It is pouring rain when I awaken on
our final morning in Sils Maria.
I can hear it tapping against my
window, blowing in from the lake.
Nietzsche?
I peer through curtains for a glimpse of this moody morning: low cloud cuddling high mountains: dark, gloomy, wet.
Nietzsche?
I peer through curtains for a glimpse of this moody morning: low cloud cuddling high mountains: dark, gloomy, wet.
Few
know that Nietzsche was a composer before he became a philosopher.
I discovered his complete works on two CDs at Nietzsche Haus.
I discovered his complete works on two CDs at Nietzsche Haus.
As
we roll out of Sils Maria, we listen quietly to Nietzsche’s compositions for
piano and choir.
The rain pounding our windshield feels like Friedrich’s teardrops, a poignant accompaniment to the sad strains of his sad composition, Miserere.
Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving
kindness.
Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity and cleanse me
from my sin
Against thee only have I sinned and done evil in thy
sight
So that thou may be justified when thou speaketh
And be clear when one thou judgeth
We
are in Italy, nearing Lake Como, when I look up to the clouds and see
Nietzsche’s face. One can read an awful
lot into clouds, but this portrait is striking.
“Look up there,” I say to Van Stein, pointing.
The
artist lurches forward from behind, follows my finger. “Ohmigod!”
Mazey
leans across for her own peek. “But
that’s… that’s him!”
Yes, Ms. Neuro-psychologist. Wouldn’t it make a lovely inkblot?
“It
looks just like his death mask,” says Van Stein in awe, reaching for his
sketchpad to document our collective ideas of reference.
“Thank
you,” I say. “I thought I was
hallucinating.”
We
had answered Nietzsche’s summons, called his bluff, but it was no bluff, and
now he is looking down upon us, the newest recruit to our gang of mad geniuses
disguised as orbs.
It
is mid-afternoon when we roll into Nice-Cote d’Azur Airport and bid farewell to
JL and Mazey. (We’d begun this road trip
as Mazey’s patients, finished it with she as our
patient.)
Van Stein and I are weary, but
punch-drunk from having accomplished our esoteric mission.
We
manage a seat between us in the sardine-packed EasyJet cabin. When a bitchy flight attendant conducts her final
check, she sneers: “I knew the Americans
would get the only spare seat.”
The
artist and I exchange puzzled glances: A
compliment or an insult?
Neither. We needed a seat for Nietzsche!
This propels us into a manic dialog over Bells Scotch whiskey, alarming fellow passengers as many as three rows
away.
The subject is Nietzsche’s walrus
mustache.
“You
know, when Nietzsche speaks, you can’t hear him. The sound is completely
muffled. And it’s not like a lip-reader
can help.”
“As
for kissing, out of the question. No
woman could handle that without choking to death.”
“It’s
a defense mechanism. Having experienced
the joys of syphilis, which he contracted as a young man, and which ate through
his brain like an apple, turning it to mush, driving him to madness and
ultimately killing him, Nietzsche determined the best defense against mankind,
more specifically, womankind, is an impenetrable mustache, the biggest ever
grown.”
“What
about eating? He can't eat soup or
drink coffee. Spaghetti is out of the
question. Maybe a frankfurter.”
“You’re
telling me his mustache is a Bratwurst
Engulfer!”
“Is he hiding
bad teeth?”
“Did
he even have a dentist?”
“How
many nits are living in that thing?”
“One
million, thirty-nine thousand and sixteen!”
Somebody
notifies the pilot. Our flight attendant
arrives to check us out. “Landing
cards?”
“Yes, please.”
She
hands us three.
I look at Van
Stein. “Three?” I mouth.
“She
can feel his presence,” he whispers.
I
fill out a landing card for dear Friedrich, using the Bedlam Bar address.
Immigration
barely notices our antique German philosopher as we breeze through Border Control into the UK, and soon we
spill into a balmy Marylebone evening, met by Reek Pisserin and two pairs of
Iranian orbs in Hardy’s, grilled halibut, too much pinot noir.
