Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

In Lyon we missed our connection. Perambulating on the railway platform I saw a traveler whose suitcase burst just as his train was pulling into the station. The contents spilled out all over the platform, and in the throng of passengers they got partly trampled, partly kicked under the wheels. The man’s catastrophe was complete. He was close to tears, and his train left without him. With a porter’s help he collected what was left of his belongings, but since his suitcase was destroyed, all he could do was tie up his things inside his pajamas.

Witnessing this anonymous incident was sufficient for me to take measures to prevent us from ever confronting such a disaster while traveling. Quick as a whistle, I entered the city and bought a few yards of leather strapping, some hemp rope, and some narrow belts with adjustable buckles. All this to the amazement of Beatrice, who trusted in the solid craftsmanship of her Swiss luggage, and thus could say that she had already traveled far and wide without ropes and straps, which is to say, far and wide without anything bursting apart — enough to make her complacent. The fact that back there in Lyon, Heaven had thrust a man with suitcase trouble before Vigoleis’ eyes, thus opening them for him; the fact that Providence itself was operative on that occasion — all this did not become clear to us until something of our own burst apart: not our luggage but our entire existence. But I still had the ropes! Here in our naked abbey cell we could now put them to excellent use; Beatrice will soon find out just how clever I was with them. To go right ahead and hang myself with them would, in the light of such possibilities, have been tasteless and, besides, beneath my dignity as an inventor.

“I’m going with you, I’m not staying here. And that smell is back again — sickening! But first let’s go get our luggage before the rest gets stolen.”

“Stolen?” I pointed upwards, where anyone could enter freely. And then, with five pesetas in our pocket, we set off to greet the thousands more that could have arrived for me that very day at the Banca March. When the need is greatest, God is often very near — I dare not say that at such times He is closest of all, for otherwise He would not have sent us on the pilgrimage to this cloister of lust. Or was He testing us, like Abraham in the Land of Moriah? Whoever in God’s world is unprepared for the worst, will find that he can easily get the short end of the stick. And on that late morning the heroes of our story picked the very shortest end of the stick of their destiny. There was no money at the post office; no mail at all had come for us, and at the bank our duro had not spawned any children. In monetary affairs there is no such thing as parthenogenesis, and so we were left with no other choice but to break the duro to purchase some necessities. Necessities? What is a rock-bottom necessity for people in our position? The way we solved this problem will give my reader some insight into the very essence of our psychological condition, now that he has paid witness to this and that event taking place behind the curtain of our unsanctified married life of woe.

In a saloon frequented only by donkey drivers and similarly picturesque barefoot types, we each had an espresso, then another and yet a third, for even though the odor of the slaughterhouse had gone from the atmosphere, it hadn’t left our noses, not to mention our stomachs. Three café negro can do wonders in such a situation. Then we purchased an alcohol burner, which Beatrice called our “lantern”—the cheapest model, not the kind that explodes. Then we bought some fuel and a long-handled pan for frying, boiling, sautéing, and roasting, since we aimed to limit our culinary needs to a half-pint of milk, a fried egg, a sobrasada , and a slice of bread apiece. With our remaining cash we bought a bar of cooking chocolate à la española , cigarettes, and some nautical zwieback. That was the extent of our provisioning for the expedition back to our planetarium. Some few items were no doubt lacking, but even without wine and canned sardines, we no longer were drifting in quite such rudderless fashion. After all, I still had my providential ropes, my inventor’s brain, and my hopes set on Victor Emmanuel van Vriesland in Amsterdam. Beatrice had what was inimitably hers: music in her head, and the somber premonition that she would never have a concert grand. And yet (she thinks) there will still be music, my dear; you can depend on Vigoleis, who calls himself unmusical. On my part, I think: I’ll have to stay ahead of her by one or two paces when we reach that hostel of ours — to remove that trademark from the toilet bowl. First I’ll dilute the mess to soften it up.

Without delay we set out homewards, planning to reach the cool shadows of our abbey before the hottest hour of the day. It was then that I first noticed how my eyes kept searching the roadway for useful objects. It was worth my trouble: I found a nail, a piece of wire, another nail, and several more rusty things that seemed promising. Beatrice observed my scavenging without saying a word; she was resigning herself to this new phase in her Vigoleis’ life. It was perilously close to taking up the beggar’s staff, and if I am to be completely honest, I’ll have to admit that it is unclear which of us had brought the other to this pass: was I the culprit, with my chronic dialysis as a hermetic poet and intellectual? Or was it she, with her unconditional sisterly love?

At any rate, as we came within sight of the “Tower,” I was just packing away my last find in my book bag when it all started up again with olé and hallo and how is everybody and we wish you this and isn’t that grand and just this way please. Arsenio’s huge mouth, prolific as always, once again set and dominated the whole scene. He was the perfect highwayman-in-chief with his colorful silk sash wound around his body at the place where, contrary to all anatomical probability, his belly ended and his thighs, clothed in blue velvet, began. Adeleide, too, made a brief appearance carrying a feeding trough for pigs. That meant that these people kept animals for market, a little farm work on the side for extra income. Here comes the old matron, limping about and yelling at a crowd of kids engaged in fun and mischief. They were playing bullfight with the skull of a real ox, and there was blood on the horns from real lacerations. The old lady was friendly, at once intimidating and amiable. In the course of our stay at this brothel I got to like her very much, although I cannot pretend to have understood her speech on any single occasion. Without doubt, what she had to say every time was profoundly wise. She had grown not only old but ancient in these rural surroundings, close to the heart of nature — or to put it in a more earthbound way, at Nature’s bosom. What is more, she had grown bronzed and stooped. Someone like this has seen much that isn’t contained in the pandects of my philosophers. This “abbey” of hers enjoyed a special prebend, producing income from mankind’s most human activity; this requires plenty of knowledge of the world and its ways. Na’ Maguelida certainly had that kind of savvy.

Arsenio invited us to join him at table, but we declined. No, we explained, we had had a copious breakfast in the city, a so-called “fork breakfast,” English style — Arsenio was familiar with that, of course? Ham and eggs and all kinds of sharp condiments. No, he said, that didn’t quite suit his palate. At this hour he preferred his sopas , the Mallorcan national dish, a soup that you fill with so much bread that your spoon stands up straight in it. But he wanted us to know that their kitchen and provision cellar offered nothing but the best, and were at our disposal day and night.