Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

Two customs have now been established quite naturally during the writing of my memoirs: the division of the book into Books, and at the end of each segment of our journey together a detached, philosophical discussion that we hold at the bedside of our guileless heroes — who now are of course asleep. This means that I have now begun a tradition to which I intend to conform from here on in — though I’m prepared to admit that it is questionable to refer to something as a “tradition” that has up to now happened only once. This is not unlike the disturbing but ultimately frivolous puzzle of the creation of a heap. One grain doesn’t make a heap; add another grain and we still haven’t got one. Even a third grain won’t do it quite. When, then, does a heap begin to be a heap, if the addition of a single grain will not suffice to form one? A similar but contrary game gets played by armchair philosophers with the concept — one that is closer to those who derive amusement from such things — of baldness. How many hairs must one be lacking to be considered a calvus ? For me, such conundrums have long since ceased to be a problem at all — ever since I had first-hand experience of the “heap” of money that two pesetas can represent. That’s why I have no hesitation in calling something a “tradition” that has now taken place twice only.

“Insofar as I, the author, have any say in the matter…” —You may recall these words from my Prologue; they are evidence of sheer grandiloquence and authorial hubris, especially considering their markedly declining relevance as we press onward with our story. Therefore, at this juncture, I shall come right out and confess that I have less control over the destiny of my heroes than the lowliest almocrebe on this island has over the stubbornest of his jackasses. With any set of memoirs it comes down to a question of the writer’s devotion to truth as the basis for the quality of his memory. How easy it would be for me to bend the course of events here and there in a more positive direction! Instead of having myself lie in Beatrice’s protective embrace on a shabby, sinful mattress, I could depict Vigoleis reclining in one of Mallorca’s palaces, whose gates have been stormed by Beatrice’s music and my unchallenged literary talents — in a four-poster, with mosquito netting to shield us from the frantic, bloodthirsty dance of diverse flying insects. Instead of being under a gangster’s heel, with a single stroke of my pen I could make myself into the adopted son of a rich and lusty American heiress. I could be luxuriating at Miramar, one of the estates belonging to the Austrian Archduke Ludwig Salvator. Would you ever believe that, dear reader?

Truth demands that the forces of envy will demolish Vigoleis’ capitalistic dream in Book Four. Why aren’t I carrying out here, on an ostensibly neutral sheet of paper, what I once did to my dear mother — a little act of hypocritical mendacity I am mortified to recall, although I committed it in the interest of preserving her peace of mind? It went this way: I told her that my marriage — which in reality I entered into only in secular fashion under hilarious bureaucratic circumstances in Barcelona — I pretended to her that this bourgeois farce had received the blessings of the One True Church. Thus far it might have been one of those little white lies that become necessary every so often in our devout daily lives. But no, I traveled farther on the path of iniquity. I wrote down on paper the supposed divine message given to us on that happy occasion. In the house chapel of a friend, I claimed, a Jesuit priest (no less!) had given us a special exhortation as we set forth on the journey of holy wedlock. In a few pages I gave free rein to my sacerdotal eloquence; I spoke as the Light of the World and the Salt of the Earth, taking as my model Monsignor Donders of the Cathedral at Münster, that consummate artist of the Sunday homily. He could have done it much better, of course, but for a layman apprentice — or rather counterfeiter — this was quite an achievement.

So let us stay with the truth, and that means with poverty, hunger, and the Mallorcan underworld. Our heroes arrived on this island and found a roof over their heads. It wasn’t a roof of the kind they expected, and yet it covered their existence quite satisfactorily. Heaven soon began to treat them ill. Things had gone badly with the trollop, and they lost the roof over their heads. But soon enough, by dint of a Cologne fellow’s presence of mind, they could once again reside under sheltering tiles. Troubles began anew, leading eventually to a day of forced marching, this time behind asses and an almocrebe . It should be noted that our two friends could easily have camped out for a while, for ever since they trod the landing plank at Palma’s harbor, not one drop of rain has fallen. Nor does it look as if any kind of showers from the heavens are about to enrich their lives. At any rate we should be happy that Antonio, with modest means that can excuse much else, has once again erected a roof over their heads. One doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, at least not so long as the benefactor is standing nearby. Once the benefactor has left — ours is already at the club catering to the rich old farts — it’s probably all right to take a closer look at things.

So let me put this question of propriety my reader: are you willing to be present as I take aside this gift horse at the Giant’s Manse and yank open its maw so that everyone, horse-trader or layman, can see plainly what quality of animal we are dealing with? You’re not afraid? No moral compunctions? No fear of germs? Excellent! I approve of such companions. Would you even be willing to stay on with us here under our new roof? Señora Adeleide will be happy to show you to your room — a single word and she will open it for you! Your revolver? No, you won’t be needing that here. Oh, I see, because we were talking a while ago about thieves? It’s actually not as bad as that, and anyway, Arsenio has a weapon more deadly than your little pea-shooter. Besides, our heroes are unarmed — we could even call them defenseless in their naiveté. That is what makes them heroes of the praiseworthy Robinsonian kind, those who repeatedly stand their ground in the face of the unknown.

But now you, my dear female reader back home in Germany: I’m not sure I would encourage you to pass your time at a place where the game of shepherd’s idyll gets played in earnest. On the other hand, if you do rent a small room, you might be surprised to find friends of yours here. We could produce for you at least one of your dear acquaintances from back home — assuming that you already know Kathrinchen, that charming lady whose husband is an Essen steel magnate with doctor’s degree, beer-glass spectacles, and a neurasthenic constitution. Such a reunion is entirely possible here. The world gets smaller and smaller the farther away from home one travels. For example, Beatrice had once met this popular society dame at the home of another Rhenish industrialist. To be sure, on that occasion Frau Doktor was very fashionably dressed, whereas here, though still the same merry and lusty Kathrinchen, she spends a good deal of her time in a convincing state of undress. It goes without saying that Beatrice wouldn’t think of revealing this socialite’s erotic secrets. And I am obliged to implore my reader to maintain the same discretion that an author of recollections must observe whenever he describes persons who have crossed his path, but who are still happily alive even as he strives to commemorate their deeds for posterity. Count Kessler, when writing his own memoirs, had enormous difficulties with long-lived characters of this kind. In particular, a certain famous princess refused to die, and thus cheated him — cheating, it seems, was her specialty — of some salient passages. He couldn’t just put her in his book as “Madame X,” Kessler told me, because every knowledgeable reader would immediately realize what species of beast was implied.