The Island of Second Sight

by Albert Vigoleis Thelen

  Zwingli rented a second-floor apartment, called a piso, and furnished it lavishly. On the walls he hung paintings and drawings by his neglected geniuses. He also dribbled away his money on behalf of his neglected new girlfriend. And thus began their domestic existence together. Julietta added a serious note to the arrangement. The generous nuns had taught her manners, prayers, and craft skills. It was an ideal family, and it lasted quite a while before things started going badly awry. The difficulties began with feelings of jealousy on Pilar’s part, and soon Zwingli was smitten by the same madness. This all-powerful impulse quickly brought both of them to the brink of despair; love, hatred, and fear got all mixed together, and before long they started hitting each other. Pilar felt for certain that Helvecio was having his flings down at the Príncipe; she was well aware that those women from Germany, especially, were known world-wide for such tricks, and that they came to Spain for the sole purpose of having romantic adventures. And what was more, she knew full well that her señorito worked nights for his hotel, visiting the same kind of houses that he had pulled her out of. The daughter of joy turned into a raging Fury.

  Zwingli worked out a new agreement with his hotel. From now on he would appear there only a few hours each day to look around, take care of the correspondence, and manage the world-wide advertising. The remaining time he would spend at the domestic hearth. Daddy would read books on the fine arts, Mommy would knit, or better yet crochet (Pilar was aiming, after all, for finer habits), and at their feet the little bastard-child would play with her toys, the precocious youngster to whom fate had granted a new father—albeit not a new General, for Switzerland does not support a standing army, but an upright member of the Swiss Civilian Foreign Legion.

  Conjugal happiness is an art mastered by the very few. Genuinely happy people are as rare as Christians who believe in God. In most cases one goes through the motions, though one can actually achieve a great deal with the use of such camouflage. Pilar was not happy, certainly not “blissfully” happy, because Zwingli was unable to provide for the necessary bliss. She was bored. She couldn’t read; if she could, she might have killed the long hours by devouring trashy novels. Trying on cosmetics, using this or that product to stiffen her eyelashes, was after a while just a pain. Could they travel together? Helvecio had a job where the customers did the traveling—he was obliged to stay put. Pilar was an active person, still quite young even by the standards of Spain, where women grow old early. And she had a pretty daughter, for whom she wished the same glorious future that Zwingli was supposed to be providing for his querida.

  That is why one day, in the increasingly stuffy atmosphere of their home, Pilar tossed out the suggestion, “Helvecio, let’s become independent! Let’s start a business! A business where I can use my talents, too!”

  Dear reader, you are probably thinking exactly what I am thinking. But really and truly, Pilar had in mind only her culinary abilities. The dream of liberty is the primeval ideal of all humankind. Beatrice and I have been considering the same idea over and over again for twenty years, it’s just that we can’t seem to agree on which of our talents we should exploit. Thus all we’ve ever seen is a faint, pinkish dawning on the horizon. Down in Spain we sometimes felt that the sun was just about to appear, but then fog always swept in, without fail. As I write these lines we are surrounded by impenetrable haze. Zwingli has been dead a long time, and I, Vigoleis, am not adept at clearing away banks of heavy murk.

  Pilar’s finesse with pots and pans was fully equal to Zwingli’s magic fingernail. I have never tasted such bonito as came from her skillet. Zwingli, in his own mind a neglected genius, was an easy mark for any kind of new business venture. He mulled over Pilar’s suggestion, consulted with headwaiters, rooming-house managers, the theories of Pelmanism, and his bosom friend Don Darío, and finally emerged with the idea that an ice-cream parlor, strategically located in the city of Palma, was an undertaking that without the slightest doubt would yield a handsome profit. No need right away for marble fixtures and artificial palms—it was best to start simple: a few potted geraniums, here and there one of those rangy cactuses. “It’s a solid idea, Don Helvecio,” was Don Darío’s reaction, and he was the one to know, considering the lucrative part-time enterprise he could be as proud of as a Spaniard (if he weren’t one already). In his home town of Felanitx he ran a bullfighting arena where the so-called novilladas were staged, the skirmishes involving novice toreros and young steers—the marionette tryouts, as it were, for the big-time national theater. A young man with ambitions to be impaled on the horns of the huge miuras in the metropolitan stadiums could achieve early success in Don Darío’s sandy pit, especially since the atheistic owner had placed his enterprise under divine auspices. The Mother of God, he claimed, lent her succor to each and every bullfighter; a novillero, like any humble beginner in this world, could be certain of her intervention with the Lord. Darío was a devout man, though hardly of the orthodox variety. His atheism was deceptive whenever he started in about his beloved Virgen, the Holy Virgin, who in his opinion would also offer her protective benevolence to the new ice-cream bar. It was bound to be a success.

  In the Count’s housing complex, the couple found a suitable locale on the “respectable” corner opposite the men’s club, whose clientele would surely enjoy a dish of ice cream dispensed by Pilar. Most of the club members already knew her from her previous dispensation, and as for the Conde himself—to finish this sentence would be to indulge in mere gossip, which has no place in my chronicle. Antonio, the hotel’s majordomo and headwaiter, is responsible for my having started the sentence at all. This is the same Antonio who served us our coffee back in Chapter Three. He was a prince of a man, and he was devoted to Zwingli. Later he took us to his heart. For a few years he had worked as a waiter in Nice, but family exigencies had forced his return to Mallorca. He was a grandseigneur in his profession, quite free of the behavioral folderol that makes so many headwaiters objectionable people. Most men in that position, I have found, act like secret agents who are hired to keep a constant eye on you. I’ll grant that anyone in a job of this kind has to have a little of the con-man in him. But with Antonio, his native Mallorcan temperament, which he never tried to conceal, served to minimize this aspect of his activity. The superiority of the Southern races over their Northern counterparts, who like to make believe they are some kind of nobility, is most apparent in the servant classes.

  On the days preceding the opening of the “Bar Valencia,” as Zwingli had christened their new enterprise in honor of his co-proprietor and chief advertising gimmick, there was a flurry of activity. The most active of all was the boss from Switzerland. He had thousands of brochures printed in four languages. He stretched banners over Palma’s streets that read BAR VALENCIA. He hired sandwich-men and street barkers. Invitations went out to every exclusive and inclusive club and society on the island. If you know Spain at all, you can imagine what the bills for all this came to. Every hotel, pensión, and movie house in town distributed leaflets designed by Zwingli’s friend, a German graphic artist in Barcelona known as “Dibujante Knoll,” who in turn had them printed by a first-rate Barcelona fine-arts press (Beatrice later paid this bill, too).

  Don Helvecio’s economic independence was meant to have the stablest foundation possible. Only a natural catastrophe could cause it to fail, one that would simultaneously plunge the entire island into the sea like an atoll. Hadn’t the same man, years ago, rapidly resurrected the Príncipe to its present standing as an A-number-one establishment, after it had been plundered by gangsters and avoided by customers lacking sufficient courage? The new owner, who had wrenched the facility from the robbers by means of a naked power grab, hadn’t accomplished anything with his new property until Zwingli came along. I have never found out all the details of the transaction, and the wildest stories coursed around the island. The truth is that the filthy-rich owner, one of the most influential lawyers on Mallorca and at the same time the alcalde or mayor of Palma, tu
rned over the helm to the completely unknown entrepreneur after a single half-hour conference. That magic nail no doubt played a role in all this—I mean the one sported by Zwingli, for although the crafty solicitor had grown one, too, his just wasn’t long enough to solve all the problems of existence. It was Emmerich, by the way, who drew the newly-arrived Swiss citizen’s attention to the empty, haunted hotel. Zwingli had come to Mallorca in the season of the almond blossoms “just to take a look around.” By Christmas a large spruce tree was brightly lit; German and English carols greeted the Savior, whose birth then got celebrated in sentimental carousing with popping corks, mulled wine, crackling spruce needles, and sparklers that smelled like incense. Power of attorney and a fat checkbook had brought about this yuletide miracle.

  This selfsame Zwingli, the man who meanwhile had risen to the dignified rank of a Don Helvecio—wasn’t it likely that he could make a go of it with a little experimental dispensary for lovers of ice cream? Particularly with a waitress like this one, who wouldn’t emerge from the kitchen all too often, but when she did, would cause commotion among the clientele? With her as a partner, Zwingli could even have risked opening up a kiddies’ lemonade stand. Of course Zwingli wasn’t planning to have Pilar scooping cones forever. At the beginning, well yes, but later, when things had settled down, he would let her share the management duties. To make this possible, he would have to hire an expert confectioner, a genuine Paris-trained professional from the Valais with international experience. He had already sent off the appropriate advertisements to the Swiss trade journals.

  The equipment and accessories were all bought, partly in cash and partly on promise. As Don Helvecio, Zwingli enjoyed almost unlimited credit. One phone call at the hotel, and even an over-cautious dealer would load up his handcart and push it himself to the Conde’s “apple,” where carpenters and plumbers had been at work for days. If ever the credit confirmation for some reason wasn’t satisfactory, Zwingli would appear arm in arm with his business partner, and resistance would immediately melt away, just as the ice cream later did in the super-heated store.

  Women should play with fire. That is their element, but never with anything that’s frozen—this bit of folk wisdom from Zwingli, whose own account is the main source for what I am narrating here. Emmerich knew only the bare outlines of the saga. The details and refinements were served up by Zwingli, the boss himself. For example, the incident in a well-known mirror factory, Espejo Mallorquin. “You should have seen those chaibe Siëche turn into midgets when I showed up with Pilar! They wanted cash before delivery, but my order was in the thousands. Maybe you can sell ice cream at the North Pole without mirrors on the walls and ceiling, but not in Spain. To understand such things you don’t have to be Swiss, with congenital experience of scaling glaciers! But just try to explain these subtleties to somebody who has never in his life seen a snowflake melt in his hand! Reflected light creates just the right polar ambience. I had to have mirrors, otherwise the Mallorcans could go on for all time spooning up their sopas, for all I cared. In the packing room at the factory, where we met the director in person, there just happened to be some fun-house mirrors standing against the wall. Let me tell you, what with the instant changes we saw from fat to skinny and from tall to squat, we got the credit approval before we even reached the guy’s office. Put some products like those in the halls of mirrors at international conferences, there’d never be another war!”

  One week later there wasn’t one square-inch of wall to be seen in the new ice-cream parlor. It was wall-to-wall crystal.

  Grand Opening: Saturday afternoon at five o’clock. Zwingli had hired from the Príncipe a young doorman in blinding blue livery, as well as a bartender from the same familiar source. Pilar’s assignment was spooning out the ice cream. She was dressed in fine silk chiffon, an outfit meant to insinuate coolness—quite some feat for this hotsy-totsy, but a fashion designer from Barcelona seems to have done the trick. Zwingli had insisted on this arrangement. He himself was dressed accordingly, his magic nail exquisitely filed and polished, just as shiny as the mirrors, which had no difficulty deciding who was the fairest of them all. He had sent invitations, written in his own hand, to personages of high standing in the community, including the military governor, the civilian governor, the alcalde, the consular representatives of the more important countries (the less important ones would come on their own), and prominent foreign residents, of whom there were always hundreds milling about the island. Back then it was de rigeur to have spent time on Mallorca if one wished to make any kind of impression in the grander European salons. Finally, he sent off printed invitations by the thousands to God and the whole world.

  In the meantime Zwingli and Pilar had rented the upper storey in the Count’s house, an apartment that came with the shop down below but with a view to the shabby side of the “apple.” This arrangement, just around the corner and up a flight of stairs, was decidedly advantageous for the new shopowners. Julietta, let us insert here, was also dolled up for the occasion, although she was forbidden to show her face in the new establishment. Nevertheless, this was to be a red-letter day in the life of the General’s rejected daughter—but in a different way than her elders had planned.

  The festive couple had a late breakfast consisting of a double portion of the General’s omelet, and this tells us that Heaven was doling out its grace to them in double measure. They soon left for the bar, where the botones had taken care of the most necessary preparations. The coffee-maker was heated up, the ice-cream machines were converting heat into refrigeration. Zwingli was bursting with creative energy, and no doubt also with pride in his accomplishments before breakfast.

  Love is unpredictable. It can come flashing down out of a blue sky like a bolt of lightning, infusing everything with its brilliance. I am thinking, of course, of spiritual love, the unutterable, all-penetrating form of love that emanates from the soul and animates everything in its path; it lives in the Other as well as in the Self. Augustine, an authority in the field of both worldly and celestial love, calls it the vita quaedam, duo aliqua copulans vel copulare appetens… None of the standard lexicons has much to say about it, since source material is so hard to come by. Poets, on the other hand, busy themselves often with this miraculous phenomenon.

  The other kind of love, carnal lust, is easier to fathom. It has virtually no secrets, since everybody in the world can experiment with it, and most people make ample use of the opportunity. If it is spoken of less often, that is because, as I see it, mankind has a bad conscience. We are ashamed of an act which, if it never took place, there would be no “us” to be ashamed of anything. It is not aesthetic, this mechanism that some call pleasure, others call sin, and sobersides don’t dare to name at all. One must therefore be careful when treating of matters that concern this wobbly old vehicle. I shall be as discreet as possible, but I’ve got to keep the wheels moving somehow, for otherwise I could inscribe my finis operis right here. One thing leads to another. And whoever is dealing with Zwingli simply cannot avoid mentioning his Pilar. The axles on their sexual vehicle were ungreased, and the result was a little conflagration. Happily there was plenty of ice on hand, so the damage to their bodies could be repaired. What we refer to as the soul was never involved in the calamity.

  Zwingli is said to have looked handsome with a pink carnation in his lapel. Pilar was simply beautiful, enchanting, a poem, a midsummer night’s dream. Everything about her was gleaming. Her lashes pointed seductively out into the world—bluebottle flies from the marketplace had laid down their lives for this stunning effect. Cosmetic preparations from Rimmel, Quelques Fleurs, and a dozen other Parisian firms provided her elaborate makeup. Sightseers had already arrived on the scene. On the terrace of the men’s club, more gentlemen than usual for this time of day, which they normally spent napping |inside, were snoozing away. The club personnel had been asked to sound the alarm just prior to the grand opening across the street. The mirrors on walls and ceiling reflected only festive,
happy sights; the faces of all assembled reflected nothing but merriness and cheer. No one noticed that the crystal panes had yet to be paid for. Just a single day’s receipts would wipe away all debts, and this would happen by virtue of an ingenious man’s ingenious fingernail, whose underside today revealed not the slightest inky blemish. Not even the most bilious fussbudget would have had grounds for complaint here.

  One more hour, and then we shall join all the other invited guests in making a deep bow. We’ll live through a short welcome speech, just a few words, won’t even have to listen, we’ll all nod yes yes yes, kiss the pretty barmaid’s hand, terrific babe, right? you bet, wonder where he found her, you’d like to take her just about anyplace at all, whaddaya mean anyplace, all depends on what you think of how they got together, whaddaya mean, aw, you know, you mean ya don’t know where Don Helvecio dug up his Helvetia, no sir, well juicy chicks like that don’t grow like cheese in the Swiss Alps, haha, but sex-ee I tell ya, I don’t care what stable she’s from, and her trainer, not bad how he pulled the Príncipe out of the shit, bet none of us coudda done it. Great country, Switzerland, but if ya ask me their watches run a little bit too accurate, olé Don Jaime, olé Manolo, you here too? and there’s our governor over there, yessirree, everybody who’s for progress on the island has come over here to get cooled off.

  There is a clapping of hands, Antonio and his waiters distribute café negro. The snoozers wake up by themselves, rise up in their armchairs, and have to crane their necks. But it’s worth the effort: Zwingli and his ice-cream sundae are coming around the corner—

  —and disappear into the shop. Then the door designated by the word “DOOR” closes behind them. Final technical inspection, everyone figures, because that was the room that contained all the machinery. The drains have been unplugged, the electric centrifugal pump is humming away to keep the tank under the roof constantly filled. A glass-washing machine, on test loan from the manufacturer (lucky for Beatrice!) needs only to be plugged in, and in the twinkling of an electrical eye it will chase away even the most tenacious bacillus, leaving the glasses germ-free for the next round of customers.