Pessimists are often the greatest optimists. Year after year, Vigoleis closed his eyes each night with the incontrovertible certainty that this would be the last night of a life he never would have accepted in the first place—if the mysterious procedure for placing orders had allowed him to do so. Thrice already, this devious fellow had tried to end things by his own well-formed, talented hand. But it was at the same time the hand of a seer of ghosts, or of a Don Quixote. His moment of departure was yet to come. Perhaps this island would provide an opportunity for a favorable leave-taking. But let us not forget what Vigoleis, once put to the test, is only barely willing to admit to himself, and what he is now trying to shroud in the mists of mysticism: at the sight of Pilar’s dagger he ran like a rabbit. That is the time when he should have put into practice his death-wish. That is when he should have bared his body, which conceivably might already have shed most of its coverings in anticipation of a dramatic Liebestod. Citing his chronicler’s phrase in double inverted commas, he ought to have cried, “Farewell my brothers! Aim for the heart! Stab away, Pilar, release me from this mortal coil!” Instead, he took French leave. Weekend equestrian of suicide that he was, his feet flopped out of the stirrups; at the end of a high trajectory, he landed in the bed of his own makeshift marriage.
It is events like this that should warn us to be on our guard with this fellow. We can’t take his Weltschmerz seriously until a knife is sticking in his ribs, or until we find him, like the Englishwoman’s scalp, hanging from Beppo’s palm tree—to the delight of Mr. Beverwijn, whom I have rather lost sight of for the moment, simply because that man’s wife is a vicious dragon whose poisonous breath I wish to stay clear of in memory and on paper.
For a week we roamed the city eating out of paper bags. At first we treated ourselves to bread, sausage, cheese, and lots of fruit. Then we cut out the less nourishing, merely filling varieties of forage, and finally we took the grape cure. In our initial enthusiasm, we were actually elated at this latter decision, but soon we had the unpleasant feeling of being vegetarians without subscribing to any philosophy of vegetarianism—an attitude not even worthy of a horse. I know some famous vegetarians who eat their meat on the sly, with no one the wiser. Such little acts of self-pollution contain more vitamins than all your vegetables put together. We felt sicker and sicker, but we didn’t die. As for me, I was still far from wishing for the dish I loathed so intensely as a child, and whose alliterative designation makes me shudder even today: “carrot casserole.” No, we would be having no such delicacy in the shadow of the Cathedral of Palma, but also no god-awful potatoes and no biblical bread, symbol of earthly penury ever since the first couple was cursed into eating it by the sweat of their brow.
We sat in the shadow of the Mirador with our vitamins. The ocean at our feet was of the incredible blue to be found in the Spanish National Tourist Board’s glossy brochures. We spat our grape skins into the hot sand, each shot causing a tiny explosion—little dust clouds arose as if on a miniature battlefield. Our conversations dealt for the most part with prehistoric man, his nature and possessions, and I must confess that on virtually empty stomachs we came closer to ultimate truths than during all our gabfests at the anarchist table in the “intellectuals’ corner.”
Every once in a while the hunchback beggar gave us his company. Someone had told him of our difficulties, and now he offered us advice on getting by and reaching a ripe old age in Spain with no money. Beatrice usually moved one bench away, but the outcast didn’t seem to mind. He was, he said, probably just a trace too bug-ridden for her, but that was simply part and parcel of his earthly sojourn, loved and sanctioned by the Dear Lord. He had stretched out his hand for alms in many countries, but nowhere were people so generous as in Spain. Not even at the portal of St. Peter’s in Rome did the blessings flow as copiously. I admired the crooked little man’s broad culture, which he couldn’t possibly have gathered in piece by piece as with his income from charitable sources. But I was unsuccessful in prying into his past life; he deflected all my inquiries in that direction. Some people thought he was a defrocked priest, or a monk escaped from a mendicant order. Both surmises can lead to further surmises: let’s imagine this high-shouldered fellow going into business for himself, placing an ad in the diocesan newspaper: “I hereby notify all devout charitable donors that, upon completion of thorough schooling in the exercise of the vow of poverty, and following faithful execution of the humble beggar’s calling under auspices of the Mendicant Order of St. Francis (certified by the Holy See since 1210), I have now placed myself on my own two bare feet. Whoever wishes to demonstrate mercy toward his neighbor may now do so toward me! Eliminate the middleman! Bigger indulgences! On request, mediation with the Devil himself! Man spricht deutsch. On parle français, etc. Praise be to the Lord Jesus! Porfirio, Beggar of Strictest Observance.”
Every time Porfirio returned to the cathedral portal after a brief chat, I had to slap and shake the fleas out of my clothes. We had sworn off insect powder as a superfluous luxury. Beatrice didn’t want anything to do with this man whom God had stricken with a hump on his back. But I kept trying to serve as advocate for this Beggar Prince who now, after twenty years, was repaying my intercession by helping me to liven up my narrative at a point when, following the anarchistic count’s failure, nothing else was going on.
With a single brush stroke I shall now depict this Minorite’s earthly demise. On a certain day he was found dead, lying on a heap of rags in his room. The coroner determined that he had perished of starvation. But during the post mortem, the doctor also made the surprising discovery that the man’s hunchback was artificial, a kind of leather rucksack that could be fastened on with a strap. Inside there were banknotes, stock certificates, and promissory notes from many different countries, having a combined value in the millions of pesetas. Papers in his possession revealed that he was a German citizen, whereupon the German Consul instantly confiscated all his belongings, attaching the estate before the Spanish authorities could say a word in their own interest. As usual, the latter bureaucrats were tardy, but they were eventually able to push aside the peremptory German executor. Seeing that no heirs came forward, they raked in millions for themselves.
There was said to be a bundle of manuscript pages in his fake hunchback as well, notes written down by this bogus beggar, whose lame leg was likewise of the removable kind. I was very interested in getting a look at those notes, as was the writer George Bernanos. But nobody got hold of them. The case was the subject of lively discussion in the island’s literary circles. Each one of us contributed in no small measure to the legend that now began to be woven around this shabby millionaire in his moth-eaten duds. Was he a priest? A monk? Later another beggar turned up, one with a genuine hunchback, to which he pinned a medical certificate verifying its authenticity. But just as birds will peck at vomit, this guy’s colleagues lit into the cripple and banished him from the sacred portal.
I may have contributed a total of five pesetas to the millions in Porfirio’s leather sack. As you can see, he has stretched out the thread of my tale to a point where a simple reach into his hump could have sufficed to save us from our grape cure. But then I could write finis operis and “happy ending” at the close of this very chapter. The fact is that, on my isle of second sight, one seldom looked in the right drawer. For this reason, Vigoleis cannot yet fade away among the nameless thousands for whom Mallorca serves as a world-renowned source of official stamps on picture postcards, sent to loved ones back home.
IV
In the final chapter of Book One I stated that a certain day began like all other days, but I failed to mention that it would end like no other day before it. I could make the same assertion here at the opening of this chapter, which also will bring a Book to its close. But I shall refrain from doing so to avoid repeating myself. This day, too, began like all others and ended like none before.
As on every morning, we took breakfast in the pensión, this time in the company of two ar
tists from the mainland, about whom more in due course. I consider the two of us more important, at a moment when our straits are so dire that our existence could be regarded as an utter failure. Our harmonious closet-marriage was able to withstand the temptations of the outlandish pilarière; now it was being put to a financial test, one that I called the “duro test” after the five-peseta coin of that name. The word duro means “hard, tough, heavy, difficult”; it can also mean “cruel” or even “heartless.” We could already see ourselves as artists’ models, assisting in the creation of an eternal monument to our doom: Vigoleis sketched by the jittery brush of the half-blind count, once again putting away his potato peeler for a while in the interest of art, with the intention of crucifying our hero on his easel as a boozer or a Teamster Henschel, as in Hauptmann’s famous play. And he would depict Beatrice, larger than life in Sappho’s diaphanous robes, painted in oil on a charcoal ground by an even more famous practitioner of genre painting. I have in mind no less a master than Baron Antonio Jean Gros, whose Sappho, by a macabre coincidence, resembles Beatrice. The fact that he sought and found his death in the Seine can only recommend him more warmly for our purposes.
On the morning in question, I saw the connection quite clearly. We went to the post office—no money—and then we started our climb to the cathedral, each of us holding a book and a single grape. On the way we ran into our waiter Antonio—“olá!” How were we, he asked, and were we still living at the palace anarchist’s? Yes, but how much longer, we really couldn’t say. Antonio asked some more; his sympathy with our plight was genuine. He felt somewhat responsible, for—and now came a confession—he had intended to send word to Beatrice in Basel that Don Helvecio was not mortally ill but just getting bored with a querida. But Antonio’s wife had persuaded him not to get mixed up in other people’s business. Now he regretted this omission. We explained our situation to him in graphic detail. Oh my, he commented, we must be able to get help somewhere, caramba! This just couldn’t go on, just let him take care of things! First of all, it was a luxury to be staying on at the pensión with that newfangled revolutionary. He knew of a cheaper shelter outside the city, in some ways just the proper place, though in other ways not, but one couldn’t afford to be choosy when one’s money-bag can’t hold its seam. He was friends with the owner, and would even vouch for us on the matter of rent. Then he would ask around in his club whether anyone had a daughter eager to be taught a language—French, English, Italian, maybe even German—“just be patient, my friends, and don’t make any hasty moves!” With a handshake we promised this fine gentleman not to do anything that might obstruct, let alone foil, his plans. We should get our things ready. Around seven or eight he would come to the pensión. If we were lucky, we could on this very day blow the fanfare for the great removal. Antonio smiled with his thin lips, which he was able to press together in a straight line, causing even the most grandly titled of club members to cower in respect.
On this day we did not finish our climb to the cathedral, nor did we go to the ocean, or visit the bookshop where I was in the habit of flipping through newspapers, and where Beatrice took over for the owner like a born salesgirl. Our everyday routine was thoroughly disrupted. Even the vegetarian touch was spoiled by an invitation from Madame Gerstenberg to a sausage snack in her room. For the thousandth time in her life Beatrice packed luggage; you would have to witness her technique first-hand in order to appreciate it in all its intelligence and meticulousness. Word had got around that the Indian woman and her Teutonic chieftain were moving out, destination unknown. At eight o’clock everything was ready for departure. Luckily, crates of books from Germany, Holland, and Switzerland hadn’t yet arrived. We had sent them to our first island address at a moment when we had reason to think we would be staying on at least a year in Palma, or if it wasn’t to be on Mallorca, then on the Spanish mainland. I had no desire to return to Germany. I had left my homeland without shedding a single tear. Whatever German heritage I still carried around with me, except for the language, found its place in a few boxes of books. A few years were to pass before I could take to heart Heine’s words, “When I think of Germany in the night, I find I cannot sleep aright.” At the moment I was being robbed of sleep by other demons. For me, the present was still mightier than the past.
Antonio arrived with startling punctuality, smiling, smoking, polite, generous. He brought along a quaint and colorful Little Helper, laconic in the language of his broader nationality, but vociferous in the island dialect. Antonio had found us a shelter, out there at that certain friend’s place outside the city on the road to Valldemosa. While the almocrebe carried our luggage to the inner courtyard where the animals were tethered, we said goodbye to a few people we had got to like. Madame Gerstenberg became emotional; you could see it in her glistening eyes. She had prophetic vision not only concerning world politics and her son Friedrich—our departure toward an uncertain future didn’t please her at all. “No, dear friends, I have evil premonitions!” Her voice shook. Beatrice had told Madame her exotic mother’s life story, including the inevitable shipwreck on the reefs of the ck—dt clan. She now saw in our exodus from the anarchistic Palace of Peace, behind mules that carried our belongings—not exactly in night and fog, but still suspicious in all its accompanying circumstances—, our doleful actress friend saw in this event a sequel to the Swiss curse once issued by that petty, hyper-religious underworld that doesn’t shrink from employing God Himself for the work of the Devil. Friedrich, who knew every detail about our getting bounced out of the God-fearing hooker’s house, stated the opinion that after leaving this other place, things were actually looking up for us.
“Children, I’m so sorry for you!” cried Madame Gerstenberg when Antonio gave us the sign to start walking behind the pack animals. “When I see your miserable lot, I can almost forget my own. Vigoleis, what would your mother say if she could see you moving out like this?”
“My mother would not believe her eyes, even if she were standing next to us here on the stairs! My mother’s son walking behind jackasses, out into the dreary night! No, she would think it’s a phantom vision, a nightmare, a horrible joke. Fortunately, a mother’s eyes are blind, for otherwise many a mother’s eyes would close from grief long before their time.”
“Just don’t get sentimental!” said Friedrich, who feared that an emotional scene like this could jeopardize his own departure at half past ten. “These two are lucky. They have no idea yet what’s ahead for them. In my own case, groping around in the dark was over long ago.”
Adele Gerstenberg asked us to come back to her whenever we were hungry. Yes, she had a way of hitting the nail on the head. Of the two of them, though, Friedrich had the sharper mind for matters of daily living. Accordingly, he suggested to his Mama that we should arrange a particular day of every week when she could provide us with fodder, for otherwise we just wouldn’t come. Since she wanted to read us her play anyway, he told us, this would provide a literary excuse for our sausage picnics. “So let’s say you should drop by next…”
Madame Gerstenberg a writer too? Here at her very door, as we stood on her threshold, and as a farewell greeting, we were given this astounding revelation. All of a sudden the objectionable little word “too” took on special meaning. Our thespian-dramatist looked at us with disappointment, as if we had caught her doing something naughty. She murmured an apology, not on account of her writing, but because she had kept it a secret. Now this awful Friedrich, she added, he was always so gabby, an enfant terrible, it was enough to give his poor mother constant stage fright. And anyway, for the writing of her historical drama about Elizabeth and Essex, she was drawing heavily on her long experience on the stage, and besides, her writing didn’t disturb anybody, she did it at night, by candlelight and with a pen…a tragic figure. I was amazed to find such an attitude in this highly intelligent and talented woman. It was most definitely unnecessary for her to imitate some pianist and compose a display piece for her own artistic dexterity.
After all, her career was over. I recalled what Brentano had written in his “Story of Honest Caspar and Fair Annie” about writers and their secretiveness: they should admit their calling to all the world. What nonsense: poetry considered as a kind of monstrous goose liver, which of course presupposes a freakish, sick goose! This was emphatically not the case with the dramatist Gerstenberg, “for you see, Madame, art has significance as an illness only if it manifests itself in individual cases. If there were ever an epidemic of it, we would all have to flee. The individual case and quarantine…”
The Island of Second Sight Page 24
