Books on Ibiza
Bibliomaniacs' Corner by Martin Davies
Norman Lewis Sunken Treasure
Over
the past forty years, at least eight writers have disguised Ibiza and Formentera
by providing elaborate aliases, some of which have already been encountered in
this series. They have done so in order to draw a veil over the real-life source,
something they considered especially precious and rare. Thus did they not only
keep critics and readers completely in the dark, but starving libel lawyers were
also denied gainful employment. Ibiza is no longer that secret untouched paradise
though, and the time has come to do a little rescue biblio-archaeology, raising
these forgotten literary works to the surface from the depths where they have
lain hidden for so long. Exhibit number one is the work of New York novelist Robert
Goldston who opted for a Spanish mainland alias, when he transferred Santa Eulalia
del Río to the Catalan coastline in his The Catafalque (1958), calling
it San Pedro del Rio. Subtle. Two years later, Barbara Comyns, an
English novelist whose work has recently been revived by Virgo, called Ibiza Ciriaco
after the islands patron saint, St Cyriac of the Baths ( 304 AD),
an obscure Roman martyr whose feast day (8th August) coincided with the day the
Islamic citadel was stormed in 1235. For serious bibliomaniacs her Ibiza memoir,
Out of the Red, Into the Blue (1960) is almost impossible to locate outside
the British Library (I found mine in an Andalusian cortijo, once owned by a member
of the Bloomsbury fringe). 1965 was a bumper year for Formenteran aliases: John
Mercer successfully disguised the Pitiusa menor as Puertoviejo in
his Lizard Island Expedition (1965), a boys adventure tale about
finding a sunken Phoenician port at the very tip of Cap de Barbaria; and Jacques
Peuchmaurd called it Palicorna in a novel (Le Soleil de Palicorna)
which not only won the prestigious Prix des Libraires, but was also made into
a film and translated into Spanish. Back to the Pitiusa major, John Anthony West
called Ibiza Escondite (Hideaway) in Osbornes
Army (1966), a novel about beatniks taking over an island which is on the
verge of selling its soul to package tourism; he plonked it down rather unconvincingly
somewhere in the Caribbean, but to anyone even vaguely familiar with Ibiza, the
original inspiration is clear in almost every single sentence. The
fashion for disguising Ibiza was very much a phenomenon of the 1960s, but there
are two later exceptions: when Peter Kinsley published The Pistolero in
1980, a thriller which touched on the sensitive subject of the Spanish Civil War,
he decided to call Ibiza Nostrumare, putting more than just literary
sleuths completely off the scent; and in 1998 the French cult cartoonist Georges
Bess created Escondida, a comic-book set on a spaced-out Formentera. Mystical,
surrealist Escondida (Hidden) makes an interesting
makeweight to John Anthony Wests Escondite. I wonder if George
Bess (no relation to the Manchester winger) is aware of his American literary
soul-mate. We are down to our final alias, a classic creation
of 1962. It is an archetypically Pityusan name, the clues being obvious to even
the most fumbling literary Watson. In the novel which is this weeks subject,
Ibiza is Vedra - the old man of the sea (veteranu)
or rocky (petranu) according to toponymist Enric Ribes, who
has researched the etymological origins of the mysterious colossus off Ibizas
west coast. Ibiza here has been shifted one thousand four hundred miles to the
south-west and made part of the Canaries, a shift so drastic as to have fooled
even the books French and German publishers. The author is Norman Lewis,
and the novel is The Tenth Year of the Ship. Let
us begin with the jacket blurb: a story of cultural and environmental
destruction. For a century and a half, the Tur family have excluded anything likely
to disturb life on their remote island in the Canaries. Then a regular steamship
service is established, and the stagnant feudalism is replaced by the tyranny
of speculators. And now a few facts: Norman Lewis (who has never,
as far as I have been able to gather, visited the Canaries) came over to Ibiza
for the first time in 1955 or possibly 1954 (he is famously ambivalent about dates)
and stayed for a couple of summers in Ses Estaques (The Mooring Posts),
a large villa on the outskirts of Santa Eulalia later demolished to make way for
a hotel. He had by then already written three novels and four travel books, and
was beginning to attract considerable attention as the new Graham Greene thanks
to a dry prose style and his taste for exotic locales Algeria, Naples,
Thailand. He had spent a couple of summers in the early 1950s in a fishing village
in northern Catalonia, but had been obliged to move by the sudden arrival of tourism.
It was perfectly clear to him from the start that the same was about to happen
on Ibiza; it was only a question of time. The title of
the novel under consideration refers to the steamship connection between Vedra
and Las Palmas. Ten years after its inauguration the outside world is beginning
to make its presence felt: The
ship whose advent they had prepared was a microcosm of the outside world, overspilling
with the contagion of unrest. It lit fires and put out fires of its own making.
It carried a new invasion of the germ of syphilis and new medicine for its treatment;
it smuggled in dangerous thoughts and brought modern inquisitors on the search
for political heresies; it provided new incitements to the flux of life in the
form of stimulating fashions, books and films, and a variety of ingenious methods
previously unknown on Vedra for cutting off the flow thus stimulated. In the first
year alone came the complete equipment for two cinemas, a fleet of taxis, the
petrol to run them, and the pipes, seats and pans for several hundred of the almost
indecently commodious lavatories that fashionable city-dwellers on the mainland
now installed in their houses. The ship disturbed the thoughts of the people of
Vedra who travelled in it by the vision of Babylons by the shores of alien seas.
In the ship came speculators who bought up whole streets of Vedra town for development
in the interests of a future Tur could not bear to contemplate
These men
had offered Tur a fantastic price for land that was of nothing but sentimental
value to him, and had smilingly refused to take no for an answer. The ship had
arrived like a sudden and dreadful change of climate that freezes or drowns in
slime the mastodons of another age. Yet never a week passed without Tur being
there with the others to see it steam into port.
The
Tenth Year of the Ship, pp. 64-65
The
year that Lewis was scribbling away outside Santa Eulalia - 1956 - was also the
tenth year of Ibizas regular steamboat connection with Barcelona (inaugurated
in 1947). For later readers, the irony is that the ship was nothing compared to
the airport just around the corner (1958). In the novel, Don Flavio Tur is the
islands richest and most powerful landowner, the leading figure in a band
of local power-brokers whose other members are Arturo ONeill (Guardia Civil),
Commander Perez (Colonel of the Garrison) and Don Firmín (the Bishops
secretary). In the first chapter the population of the port and half the island
is gathered on the quayside to await the arrival of a new Civil Governor from
Madrid; word is that a rounding-up of unwanted local beats is about to take place,
which may affect the two foreigners who play a leading role in the story: Laura
a nice English schoolteacher who has succumbed to a handsome fisherman and earned
the wrath of his prometida; and Beckett (Lewiss alter ego), a dissolute
painter who has become involved with Don Flavios nymphomaniac daughter.
Like Lewis himself, Laura has a rather poor opinion of her own tribe: If
there was anything spurious in a persons character, Vedra could be relied
upon to bring it out. One had only to remember the annual quote of fake suicides
among the members of the foreign colony - the overdoses of barbiturates and the
wrist-slashing, which were the histrionics of bored, hemmed-in, and also demoralized
people. They were emotional cannibals who fed on each others tensions, and
she had certainly provided a juicy bone for them to pick over this time.
p.
23
Santa Eulalians with long memories
recall how Lewis shunned the expatriate community there, preferring the company
of local fishermen whose boats were moored just in front of his shoreline villa.
It is the plight of these fishermen which forms an interesting foil to the dilemmas
which face the islands oligarchy. Both are locked in a life-and-death struggle
against the modern world. For the fishermen their adversary is the modern trawler
fleet which has begun to invade their traditional fishing grounds; for the landowners
the enemy are the speculators who are promoting tourism, thus destroying not only
the traditional labour market, but also the islands traditional way of life: Next
year, or the year after, the ship would bring plant for a factory twice or three
times the size of the one that had burned down. The three defeated trawlers would
be replaced by an invincible score. Turs peasants, enticed away by La Palomita
and leaving his lands deserted, would discover a new kind of servitude, disguised
as freedom. Their bondage would not be to a master of flesh and blood, who could
be to some extent manipulated, or even moved by compassion, but to a brass-gutted
Moloch known as the shareholder; voracious, pitiless and - above all - stone deaf.
Capitalism had arrived, and the only way to survive was to join forces with it
as Valentin had done. It couldnt be fought
But in any case, it was
too late.
p.
244
Norman Lewis is an eloquent chronicler
of the destruction wrought on traditional societies the world over in the name
of economic and technological progress. In the Foreword to his selection of travel
pieces, A View of the World (1986) he wrote: I cannot think of any
single place that I have written about that did not appear to have gone downhill
- sometimes disastrously so - on a subsequent visit ... It is not possible in
the face of such calamities to keep silent, to remain a perpetual spectator.
It is time, indeed, to point to the island which is the real Vedra.
If you can get hold of a copy, you will find a book rich in description of many
aspects of traditional Ibiza, from methods of disposing of unpopular dogs to the
exact recipe, as we saw last week, for making the traditional peasant cocktail,
suïsser (called here alemana). The French translation, Lîle
aux chimères (1963) has just been republished; and thanks to the books
blistering attack on western capitalism, a DDR-German version also exists, Das
Zehnte Jahr des Schiffes (1970). In a fortnights
time we will return to the theme of early travel-writers, exactly where we left
off. We will begin with the first of three remarkable Edwardian scribblers, early
emissaries from the Anglo-Saxon world who visited Ibiza at a time when it was
as little-known in sophisticated London drawing-rooms as the dark side of the
moon. Some things, it seems, are destined never to change. Martin Davies martindavies@ibizahistoryculture.com
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