady. “My husband hasn’t got quite that far yet!” “You’re absolutely right about postings like that one,” I replied. “It’s my lifelong dream to become a Chief Executive Officer or a Consul General, but…”

My interlocutor suggested that I ought to try out some courtship with the woman in question — try making the right kind of connection. Hadn’t he already seen me in Valldemosa and Sóller in her company, more than once? If I did things right, maybe I wouldn’t end up as a Consul General, but maybe as a special son-in-law with — how had I put it? — a finca . That was it, a finca !

“Over there!” I cried out. “That’s the Enderun estate!” I was pointing toward a finca that we were passing by on the dusty road at the moment.

That day, the Monte Rosa left the Palma harbor rather late. People said that the delayed departure had to do with events taking place in Germany. This left the tourists with a few hours to kill in Palma.

Beatrice and I, as completely dead as we wished the German Führer to be, sat on the Plaza Atarazanas drinking the dust out of our throats. Suddenly we were joined by the ladies and gentlemen from my tour group, who sat down a few tables away from us. The man who had quizzed me raised a teasing finger, as did the lady with him. “Aha!” they called across the café aisle. “Everything going on schedule?”