Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

At about three in the afternoon there was a commotion outside, overpowering the sedative effect of our household apothecary. I woke up, and at first had no idea where I was. But this condition of de-identification lasted only for a moment. My eyelids descended once more, and I dozed on without losing the sound that had lifted them. It got louder; it was a series of reports like the clappers used by penitents during Holy Week. Beatrice awoke too; she went bolt upright and screamed, “ Vite, vite , Zwingli is being killed! Let’s toss some water…!”

Now I was wide awake. I got up and calmed her by placing my hand on her forehead. To this day a laying on of hands is for her the most effective technique for getting rid of nightmares.

“You’ve been dreaming, chérie . There are no Pilars here with daggers and axes. There’s a storm over the island, and the shutters are loose in their hinges— alles kaputt !”

But outside was bright sunshine, and it blinded me when I opened the shutters. At the very same instant something hit my face, and I was in pain. There was a strident screech, a hairy something swung through the air, and seconds later I saw the glazed rear-end of a mid-sized monkey gleaming down at me through the leaves of a palm tree. The object that had given me this belated matinal greeting, a plaited wicker fan for keeping charcoal fires aglow, fell to the ground. What an ingratiating way of saying hello to new arrivals!

“You stupid beast!” I yelled up to the palm tree. But the reply I received came from down below, from whence I expected to hear nothing from out of the subtropical light-filtering palm branches.

“I beg your pardon?”

Down below stood a gentleman, presumably also a house guest, wearing a white suit that contrasted markedly with his polar footwear, which consisted of animal pelts and, seen from above, looked like two furry plaster casts. He stuck a gilt-framed monocle to his left eye, but then let it drop again on its black ribbon and looked up at me.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said a little shakily and in German. “I was talking to that fellow up there who just molested me.” And I pointed to the monkey, who in the meantime had discovered something on his own person that held his full attention.

“I’m quite sure that you meant that fellow up there, that damned little clown, the guy that all of us hate so much. Well, sir, we’ll have to get together and talk about this. Can we wait until later for the introductions? It’s unpleasant this way, at such a distance and with the two of us occupying different standpoints. My greetings to your spouse. Just take care, though, let me warn you. Beppo can tell the difference between the sexes, but he has no respect for any such difference. At your obedient service, sir!”

He squeezed the single lens to his eye, let it fall again, and disappeared limping through the house portal.

“For God’s sake, chérie , did you hear that? This is turning out to be quite something. Once again you are correct with your generalization about my fellow countrymen in foreign lands — the familiar and all-too-familiar ones, and the remote ones, and the remotest ones, too. Either they go crazy from trying to act like foreigners, or they get more and more German by trying to out-German the Germans. The character I just spoke with is as German as he is bonkers — an army officer, or maybe a dueling fraternity student. At least he wasn’t able to crack his heels together. He doesn’t have any more heels. The army probably marched the heels off of him. He wants me to convey obedient greetings to my spouse. So I obediently suggest that we get dressed, go downstairs, and introduce ourselves obediently. It looks as if we’ll be living above our means here, to judge by that monkey and this character with the monocle. But over at Pilar’s things just wouldn’t have worked out in the long run.”

Our room was spacious, and less oppressively decorated than the reception hall — which is to say that it contained only the barest necessities. There was no lack of a sturdy table for writing on; not even Thomas Mann could have found reason for supercilious remarks. It entered my mind that there was even room enough here for a grand piano — and with this thought I had unwittingly brought us back to reality and the events of the previous day. This re-attachment to the world, anchoring us firmly in our insular destiny, forced us into action once again. We had to make decisions. A review of our finances would provide a basis for shaping the future, and now, following such an abundance of misfortune, we had every right to expect better things to come. A trip to the post office, a visit to the bank, a few letters to our creditors…

“Beatrice, that crazed courtesan and guttersnipe may have thrown us out of her house, but she can’t toss us completely for a loop. As far as I’m concerned, I’m back to normal. What about you? Have you been able to calm down? You don’t seem to trust the air here. You’re sniffing around again.”

Doña Inés met us in the hall and begged our pardon in the name of her establishment for Beppo’s misbehavior. She had received a report on the embarrassing incident from Don Joaquín, a boarder from Germany. She hadn’t succeeded in persuading her husband to put Beppo on a chain before it was too late. The little fellow from Java, she told us, was cunning and unpredictable, and she didn’t like him either. And might she now introduce us to another honored house guest who spoke our language, Doña Adeleide? The countess pointed to a rocking chair in the shadow of the now-familiar easel. It was cradling the person of an elderly lady, who now applied the brakes, let the chair come to rest, and then said in a very natural yet dignified voice, “I am Frau Gerstenberg, and this is my son Friedrich.”

At first we could see nothing of this Friedrich. He had made himself small in a corner of the room that was darker still than the area behind the self-portrait of the distinguished progenitor and house artist, the man who had already outlived himself. Friedrich’s chair, too, ceased its rocking, and from it arose this lady’s son, a tall, untidily dressed fellow. He was wearing black-rimmed glasses and a matching pitch-black mustache.

“Ginsterberg!” That is how he introduced himself, with the same kind of ridiculously stiff academic bow that I was trying to rid myself of down here on the island.

“To avoid any misunderstandings,” the lady now interjected, “permit me to explain that Ginsterberg is the name of my ex-husband. Since our divorce I have legally retaken my maiden name, the one I went under at the Burgtheater in Vienna. I was known there as ‘La Gerstenberg.’”

As she spoke, her features no doubt turned somber, but we didn’t notice, because the aged count’s autoretrato with its dynastic nose took up all the light here in the hall. Her chair began gently rocking again, as was fitting for her dreams of a distant past.

“Why Madame,” Beatrice exclaimed, “are you the famous Gerstenberg, Adele Gerstenberg? If you are, then many is the time I have admired and applauded you!”

The veil of nostalgia that I had imagined descending over Madame Gerstenberg’s features was now quite visible on Beatrice’s face. What is more, her eyes had taken on a moist gleam that was all too familiar. Thoughts of Vienna always gave her fond memories of her music lessons with Juliusz Wolfsohn, which circumstances had forced her to discontinue. Madame Gerstenberg had caused Beatrice to take a painful look into the past; Pilar and her hatchet-job on the pianoforte were but a trivial interlude.

The ashen artiste rose from her chair, supported by her son. She went up to Beatrice and embraced her warmly.