Concerning Our Patron, Sir Peter Blanchel Dalyrist
We begin our acquaintance Sir Peter Blanchel Dalyrist at the start of the Slow Desertification and the end of his marriage to Pilve Jõeäär.
We begin our acquaintance Sir Peter Blanchel Dalyrist at the start of the Slow Desertification and the end of his marriage to Pilve Jõeäär.1 Sir Peter writes to the Borges Review of Books, “Have you a patron? My wife left me for a fisherman tomorrow, and I will like to throw my money away on cultural objects.” We reply, “No, we haven’t a patron. Join us for coffee next Wednesday in Stuwerviertel.” He sends by telegram,2 “Next Wednesday STOP Yesterday STOP Have seen you STOP Will see you STOP Beware my wife.”
The conversation in Stuwerviertel proceeds according to something like Robert’s Rules of Order, as if revised for the meetings of l'Internationale Lettriste, in three languages and with Sir Peter’s frequent interruptions to order more pastries, which pile ever higher on the table. The floor is covered in sand. The subdeacon in the adjoining table sings to himself, “We mystically represent the cherubim.” We mystically represent the Borges Review of Books. We three editor kings. The brooms come out for the sand but more blows in the door than goes into the dustbins. History’s dustbin lies empty as Christ’s tomb! The pastries get smaller. The waiters throw the tiny pastries at us. The waiters try to throw the pastries into our mouths. We stand on our chairs to catch them. The telegram arrives from Cairo. The telegram arrives from Cincinnati. Old Ollebo, M.P. dies in Liverpool.
I climbed down from my chair. He will hand me a broom. I conquered the sand by sweeping and scooping with vigor and anger. He will applaud my labor. I inclined my head to the waiters, who had erupted into Georgian polyphony. He will jump down from his chair onto the spotless floor. I prepared the Borges Review of Books manuscript. He will deliver us from penury.
Pilve Jõeäär traverses the dunes that cover the streets of Stuwerviertel. Her face is wrapped in a scarf to keep the billowing sand out of her nose and mouth. She struggles to walk in the sand. The weight of the infinite presses on the Viennese street signs, scoured by the sand, and transmogrifies their German into the Adamic language. No one notices. The pigeons are gone. The bicycles and cars and motorcycles slumber beneath the sand. Nothing molders! Creation has never been so dry! Pilve enters the café. Sir Peter leaps back onto his chair. The showdown begins.
Beautiful Pilve: translator of Knut Hamsun to Estonian, disciple of Joseph-Louis Lagrange, author of poems of extraordinary length and complexity, waterlover, drawer of water, watercarrier, sculptor of the Lõputult Langevad Kivid sculptures on the cliffs of Saaremaa, long-time correspondent of Old Ollebo, M.P. on the topics of ecology, restaurant hygiene, and cattle, alumna of the mathematical faculty of Tartu Ülikool, occasional trainer of Cocker Spaniels, discoverer of ghosts in the abandoned Chamberlain family mansion on the outskirts of Accident, Maryland—the ghosts being the late elder Chamberlains, known to all, in life and death, as Father and Mother, Fr. Cathal Boyle, S.J and aunts Charity and Opal Chamberlain, and Belvedere Crumpling and Monsignor Hunter Chamberlain, whose joint exploits in Italy were noteworthy enough to appear in the private journals of Pope Pius IX—while touring historic homes in the eastern United States, confidante of four minor aristocratic families, intentional subscriber to seven learned journals, three literary journals, five newspapers, and seventeen trade journals, unintentional subscriber to two learned journals, one literary journal, seven newspapers, and three trade journals, reader of six learned journals, three literary journals, seven newspapers, and seven trade journals, holder of sixteen library cards from libraries on three continents, frequenter of African safaris, known to childhood friend Mirtel Vooglaid as either bonne vivante or melancholic bitch depending on the length of time since last phone call, collector of artifacts from Oman, maker of regular donations to Estonian women’s organizations, aspiring birder, actual beach comber, Francophile, inveterate dreamer, amateur forecaster, wearer of long dresses or blouses and skirts or bathing costumes, exclusively, exhaustive cataloguer of beach outfits, reader of Basil Bunting and Edmund Blunden and James Henry and Thomas Legh Claughton and Violet Glunch, middling tennis player, supporter of Kijk independence, and watcher of Turkish television.
There is no telegram. We’ve no way to receive a telegram. He couldn’t send a telegram. And yet there it is, a telegram. Cf. Saul Kripke’s correspondence with Elek Bárány and Haskell Curry, 1952-1965.