I found myself in a painting by the now completely forgotten, but once very promising artist of the early romantic period, Vladimir Vodicka. Poor Vodicka, an undisciplined rogue, but an enormously talented painter, disappeared in Bohemia in the 1770s with a wandering band of Hungarian gypsies. Incredibly though, Vodicka’s painting of me has survived all of the turmoil of the past 200 years and can still be viewed in the municipal art gallery at Graz.
Herr Professor Wilhelm Pilsenwald, the curator, was positively dithering when I appeared in his office last May. Straightaway he took me t the hall where several pieces of miscellaneous art from the last years of the Holy roman Empire are exhibited. And indeed, there I hang, mounted in a 190 x 210 cm. ornate golden frame, seated in perpetuity on a park bench. My three-corned hat and walking stick are on the ground. Now this part is certainly strange because anyone who knows me will agree that I am a neat person, and today, I assure you, such items I’d have placed carefully on the bench beside me. But anyway there I am, nonchalantly tossing an elegant hat in the dirt at my feet. Otherwise I am, as they used to say, en grande toilette, and that includes my high eel buckled shoes and silk stockings with velvet ribbons.
But what I found strikingly similar to my present person is the manner of the seated me in the Graz gallery. I have thrown the right leg over the left, my left arm is resting along the back of the bench while in my right hand I hold a lorgnette, and I am peering with such apparent intensity at the approaching figure of a lady that the tail of my wig has curled upwards. Vodicka, Professor Pilsenwald explained with an apologetic voice, could never take anything seriously, and the wig is his way of making light of my itch for the lady in the painting. Though a party to the scandal, Vodicka discreetly painted the lady with her back to us. Unfortunately, the Herr Curator babbled on, it is not known who the frau was for soon after Vodicka ran off with the gypsies.
Now you will agree that I simply could not let this by, even though the reason for my visit was simply to find a color print of Karl Philipp Emanuel Bach, that is the son of the Bach, the Johannn Sebastian Bach. One of the readers of my thesis was absolutely positive that the younger Bach is represented in this print standing on a bridge over the river Mur holding a scroll in his hands. All this I wanted to ask the curator of the municipal gallery in the Graz, but instead he showed me my portrait from the 18th century, and then suggested a scandal involving some frau.
"Was?" I asked. But Professor Pilsenwald took me lightly by the elbow and triumphantly led me back to his office.
"Oh, how utterly unpredictable fortune is," exclaimed the Herr Curator when he closed the door. Then clasping his hands as if in prayer, he purred on and on about the perfect incredibility of it all, about me in the Graz again. Suddenly his expression changed. "You are Alexander Remmer?" he asked bringing his hand to his mouth.
"As a matter of fact," I replied with a deliberate pause, "I am Alexander Remmer, yes."
"Also, also Alexander Remmer. Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Pilsenwald slapping his knees. I remember how his laughter very soon infected me as well, and I too began to smile and then to laugh and slap my knees and to repeat after the old man, "Also Alexander Remmer." Of course, now I cannot see the humor in it. Anyway, I stopped laughing before Pilsenwald and assumed my serious expression.
"Ah, mein Herr," began Professor Pilsenwald, and taking a Kleenex from his desk, he wiped his eyes. "For us, you are literally god-sent."
"Well, actually," I started to point out, "I am only passing through Graz on the way to visit my aunt in Maribor, pardon I mean Mariburg. You see..."
But Pilsenwald raised his hand. "Mein lieb Herr," interrupted the old professor. "Life is a string of connected episodes, each directly related to the one before and the one after," he explained flicking his wrist to the right and then to the left. "All links in a chain. Links in a chain." He droned on like this for a rather long time so that I was really half listening and only periodically muttering polite "ja, ja."
But then he got down to brass tacks. "That is why we in the Graz Society for Lovers of Local History will be ever so pleased to meet you in the flesh. Just three months ago, on February fourth, I had the pleasure to present a lecture to our Society on Vodicka’s painting, the one that I have just shown you. I am certain our members will be just as excited to meet you as I am, for you see, while the painting’s romantic qualities are evident in the very composition, what interests our members especially, is not so much the technical aspects of this single piece of art. No, no. What we really want to know is the story behind the painting. Ja, the story behind the painting."
From the old man’s talk about life’s episodes and their relations, connections and what not, my sentiments tottered between a murky suspicion and a vague inkling that somehow the old man believed that I was a sort of missing link.
I shall not pretend, of course, that a little of what Professor Pilsenwald had said flatted me, and certainly my appearance has seldom pleased anyone so much as it seemed to please the professor. A sense of duty prompted me to add, however, that though I was perfectly prepared to offer him and the Society my complete moral support, I was afraid that I could be of no other assistance as I was just a wretched graduate student from the University of British Columbia. "And so that you may understand completely how superfluous I am to your interests," I added, "I am a student in Slavonic Studies. Russian literature, you understand."
"Wunderbar!" explained Pilsenwald. And leaping out of his chair, he spread his arms and with much satisfaction in his voice replied. "Vodicka’s Remmer too was from Russia. Already you see, a connection, ja?"
"But I am not from Russia." I said.
"Of course not. That’d be too improbable. We must be realistic. But for academic interests, tell, where were you born?"
Now those who know Remmy will agree that he cannot speak a blatant untruth, although they will need to add, he sometimes likes to dress bare facts a little bit. But how to do this in response to Pilsenwald’s direct question I did not know, though the truth, I felt, would throw the old fellow into another fit of dithers. And I was right too.
"I was born in Graz," I said.
Poor Pilsenwald lurched backwards and fell into his chair as if he had received a swift jab. There followed what a friend of mine would describe as a pregnant silence; well anyway, it was noticeable and awkward.
"May I smoke?" I asked at last.
"Schnapps?" he replied.
I remember that in a short while I began to have the distinct feeling that I had known Pilsenwald for eons, and of course, we exchanged our life stories. But what is important here is what he said of the Graz Society for Lovers of Local History. The patron and greatest supporter of the Society explained the professor was a local aristocrat. "An eccentric man, perhaps," hinted Pilsenwald, "but without question an unfathomable source of history."
I learned too about some active members of the Society. There was a Montenegrin duke described by Pilsenwald as rather an "embittered brute;" a Polish princess whose nature I did not quite understand for when speaking of her Pilsenwald sighed somehow mysteriously. There were a couple more, but also of undetermined character. But the one who would be most anxious to meet me, suggested the old professor, was a Dr. Weisswasser, a 1968 Ph.D. from Berkeley. "A brilliant scholar. Brilliant," whispered Pilsenwald. "He denounced even Timothy Leary at the International GPP Conference in 1970."
"Gyp?" I asked.
"Ja, ja! Exactly Genetic Psychology and Paraperception." I was Impressed, I remember.
Presently, Pilsenwald began telephoning members of the Society to arrange our extraordinary meeting. In the meantime I got up to browse around his office. There was the usual paraphernalia that one expects to find in an office of a man who has attained a measure of success: one diploma, which, unhappily I could not fully decipher because I cannot read Gothic script after Schnapps; a Lufthansa calendar; and a photograph, slightly bigger than the diploma of a stern woman and a dog baring its teeth.
I stepped away from the photograph and bumped against a low filing cabinet upsetting some folders that were lying on top. But as I stopped to pick them up, my vision blurred momentarily and as soon as my eyes could focus again, I discovered that I was holding a thick file of papers titled, incredibly, A. Remmer (1743-1837).
"Mein Gott," I exclaimed, "Was ist?" But before I could open the folder, Pilsenwald snatched it out of my hands. Wagging his finger, he admonished me for almost having spoiled a unique opportunity for Dr. Weisswasser to complete his data on my psychological para-perception which, he postulated, is transmitted through genes and is as much a part of me as the shape of my nose. Science demands sacrifice and so I gave my word of honor not to peek.
Soon we hurried down to the Hauptplatz, hopped on a "E" tram and took it right to the edge of town. There we took a taxi and drove into the mountains where houses were more like villas. Pulling into the drive an impressive mansion we stopped beside a small, battered motorcycle with a sidecar. A bicycle stood against the wall near the doorway.
"Our friends are already here," said the professor. We entered into a spacious foyer which led to a grand staircase, but Pilsenwald hurried me through a door on the left, and we stepped into a large room that was, I remember, a library. Seated on a long leather couch were a woman of, well, a friend of mine would have decided in a glance that she was not, as they say, a poulet de printemps, and her male companion, also aged between 40 and 60. Pacing in front of a fireplace was another man who wore a turtleneck sweater with a tweed jacket and a harried look. A fourth person, with a rose in the lapel of his Pierre Cardin suit, was seated comfortably in a chair.
"Princess, gentlemen. Look who I brought you," said Pilsenwald pushing me into the centre of the room. From the members of the Society there was, disappointingly no reaction. "But Vodicka’s picture," Pilsenwald moaned for it must have hurt his feelings that his colleagues had so quickly forgotten all about his lecture of February fourth.
"Is this Vodicka?" asked the companion on the couch.
"No.!" cried Pilsenwald. "This is Remmer."
"Oh!" squealed the lady, and turning to her companion, she squealed some more. "You know, this is fascinating, really." Evidently he must have agreed because instantly there appeared a pensive expression on his face.
Suddenly the well dressed man in the chair stood up. "Sehr gut," said he. And walking across the room he added, "I like the poetic atmosphere in the painting." At the door he turned to us, clicked his heels, bowed and walked out.
"Our host has a photographic memory," Pilsenwald said to me, although the tone of his voice suggested that he was addressing the duke on the couch. The duke furrowed his brow and took on the appearance of a man struggling to remember something for his eyes began to stray over the ceiling, then he would slam the arm rest with his fist, an from his larynx there would escape a sound something like "aaghzzz." The harried looking man at the fireplace kept staring at me.
"Well," said the woman to Pilsenwald as she got up from her place, "perhaps you should introduce your friend to use." Then in her platform boots, she carefully strode towards me all the while dangling her limp hand as if she was going to do something to my necktie. Certain friends would know, of course, that whenever Remmy is confronted with an ambiguous situation, as he was with the deliberate advance of this contemporary princess, he invariably relies on his instincts. On this occasion, I nimbly caught her hand and smacked it passionately. I cannot reproduce precisely how she cooed, but I rather think that she was well pleased with my bold, and as it turned out, my perfectly correct response.
"Princess Konstancja," said Pilsenwald, "Alexander Remmer."
I bowed my head and said, "Enchante."
The duke swaggered over next, his beads swishing silently against his red velvet shirt. ‘Zdravo brother," was his greeting.
"Bozidar," Pilsenwald explained, "a duke of Montenegro."
Now here, I confess freely, my instincts deserted me completely. How was I to respond without offending this Balkan duke? Perhaps, I reasoned speedily, it is the custom in the mountains of his dukedom that a kiss on the hand of his chosen one establishes fraternal relations between us. On the other hand, I knew intuitively that his sort of thing was enormously undesirable. I stood nervously pondering my dilemma for a moment or two and then it came to me. "How do you do?" I said.
Then Pilsenwald guided me toward the fireplace. "And this is Dr. Weisswasser."
I said, "Hello."
"I am so glad you kissed Kosta’s hand," he began. "It fits perfectly with your psychological profile. Ja, ja. An obvious indication that you are from the 19th century at least. Very likely from the 18th too."
I must have looked confused because Pilsenwald had to whisper in my ear, "He means your genes. Remember, you may be related to the Remmer in Vodicka’s painting." At this I only felt more confused and started to back away when, to my relief, the door opened and in walked Fritz, the butler.
He opened a well-stocked liquor cabinet, stood aside, and addressed our company. "The Baron will join you momentarily. Will you care to take some refreshment?" And Indeed, I had scarcely finished my Scotch and soda when the door flew open and there stood our host. Except that he was not exactly the same man who was sitting in the chair when Pilsenwald and I first entered the library.
This man was dressed in a green brocade coat elegantly trimmed with gold, breeches and white stockings. His top end was covered with a magnificent wig while at the other end he wore dashing slippers of patent leather. At his side there dangled a sword with a richly decorated handle. Fritz came to attention and thundered: "Baron Karl Friedrich Hieronymus von Munchhausen." We all gathered round as the baron came towards us with Fritz now a close but respectful distance behind him.
"Her Highness the Princess Konstancja," Fritz boomed out. As she descended into a gracious reverence, the baron fixed his lips to her hand. I remember thinking as I gazed upon this tableau vivant that it could have been more romantic if only her gaucho pants and ugly platform boots did not clash with his bon ton attire. Anyway when her knees began to tremble rather violently, he released her hand and stood erect. Then she rose, her visage beaming as I imagine Lady Jane’s must have beamed after her formal introduction to John Thomas.
"His Grace, the Duke Bozidar," continued Fritz when the Baron moved to face the sullen Montenegrin. Munchhausen nodded to the duke who responded only by curling his lower lip because his chin was already resting against a tuft of greying hair that was protruding somewhat indelicately through his open collar.
"The secretary of the Society, Dr. Adolf Weisswasser." The two men shook hands.
"The treasurer of the society, Professor Wilhelm Pilsenwald." The baron shook hands with the old professor, and added, "so nice to see you again my dear Willy."
"Thank you baron," replied Pilsenwald. "It is always a pleasure to see you. May I present to you a gentleman whom I am sure you remember." No need to tell of course, I was aghast. With my hands held respectfully behind my back, I hurriedly counted on my fingers the numbers of person occupying the room. Including Fritz and me, there were seven. I quite realize how silly it was of me to look over my shoulder, but that’s just what I did. But of course. Pilsenwald was referring to yours truly, and touching me on the arm, he began again. "Lieb baron, I present to you Alexander Remmer."
"How nice to see you in Graz again, dear Remmer. Where have you been keeping yourself?"
My friends may well say that it was a feeble effort on my part if to give the situation a semblance of reality all I said in response to the baron’s greeting was, "I live in Vancouver." Well, of course, I must agree that it was useless thing to say because his reaction was to parrot the name of the city.
"Ja, in Canada." I explained further.
The baron looked puzzled. "Ka-nada?" he asked.
Fritz, who was still standing a few steps behind his master, rose up and down on his toes a few times and cleared his throat. Munchhausen turned to look at his man. Herr Remmer means to say, my Lord, British North America."
The baron’s face lit up. "Why Remmer! Off to the New World, are you? Life among the savages! I say, what a splendid adventure."
I sighed with resignation.
Dr. Weisswasser stepped forward and asked if we could move on to Vodicka’s painting. "Ja, really you must tell us who the lady is," the princess squealed. Everyone backed away. The nobility, with the princess in the middle, perched on the sofa, Pilsenwald sat in the baron’s chair, while Weisswasser prepared to take notes at the desk. Fritz took his position at the liquor cabinet. Me, I placed myself at the fireplace, lit a cigarette, and with my arm resting on the mantle, began to recount theat happy episode from my genetic past.
"I met Baron Munchhausen for the first time at the residence of my maternal uncle, the Russian ambassador to Vienna, in the summer of 1775. I had just arrived from Moscow, and we were discussing the suppression of that Pugachev thing. Is that not so, lieb baron?"
"I say, Herr Remmer is perfectly correct," Munchhausen agreed. "As I recall it, we were strolling in the garden with your uncle and I was asking you about the news concerning the Grinev affair."
Certainly if nothing else, my years at the university have provided me with a fabulous wealth in Russian lore. "Quite right," I responded, happy to concur with my host. Then addressing the other listeners, I resumed., "Though I was not personally acquainted with Peter Grinev, the late Alexander Pushkin convinced me that the officer was not a supporter of that villain Pugachev. In Fact, Pushkin informed me that Masha Grineva personally appealed to the Tsarina whose romantic nature, of course, was so touched that she pardoned the officer and the couple lived happily ever after."
"Ah, ja," sighed Munchhausen, "your Catherine the Great certainly had a romantic disposition. Not at all like our Maria Theresa with whom I only had a platonic affair."
I expressed my sympathy.
"Really, what about the lady in the painting?" demanded the princess. I pulled out my handkerchief, wiped my glasses, and carefully replaced them on my nose. Then I cast a glance at Fritz and resumed my pose at the fireplace. The baron’s valet is a man beyond praise. Before I could light another Rothman’s, Fritz was before me holding a small tray which supported a frosted, silver tumbler containing a clear colorless liquid. "I trust the vodka is chilled to your satisfaction, Herr Remmer?" asked Fritz.
It was quite a propos, I don’t mind telling. As a warm sensation spread to my extremities, I felt the old cerebral hemispheres become gradually unstuck, and when Vodicka’s painting reappeared in my mind’s eye, by Jove, I understood who the lady must be!
"Very thoughtful of you Fritz. Thank you." A last drag on the cigarette, a pensive gaze at my audience, a mysterious sigh–only to better hold their attention–and I was off. Literally, I might add. Because, as some friends have remarked, I have developed the habit of pacing to and fro whenever I am placed in a narrative environment.
"It dawned on me one morning that I was head over heels in love with my lady friend. We used to meet frequently in the park, pretty well as Vodicka drew us, and though we barely touched or even spoke of such things, our eyes communicated unmistakable, but, alas, unlawful cravings. Unlawful I say, because at the time of my arrival in Graz, the lady was already engaged to be married."
The Princess bounced gleefully on the sofa. "Der Skandal!!!"
The high pitch issuing from her excited orifice demanded that I calm her. "I’m afraid that you are very much mistaken.." I said stopping near a bookshelf marked KULINARISCH. "Incredible as it may seem to you, however, any impropriety was averted only thanks to Goulash."
"Ha, ha," laughed the duke. "If you came from Moscow, why not borsch?"
Happily I was not required to make a response. "Idiot!" hissed the princess and bounced in the direction of the baron.
"Goulash?" asked the baron trying to free the tail of his brocade coat which was securely pressed under the Princess’ massive Slavic rump. "I knew Goulash," Munchhausen puffed as he continued to yank at his coat. "An excellent cook."
"Oh no," I objected. "My friend was an acrobat. I met him through Vodicka. Anyway, it was Goulash who proposed the audacious scheme which allowed me to save my beloved from marrying the wrong person."
"The pews were quite filled in the church of the Immaculate conception on October the 12th when my two sympathizers and I arrived. Vodicka sat near the centre aisle, I crouched in the same pew only at the left end, while Goulash lurked somewhere along the right aisle.
"Bishop Ignatius, as the baron remembers," I said pausing to nod to our host, "was one of those pastors who believed in a solemn and literal conduct of the marriage ceremony. And the beginning of the service was indeed a magnificent one; the angelic choir, the deacon’s chant, the fuming censer...I remember how I was praying for divine assistance, and forgiveness too, for I understood perfectly how what was about to happen could be regarded with severe disapproval. ‘But Lord,’ I prayed, ‘I have honorable intentions and I am in so in love with...’Suddenly I was alerted to prepare for action. ‘Dost anyone know why this man and this woman may not be joined in holy matrimony?’
"Nowadays, of course, this is a question asked purely for rhetorical effect. But the bishop, as I say, did not feel this was just some idle ritual. No, not at all. He looked intently into the pews behind the groom, and then into the pews behind my beloved." I stopped speaking and stared with melancholy eyes into the fireplace. "The silence in the church lingered," I said.
"After what seemed like an eternity, Vodicka stood up to answer the bishop’s challenge with a resounding ‘I DO!’ At this the bishop’s jaw dropped, the groom’s parents leapt to their feet, though in fairness I must say that the husband rose in apparent courtesy to his wife, and everyone else turned their heads to see who it was that knew why the couple standing in front of the altar should not be joined in matrimony.
When quiet returned, Vodicka looked down at his fine lace cravat, brushed off an imaginary speck, and casually announced, ‘She takes cookies to bed and leaves crumbs all over the sheets.’
The groom’s mother uttered a strange cry, I remember, and when all eyes had turned to her, she collapsed with all the grace of an accomplished swooner. But here is where the true genius of Goulash revealed itself. To draw the congregation’s attention away from the front of the church, my wiley friend hopped into the right aisle, clapped his hands and yelled, ‘Ullo, ullo, ullo! Look at this!’ In an instant he was tottering on his hands, his dirty heels kicking high in the air.
"Now with all eyes fixed upon the flashing Goulash, who between handstands also did cartwheels up and down the aisle, the time had come to proceed with the main task of the mission. I slipped down the left aisle feeling rather apprehensive because, I confess, I didn’t have the foggiest of what I should do after I bopped the groom on the nose.
Happily, my prayers were not in vain. The groom remained totally occupied with sprinkling holy water on his mother and softly calling her back to consciousness. The bride stood alone with her father. ‘Sir,’ I said to him. ‘Permit me to introduce myself,’ and I handed the father my calling card. ‘Alexander Nikolaevich Remmer, Esquire?’ read the father in a questioning tone of voice. ‘Alexander! It’s you,’ cried my beloved her eyes full of tender emotion. ‘Ja, mein sperling,’ I whispered, ‘It’s me, und ich liebe sie.’ Turning to the father I said, ‘I am very sorry that we are meeting at the last minute, like this. But you see...that is...I mean that...well, shortly said, I love your daughter und I wish to marry her.’
"The old man looked rather lost and I am sure he was the verge of asking for an explanation when my dearest put her hand on his arm and with eyes lowered modestly, whispered, ‘Remmyk, you may use du.’ Ah, I tell you my wig’s tail began to stir again. ‘Mein sperling,’ I murmured, ‘ich liebe dich,’ and I kissed her hand."
"Baron Munchhausen," whined the princess, "I feel I shall cry. Have you a clean handkerchief?"
"But though the father’s countenance remained stern," I pressed on with my account, "I detected a twinkle in his eye. The bishop’s eyes, on the other hand, were protruding somewhat dangerously from their sockets and wandering from the whirling arms and legs along the western wall of the church, to the heaving decolletage of the frau who was still reclining on the steps before the altar." Pausing once more before the shelves of books, I addressed the baron. "Do you know what, lieb baron, I can’t remember the deacon’s name. Do you recall what it was?"
Munchhausen pulled on his ear. "Ja, I know what you mean, lieb Remmer. It is one of those names...ja...h’mmm. What was it?...I got it! The deacon in the church of the Immaculate Conception was Schurkemann!"
"Schurkemann!" I echoed the name. "Thank you baron. Well that rascal, God bless him, grasped the situation and came to our aid by stepping forward and furiously waving the censer. Enveloped safely in the cloud of incense, I was introduced to my bride’s mother who, I must tell you truthfully, seemed to be extremely embarrassed and barely containing a flood of tears. She kept looking t me and at her daughter with eyes which expressed something between panic and disbelief. Of course, these introductions had to remain brief and nowhere near the demands of etiquette. But as one of my friends so often explains, "Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner!"
"But what happened then?" asked the princess dabbing her eyes with a silk, monogrammed handkerchief.
At the fireplace I took another cigarette, lit it, and exhaled a column of smoke. "There is little more to add," I replied. "I took my sperling by the hand and together we dashed out of the church, hoped into the groom’s carriage, and galloped to the chapel at the university where Father Johann was waiting to perform the marriage rite. And after that we sped off to my apartments upstairs because it was imperative to consummate the marriage before any legal action could be initiated."
Dr. Weisswasser looked up from his notes. "Upstairs? Where upstairs?" he asked.
"Why in this very house," I answered. "Hasn’t the baron ever mentioned it before? When my bride and I descended that evening, the baron gave a marvelous reception in our honor. Baron Munchhausen," I said pointing to our host on the sofa, "is the godfather of our little Alexander."
Everyone was surprised to hear this revelation. "Oohhh," said Weisswasser. "Aahhh," said Pilsenwald. "Mmmmmm," said Princess Konstancja. "Jebem ti dusu," said the Duke of Montenegro.
"Modesty, my dear Remmer, modesty prevented me from speaking of our relation before. But what a pity Frau Remmer is not here today. What a pleasure it would have been to hear her at the piano."
I smiled.
"Let me tell you how the good Antonio Stradivari made violins to my specifications," said the baron. Then Munchhausen and I changed places and he began the story of his Stradivarius.