Ah the wonderful Irish schriftsteller*
(*No, it’s not a new writer) Joycean word .... it’s German for
Zurich is an elegant city and undoubtedly a city of considerable culture, something reflected in its writerly history and its musical heritage, not least its feted opera tradition. And so, having something of a penchant for the opera, I have booked for the Saturday night performance of Mozart’s Idomeneo, an opera set in Crete at the time of the Trojan War. The opera house - right beside my hotel - is stunning, all gold and gilt in the traditional style and a real contrast, therefore, to the ultra minimalist and modern staging of the production.Think lead soprano dressed in grey business suit and black stilettos and you get the drift. It was magnificent.
But back to Mr Joyce. Sunday morning dawned and I set off to make my way to his grave in Fluntern cemetery, high above the city.
Eventually abandoning the tram transport option on realising that the No.6 wasn’t running, I spotted a taxi parked outside the Savoy hotel. A well-dressed, elderly man was behind the wheel. Conscious that Zurich’s taxis are said to be the most expensive in the world, I tapped tentatively on his window and asked how much it would cost to take me to Fluntern.
We struck a deal. And yes, he would wait for me.
As Graziano’s taxi (his Italian mother and Swiss ‘Papa’ were also buried in Fluntern) glided through the city, snow began to fall. Gently at first and then faster and more furiously. I smiled to myself. Obvi- ously, in honour of my own Joycean odyssey, snow was now general all over Zurich.
Arriving at the cemetery, Graziano accompanied me in, showing me where Joyce’s grave was - ‘the wonderful Irish...schriftsteller’, he said, unable to find the English word for writer.
And so, finally, I found myself standing at the grave. A flat-to-theground tombstone, difficult to read,
but with inscriptions that indicate James, Nora, their son Giorgio that his wife are all entombed below. Right beside the grave sits a sculpture of cross the man himself – legs sed, slim walking cane by his side, book in hand, and cigarette dangling between his fingers. The snow was falling faster now, cascading in huge flakes out of the Swiss sky, falling softly on Joyce himself, on me, and on all the living and the dead in this, the Dubliner’s adopted city.
A little later, and back on Bahnhofstrasse, I said my goodbyes to Graziano and made my way through the city streets to my final James Joyce touchstone – the Kronenhalle.
This lovely restaurant – all white tablecloths, brass lamps and fresh flowers, and with Chagall and Picasso originals on the walls – was where James Joyce used to dine, generally for free, thanks to the generosity of the-then owner, Hulda Zumsteg .
I’d booked well ahead for Sunday lunch and the place was packed. An hour or so later, after a delightful meal with impeccable, friendly service, I was just leaving when Christian, the manager, approached me.
‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t give you that table,’ he said, indicating an occupied one just a short distance across the room from mine. ‘That’s where your Mr Joyce used to sit. Look, we have his portrait hung beside the table’. As indeed they did. ‘We love Mr Joyce here in Zurich,’ he said. ‘He always came back to the city.’
He’s not the only one. I didn’t make it this time to Cafe Odeon. I’ve saved that for my next visit.