A Dream of Alfred Wegener
ANOTHER RESTLESS NIGHT. I got up at dawn and worked, my eyes burned from deciphering scribbled envelopes, endpapers, and stained napkins, then transcribing the text to the computer with everything out of order, then trying to make sense of a subjective narrative with an asymmetrical timeline. I left the lot of it on my bed and went to Caffè Dante. I let my coffee run cold and thought about detectives. Partners depend on one another’s eyes. The one says, tell me what you see. His partner must speak assuredly, not leaving anything out. But a writer has no partner. He has to step back and ask himself—tell me what you see. But since he is telling himself he doesn’t have to be perfectly clear, because something inside holds any given missing part—the unclear or partially articulated. I wondered if I would have been a good detective. It kills me to say it, but I don’t think so. I’m not the observant type. My eyes seem to roll within. I paid the check, marveling that the same murals of Dante and Beatrice have papered the café walls since at least my first visit in 1963. Then I left and went shopping. I bought a copy of a new translation of The Divine Comedy and laces for my boots. I noticed I felt optimistic.
I went to my mail drop and picked up the mail. A first edition of Anna Kavan’s A Scarcity of Love, two royalty checks, a massive catalogue from Restoration Hardware, and an urgent missive from our CDC secretary. It was absent the customary seal, so I opened it quickly, with some trepidation. It contained a single watermarked sheet advising all members that the Continental Drift Club was formally disbanding. She suggested that we shred any official correspondence with the CDC letterhead or seal and wished us all good health and contentedness. At the bottom she had written hope to meet again in pencil. I immediately wrote her a brief note promising I would do as she asked, adding some verses I had written for the CDC theme song. As I addressed the envelope I could hear the plaintive sound of Number Seven’s accordion.
Saints day in the snow, where did Wegener go
Only Rasmus knows, and he is in God’s hands
Raise an iron cross, he’s no longer lost
Found within are notes, and they are in God’s hands
I removed a gray archival box from the top shelf of my closet and spread the contents on the bed—a dossier containing our objectives, printed reading lists, my official confirmation, and red card—Number Twenty-three. There was also a stack of notated napkins, a Polaroid of the chess table used by Bobby Fischer and Boris Spassky, and my sketch of Fritz Loewe for the 2010 newsletter. I did not open the packet of official letters tied with blue string but instead built a small fire and watched them burn. I sighed and crumpled the paper napkins containing the notes for my somewhat ill-fated talk. My intention had been to channel the last moments in the life of Alfred Wegener, drawing from the members’ unified mind, prodded by the query: what did he see? But the light chaos I had inadvertently ignited obstructed any possibility of realizing a vision akin to poetry.
He departed from Eismitte on All Saints’ Day, seeking provisions for his friends waiting anxiously for his return. It was his fiftieth birthday. The white horizon beckoned. He detected an arc of color staining the snow. One soul breaking apart from another. He called out to his love, a drifting continent away. Dropping to his knees, he could see his guide, several yards before him, raising his arms.
I tossed the crumpled napkins into the flame, and each closed like a fist, slowly reopening like petals of small cabbage roses. Fascinated, I watched as they fused and formed one enormous rose. It ascended and hovered above the tent of the sleeping scientist. Its great thorns pierced the canvas, and its heavy fragrance rushed within, enveloping his sleep, becoming one with his breath, and penetrated the chambers of his exploding heart. I was blessed with a vision of his last moments, rising from the smoke of cherished mementos of the Continental Drift Club. An enthusiasm pulsed through me whose language I knew well. These are modern times, I told myself. But we are not trapped in them. We can go where we like, communing with angels, to reprise a time in human history more science fiction than the future.
Parsifal’s robe, Neuhardenberg
I have smoothed the hem of the robe of Parsifal.
Watched Giotto’s sheep wander from a fresco.
Prayed before holy icons unveiled, surviving time.
Held shavings swept from the hut of Geppetto.
Unzipped a body bag and beheld the face of my brother.
Witnessed the acolyte scatter petals over a dying poet.
I saw the smoke of incense form the shape of my days.
I saw my love return to God.
I saw things as they are.
Shard by shard we are released from the tyranny of so-called time. A curtain of purple wisteria partially conceals the entrance to a familiar garden. I take my seat at an oval table, Schiller’s portal, and reach across to caress the wrist of the sad-eyed mathematician. The separating chasm closes. In a wink, a lifetime, we pass through the infinite movements of a silent overture. A lighthearted procession moves through the halls of an illustrious institution: Joseph Knecht, Évariste Galois, members of the Vienna Circle. I watch him as he rises, following at their heels, whistling softly.
The long vines sway ever so slightly. I picture Alfred Wegener and his wife, Else, having tea in a drawing room flooded with light. And then I begin to write. Not of science but of the human heart. I write fervently, as a student at her desk, bowed over her composition book, composing not as she is bid but as she desires.