The Rest is Silence

Millions of years ago a mighty fountain spurted a plume of hissing red-hot lava from the core of the earth right up through the sea bed, leaving behind two chunks of diabase which were subsequently knitted together by microscopic coral organisms. Jutting up a thousand meters from the ocean floor, born in the sea, the island is not a crumb off the South American continent and thus eludes all claims: seen across time it was only yesterday that man and beast drifted to this shore.

The Spaniards named it la Isla de los Gigantes, and when all the trees had been felled and the giants had been driven away or clubbed to death by the indieros so that there was nothing left to steal, it became la Isla Inútil. Corossol, curacan, corazón, curaçao—who can still trace the origin of your name nowadays?

But while the Spaniard met his ruin through his fixation on the supposed intrinsic value of gold and silver, the Dutchman came in search of salt to preserve his herrings from decay. The city of Amsterdam received license from the governors of the West India Company to take possession of the Island of Curaçao thereby to secure a suitable place for the procurement of salt, for which reason I, Anno Domini 1989, am on the island writing these lines for you.

My reading lamp cuts a circle of light out of the gloom. Minuscule wimpiris buzz around my head. The smoke from my cigarette swirls upwards, stinging my left eye. The branches of the big flame tree scrape against the eaves. Out in the open the sultry breath of the night caresses the scorched diabase hills on which slender cacti reach up their arms, grasping for the stars. In the distance a broken windmill moans like a wounded animal. But it is closing time in the gardens of the West. The shadows are lengthening: I am on my way to the end.

That is why I wear necklaces of black coral and decorate my wrists with pale colored pebbles, polished to perfection by the sea. My hats are trimmed with brightly colored ribbons and I pick my clothes in such a way that they hang wide and baggy around my frame. The bizarre watches given by my daughters tell me the time. Sometimes I wear two or three of these watches in a row, like the Russian soldiers I saw in the ruins of Berlin long ago, banded from wrist to elbow with tell-tale glitter. Sometimes when I look at my watches I hear that hoarse Asiatic voice: “Frau komm, Frau komm . . . ”

I want to look like an eccentric old man, or rather, I want you, reader, to see me that way: as far removed as possible from the poor slob who will soon be waiting, like a farm animal, for death in the abattoir. But a miracle must have happened, for at this point in time my life is suffused with a radiant light: I feed on people, who are growing more beautiful by the day. I see young girls floating past in all their splendor, seemingly immortal. Ah those lovely girls, those lovely seaside girls. The shining hair, the slight tender buttocks, the small breasts like fruit in a basket.

At the blond beach by the Seaquarium there’s a girl lying on the hot sand. Numbed by the sun, dizzy from the heat, she lies there in her bikini bottom, so pretty she takes my breath away. In a circle around that gorgeous body lounge tipsy marines, smoking and talking in loud voices, throwing handfuls of sand and wallowing in beer. She lies there, plena gratia, ignored by the members of her own generation. One of the marines comes to the bar for more beer and says: “All those naked tits nowadays—seen two and you’ve seen ‘em all.”

People reveal themselves to me in the beauty their Creator has destined for them: I have been given eyes to see. In the early hours of the morning little old women sit...