Tristan und Isolde

Tristan und Isolde

Kein Heil nun kann,
kein süßer Tod
je mich befrein
von der Sehnsucht Not;
nirgends, ach nirgends
find' ich Ruh:
mich wirft die Nacht
dem Tage zu,
um ewig an meinen Leiden
der Sonne Auge zu weiden.

Richard Wagner, Tristan und Isolde, Act III

My thanks to Alan and Angela Collings, as well as Sally MacCarther for having the infinite patience of reviewing the grammar of text.
Thanks to Richard and Diana St Ruth for reviewing the editing.
Thanks also to Catherine McGuire for listening my misfortunes with the patience of Job.
This tale is dedicated to all of them: thank you very much for making me feel loved and cared in my British exile.

Text copyright 2005 by Aaricia Thorgalson. All rights reserved. None part of this text may be reproduced stored or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

The stranger came to us on a lightless morning. My mother was, by that time, pondering over the possibility of taking lodgers, but, apart from mentioning it to some of her friends, she hadn't made yet any announcements. We were, therefore, surprised when somebody knocked on our front door asking for accommodation. Wrapped in his elegant black cloak, which matched his bizarre wide-brimmed hat, the stranger reminded me of the figure of a crow, with his sharp profile and the disquieting glance in his azure eyes. Bewildered as she was, my mother invited him in for a cup of tea, subjecting him to a sharp interrogation. Calmly, with a vague note of apathy in his voice, as though tired of giving the same explanations again and again, he answered, one by one, my mother's questions. The stranger spoke an imperfect English, with a foreign accent difficult to understand. He said that he planned to stay for a while in our town, Totnes, with the aim of teaching German as a private tutor. His wealthy clothes, the way he drank his tea, the confidence of his demeanour¦, all showed that the stranger was a real gentleman. He talked to my mother as if addressing one of his assistants, with precise and categorical instructions, taking for granted that his request had been accepted. Yet I knew, by my mother's diplomatic smile, that she was harbouring reasonable misgivings. In those days, lodging a foreigner was a completely unwonted fact. Totnes was still a provincial village of farmers and craftsmen, far from being the vibrant town it has become today. The only outsiders who could be found wandering around, in a lonely High Street flanked by oil lampposts, were traders from Bristol and the Smoke. Not only were foreigners rara avis in our borough, but the rumours of an imminent war in Europe, which were spreading all over the country like a smoke shroud, certainly didn't encourage a warm welcome to aliens. Perhaps because of the former, I heard my mother politely asking the stranger where he was from.

- I am afraid I am countryless- replied the stranger with a shrug -. But if I have to choose a country, I am from the Canary Islands.

My mother frowned slightly, keeping the same expression even when the stranger showed her his official safe-conduct signed by the Spanish Consul General in London. Was he, then, Spanish?¦ Yet he didn´t look Mediterranean. On the contrary, he had the fine fair complexion of the Indo-European breed, with a death-foreboding paleness drawn on his face; the paleness of one who is mortally ill, as we would later find out.

At some point during the interrogation, the lounge door opened abruptly, pushed by our family cat, Ruffle, who came into the room with his habitual insolence, glancing at the stranger with hostility. Pleased by the interruption, our visitor drew the cat's attention and held out his arm in an attempt to stroke him.

-Be careful, sir- warned my mother -. He might scratch.
-I don´t think so - responded the stranger with conviction.

Ruffle was notorious for his volatile mood and his lack of patience with visitors. To our astonishment, not only did he allow the stranger to stroke him, but to be lifted onto the man´s lap, where he was to remain until the meeting ended. My mother said then to the stranger:
- Well, thank you very much for your enquiry, Mr.¦
And only at that moment, did I realize that we didn't know the stranger's name.
-Tristan, you can call me Tristan, madam.
-Tristan ? Is that your Christian name or your surname?
- It doesn't matter
- Right¦ Is that the Spanish custom, maybe?

The stranger shrugged his shoulders again, as though he didn't wish to be bothered about trivial matters.

- Be that as it may, Mr. Tristan, though I am thinking of taking lodgers, the fact is that I haven't come to any decision yet- ended my mother.

The stranger called Tristan opened then his checkbook and wrote down a check for my mother.

- I will pay this figure every month, madam, and you will be entitled to evict me in case you are not satisfied, any time, without notice.
I saw my mother hesitating, a glimmer of bewilderment on her eyes.
- I.. I have to think about that, Mr. Tristan.

By the end of that very week, the stranger came to live with us. From that date onward, we would be four living in our household: my mother, myself, Tristan and Ruffle. I was very young at that time, thirteen, maybe fourteen, I cannot remember. A slender boy who still wore short trousers and knee socks. A boy who devoured books like a spider devours the insects trapped in its web. The mysterious Tristan had captivated my fantasy and I was excited about taking him as our lodger. Indeed, I interceded with my mother for him many times, for she felt uneasy about having a complete stranger under our roof. She would have preferred one of those stiff schoolmistresses who were sent to our town, a possibility which I dreaded. Since my father left us, we did need some sort of income. Though my mother hid the hardship of our situation from me, I knew that she was struggling to pay the bills. Like an auspicious signal, even Ruffle seemed to have accepted the stranger, I had argued to her.

Our cottage was sited at the Guildhall, facing both the remains of Totnes Castle and the willowy tower of Saint Mary's Church. The Castle was still surrounded by pastureland, where local farmers had grazed their flocks since time immemorial. On the first day, when Tristan was arranging his things, I heard my mother knocking on his door, and saying tactfully:

- One last remark, Mr. Tristan, because you are a gentleman and this is a respectable home, I need hardly say that¦
- Don't worry, madam, I will never bring women to the house, nor come back drunk from the inn - interrupted the stranger with a frankness that my mother was far from appreciating.

Tristan soon turned out to be the ideal lodger, even by my mother's high standards. He was clean and tidy, paid religiously and made his presence feel as discreet as possible. Indeed, he spent his days shut in his room, listening to strident operas in German, and reading the international papers that he received from London. That he wasn't interested at all in making a living as a German tutor soon became more than obvious. As a matter of fact, the only ones who could afford his lessons were the aristocratic families in the region, who returned for the summer to their stately homes on the coast, and the nouveaux riches, setting up their mansions around the Bay of Torbay in imitation of the nobility. However, who could wish to learn German with a possible war with Germany at the gates?

Tristan was a reserved person, holding himself rather aloof from the locals, and I don't think he made any friends in Totnes. At the beginning, he even seldom talked to my mother or myself. Only Raffle was honoured with permission to sojourn in his room. I was in charge of serving the stranger his meals on a tray, for it wasn't appropriate for my mother to come into a bachelor's chamber. Depending on his mood, more often than not, he stood in front of the open door, blocking my way like a ghostly-looking sentry. Occasionally, he allowed me to enter his domain and, in that case, I had to place the tray on his desk and leave the room without raising my eyes from the floor, as my mother had taught me. After his meal, Tristan placed the tray in the corridor, next to his closed door. Rather than our guest, it appeared that he was our prisoner.

Despite the open window, there was always a pungent smell in Tristan´s room. Years later, when I lost my childhood innocence, I could identify such a smell with the characteristic aroma of the opium alkaloid. The stranger was a morphine and opium addict, the only relief for his excruciating aches. I remember having peeped at him burning opium on a spoon and inhaling it. Both drugs kept him alive, for he often didn't touch his meals. My mother, concerned about that, asked him if there was something wrong with the food.

- Yours meals are delicious, madam. It's just that I don't have any appetite- replied the man.

Tristan was restless at night as well. My bedroom was placed beneath his, and I could hear him roaming around the room, like a hobbit in his burrow, until the dawn. Other nights, on the contrary, he slipped away after dinner and sneaked back with the first light, all the free houses and inns in Totnes having shut long time before. From my half-open door, I could peer out at him going up the stairs, shoes in hand to avoid any noise, leaning against the wall, not as a result of drunkenness, as it might be thought, but of his ailment.

It happened that one evening, when I knocked at his door to serve dinner as usual, there was no answer. I knocked several more times without success. I could have come back later, or I could have left the tray close to his door, yet I didn't do any of those things. Fascinated with Tristan as I was, my curiosity beat my good manners, and I pulled the door handle. The door was open. I raised my voice to announce:

- Mr. Tristan, dinner is ready

Again, no answer. I could feel the blood throbbing in my temples, with a mixture of excitement and fear. Cautiously, emulating Ruffle's smooth steps, I entered the bedroom. Yet I was now a secret agent infiltrating in the German Army Headquarters, to search for the enemy's documents that would allow Britain to win the war. Trembling with excitement, I left the tray on the desk. That would become my alibi should the enemy catch me. I inspected the whole bedroom with a quick glance, like a real agent would do in the enemy lair: the old gramophone with piles of phonographic discs and books in German scattered around, the clothes carefully folded up on the bed, the odd wide-brimmed hat 'Tristan would explain to me later that it was a traditional sombrero from the Canary Islands - hanging on the coat rack, and the smell, the asphyxiating smell that appeared to pervade everything ¦

Then, I saw the portrait, on the bedside table. It depicted a lady, with a kind of indigenous beauty I had never come across before. She was wondrous fair, her long straight hair framing her delicate features, and a mesmerizing glance in her almond-shaped eyes, a glance that seemed to pierce me. Suddenly, I felt a breath of fire on the back of my neck and heard a furious voice raging:

- Vermmant noch mal! Insolent boy, how do you dare to take that?

Tristan stood behind me, gazing at me with an expression fiercer than I could have imagined ever seeing. With a fast movement, he snatched the portrait from my hand, grasping my shoulders like a bird of prey. I could feel the burning pressure of his claw through my clothes.

- Why have you come into the room? Answer my question! ' roared Tristan again.
- I¦ am really sorry, Sir¦ I just.. I just wanted to serve dinner¦- I apologized as best I could.

Gradually, like a predator forgiving his prey, his expression began to soften and he dropped into the armchair. But now he looked an exhausted man, as though all his energy had burnt out with his rage. When he spoke again, his voice had a note of distant sorrow.

- Do you want to know who was the woman in the portrait? Do you really want to know that, boy? - he asked me.

I didn't dare to reply. I was still too frightened. Tristan then opened a bottle of schnapps and served two generous glasses. To my surprise, he made as if offer one glass to me.

- I¦ I don't drink, Sir, my mother doesn't allow me ¦
- Na ja, that's your loss. The woman in the portrait -continued Tristan - was a Guanche princess from the Canary Islands. Have you heard about the Guanches? They were the indigenous people of the Islands, before the Spaniards exterminated them. The princess was called Isolde. But she is dead now¦
- Was she your wife, Sir? - I dared to ask.
- Don't be stupid. Comely women are created to be loved, not to be married.

And sitting up slowly, the stranger considered the conversation ended.

From that time onwards, Tristan became very fond of me, and vice versa. Whilst I served his meals, he invited me to come into his bedroom, and talked to me as if I were an adult. He reminded me of a character run away from my books, so different than the rest of the people I knew¦ He had lived in the whole of Europe, as if it was his own personal estate. He had also lived in America, where everybody was supposed to be rich and happy. He had travelled to forbidden ashrams, in the heart of the impenetrable jungles, in India. Had climbed the perennial snowy peaks in the Himalayas. Had followed the lion's trail in the plateaus of Africa, and had beheld his own image reflected in the lakes of Pokhara. Yet, no other place on Earth had enraptured his heart like the Canary Islands.

- You can find all wonders of nature gathered in the same Archipelago- related Tristan -. The twilight is suffused there with red every evening, as if the sky exuded blood ¦ There are bottomless ravines which plunge into the bowels of the Earth, and mountain ranges that rise sheer out of the sea. There are lizards as enormous as the dragons of the past, and a volcano that soars into the sky, entwining the clouds around its snow-capped peak. There are deserts of countless dunes that merge with the ocean, and forests of huge cactus-like trees called dragos, whose flowers can heal all wounds. And above all, there are women so beautiful than they can steal a man's heart with a single glance¦

The stranger never told me what he had been done in the Canary Islands. When I asked him about his life there, he always replied: "I was doing the three things that make life worthy, boy: listening to sublime music, visiting places of outstanding beauty, and mounting fine women. And I wondered what my mother would say if she could hear that.

Once, when he was drunk enough, I asked him about the lady of the portrait. How did she die?, I enquired. Tristan looked at me, and a conspiratorial sparkle glittered on his blue eyes, veiled by the alcohol.

- Ah, Princess Isolde¦ don't you know the story of Tristan and Isolde, boy? - he replied, dragging each word.

I shook my head.

- Princess Isolde was the most beautiful woman in the Canary Islands. All the living creatures, men, animals and birds, paid homage to her beauty, and legends has it that even Guayota, the Supreme Smith of the Guanche people, fell for her. To protect her people from the Spanish cruelty, Isolde got married with Marke, the King of the Spaniards. Yet her heart kept beating for Tristan, the handsomest of the Guanches´ warriors. The lovers managed to meet secretly every night, in the garden of palmas and bicareras that surrounded the palace. Until the day that the moral watchdogs denounced them to King Marke...

He stopped talking. Suddenly, he looked older, spent, as if the story was stealing his remaining vigour.
- And what happened then? What did King Marke do? - I enquired vehemently.
The stranger's eyes gazed at me with infinite grief.
- What king Marke did was to murder Isolde¦ Yet Tristan killed him in a fair fight, avenging his love. And finally, Tristan took his life, plunging a dagger into his chest, in front of Isolde´s tomb.

I shuddered at such an ending, looked again at the lady in the portrait. I thought that Tristan was teasing me. That was the first and the only time that he talked about the mysterious woman.

Tristan, likewise, introduced me to Wagner's music, the grandiloquent operas blaring from his gramophone now and again. According to our lodger, Wagner constituted "the most talented musician ever born. As for me, I could never share his passion for music performed in such a strident way. The stranger possessed all Wagner's operas: Parfisal, Lohengrin, the never-ending Ring des Nibelungen¦ and his favourite: Tristan und Isolde, from which he had taken his name. He used to pass his days listening to this last one, oblivious to all his surroundings. Sometimes, while serving his meals, he was unaware of my presence, lost in the labyrinth of his remembrances, beating time to Act III with his right hand. I knew that act off by heart, for the stranger had explained it to me many times: Tristan, the hero, convalescing in his castle of Brittany, mortally wounded after fighting and killing his best friend, Melot; Tristan looking forward, in his delirium, to the ship that will return his beloved Isolde for ever. The mournful tune, foreboding Death, that the shepherd pipes while Tristan moans for his love. Isolde arriving, at last, at his side, only to witness Tristan´s demise, dying with her name in his lips. And then the final aria, der Liebestod, when Isolde dies of grief in front of her lawful husband, the king Marke of Cornwall, the sinister Cerberus, the embodiment of the legitimacy and the establishment, the false realm of daylight.

- Because what happens, boy, is that the world is full of Markes, and bloody Cerberus, and social rules and moral codes aimed to chain the lovers, wherever you go. For the miserable moralists are always jealous of the passion that they will never know¦ That´s what happens¦- the stranger used to say, talking more to himself than to me, after quite a few glasses of schnapps.

Tristan was the first person I met who defied conventions openly. "The world is full zombies, ruled by other zombies, boy he used to tell me. "People don't have any control over their lives, and what's worse, they wish to be slaves. Freedom scares them, passion scares them. All that cannot be controlled is declared evil and banned. Otherwise, the zombies could awake. That's why the story of Tristan and Isolde can only have that ending.

Meanwhile, the war with Germany was imminent. People queued in the cities all over the country to enlist in the Army, and fear and hostility were rarefying the once- indolent atmosphere of Devon. My mother was accused by the neighbors of lodging a German spy. Tristan himself was stopped in the High Street and questioned about his affiliation.

- None. I shall not spare either a drop of my blood or a single thought for nations of slaves - had been his answer.

Since that moment, he was never seen again walking down the High Street. Not because of the hostilities, as my mother and I had thought then, but because he could scarcely walk. His illness was hastening to the end.

Weeks later, Tristan died on the moors, on the eve of the war declaration from Westminster. My mother told me that it was a hunting accident, yet I didn´t believe her. When I was older, I learnt that he shot himself in his mouth, with the old gun called trabuco that he had brought from the Canary Islands. He was bound to die, sooner or later. Cancer was devouring his bowels, like a predator gnawing the bones of its prey. The forensic doctor who examined his body reported that, in his condition, he would have to been racked with pain.

Time went by. I was witness to one world war and had to fight another, for the worthy cause of Britain. I killed people whose names I will never learn, nor did they do me any harm before. In my youth, I beheld most of my friends dying in the desolation of countless battlefields in Europe. As Tristan used to say, it's a world of zombies, ruled by other zombies.

It happened that many years later, I went to the Canary Islands on holiday. The Eden on Earth that Tristan described had become a holidaymakers´ paradise, with miles of tourist resorts built all over the island. My hotel was sited in Las Palmas, in the island of Gran Canaria, In one of the trips, I happened to visit the Canarian Museum, in the old part of the city. Imagine my surprise when, in one of the chambers, hanging on the wall, I came across the portraits of our enigmatic lodger and his Princess Isolde. She resembled, it was the same photograph. Tristan looked younger, not the man consumed by the cancer we had lodged, but a handsome gentleman with the frank smile of someone satisfied with life. Astonished, I requested the guide to translate the legend below the portraits.

- It´s a very famous love tragedy here in Canarias - said the guide . The woman was the wife of the Spanish Governor, at the beginning of the 20th Century. Her family was one of noble ancestry on the island, and legend had it that she was directly descended from the Guanarteme, the last Guanche monarch. The man was the German consul in Las Palmas. They were lovers, until some busybody denounced them to the husband. He then sent the woman to Spain, where she died. It was told that she contracted cholera during the journey by boat. When the German heard of her death, he went mad and killed the Governor in a duel.
- And what happened to the consul after that ?- I enquired.
- The Spanish authorities tried to arrest and try him, but he vanished from the islands, and it seems from the surface of Earth as well. His whereabouts remains unknown until now.

Totnes, July 2005
 Aaricia Thorgalson