Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

In the meantime Zwingli and Pilar had rented the upper storey in the Count’s house, an apartment that came with the shop down below but with a view to the shabby side of the “apple.” This arrangement, just around the corner and up a flight of stairs, was decidedly advantageous for the new shopowners. Julietta, let us insert here, was also dolled up for the occasion, although she was forbidden to show her face in the new establishment. Nevertheless, this was to be a red-letter day in the life of the General’s rejected daughter — but in a different way than her elders had planned.

The festive couple had a late breakfast consisting of a double portion of the General’s omelet, and this tells us that Heaven was doling out its grace to them in double measure. They soon left for the bar, where the botones had taken care of the most necessary preparations. The coffee-maker was heated up, the ice-cream machines were converting heat into refrigeration. Zwingli was bursting with creative energy, and no doubt also with pride in his accomplishments before breakfast.

Love is unpredictable. It can come flashing down out of a blue sky like a bolt of lightning, infusing everything with its brilliance. I am thinking, of course, of spiritual love, the unutterable, all-penetrating form of love that emanates from the soul and animates everything in its path; it lives in the Other as well as in the Self. Augustine, an authority in the field of both worldly and celestial love, calls it the vita quaedam, duo aliqua copulans vel copulare appetens … None of the standard lexicons has much to say about it, since source material is so hard to come by. Poets, on the other hand, busy themselves often with this miraculous phenomenon.

The other kind of love, carnal lust, is easier to fathom. It has virtually no secrets, since everybody in the world can experiment with it, and most people make ample use of the opportunity. If it is spoken of less often, that is because, as I see it, mankind has a bad conscience. We are ashamed of an act which, if it never took place, there would be no “us” to be ashamed of anything. It is not aesthetic, this mechanism that some call pleasure, others call sin, and sobersides don’t dare to name at all. One must therefore be careful when treating of matters that concern this wobbly old vehicle. I shall be as discreet as possible, but I’ve got to keep the wheels moving somehow, for otherwise I could inscribe my finis operis right here. One thing leads to another. And whoever is dealing with Zwingli simply cannot avoid mentioning his Pilar. The axles on their sexual vehicle were ungreased, and the result was a little conflagration. Happily there was plenty of ice on hand, so the damage to their bodies could be repaired. What we refer to as the soul was never involved in the calamity.

Zwingli is said to have looked handsome with a pink carnation in his lapel. Pilar was simply beautiful, enchanting, a poem, a midsummer night’s dream. Everything about her was gleaming. Her lashes pointed seductively out into the world — bluebottle flies from the marketplace had laid down their lives for this stunning effect. Cosmetic preparations from Rimmel, Quelques Fleurs, and a dozen other Parisian firms provided her elaborate makeup. Sightseers had already arrived on the scene. On the terrace of the men’s club, more gentlemen than usual for this time of day, which they normally spent napping |inside, were snoozing away. The club personnel had been asked to sound the alarm just prior to the grand opening across the street. The mirrors on walls and ceiling reflected only festive, happy sights; the faces of all assembled reflected nothing but merriness and cheer. No one noticed that the crystal panes had yet to be paid for. Just a single day’s receipts would wipe away all debts, and this would happen by virtue of an ingenious man’s ingenious fingernail, whose underside today revealed not the slightest inky blemish. Not even the most bilious fussbudget would have had grounds for complaint here.

One more hour, and then we shall join all the other invited guests in making a deep bow. We’ll live through a short welcome speech, just a few words, won’t even have to listen, we’ll all nod yes yes yes, kiss the pretty barmaid’s hand, terrific babe, right? you bet, wonder where he found her, you’d like to take her just about anyplace at all, whaddaya mean anyplace, all depends on what you think of how they got together, whaddaya mean, aw, you know, you mean ya don’t know where Don Helvecio dug up his Helvetia, no sir, well juicy chicks like that don’t grow like cheese in the Swiss Alps, haha, but sex-ee I tell ya, I don’t care what stable she’s from, and her trainer, not bad how he pulled the Príncipe out of the shit, bet none of us coudda done it. Great country, Switzerland, but if ya ask me their watches run a little bit too accurate, olé Don Jaime, olé Manolo, you here too? and there’s our governor over there, yessirree, everybody who’s for progress on the island has come over here to get cooled off.

There is a clapping of hands, Antonio and his waiters distribute café negro . The snoozers wake up by themselves, rise up in their armchairs, and have to crane their necks. But it’s worth the effort: Zwingli and his ice-cream sundae are coming around the corner—

— and disappear into the shop. Then the door designated by the word “DOOR” closes behind them. Final technical inspection, everyone figures, because that was the room that contained all the machinery. The drains have been unplugged, the electric centrifugal pump is humming away to keep the tank under the roof constantly filled. A glass-washing machine, on test loan from the manufacturer (lucky for Beatrice!) needs only to be plugged in, and in the twinkling of an electrical eye it will chase away even the most tenacious bacillus, leaving the glasses germ-free for the next round of customers.

Zwingli must have been rubbing his hands in anticipation. The champagne was at just the right temperature. Pilar, the Venus of the Island risen from the ocean foam, was to let a few corks pop against the mirrored ceiling as a signal that the ceremony has begun. Our theater director thought up this terrific stage effect: first the exploding corks, then, through a crack in the front door, a beautiful hand would appear, followed by a gorgeous arm, then champagne foam would spill on the ground, and finally the Goddess Herself would step forth…

Unscheduled, like so much else in life, there now burst onto the scene, dressed in juvenile ceremonial array, the Goddess’ daughter.

Julietta had pleaded with her mother and foster father, amid tears that bespoke her serious devotion to the Fourth Commandment, that her real father — the General, Don Julio — should be allowed to participate in the opening celebration. In truth he would have been in excellent company among the dignitaries who had now arrived in numbers that exceeded all expectations. And if he had brought along his frictionless spouse with her campfollower’s bosom, her varicose veins, and her ivory fan, we might have caught sight of that item of the General’s house furnishings as well.

But the defender of his Mediterranean redoubt was deemed unworthy to lick ice cream in the new bar named after his resurrected kitchen fairy. Julietta fumed and cried and shouted, she bared her teeth and uttered dire threats (children always have lots of material they can use to blackmail their parents) for weeks on end. But to no avail. The lord and lady of ice cream could not be softened up. Worse yet: as Julietta tried to sneak in through the crack in the afore-mentioned door, at the critical moment just before the champagne foam was to start flowing, her mother shoved her back outside with a hoarsely hissed curse. The poor child was repulsed, disowned before the multitudes, whose eyes had been staring expectantly at the front entrance. No more scenes, Helvecio! Tell us yourself that there’s too much at stake!