Albert Thelen - The Island of Second Sight

Later, when we settled down to something approximating middle-class existence and began socializing in the “upper circles,” I identified ourselves as the notorious couple from the “Torre del Reloj,” the roomers in Adeleide’s house of bawds. There was consternation among our distinguished hosts. Daughters pricked up their ears and wanted to hear details. Proof! Doña Beatriz out there among the whores? Impossible! Our reputation was at stake. But our hosts were dyed-in-the-wool monarchists — like Juan March, who also led a double life. Everyone on the island had his second aspect. We were not shown the door.

How often have I kidded Beatrice about this Anakite giant and his duro! Why, she never figured out what the guy wanted to buy with his 5 pesetas! But then she has replied, “Haha, mon pauvre petit , and you with that fertile imagination of yours! What was it that Arsenio was hoping to get out of you? I’m the one who had to explain it to you .” It’s true. While I had taken a peek over the partitions of depravity, I had never looked farther. For weeks the gangster paced around me, interrogated me, put me to the test to see if I was eligible for a job as a middleman in the drug business. We learned this from one of his sons, shortly before the outbreak of the Civil War. His Papá had certain plans for me (like my own father). I looked promising. I could do a whole lot. But he soon noticed that I was too stupid for this kind of shady commerce, yet not stupid enough to be sent out as a stooge. It was the same old tragic story: too stupid and not stupid enough. An entire life can be a shambles as a result of this predicament. Can be?

If I decide at the last moment to make up titles for my chapters, this one might be called “Vigoleis in a Dress Suit.” Because the event to be described took place before the advent of Hitler’s regime of Strength Through Joy, it will be free of ludicrous elements in and of itself, but in particular, it will lack the singular clownishness of the German peaked military cap. The Germans are so methodical in their ways that they always invent a uniform to symbolize their own degradation. In any case, mine wasn’t blue but black.

In an earlier chapter I mentioned in passing the silver wedding anniversary of my parents, and how in front of all the guests, who were expecting something special, I stammered so badly that no one understood a word I said. On such notable occasions even the blackest of black sheep get to turn white; for about an hour the people are proud of you. But of course it went all wrong, and there I stood in the expensive dress suit that my father had asked a tailor to custom-fit to my hopeless frame. I can still see myself standing there in my snazzy threads. But this isn’t about me. It’s about that suit, which I stashed in moth balls in my luggage. Would I ever put it on again?

“Put on your black one,” said Beatrice. Vigoleis buttoned himself in, and off he went at the side of his Beatrice in her Viennese finery to Doña María’s hotel, where we were invited for dinner by a certain Don Felipe, the manager of the establishment. A “certain” Don F. He had something going with the proprietress, Mary Snow’s mother, but otherwise he was insignificant. Short, with yellowish skin, smug, very well dressed, on his business trips this man was often a guest at the hotel where he later kept the books. No doubt he took notice of the widow, and she of him. They probably worked out an estimate and did some checking, and soon enough Don Felipe stood at the counter wearing even nicer duds.

The meal was excellent. The chubby lady liked me at first sight. I noticed this right away, whereas Don Felipe surveyed my person several times to figure out whether I might be of use to him — but I didn’t realize this until much later. Our hosts were of course curious about Beatrice’s lap-dog, but despite Doña María’s cordial hospitality, this was not just a repast in honor of the spouse of Mary Snow’s private language teacher. I sensed that it had some other purpose, but I was wrong about what that purpose might be. Both of our hosts seemed to want something from me, and since they seemed to be in agreement with each other, it had to be something quite innocent. They watched every bite I took. They perked up at every word that left my mouth — was I being interrogated? After the second course they knew quite a bit about my past life, in fact more than I did myself, and they seemed satisfied. Seeing that my wife had command of ten or more languages, how many did I know? Was I a wine connoisseur? Could I interpret a dinner menu, drive a car, keep accounts? And how did I get along with people? I didn’t score very well on any of these points, but the two of them seemed pleased by the way I skirted embarrassment — the widow more so than her cicisbeo. For me, the main thing was the meal we were eating, whose separate components I would not recognize on a menu for what they really were. Finally to have a decent meal, with food that wasn’t prepared on a bidet! I had to control myself to avoid regressing into my Clock Tower table manners. Beatrice had no such difficulty, because even when seated at a bidet she doesn’t abandon propriety. My suit, both of our hosts said, was a fine fit. I explained that I had led my parents to the silver altar wearing it, a remark that touched our listeners’ hearts. Even the merriest of widows will turn silent for the length of a breath when the god of marriage places a wreath at the bedpost of a 25-year-long union. The wine was delectable.

The invitations multiplied. The feasts became more and more informal, and before we noticed it, they had become a tradition: once every week an abundance of food and drink. Don Felipe remained reserved, observant, and polite, until one day he felt that the moment had arrived to unpack what was on his mind. And here is how the sly imp went about it…

He was the manager of this small inn for traveling businessmen and other middle-class clientele. We were further aware that Doña María was building a hotel in El Terreno that would meet their steadily increasing needs, a few hundred beds, private beach, private funicular, and its name was to be “Majorica.” It would be ready in a few weeks — that means in about a year, I thought to myself— and then would come the time for greeting the first guests. One whole floor was already reserved — so perhaps “a few weeks” was right? Fine, but now he was ready to hire employees in the higher ranks, and we had come to his attention. Beatrice as manager and hostess. In her free time she would have use of the grand piano. He would insist that she function not as an ordinary receptionist, but as an elegant lady, and that meant no black dresses with dainty white collars framing a widow’s countenance. Don Vigo would be employed at the reception desk. In the morning he would betake himself to the harbor to welcome the foreign guests, but for the rest of the forenoon he would be free of further duties and could devote himself to his literary labors. He should be present in the dining room during mealtimes — I suddenly imagined myself as a glad-handing maitre d’; as a child I always wanted to be something like that. But that wasn’t what he had in mind. I was just supposed to be on hand if anyone needed an interpreter, since the headwaiter knew only English and French and that was all. On occasion I would have to perform certain minor chores — but of course, I nodded — such as holding a bowl, assisting a guest with a chair, explaining an item on the menu — that sort of thing, surely I knew. Don Vigo knew. They would need to obtain a hotel library (he actually said “obtain”) in the most important languages, and I would have a free hand: newspapers, magazines, a collection of records for the phonograph. I pointed to Beatrice, and said that she was the expert in that department. And then at night the hotel guests would want to visit the typically Spanish attractions. Especially the guests from England would not want to miss any of these, and Don Vigo would act as a cicerone — did he understand? Don Vigo made a gesture that satisfied Don Felipe, although he failed to say that it was on the basis of his ability to understand that he felt obliged to understand everything he was told here. No one would expect, of course, that I would be a perfect hotel man right away; I should just be myself and go ahead and tell lies, if what was at stake was the truth. Don Felipe was ready to admit that he would be competing with the “Príncipe”; over there they had this amazing man, a genuine Swiss, Don Helvecio, who had put the hotel back on its feet, and now it was thriving — ah, the Swiss (he turned to Doña Beatriz) knew how to run a guest house. He didn’t suppose that we knew this fellow-countryman of hers, did we? No, Beatrice didn’t know him. We had been there once, but hadn’t noticed anything Swiss. Don Felipe: that’s right. Don Helvecio looks just like a true Spaniard. So now, would we accept his offer in principle?