The Island of Second Sight

by Albert Vigoleis Thelen

  Years later when visiting friends we were told a highly romantic story. Half an hour outside of the city there was a mysterious site called “The Clock Tower”—not exactly a finca—a set of old buildings with a stumpy tower. This place was the subject of the weirdest rumors. The owner was said to be an accomplice of Juan March, a flashy cowboy type who ran a brothel as a front, sold wine, had a fonda on the premises, and also rented out mules—an altogether shady operation. Well, for a period of time a German-Swiss couple lived there and maintained contacts in foreign countries. They spoke many languages. Drug dealers. International criminals. Search warrants. But they suddenly disappeared without a trace. Juan March probably put them to work somewhere else—either that, or they took their loot and decided to go live someplace else under fictitious names. Think of all the riffraff that washes up on the shores of this island!

  Hearing this tale we were overcome with fear and trembling. To be sure, we had heard of Juan March and his moles; why, you could almost find them in any Baedeker. But we knew no details. Surely the Germans were behind the whole thing, this time with a U-boat and its swaggering captain—what a scoop for one of the Berlin magazines! We should try to get the captain’s name, because names are what sell magazines, even if they’re the wrong names. No, “von Borck” was definitely not this guy’s name—and I almost let the cat out of the bag. It wasn’t “Kraschutzki,” either, as some denizens of the German colony thought it might be. Kraschutzki was the navy captain who claimed to have started the sailors’ mutiny in Kiel. He was living peacefully in Cala Ratjada weaving straw or breeding chickens, but in any case not shooting off torpedos full of opium.

  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?

  IV

  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 wo
uld 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?

  Our heads were swimming. This would mean a real room, real food, a real bed, bath, running water, hot and cold. Don Felipe explained quite clearly: our room would be on the top floor, our bath would be a stand-up shower, and at the beginning our salary would be more like pocket money. Do you accept?

  By now I had myself completely under control. It was important now to avoid a misstep; we must remain cool in the face of this cool calculator who was putting us to the test. One false move, a premature leap from the plank, and the miracle would disappear like Arsenio’s rat cluster. Furrow your brow, visibly tighten your concentration on an invisible goal: in half a year, nine months or so as hotel receptionists, we would have enough money for two burros, and could wander through all of Spain writing travelogues from the donkey perspective. I had it all worked out. How much do you suppose a beast like that costs?

  Perhaps, said Don Vigo, we might be willing to reach an agreement. In three of four days we would let him know. We would have to think things over, make some arrangements in literary affairs, send a few telegrams. Above all, a certain film company in Berlin would have to be informed that a commissioned script would not arrive as soon as expected, but—Don Felipe could surely understand that if I were to make such a change of profession, I would be doing so with the hope of collecting material for new novels. Studying the people who frequent a hotel is always a lucrative enterprise for writers—but on second thought I shouldn’t have said this, considering Vicki Baum, Ernst Zahn, and such people with dual professions. Afterwards, out on the street, Beatrice said that Don Felipe hadn’t noticed. Doing Palma’s night life with pilarizing British gentlemen—there’s a novel in itself.

  Our homeward trip was like walking on air. We would be finished with our Tower Period and its tin cans, its bidet, whores, gangs of rats, weekly police raids, and monthly corridas on 29 mattresses. We would switch residences to a part of town where the broads—in this case the ladies—were taught to waltz without recourse to a little shrine and candles. —“Did you notice, Beatrice, how important it seemed to Felipe that I’m a Catholic? He didn’t care that I don’t practice any more. He doesn’t either. He said that’s part of being a Spaniard. They’re a Catholic country.” My baptismal certificate and my dress suit, two pieces of equipment from my homeland, were now clearing my path to a glorious future. I would casually pocket all the generous tips. I would consent to sleeping with a pickled old lady if she promised to make me her sole heir, as happened around the same time with a young Swiss elevator operator in the Grand Hotel… With such thoughts in mind, we passed through the moonlit peristyle of our cloister, whose first right-hand cell we would soon no longer be desecrating with our sublime asceticism.

  On this particular evening, Mary Snow was the only one who had no cause for turning mental somersaults. She would have to continue cramming English verbs and learning etiquette. Up to now she was lacking all the attributes of a grande dame; the child was still in sticky diapers.

  If all else fails, become an innkeeper; in between, do some literature. And if that, too, comes to naught, you can put your hair shirt back on.

  The three days we requested as a pretense to mull things over seemed never to end, but I filled them with purposeful activity. I practiced being Major Domo at my hotel. I made polite bows in all directions, gracefully accepted bows from others, and made the appropriate remarks in the languages I would be expected to use the most frequently. Beatrice, who was doing our laundry on a stone at the water trough, was my most cherished customer, a guest of many years’ standing who wouldn’t flee the scene if I made some mistake. On the contrary, this guest was so much a part of the household that she could offer corrections of my behavior and my grammar. While there was much to be corrected in the latter respect, my deportment as a receptionist left nothing to be desired. The Tower kids stood around and had the greatest time watching us. They thought I was playing theater with Doña Beatriz when, with professional expertise, I conducted her through the gauntlet of house rats, roof rats, and nomad rats, up the outside staircase, down the darkened corridor, and into our pen, as if she were the spouse of a celebrated writer and I were guiding her with the proper decorum to the room reserved for her famous husband. “But of course, Madam, we shall be happy to shorten the table legs! I shall take the measurements right away, and we shall be glad to allow room for the gentleman’s knees—I understand perfectly, intellectuals have certain quirks… Noise? No reason for concern, Madam, everything here is soundproof, double doors, cork floors, partitions with horsehair lining, and up above, if you would be so kind as to see for yourself, there is a clear view to eternity itself—a little extra perquisite for creative guests. This innovation is unique to our establishment. Word is getting around, and once writers have experienced our roofless ambience, they refuse to seek out accommodations at any hostelry but ours.”

  “And that can down there? It’s disgusting!”

  “Oh, the one for vermin on the floor? It will be removed. Our manageress ought to have been more observant, but of course, she can’t be everywhere at once…”

  Doña María and Don Felipe were happy when we gave them our decision. There was much to discuss. The proprietors considered it most important to plan an elaborate opening-day ceremony. It should be an event worthy to be entered in the house annals. We were asked our opinion, we made suggestions, I came forth with some daring ideas that delighted Don Felipe’s ears. An invitation should go out to the German philosopher Conde de Keyserling, and we could ask him to deliver an inaugural address. Would he come? And how he would come! But it would require a great deal of wine.

  Don Felipe made notes, he calculated, crossed out some things and added others, and was not without ideas of his own. But he asked me in passing if I had ever organized such a celebration before. I couldn’t reveal to him that it was Zwingli’s ice-cream bar premiere that was serving as my model. I hid behind the fact that any writer must at any given moment make things up out of whole cloth, even an opening-day celebration, if one of the characters in his novel
suddenly decides to start up a hotel—which of course the next-best floozy could sabotage in the twinkling of an eye.

  Invitations were sent out. Advertisements in all the newspapers announced the day and hour of the inauguration ceremony, Saturday at 5:00 pm. On the list of invitees we noticed the name of Don Helvecio. Just wait till that guy sees me in my monkey suit from my parents’ silver wedding, and his sister playing with a big key ring and a grand piano! Too bad that we were still on the warpath with him—but were we? We had been driven apart by special circumstances. As soon as Pilar gave Zwingli his walking papers so she could return to the streets, everything would be as it was back in Cologne-Poll with Gravedigger Firnich.

  I composed an inaugural speech for Don Felipe, one that in my opinion downplayed intellectual aspirations in favor of the man’s cosmopolitan ambitions as an entrepreneur, yet without eschewing artistic aspects altogether. My idea was that an innkeeper can become anything he wants to, and so to the pair of burros Beatrice and I were fantasizing about, I added a third beast of burden, a sturdy mule. Don Felipe liked the speech, but felt constrained to excise or correct certain details and add certain others. The result was a Vigoleis castratus for the hotel’s middlebrow, but lucrative, clientele. I was more fortunate with my text for an advertising brochure. Employing a romantic palette, I presented an image of the Golden Isle so authentic that not even a museum curator could distinguish original from reproduction. Don Felipe, in particular, didn’t notice how I had violated certain details of geography. There was no need to cite my Swiss brother-in-law, the professional hôtelier, in learned footnotes; it was all my own work, inspired by the hygienic Pegasus in our Tower cell, and by my ardent desire to lure the richest people in the world into the “Hotel Majorica.” If I perchance lavished excessive praise on this or that feature of the island, I could always moderate this later as chef de réception and impresario. After all, few people are capable of reading an advertising prospectus correctly, and fewer still know how to compare a text with reality. Hotel advertising is essentially the same as party politics; it’s not the platform that matters, but the slogans. From day to passing day, I, Vigoleis, felt more and more in control of the promising situation. Finally I had produced some writing that would go out into the world without my having to go without food to come up with the postage, and without the risk of having my text returned to the sender like a rejected manuscript. This text would end up in other people’s wastepaper baskets.