Books on Ibiza
Bibliomaniacs' Corner by Martin Davies
Penelope Grogan The Great Healer
We
began our last article with a look at the first great private library of antiquity
- Aristotles - and the manner in which it disappeared from sight when a
certain Roman bon viveur called Faustus disposed of it to clear his debts
around the middle of the first century BC. It is tempting to speculate that a
good number of those scrolls passed into the library of the Villa of the Papyri,
which first came to the attention of latter-day booklovers in 1752. In that year
the Swiss scholar Karl Weber began excavating a sumptuous seashore villa in Herculaneum
which had lain below ninety feet of petrified mud ever since the famous volcanic
eruption of 79 AD. In a small backroom he found some carbonised logs lying on
wooden shelves, which the diggers (including several convicts) began to throw
away. Closer inspection showed them to be priceless papyrus rolls, of which about
eighteen hundred (of a total of two thousand) survived the preliminary spring-clean
- the first and most remarkable ancient library to have been uncovered in modern
times. A machine was devised which managed to unroll a few of the brittle objects,
but because of their extremely fragile and blackened state, a proper technical
solution has only been emerging in the past fifteen years. They turned out to
be mainly works on Epicureanism by Philodemus of Gadara, a philosopher who lived
in Rome at the time of Cicero. The villa itself - on which J. Paul Getty based
his famous museum in Malibu - is now thought to have belonged to Philodemuss
patron, Lucius Calpurnius Piso, father-in-law to Julius Caesar. As Philodemus
lived in Rome between 75 and 40 BC, what connection could there possibly be with
the library of Aristotle (384-322 BC)? The answer comes from our old friend Faustus
- something of an angel in disguise. If a scholarly and wealthy patron like L.
Calpurnius Piso was collecting scrolls in the middle of the first century BC,
he would probably have been highly interested in the sale of Aristotles
collection. Two charred but lavishly-made doors have just been found at a lower
level of his villa, which some believe lead into the main library. If this hypothesis
is correct, then Aristotles scrolls might be just a few tantalizing metres
(or even centimetres) from our grasp. Whoever said books were
dull? Payprus, by the way, has the same etymological root as bible - and bibliomaniac
- but well leave that for another day. Right now it is time to climb onto
our magic carpet and fly straight from Herculaneum and Aristotle to Ibiza and
Apollo. Whatever ails you, our island cures you - provided
it doesnt make it worse. The eponymous heroine of Penelope Grogans
The Mending of Cathlene (1995, 2nd edition 2002), certainly needs a little
of that special Pityusan magic: it all starts when husband Rob forces her to have
an abortion and follows it up by announcing hes in love with another woman;
then a finicky brother-in-law denies access to two adorable nieces; barely has
our protagonist drawn breath from this triple catastrophe when composer friend
Graham commits suicide; for the final straw, Robs trade-in model is spotted
pregnant. Therapy of some sort is clearly needed, but it comes from a rather unexpected
quarter - Apollo, wearing a very expensive silk jacket. The male muse
is actually Edward OBrien, Grahams callous lover or rather adopted
son. His manly voice comes in handy when dastardly Rob rings up to finalize
the house-sale; his looks are suitably decorative both indoors and later on the
road to Ibiza; his gayness precludes romantic complications; and finally his financial
and domestic ineptitude require round-the-clock vigilance. When Edwards
brother drops anchor in West London to become part of Cathlenes work-cure,
we know shes in safe hands: how can anyone surrounded by total chaos have
time to become depressed? There is one piece of the puzzle,
however, which remains missing: the heroines longing for a child. Which
is where Ibiza comes in: schoolteacher friend Margaret knows someone with a flat
to let in Ibiza town and before overdosing on pills, Graham paints a rather attractive
picture of that perennial retreat for injured souls: Oh,
Ibiza, its a lovely place, or used to be. Ive got a friend there,
a painter
He rents a large, old farmhouse on a hillside that looks out
across the Mediterranean. I believe he has a little girl now. I spent a whole
summer with him several years ago. They lead an extraordinary life, he and his
women. They cook up fish heads with rice and eat figs off the trees. There were
all sorts of strange people living there. I never found out who they were. When
I first arrived at the house, a young woman in a long white cotton night-dress
came out from what had been a pigsty, and wandered off down the hillside among
the almond trees. I dont think I ever saw her again
Ill give
you his name, but I cant give you an address because in Ibiza theres
no such thing.
The
Mending of Cathlene, pp. 44-5
The
Ibiza we know and love - or used to. Cathlene and Margaret head off south as soon
as term ends and Edward tags along as the token man. It turns into a typical long
car journey: endless tailbacks, pokey overnight stops, the occasional cultural
snack and finally, at lands end, the missed ferry. Although there is no
prospect of a crossing until October at the earliest, Edward is on hand to successfully
charm the ticket clerk - in the face of a huge rugger scrum of violent Germans
fighting for bookings. Useful chap that. The set-up
on the fabled island is far from promising: the flat is airless and cramped, Margarets
back is playing up while Edward immediately waltzes off to join some new friends
in Santa Eulalia. Left to her own devices, it is to the mysterious and little-known
interior that Cathlene turns for a measure of consolation: Every
afternoon, while Margaret was asleep, I wandered out into the countryside. Of
course, it was usually the hottest time of the day, but I was on the run from
myself, so I had to do something. I walked past whitewashed, flat-roofed houses
with beautiful circular threshing floors beside them. In some places the earth
is red, the colour of blood. On one evening when the sun was setting and I was
returning later than usual, I was passed by a mule cart. It was loaded with lucerne.
The great wheels wobbled and jolted from rut to rut, the cart lurched and shook,
but the small wizened, Ibicencan driver saluted me with noble charm. I wished
we could have been staying in one of these farmhouses, where everything was beautiful,
instead of in our dreadful flat where everything in sight was ugly. I wished I
could talk to the people I saw, but then I wished a lot of things. I wished I
had a child, I wished I had my husband. I wished I were anybody but myself.
pp.
114-5
With ten days left to go, Thelma-and-Louise
(or Hinge-and-Bracket) decide to ferret out Graham's painter friend, Steffan,
in the far north. Their quest takes them to one of Ibiza's wildest and most untouched
corners: To the right
the ground fell steeply away in abandoned terraces, grown over by scorched weeds
and scrub. After rounding another corner we came to a more cultivated hillside,
planted with almond trees. To the side of the road was a covered stone well. Beside
it grew a tall clump of bamboo, twittering with little birds, restlessly flittering
about among the canes. An ancient olive tree cast a cool shadow from a terrace
above.
p.
119
That little well, incidentally,
is still intact. I was picking enormous mulberries there last week (and stained
my favourite polo-shirt). When the intrepid duo finally arrive at Steffans
finca, his half-starved eight-year-old daughter informs them that it wont
be any good to see him today, because theyve gone on a trip - a little
psychedelic excursion. Little Clara is a vignette from hippy Ibiza which merits
closer inspection: barefoot (toes so spread out they looked like monkey
hands), skinny and brown all over like a dried nut, she wanders
across the sun-baked hillsides accompanied by her faithful podenco, Perro,
both on the lookout for free food. A not untypical product of the flower revolution.
The following evening Steffan and Clara turn up in Ibiza town and take the English
ladies out to a trendy restaurant below the battlements (Es Quinques?). But the
cheeky hippy is suddenly called off by another, who makes a snide comment they
dont quite catch - leaving the two ladies with a hefty bill. What
an extraordinary way to behave, is all that Margaret manages to snort. The
last two chapters encompass a sort of resolution of the books principal
theme, Cathlenes longing for a child, but here we will draw a discrete veil
over the manner in which this is achieved. There is also a settling of accounts
with Rob and his new partner. This is a book which, on balance, has considerable
riches to offer those who love a well-turned phrase. The authors Anglo-Saxon
understatement and her Celtic lyricism are so expertly handled that for this reviewer
at least, they easily compensate for the heroines readiness to be the victim
of every monster who crosses her path. The men, almost without exception, emerge
unfavourably: adulterers, liars, spongers, acid-heads, fall-guys, manipulators
and lawyers - rather an unedifying lot. The women come out little better: over-knowledgeable
and overbearing Margaret, a nymphomaniac beer-heiress and a clutch of listless
freaks who have shrugged off maternal responsibility like an unwanted garment;
Robs new partner, adulteress Ella, is really the best of the bunch - excluding
the long-suffering and saintly Cathlene. But is Cathlene really so perfect? I
am not qualified to talk at length on the sensitive issue with which the book
opens, but one or two female readers might take exception to the heroines
decision on this score. Children, on the other hand, get an excellent press: Coppertop
and Curly Wig, the adorable nieces; little Clara, whom we first saw running wild
like a latter-day Diana; and two innocent little mites (girls, be it noted) who
pass muster quite satisfactorily. If you love Ibiza, books and children the way
they used to be, then I can heartily recommend this one. The
Mending of Cathlene was launched at Libro Azul on 12th June 2002. They say
that London buses come in threes, but books about Ibizas recent past apparently
come in sixes or sevens: the last week of April saw the publication of Dutch
Writers and Painters in the Pityuses, translated by yours truly; a few weeks
later Peter Kinsleys Bogged Down in County Lyric (see Ibiza History Culture Archive article Weekly Edition 071 of Saturday 6th July 2002) with its ten
chapters on Ibiza ca. 1970 hit the shelves; your correspondent then received a
rare copy of The Pistolero (see Ibiza History Culture Archive article Weekly
Edition 069 of Saturday 22nd June 2002), a book set largely in Ibiza Town around
November 1977; Last Tango in Ibiza (2001) is also clamouring for my attention;
Tristan Joness Yarns has just arrived, with The Saga of the Dreadnought,
a delightful tale about the salvaging of an iron lifeboat in Ibiza harbour in
November 1965; and finally, a lucky break has put the bibliomaniac onto a completely
unknown novel about Ibiza in 1956 by one of the greatest names in modern English
letters. In the next article, our exploration will focus on this unusual treasure,
dredged up from the very bottom of the literary ocean. I shall leave you with
a passage from it which ties in neatly with our exploration (see Ibiza History Culture
Archive article Weekly Edition 071 of Saturday 6th July 2002) of the emerald
muse - suissé in local parlance. Beckett, incidentally, is a character
who seems to have much in common with the painter Grimes: Although
Beckett had a weak stomach for strong liquor, this was the one time when he felt
justified in ordering an alemana. Alemana was a local concoction
of absinthe, so-called because it was supposed in Vedra to be a drink for which
the Germans had formed a dangerous national addiction. The supreme virtue of an
alemana was the speed with which it changed the face of the world. In a matter
of minutes colours flowed into drab landscapes; mere noises rearranged themselves,
with the slightest excuse, as music; the past ceased to admonish, and the future
to threaten. But this was euphoria, too, that could be carried to unmanageable
lengths. The alemana was served, with the usual half of a small, green
lemon. Beckett squeezed the lemon into the clouded liquid and watched with anticipatory
satisfaction, as the droplets sank and spread their oily ectoplasms ... Intoxicated?
Beckett found it hard to believe it could be so. He tried to compare his present
mood and sensations with those of a half hour before. The mental heaviness seemed
to have lifted, that was all. Perhaps too he was abnormally conscious of what
was going on round him. Possibly the special chemical - the ester or whatever
it was - in the liquor possessed the power of neutralising the poisons of fatigue
in the blood
Profoundly philosophical observations had begun to flow, on
the slightest encouragement, in and out of his mind. 0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000Norman
Lewis, The Tenth Year of the Ship Salud!
Martin Davies martindavies@ibizahistoryculture.com
|
|
|
Ibiza
Authors | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
|
Book Reviews
| |
Children's Books
| | | | | |
| Biographical
Portraits | | | | Gaston
Vuillier | | | | |
Novels,
Old & New | | | | | |
| | | | |
Egypt
and Ancient Ibiza | | | | | |
|
|