July 1950. I have been in Argentina for five years now—long enough to call Buenos Aires my home. I can never go back to my real homeland so I must make the best of my situation, but I fear I will never be happy here.
Since selling the paintings my finances are more secure now than they ever were in Germany. I have become wealthy, but wealth can never compensate for what I have lost.
I miss Caitlin desperately, but at least I managed to salvage a few mementoes of our time together: her sketchbook, a few photographs, some of her essays, and two of her paintings. They are some comfort.
The sketchbook contains drawings from Ireland: sketches of her family, their village, the beach, waves, even a few of me that she did during our walks along Brandon Bay strand, her special place.
The earlier of her two paintings is a self-portrait, painted in Zurich while we were studying with Carl (Jung). Her beauty and strength radiate from this canvas. There is a lightness of touch and the colours are bright. We were materially poor then, but rich in happiness.
The other is a portrait of myself and Martyn, painted in September 1940 to mark our son’s first birthday. However, it does not celebrate the occasion. Painted in oil, with heavy brushstrokes—thick layers of grey and dark brown, it is a reflection of the tension between us, the angst we were both feeling by then. I am glaring out of the picture and gripping Martyn protectively, as if he is about to be swallowed by the darkness that surrounds us. Caitlin gave it the title: ‘The Waves of Hatred Gather’.
Of course, I’d seen these two paintings hanging in the Master’s yacht, along with some of Nicole’s work. I checked with Pablo and he confirmed this:
“Si, Alejandro have Caitlin’s paintings on the boat. He take them from the house in Buenos Aires when his father die.”
I told him how beautiful I thought she was in the self-portrait, and that the other canvas seemed to be filled with gloom and doom.
He nodded. “Is true, Nick. The Master tell me about Caitlin, and he tell me about his own life in Ireland—how it is a special place for both of them.”
“Have you been there?” I asked him, hoping that perhaps he might reveal another piece of the jigsaw.
No, he replied, this would be his first visit.
I waited for more information, but none was forthcoming. The expression: ‘like getting blood out of a stone’ came to mind. Instead, he returned to the paintings aboard the Abyss:
“I know nothing about art, but is muy importante for Alejandro—is how he meet Nicole, por ejemplo.”
I nodded. “Yes, I know. Nicole told me all about how she met him.”
I still had her painting of the two of us: ‘The Kangaroo Kid and his Voodoo Child’ strapped to my rucksack in the overhead locker. It seemed like a good time to show it to Pablo.
He stared at it, and I was reminded of the time I showed it to Mandu. Mr Fix-It’s reaction was similar:
“Thank you for showing me this, señor Nick. I see what she is meaning for you. You must show it to Alejandro.”
“Yes, I will” I replied. “So, will I be seeing him soon?”
“—” The usual enigmatic silence. He pointed to the journal. I sighed, turned back to the manuscript and continued reading. There were only six pages left ... and then I wanted some answers.
Langer is in his fifties now. His business prospers and he’s resigned to making the best of his situation. In 1952 he marries his secretary, a woman fifteen years younger than him, and a year later their son is born. They name him: Alejandro Aidan Langer-Alvares. Ludwig explains why on Page sixty-five:
My wife is a modern woman. She insisted on equality when it came to naming our son. Her grandfather’s name is Alejandro, and that would be his first name—no alternatives were discussed, but it’s fine with me. Her family name is Alvares and that was added to mine, giving her a 50% stake. I was permitted to suggest his middle name, and I decided that it should honour Caitlin’s homeland. After researching Irish boys’ names I decided on Aidan, which is an Anglicisation of Aodh, meaning ‘bringer of fire’, and is the name of a Celtic sun god.
My wife is a devout Catholic and there was no need to explain this ancient pagan reference. Alejandro will be christened in the cathedral here.
So, the A.A.L. puzzle had been solved and now I finally understood the Master’s exotic mix: German father, Argentine mother, and the missing link: an ancient Irish sun god. No wonder he was drawn to that other fiery star: Mandu.
Ludwig never finds happiness in Argentina, despite his material prosperity. His research is incomplete, but he lacks the energy and enthusiasm to continue it. His marriage is one of convenience, rather than love, and he’s consumed with guilt over Caitlin’s fate. At least Alejandro never needs to worry about money. He receives the best possible education at a private British school, but not the love of his parents. They remain distant figures and he’s brought up by a succession of nannies, housekeepers and tutors.
In the seventies, a brutal dictatorship seizes power. For Ludwig, it’s horribly resonant of the Nazi’s inexorable rise in the 1930s. He becomes a recluse, ever more depressed, and in 1979 his marriage ends. By then Alejandro has left Argentina to escape the Junta. He rarely has contact with his father, but Ludwig helps him find a safe haven in Ireland. He tells his son that he has connections there (something of an understatement, I thought to myself). Alejandro ends up studying, and then teaching, in Dublin.
Langer is now alone in Buenos Aires. Both of his sons are in Ireland, unaware of each other, but somehow this pleases him. He has never forgotten Caitlin, nor their child:
In February 1950 I set up an anonymous trust to fund Martyn’s education and provide him with a modest allowance. It is administered by a solicitor in Dublin who is sworn to secrecy. My son knows nothing of me, only what Caitlin’s family have told him—that both his parents died in the war, and whatever explanation they have seen fit to give him for the money.
It was the least I could do for him. Martyn can never inherit my wealth—I intend to leave everything to Alejandro, on condition he continues my work. I hope, with all my heart and soul, that when he reads this journal he will agree to this.
My other great hope is that after my death my sons may one day meet each other and that Martyn may also read this journal and learn the truth. He may not forgive me for his mother’s death, but at least he will understand the appalling dilemma I faced.
I looked up from the manuscript and stared out of the window. The endless ocean had been replaced by empty desert. There were only two pages left now and four hours of the flight to read them, but I needed another beer, and conversation.
I turned to Pablo and nudged him. He opened his eyes, guiltily—he had a dog’s ability to fall asleep, instantly. I ordered two beers and he smiled at me gratefully.
“Have you finished the journal, señor Nick?”
“Very nearly” I replied. “Perhaps now you can tell me why we’re going to Dublin?”
He considered my question, took a sip of his beer, and told me, for the umpteenth time, that I was close to an explanation but I must finish the manuscript first.
“OK” I sighed. “At least you can tell me what happened to Martyn? Is he still alive? He would be, what, seventy-eight years old by now?”
“Yes, Nick, he is alive—as far as I am knowing.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but he said nothing.
“So where is he then?”
Silence. We finished our beers. I stared at the emptiness beneath us. Then, just as I’d decided that no more blood could be squeezed from the stone, he answered:
“He is in Dublin.”
I nodded. Now we were getting somewhere. I put down my empty glass and picked up the journal again. Page sixty-nine, the penultimate page …
November 1980, Buenos Aires. This will be the last entry in my journal. Thank you, dear reader, for taking the time to read it. I apologise if you are expecting a satisfying conclusion. There is no happy ending I’m afra
id, just a weariness with life and a desire to end it.
For the past two decades, I watched as others appeared to rediscover the values our Group explored, only to abandon them in the morass of modern society. In the late 1950s and early 60s, I was hopeful that we might have reached a turning point, through the work of writers such as Aldous Huxley, and researchers such as Timothy Leary. For a while, it seemed that psychedelic substances would open the doors of perception, reveal the truth within, and that society would evolve. I hoped that cheap travel and mass media might open people’s minds to explore the world of ideas, other cultures, ancient wisdom. For a few years, in the 1960s, it seemed that we were witnessing the birth of a new age ...
But it was not to be. Now all I see around me are Nietzsche’s ‘Last Men’. They surround me, with their suffocating culture of convenience, comfort, triviality, mediocrity. Friedrich is turning in his grave. He saw this coming, and for some years now I have also seen my own end coming.
The doctors first diagnosed severe depression and prescribed drugs. They didn’t work. A psychoanalyst made the laughable suggestion that I, a student of Carl Jung, should voluntarily commit myself to a psychiatric institution.
Eventually, I found a doctor who told me the truth: I was suffering from an incurable form of dementia, which would only become more acute and would soon rob me of my mind. He suggested that my condition could be hereditary and that I might have inherited it from my father. When I think about his mental state in his last years, this seems plausible.
Now my greatest fear is that one, or even both of my sons will inherit it from me. This is too much to bear. I do not want to be alive to witness that, let alone my own slide into the abyss.
So, all that remains is a bitter death and the slim hope that Alejandro might escape this terrible disease and continue where I leave off.
Again I thank you, my dear reader, for your time and patience. I hope you have found something of interest in this journal.
Auf Wiedersehen.
(These final, poignant two words were left untranslated)
My eyes were wet again, as I put Langer’s manuscript down. Such a bleak ending. The final few paragraphs were effectively a suicide note. Now I remembered that Alejandro had hinted this was how his father had met his end—with open arms, a “bitter death” indeed.
Then I realised it wasn’t quite the end. There was a note attached to the final page with a black paper clip. It was handwritten in the Master’s familiar elegant script and addressed to me personally:
Nick, now you have read my father’s account of his life and his work, and you understand what I have inherited from him.
When I read his journal, after attending his funeral, it changed my life. I learnt that he suffered from severe depression, terminal dementia, perhaps even insanity, and that he had taken his own life. I understood that his condition could be genetic and that I might inherit his unstable mind, his incurable illness, along with his wealth. However, I couldn’t simply ignore his plea to continue his life’s work. So, in 1981 I started a modern version of his Group, with the goal of creating an alternative to Nietzsche’s ‘Last Men’ in contemporary society.
As the years passed and the New Group pursued this goal, I knew time was limited. If I succumbed to the same problems that finished him then what would happen to his ideals, his research, his wealth?
I was grappling with this dilemma when you showed up, in October 2015, drifting around the Atlantic, and I am still grappling with it. Now time is running out for me and there are pressing matters to be resolved. This is why I have sent you to Ireland.
The first part of your mission there is to locate my half-brother, Martyn, and meet him. I would like you to give him our father’s journal so that he learns the truth.
As you know, for a while I lived and worked in Dublin. Ironically, I was unaware of his existence in the same city. It was only when I read this journal that I discovered I had a brother. However, after all this time I am not sure how he will react. We are as different as his mother and our father were—polar opposites. I need you to be my envoy.
When I was living in the Republic, in the 1970s, Northern Ireland was embroiled in ‘The Troubles’. My brother fought for his mother’s cause and played a significant role in the armed struggle against the British. Some terrible things were done in the name of political expediency. Innocent people died. I would like you to hear his side of the story and then make up your own mind.
Pablo will help you find him and then tell you what to do next.
As usual, he’d signed the note with his initials: A.A.L and dated it with today’s date: November 4, 2017.
“At least it’s not the first of November this time” a voice-in-my-head whispered.
Too true, I thought. No more Días de Muertos, please!
I sat back in my seat, exhaled (I’d literally been holding my breath), and handed the manuscript to Pablo. He handed it back to me.
“No Nick, you give this copy to the Master’s brother, señor Martyn. Like I promise you: now you know why we go to Ireland, no?”
Part IV
IRELAND
“Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
so do our minutes hasten to their end.”
(William Shakespeare)
21
The Troubles
Dublin Airport. Saturday, November 4, 2017, 09:30. As the plane touched down I had the strangest feeling of déjà vu. I’d never been here before, but there was something familiar about the open, welcoming faces and the buttery Irish accent. I felt at home and, of course, I did have a connection with the Emerald Isle—my mother’s family had emigrated to Australia from there. But that wasn’t it. It was more a feeling of finality and a familiarity with that feeling, rather than with Dublin airport. So, was this the final chapter, or would there be an epilogue? I wondered.
Pedro interrupted my cogitations before the cogs could get up to speed, with his own urgent burst of questions:
“You remember who you are, no?” he whispered.
Ignoring my habitual tendency to agonise over a question like that, I hissed back:
“Si señor Fix-it. I’m Brian Cowen.”
“¡Muy bien! And what is your job?”
“I’m a public relations consultant.”
“¡Correcto!”
We were waved through customs and passport control with the predictable ironic banter:
“Good morning to you Mr Cowen, Sir ... (he looked from my passport to my wave-board in its coffin bag) ... I’m so glad you’ve taken up something other than golf, now that you’ve retired from the Taoiseach job.”
I smiled nervously, and that was that—passports stamped, formalities concluded, my Irish mission was up and running. I followed Pablo as he strode through Arrivals towards the throng meeting and greeting passengers. A man was holding up a sign: ‘Mr. Rodrigues Vasquez’. Pablo nodded and our driver handed him a package. Inevitably, it was wrapped in brown paper. We made our way out of the airport and into the ‘Fair City’ of Dublin.
As our taxi turned into O’Connell Street the feeling of familiarity returned, stronger now. This was where Irish Republicanism erupted. We passed the infamous General Post Office, epicentre of the 1916 Easter Rising—events that had such an influence on Caitlin’s life. Only a few hours earlier I’d finished Dr Langer’s life-story and now here I was, on my way to meet their son, Martyn O’Connor.
It was a typical morning in the Fair City. Grey, misty drizzle blurred everything—‘soft rain’ the locals called it—so different from Perth’s sharp, clean light. Tourists sheltered under umbrellas, children splashed through the puddles, working men wondered if it was too early to skive off for a pint of the ‘Black Stuff’. We crawled along streets clogged with traffic, steeped in history and enveloped in that ghostly half-light, as if driving through a set for a film-noir thriller. Nobody spoke, but the silence was filled with tension.
Pablo closed the window between us and
the driver, pulled down the blind, and handed me the package. As usual, there was no explanation. If this had been a movie there might have been a flashback sequence now, a montage of previous packages and dramatic twists in my life—the parcel I delivered to Nicole; the letter telling me I would never see her again; the one Mandu had given me, telling me to open it ‘when the time was right’; the fresh identities, false passports, money, missions ... The scene would have tense music—a dramatic, discordant crescendo building into the cut back to real-time action ...
I looked at the package, then at Pablo. He nodded. The music built to a climax. I opened it … and immediately I was shaking, sweating, breathing in frantic gasps of damp, foggy air.
Inside there was a gun.
I stared at it, praying that it was just a prop in my imaginary movie. Pablo confirmed that it was real, it worked, and it was loaded.
“What the fuck is this for, mate?” I whispered to him, my voice like fingernails on a blackboard. “I don’t even know how to use it.”
He told me not to panic: “No hay problema. It is just for safety and security. Better you safe than be sorry, no amigo? And no worries, mate ... (his attempt at my own vernacular was no longer amusing) ... is easy to use. You point, pull trigger, shoot it. Bang! Easy.”
I shook my head and tried to control the violent shakes that had seized the rest of me. I wanted an explanation, but it was too late. The taxi pulled up outside a pub. Pablo paid the driver and told me he’d be waiting for me. I put the gun in my leather jacket, grabbed my rucksack, and entered the Oval Bar.
It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The dark wood, dim lighting, musty smell, and overbearing atmosphere of tradition all reminded me of a church, although the sign above the bottles hinted at a less pious ideology: ‘Est. 1820. Rebuilt after 1916 Rising, in time for Civil War and Resistance.’
Too Close to the Wind Page 26