The Island of Second Sight

by Albert Vigoleis Thelen

  Actually, only one man had spoken up—in such situations it is always one man who does the talking, the lead stallion who sets the more or less melodious tone. Later all the others chime in together in uproarious babble. It was no different here. Leicas got put back in their cases, jackets got thrown over shoulders à l’espagnol, and even less well-to-do travelers knew pretty exactly what their tourist-class tickets were supposed to be paying for. The Guide was requested to lead the group to the train station so they could have a decent meal. He was to see to the necessary arrangements—they were hungry! What a scandal, to eat in such a filthy dive!

  Here in the land of saints, I again found myself in need of someone to protect me from this mob of philistines. No saint appeared. So I thought I would give my home town’s patroness, St. Irmgardis, a try. Legend has it that she miraculously pulverized the castle of some robber knights who were pursuing her with dishonorable intentions. “Blessed Irmgardis, come to the aid of thy servant Vigoleis!” I calmed down, my fever abated, and I clearly saw ahead of me the path that I should follow. It was the path of money. I was going to have to do some arithmetic for my rebellious clients.

  “Excuse me, sir, but did I hear you correctly? 1000 marks?”

  “Well, what did you think? Jawoll, a shiny G-note! You can go cheaper on the Monte Rosa, or didn’t you know?”

  Oh, I do know. But now tell me, do you know Bielefeld? Ever heard of it?”

  “The city? I know it on a map. Why?”

  “How many of you know Bielefeld?”

  Not one of them knew the city. I’d never been there either, but that was beside the point. Then I asked what city the rabble-rouser came from. Central Germany, so now I could figure out roughly what it would cost him to go First Class by train to Bielefeld: 20 marks. Now the electric railway from Palma to Sóller, I explained, was a product of German ingenuity, designed and built by Siemens & Schuckert. The train station: German enterprise, German architecture. The station restaurant: German art and, coincidentally, built by the same architect who did the railroad station restaurant in Bielefeld, only there things were a little larger in scale. The food at the “Ferrocarril” was good, you might even say excellent, but 1000 marks was much too much to pay for it. The same was true in Bielefeld, and there the beer was no doubt much better, Dortmund Union brand. When in Spain one ought to do as the Spaniards do—drink wine instead of beer, and instead of parking oneself in a German railway station diner, one should take one’s place on the terrace of a fonda. And this particular fonda was world-famous to boot.

  They pricked up their ears. Famous places can be photographed. A wave of questions came at me.

  “Well, you see, in this house, and on this balcony, Cervantes wrote his Don Quixote, in 95 nights by the light of an oil wick. During the day he slept, as many writers do. This is sacred ground. Surely I need say no more.”

  No one noticed that the ground beneath my alpargatas was getting very warm. A few seconds passed. Nobody raised any objections to my travesty of literary history. On the contrary, they were already busy taking snapshots of the holy shrine, doffing their jackets again, examining every stone and every wooden beam with the intentness of connoisseurs. I gave a sign to the proprietor, who had been watching the proceedings with interest, to bring out our meals. I explained the various dishes, recommended them all without reservation, and they thanked me. The women went wild-eyed: what a marvelous Führer!

  When a German sits down at a historic place, he takes a deep breath, rolls up his sleeves (if he hasn’t done so already), yanks forth his automatic pencil and writes a picture postcard. That is the way it has been ever since the world has known Germans and picture postcards, two creations that supplement each other. In the fonda where Cervantes wrote his Don Quixote my German clients behaved no differently. The owner brought over his box of pictures, people licked their graphites, and soon the homeland would be all ears:

  “Dear folks, we owe these special greetings to our Führer. We’re writing this at a historic place, which is something our Führer got us into. It’s where Don Bosco wrote his famous Infant of Spain, all at night. Our Führer told us all about it, and we’ll tell you more when we get home. Oranges are more expensive here, and the beer back home is a lot better. Love,…”

  “But Richard, look at the mistake you made! The guide didn’t say Don Bosco. It’s Boskop, or something like that. You know, that famous name!” What did she mean, Richard protested; he was sure it was Bosco. Then turning to me he explained that his wife was thinking of those apples in her garden, Noble Boskops. But wait, wasn’t Bosco the guy who sailed around the world? In school they read his travel books.

  Navigare necesse est. A little education can’t hurt either.

  I wanted to hunt out the tavern assigned to the General Staff, join in with the gentlemen and do my bit to ensure a glorious future for the Reich. So I took leave of my own group, placing them in the safekeeping of Cervantes’ ghost as they ate, wrote postcards, and prided themselves on the greatness of the historic moment.

  At the entrance to another fonda the proprietor stood wringing his hands, protecting himself against two tourists who were apparently about to attack him. As a Führer I intervened in the fray. Ah, said one of the Germans, finally a guide shows up! And did I realize what a scandalous mess this place was? “Just come with us!”

  This fonda wasn’t as emphatically romantic as the Cervantes Inn I had just left, but it too was typically Spanish, even typically Mallorcan. Three dozen tourists fixed me with fire in their eyes. Had there been a holdup? Rape?

  “Herr Führer, are you a German?”

  “Spanish, but I grew up in Germany.”

  “Then you are familiar enough with our language to know the word ‘swill.’ This stuff here is swill. It belongs in a pigsty.”

  The spokesman for the mob pointed to his plate, which contained a broiled fish biting its tail in desperation; in the language of haute cuisine it was “curled.” I knew the dish; it was rather bland, though tasty enough if you added lots of lemon juice, and it had a high protein content, very nutritious. In a small town like this one, when thousands of tourists have to be fed on short notice, the cooks often reach for this fish, one that can be netted easily and in large quantities. The inn owner couldn’t make himself understood. The waiters threw hostile glances at the foreigners, who like a gang of convicts had now gone on a hunger strike. Back home they thought nothing of a meal of pickled herring and sauerkraut. I would have to act. Blessed Saint Peter, come to the aid of thy servant Vigoleis! I tapped on a glass and asked for their attention.

  The Germans, I said, were a great nation, a gifted nation, a clever nation. The whole world, though it may not want to admit it, owed much to the Germans. The tourists’ faces brightened a bit. True enough, I wasn’t able to transform the curled fish into pig’s knuckles and sauerkraut, or even into pickled herring. Eschewing such miracles, I decided to go the route of heroism—always a sensation for my fellow Germans. The ancient Germanic tribes, I proclaimed, were extremely fond of fish. The Rhine-Valley tribe of the Bructeri had gone so far as to elevate the salmon to the status of a divinity (murmurings of “Hear, hear!” from my audience). During the World Conflict, I continued, German U-boats under the outstanding leadership of their heroic captains had dominated the world’s oceans, not only destroying enemy tonnage, but also causing the man-eating shark to flee for its life. Not one of the world’s oceans was safe from the German undersea navy—except for the peaceful, golden, sun-drenched Mediterranean. The sharks got wind of this and swarmed into the mare nostrum through the Straits of Gibraltar. Accordingly, the science of marine biology listed this sea for the period from 1914 to 1918 as a new habitat for the notorious man-eater.

  Ladies and gentlemen, what you see before you on your respective plates is the killer shark, but at an age when he is as yet quite harmless. In these parts he is considered a rare delicacy. In Paris, Chez Nogarette, a meal like this would cost a fortune. And incide
ntally, you are lucky that you didn’t arrive here one month later. This is the peak of shark season for the Balearics. The neighboring island of Ibiza lives almost exclusively on the infant man-eater. Note particularly the somewhat gamey taste. With a sip of Felanitx white you can lend this dish a piquant note that not even the Parisians can emulate. Shall I order a few bottles of Felanitx?

  Within seconds all plates were clean. Not a man-eating shark in this world could have gobbled its meal as fast as these sauerkraut connoisseurs finished theirs. People called to the waiters for more shark, more Felanitx, and postcards. They wrote, “Dear Aunt Gertrude, we are in a fabulous Spanish restaurant in Sóller. You’ll never guess what we just had for dinner: curled shark with a very gamey taste. As we ate it we thought of you, and we hope you are well. Our guide told us all about this special treat. Later we’re going swimming in the Bay of Sóller. I hope there aren’t any sharks there. Our guide told us about an uncle of his who got eaten up by one.”

  The owner of the inn embraced me in sight of the voracious throng and pressed two shiny duros into my palm. Then he pulled me into the kitchen. I had to explain to his help how I had converted the barbarians. A miracle at high noon! “Hombre,” he cried (and that means “man” to the highest power), “we almost lost the whole show! Nobody’s got sick? You probably know that shark is really a rare item. The fins are a gourmet’s delight.” This was an indication of how close I had once again come to the abyss. St. Peter, the miraculous fisherman, had held me just above water with his angling rod. But meanwhile I had myself become nauseous. I departed from the Curled Shark Inn and went in search of a place where I could lie down flat for an hour. My appetite was gone.

  Out on the town the Master Race held sway. They were tipsy, some of them blotto. I hid my face. They were behaving just like back home; after all, this was only Spain. No one could begrudge them their patriotic songs, I suppose. But there under a blistering sun and palm trees, their “Blonde Rhineland Maiden” sounded even odder than “Deutschland über alles.” Oh, my dear fellow Germans, if only you would stay at home! For this you’re shelling out a thousand marks?

  I had no luck finding a place to snooze. “Herr Führer!” It started up all over again. “Over here! They’re trying to gyp us. They want three pesetas for this thing! Back home we could buy it for half a mark!”

  You stupid nitwits, I thought. The very fact that it’s “Made in Germany”—that’s precisely why it costs three pesetas here! The talent for haggling is a matter of human self-respect. I don’t have that talent, and never did have it. I can’t haggle with God, or the devil, or with a vegetable hawker at the Saturday market. I always pay the advertised price in full, and as I walk away God, the devil, and the vegetable hawker chuckle to themselves. Nevertheless I was able to arbitrate this particular marketplace dispute—in favor of the Spanish salesman and in disfavor of the German invaders. I ascribed to the desired commercial article such a unique value that the tourists were eventually willing to pay nothing but the stated price. The sidewalk merchant flourished.

  Soon thereafter my gifts as mediator and fount of information came in demand in a much more sensitive area. A tourist called me over, rapped his Baedeker and asked, “All right, you expert, tell me a thing or two that’s not in Baedeker!”

  “Be happy to! I have a Führer’s license and I’m enrolled in a special course on unexpected tourist inquiries.”

  “Fine. Then kindly inform me where I can find a decent…”

  The gentleman’s language suddenly became cryptical. But I knew very well what he was in search of. Back at the Cathedral I had already had occasion to give a couple of clients some discreet hints as to where they might locate certain casas that catered to their wishes. After a plate of curled shark, this guy had begun to feel certain urges. He was out for something quite gamey and man-eating, something that could fight him with fin and fang. But I had no addresses in Sóller.

  “Where I can find a decent place to take a leak?” the urgent fellow concluded his inquiry.

  In the course of the centuries the little word “decent” has undergone significant semantic changes, and we can observe further change in our own time. Therefore, it was still not clear to me what the man meant by “decent” with reference to his particular desire. Did he construe the word in a patriotic sense? Probably. I told him that the appropriate facilities at the railroad station had been built by German experts in sanitary installation. No danger of infection, in case he was wary about such things. “But look, just ten paces ahead, that palm tree—just be careful, the Spaniards are a little touchy about their trees. Don’t forget, we’re not back home in Germany.”

  The man lifted a finger to his pith helmet and disappeared behind the palm. I turned around, and there was a lady in front of me. “Oh, pardon me, Herr Führer, but I feel the need…”

  For the love of God, I was all confused. Surely I couldn’t direct her to the same palm tree! What was this, a kindergarten? Fortunately, all she had in mind was the need to offer me her thanks for my wonderful explanations of all the sights. I was, she said, so very convincing (thank God!), and the whole experience was so educational. Yes, she did travel often, but to find someone who was so well-informed in so many fields of knowledge, and who knew how to stress the most important aspects of every place we visited—she shook my hand tightly and long. There followed an inquiry as to my nationality. Was I German? Just an hour ago I had claimed Spanish citizenship; now I renounced it in favor of the country of my actual birth. We were fellow Germans. How very nice—and she shook my hand anew. I bowed and thanked her for the pleasure of being her fellow countryman, and asked how I might be at her service. Well then, seeing as I was German, did I perhaps know Herr Müller in Barcelona?

  Now it should be understood that every single German has, in his lifetime, known a Herr Müller, even if only a solitary individual of that name. I know one such person very well, seven others more or less well, and two dozen more who may have touched the periphery of my existence. As far as I was concerned the Herr Müller in Barcelona could well belong to the latter category, and I promptly said as much to the lady tourist. Mutual acquaintances are surely one of the finest things we can share in this life. The Herr Müller she had in mind was this tall, dark-haired—no, you’re quite right, he’s blond and wears his hair combed smooth, no, right, that marvelous wavy hair of his, the Spaniards are always so amazed, and those blue eyes, no doubt about it, it was our mutual friend Müller. What a small world! This lady’s needs were easier to satisfy than I had originally feared.

  A tall, skinny fellow, stripped down to his trousers, came running across the square, his monocle hanging on a black string and bouncing up and down on his chest like a scapular. He was looking for something or somebody. His Führer, perhaps? “Oh there you are! Where have you been keeping yourself? Come join us for a few, Herr Führer!”

  He belonged to von Kammerputt’s clique. The Officers’ Club, some of them shirtless and with beet-red faces, but as class-conscious as ever, had set up headquarters over beer at the Bielefeld Station Canteen. The beer was terrible, they said, pure horse-piss. Didn’t this backward country know how to make a decent brew? In accordance with my secret mission I reassured the gentlemen by again passing on some confidential intelligence. This miserable state of affairs wouldn’t last long, I told them. Negotiations were in progress with a major German brewery to begin exporting a special heat-proof lager product. The contacts went through the Consulate General in Barcelona, where my personal friend, Consul General Dr. Köcher, had taken a special interest in the matter. Because of the water situation, they had given up the idea of moving an entire brewery to Spain.

  Nods of approval. Yes, yes, the Foreign Office was on its toes. They almost always had the right man in the right place—almost! Mugs were raised to our revered fatherland, our up-and-coming Führer, the new Germany. I much preferred my desperate palm-tree man and the lady with her Herr Müller. I made a mental note to ask Marters
teig what breed of sectarians and degenerate aristocrats these were who would travel to Spain to take beery oaths on that resentful proletarian Hitler.

  I went out behind a cactus hedge and threw up. Now I had earned 12.50 pesetas. In half an hour my fellow citizens were to be at Sóller Harbor for a ten-minute stay, then we would drive back through Sóller and on up to the summit pass, the Coll de Sóller, 1848 feet above sea level. But now the tour director is drumming his guides together and announcing a change in schedule: a two-hour stopover here, and that means water sports in Sóller Harbor. Arriving at the porto we guides shouted it out: “time for a swim!”

  For a swim? Nobody has brought bathing gear, and so there is a general stampede to the single rickety rental booth. Within a few short minutes they have demolished it. Middle-aged men, hefty women, kids, all chase and claw each other over a bathing suit. Men undress on the march and stumble over their own pants; women brandish their ample bosoms; a Spanish bather pulls out somebody’s whimpering kid from where he got stuck under a tent. People knot handkerchiefs together to gird their loins. Modesty compels each one to turn the other way, but no matter what direction they turn their backsides, there is always someone else in front who also turns away. A few shamefaced individuals bend low and sneak into the cooling briny sans figleaf. A handful of professional nudists stride upright into the Mediterranean. The Spaniards are shocked. They are a prudish people and will not tolerate nudity. They protest to the tour director, but he is powerless to halt this natural catastrophe. Nor are we Guides able to put an end to the sinful spectacle.