Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

But people whom I have myself caused to die with strokes of my pen, people who since then have proven to be very much alive — in my applied recollections I have restored such individuals to life, as in the case of Navy Captain Kraschutzki.

In the book, I reproduced the death notice of an uncle of my mother’s, from the Scheifes farm in St. Hubert. I added an assertion that God had forgiven this murderer, but that he had not escaped the secular arm of the law. He was hanged, I wrote, basing my conclusion on oral reports from my grandmother and my mother. This family oral tradition is erroneous. I am seizing the opportunity presented by this new edition of my book to set things straight.

Not long ago I received a copy of the local newsletter from the village of St. Hubert, the Hubertus Messenger , No. 98, dated October, 1974. Under the headline ‘St. Hubert Enters World Literature?’ the death certificate is quoted together with my explanation of the murderous deed. The author of this notice added the following commentary:

“The death notice for Heinrich Hermann Scheifes, which A. V. Thelen incorporated into his novel, was quoted together with other information in Footnote 29 of the article ‘Diary of the Remarkable Events, Recorded by C. Pielen in St. Hubert’ in the Hubertus Messenger , No. 42. It should be noted that not only has God forgiven this unhappily culpable man, but the civil authorities were also merciful toward him. Following early release from prison, he lived for a long time in the vicinity of Stenden-Rahm, where he passed away. Given all that we know about the man, it is clear that he was not a murderer. Signed: Ma.”

It was not wanton macabre fantasy that caused me to let this putative murderer hang from a tree. Rather, I was following carefully the legend about him that was current within my own family. This now takes me straightaway to the topic of the credibility of my Applied Recollections. What is a “legend”? Here in my Island , you can read Pascoaes’ opinion that legend corrects history, and in another passage, that truth is no different from legend. On the other hand, in Conde-Duque de Olivares by the eminent man of science Gregorio Marañón, we find the statement that “legend is a caricature of truth.” One step further on this controversial subject, and I have arrived at Ernst Bertram and his book on Nietzsche. An Attempt at a Mythology . Bertram’s Introduction is concerned specifically with the nature of legend, and it has often been contested: what remains of history, he says, is quite simply legend.

I am therefore grateful to the Hubertus Messenger , which has herewith permitted me to return an executed but now half-cleansed man to his world and to my reader, by removing the noose from his neck.

Further, there is need for supplementary information in reference to p. 462 above, where, in keeping with what Pedro reported to us at the time, I remark in passing that several children had died. This, too, is erroneous, for now it is necessary to add two more children. Permit me to explain this unfortunate omission:

In the autumn of 1976, Vigoleis and Beatrice finally decided to make a return trip to Mallorca to enjoy a reunion with Pedro, and to make the acquaintance of his wife and their three children. Besides, Pedro had expressed his desire to create on canvas a portrait of myself in old age.

After 40 years, during the exact week of our former departure and overcome with emotion, we fell into each others’ arms. And like 40 years previous, Beatrice received a kiss on her hand from this Spanish grandee — nothing had changed, except that we had grown old. During this visit we often retraced our own steps. But the island was no longer our island. It had turned into an encampment for international tourism. Where ships of the Woermann Line once discharged hordes of Strength Through Joy passengers, now each and every hour thundering jets spewed forth travelers onto the island.

Our first destination was the Street of General Barceló, the Calle del General Barceló, House No. 23. The street itself had not much changed, although the house numbers had. But inside the front door we found our old address number. A little farther on, at the corner, we sought out Jaume’s and Don Matías’ bakery, but it was no longer there. Then we turned into the Calle de las Apuntadores, heading for the Count’s pensión and the little store run by pretty Angelita. But great heavens! Our little street was unrecognizable! It now was one single bazaar, with tavern after tavern, each one offering, on posted menus and in pub windows, selections to suit the taste of Teutonic customers: sauerkraut, fresh-ground coffee, and similar items of German gourmandise. What had once been the aunts’ shop was now a restaurante . And yet — may I continue serving as a Baedeker? — the little palace that had harbored the Pensión del Conde was still there, but in more decayed condition. The tree-shaking monkey Beppo’s coconut palm in the inner courtyard was withered. And upstairs, everything was transformed. The place was teeming with hippies, who had established here an international convention center. I felt very uncomfortable moving about in such company and stumbling over them. They were living in their own world, and the new proprietor of this rooming house, a bearded fellow, asked us with a scowl why we had entered the place. I explained the reason for our visit to the Conde’s Pensión , but he was unable to provide us with any information. He knew nothing about this Count. Besides, amid all the noise produced by the unruly crowd of kids, we were hardly able to make ourselves understood. Where at one time noble personages had found shelter, a brand new style of living held sway. So we left the premises, I with my head bowed.

The Borne? Well, this once exclusive boulevard was now a platform for strip-teasing blonde Valkyries. Other ladies sat beneath café parasols quaffing their beer, their loins yearning for musclebound Spanish machismo . Their male partners, meanwhile, spent their time ogling the Spanish beauties passing by in blue jeans.

In Valldemosa we visited Pedro’s little cottage studio. The new owner allowed us to examine, room by room, the palatial quarters that Don Juan Sureda had completely squandered.

There was much that we had no desire to see again. Besides Pedro, the only other old friend we met with was his brother-in-law Don Eduardo, well above 80 years of age — an impressive character.

Pedro’s true home is now his studio in an old mill, Es Molí in Sa Cabaneta, situated on untouched land a few kilometers north of Palma. It is a magical place. What you’ll find there is a well, some donkeys, a grove of cactus, a flock of pigeons. Just a year prior to our visit, our painter friend was able to afford the installation of electric lighting.

To mention only one of our excursions, we drove out to Felanitx, where everything was just as we remembered it, and we had dinner in an old taberna . We chatted with the owner, who just then was celebrating the name-day of one of his children with a grand meal, to which he immediately invited us. We had roast dove — not the kind from Brindisi but from Binisalem, and a Felanitx white. As a gesture of thanks to our host, I spoke a few words in honor of his son’s eponymous saint, invoking blessings upon all who were gathered here at the festive table. In return, we two old, odd strangers received copious heartfelt thanks in the Spanish tradition.

Pedro’s inquisitive ways had also affected his wife Catalina and his disconcertingly beautiful grown-up daughters. These two were dying to meet Vigo and Beatrice. I had a great deal to tell them, since they wanted to hear all the stories of the House of Sureda that are recorded in this book, and with which they were of course already familiar directly from us, and in particular from me, the one who has made literature out of the chronicles of their distinguished heritage. I didn’t hesitate for very long. Once having started, I wove into my narration several other grotesque episodes from our personal experience. My Spanish tongue became quite fluent once again. But I asked Pedro and his family to speak in their local dialect, the language so dear to me even though I couldn’t grasp every word. When I was posing for Pedro, he always asked me to go on palavering. I soon discovered that my constant chatter was enlivening the painter’s creative spirit. In this way, the 40 years that separated us soon vanished, and the portrait turned out to be a masterpiece.