Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

The woman who lent this bed of honor the glory of her body, Palmira, whom some called Doña Palmira, arrived one day at the little room of Vigoleis, whom some called Don Vigo, and asked him straight from her tastefully concealed shoulder, without cooing or lovey-dovey preliminaries, if he would be interested in giving her some company in her boudoir. “I want to sleep with you, stranger man. Why won’t you come and visit me? You are certainly aware that people pay handsomely for a night with me, but you are not aware how much I would give for an hour or so with you, my foreign man. My dear little friend, you’ve come here from so far away. I could give you so much, so much…”—this was the approximate tenor of her invitation—“but of course you wouldn’t accept it, for you are as proud as your dear Doña Beatriz. I admire you both for remaining here in this pigsty, for living your own lives that are so much unlike ours, and not giving in to the misery that surrounds you. For you know, my sweet darling, I’ve heard your story, and I just had to see you up close. So now, come!” The only alluring aspect of her appearance was her eyes, which shimmered behind gilded lashes.

Sweet, darling Vigoleis, her little love-cushion and lustful lollipop, gold medalist in the syphilis sprint and by this time fluent in Spanish, withdrew his desirable body from this dangerous tangle in approximately the following fashion: “ Señorita , my dear friend, my big little sweetheart from the luxury apartment, pride of the Ivory Tower — you are lying. For if you truly knew of our adventures, you would realize and comprehend that I simply cannot come with you. And since you are bigger than Pilar, I wish that you wouldn’t threaten my life. I don’t exactly love it, this life of mine, but I am suddenly in need of it again in order to finish a story I’m writing, the story of a poetizing (I said poetisante ) youth, whose posthumous works were eaten up by rats when they got wind that he was on his way out. But then he survived a leap into the void, and in his leather satchel there was no longer an oeuvre for him to destroy. Now he is making up for lost work. He is writing his fingers to the bone, just look…so let’s remain friends. As romantic as it would be to sneak around on the paths of illicit amorousness, it’s just as romantic to write about it. My next chapter will be an idyll about Palmira and this far-traveled stranger, and their encounter in the Clock Tower…” But then I noticed that the nymph standing opposite me hadn’t understood. She wasn’t interested in literature about love. She wanted love itself. She stamped her foot, shook my hand, and departed. No sooner was she gone when I felt the need to wash my hands. But I was ashamed of my twofold cowardice.

Over time we got used to the sounds of nature at the Tower, just as the neighbors of a railroad station become inured to the noise of arriving and departing trains. You subconsciously memorize the schedule and watch the clock on your kitchen wall. As far as we were concerned, this whoretel functioned more like a registry. We got to know several regular customers, and they got to know us: “Odd birds, that foreign couple nesting out there in the ‘Torre’—they must be some kind of token respectability.” Aristocrats have a way of showing disdain for the mob, even after the mob has long since tossed them out of power.

I think the time has finally arrived to say a word about the actual business conducted at the “Torre del Reloj.” Suburban hostelry, produce farm, vineyard, and trading post — all this was, of course, a front. Arsenio stood at the center of an ingeniously contrived ring of opium smugglers, who chose a cleverly orchestrated dealership in contraband American cigarettes as a further element of camouflage. He wasn’t completely his own boss, although in the Balearics he was the top guy, crafty and cunning, gifted like no one else with the talents of a field marshal, and equipped with detailed knowledge of the local terrain. The true boss of the syndicate was the noted banker Juan March, nicknamed “Verga,” a term that means “rod” or “switch,” a cognomen held in honor by the family to commemorate the weapon they used in earlier times to discipline their hogs. March was the richest man in Spain and one of the richest in Europe. “ Enrichi au su de toute l’Espagne par la fraude et la concussion ,” as Bernanos exclaims in his book on the Spanish Civil War, a war that was to a large extent financed by Juan March himself. Today, according to reports from friends in Spain, he is richer than ever before. Someday I would like to write a biography of this American-style gangster, but no doubt a more worthy pen will be found for such a task. In the meantime, a great deal has already been published in newspapers and magazines about this upstart. Yet as far as I know, no one has yet produced the horror story appropriate to the subject, a tale entitled perhaps “From Hog-Tender to Billionaire,” which would also be awarded the ecclesiastical imprimatur. At this point I shall only mention the role played by this political dude during the Wilhelminian World War, which poured the first millions into his piggy bank: grain exports from Argentina to the belligerent countries, paid in advance using neutral bank accounts, protected by neutral insurance companies. The freight consisted exclusively of stones; the ships were sunk by a hired submarine. A brand new game! A brand new kind of luck!

When we arrived on the island, this banker’s palace was already standing. But his father still tended the pigs in Santa Margarita, using a method that is just as amazing as the mathematical/philological talents of the famous Elberfeld horses: the swineherd opens a furrow in the field with his verga , and not a single pig dares to cross the line. That’s because thousands of years ago the pigs that strayed beyond the line got whacked on the snout, and their descendants still sense this. The younger Señor March, on the other hand, escaped the magic pale and pressed his snout far beyond the limits of the family farm. In fact, he marched over corpses, and that’s why he served time in prison when the Catholic monarchy collapsed. But he didn’t stay long behind bars. He bribed the prison personnel, from the warden on down to the most menial keeper of the keys, guaranteed a living for all of them in foreign climes, and arranged a clever escape for the whole caravan via La Linea across the border to a ship waiting at Gibraltar. This coup cost the banker several millions. The nascent Spanish Republic was already beginning to topple. Don Darío, who bore a personal grudge against Don Juan as the result of a murder case, suffered a nervous breakdown while the monarchists celebrated lavishly. During this time, Beatrice was giving French lessons to a certain señorita . On the day the escape was announced, she received champagne. Her pupil’s Papá was Don Juan March’s lawyer.

Juan March came up with a brilliant idea for a wedding present for his own daughter: an airship. He commissioned Dr. Eckener to build a zeppelin for her honeymoon trip around the world. Unfortunately, the company in Friedrichshafen was unable to sign a contract, owing to lack of time until the desired date of delivery. In Palma, gossips passed the word that the bridegroom had already crossed the line; even solid German workmanship could not produce a dirigible airship in nine months’ time. Don Juan was content with a Super Whale from the aircraft firm of Dornier. For the position of on-board steward he selected a giant Watusi negro, who for weeks was a sensation on the streets of Palma. The smaller wedding gifts were publicly exhibited in a local hall; it was similar to a World’s Fair, and people came over from the mainland to take a look. Only Goering and Caligula ever put on such gaudy displays.