I knew everyone on the Île de Feme and they all knew me. We had heard one another’s stories countless times, told one another the same jokes and legends, passed down through generations.
A traveling mariner once brought me a “sailor’s valentine.” He had meant it for his sweetheart in Biarritz, but she married another while he was at sea, so the heartbroken fellow gave it to me, instead. It is an octagon-shaped hinged box with a design inside: a heart and flowers, and Barbados written in an arc made entirely of shells. He told me it came from the New Curiosity Shop in Bridgetown, a port in Barbados. I set it on a shelf in the parlor, where it called to me, whispering the names of faraway lands: the Bahamas and Bali, Madagascar and Mexico.
As a child I used to sit absolutely still in the parlor at the sailors’ refuge as the winter nights wore on, scarcely breathing so as not to be noticed and sent home, listening intently to the sailors swapping tales of adventure. Now that I’m older I attract attention in an entirely different way and, like all females between the ages of thirteen and fifty, am banned from the refuge, the Abri du Marin. But after my parents produced only three children, rooms in the large family home my mother had inherited began to be rented out to those who needed to stay longer on our island, or who wanted nicer accommodations than the dormitories. And occasionally I linger after serving tea and gâteau Breton in the parlor of our guesthouse, watching salt-roughened hands holding delicate china cups perched awkwardly on their saucers, and listening to the tales of our visitors: how they sailed down the Côte Sauvage to Spain, beyond to Morocco, to outlandish cultures of strange dress and stranger customs. They told tales of lands where it never grew cold and striped and spotted animals roamed forests crowded with trees soaring into the sky as high as the eye could see, or jungles thick with leaves as big as a grown man’s head.
I made no secret of my displeasure with the island, my impatience with the islanders. I refused to wear the robe noire and jibilinnen, and ventured to Audierne to buy floral cotton to make a summer dress, a soft green wool for a winter frock. While working, of course, I wore the linen apron like everyone else, but at the end of the day I could take off my apron and feel, even just a little, like a woman of the world, not a girl of the island.
Which is why it surprised everyone, not least myself, when I said oui to Marc’s spontaneous proposal of marriage.
Marc and Salvator’s mother, Gladie, was beside herself at the thought of losing both her boys at once, for word had come that Salvator feared he might be pressed into service at a work camp under the Vichy government, the Service du travail obligatoire, and was hoping to escape to England soon himself.
I was a balm to her, my new mother-in-law said sadly, as I joined her in her kitchen to prepare for the small, hurried marriage ceremony. Like most island women, Gladie was thrifty, accustomed to using up anything and everything. On the stove she kept a huge kettle into which she tossed bones and potatoes and carrots and anything edible, simmering it to create a rich, filling broth that seemed never to end, that was constantly added to. Fish hung from the ceiling beams to dry; Gladie was fastidious and refused to dry her fish on racks outside, where the flies would soon find them.
“At least knowing my younger son will be happy . . . at least I have that,” Gladie told me through tears as she shuffled between counter and stove, mixing batter for the marriage cake.
The simple ritual was performed by Père Cecil. Caught up in the nationalist fervor, the priest even donated a few bottles of his hoarded communion wine for the wedding feast.
Marc and I had three nights together. Our marriage bed was in my small room under the eaves on the third floor of the guesthouse, looking as it did out over the ocean.
And then my new husband left, along with every other island man of fighting age.
* * *
• • •
It is no small thing to be abandoned.
We women cheered our men as they boarded their boats bound for England. Of course we did. The Germans had invaded our beloved France, and not for the first time. Many islanders remembered the Great War that began in 1914, and the rest of us had been raised on the stories, the entire island ever keen to the poignant absence of fathers and brothers and uncles and sons and lovers lost to German shells and bullets, poison gas and land mines. So what else could we do now but support our men as they responded to Général de Gaulle’s plea to join the French Free Forces in London?
Besides, we island women are accustomed to our men leaving. It is not rare for them to go to sea and never return. There is a reason the women of the Île de Feme always dress in mourning.
Still, many of us were stunned and unsure at this turn of events. Proud of our men for going, certainly, but worried about what would happen next. How would we feed ourselves, and the children, and the old people?
I stood on the dock alongside the others to wish my new husband farewell, feeling a jumble of mixed emotions. I hadn’t known what to expect on my marriage night; this wasn’t the sort of thing the Fémans spoke of in public. Most mothers informed their daughters what to expect, but mine was not one to chat. So when my new husband fumbled between my legs, I had been appalled, and only a slight fuzziness from having drunk several glasses of the unfamiliar wine made it bearable. I had seen bulls mount cows but had not made the connection, had not realized that Marc would possess the same sort of thing between his legs. It seemed bestial, ugly, frightening. Marc’s pawing, sweaty attentions in our marriage bed embarrassed me, and his tentative, birdlike kisses left me cold. They were nothing like the intense daydreams I had of Salvator’s mouth upon mine, the ones that left me with a frustrated, unfamiliar yearning deep in my belly.
The day our men left, every villager on the island gathered at the pier. The scene was chaotic, with wives, sisters, mothers, grandparents, and children crying and hugging the men as they boarded their fishing vessels. We remained acutely aware that not only were the men leaving, but they were taking the boats with them. Life on an island without a boat was unimaginable. How would we fish? How would we live?
But we didn’t ask; as was typical for the Breton character, there was much brave action and very little talk.
The youngest to volunteer was a boy of fourteen; his mother keened and begged him not to go, but he accompanied his father and two older brothers, standing proudly at the helm as the boat pushed off and receded from view. The eldest was a grandfather of fifty-six, a veteran of the Great War, who vowed his knowledge of the sea would make up for any deficiencies caused by a lack of youthful vigor.
A small musical band made up of veterans of the Great War, now old men, played a jaunty tune, and we showered our brothers, lovers, fathers, and sons with petals plucked from the island’s wildflowers.
As I watched the vessels slip farther and farther away, becoming small gray figures on the horizon, I knew I was participating in a ritual as timeless as sailing itself. For as long as men have gone off to sea, their women have watched them go, hoping for the best, wondering if the mariners would be swallowed by sea monsters or seduced by sirens, taken to their watery deaths by vicious mermaids, never to be heard from again.
What I tasted in my mouth as I watched my young husband sail away, waving to him as he stood on deck, waving at me with all his might . . . was regret.
When the boats finally disappeared beyond the horizon, the band dispersed and the celebration faded. And then it was only the women slipping through the labyrinthine pathways of our little stone village, going back to a now emptier and quieter house.
Then came the next day, and the one after that.
No daily haul of fresh fish to eat and sell, no experienced carpenters hammering out constant vital repairs. No loud, gruff voices in our halls, no sounds of big boots overhead, no husbands to shoo out of the kitchen and down to the café to get them out from underfoot, no fathers to remind us of right and wrong, or brothers to tease us mercile
ssly. No strong arms to cradle us at night—although to tell the truth, I was just as happy not to have to deal with that last.
We had plenty to keep us busy: We tended our kitchen gardens, looked after our cows, pigs, and chickens. At low tide the children were sent to dig for snails and clams and razor shells in the mud; even toddlers were taught how to find clumps of mussels on the rough rocks. Every day we went down in teams to the rocks near the great lighthouse to collect the ribbony seaweed, our fingers wrinkling from the cold water and stinging with salt as we dragged the sea plant from the shallows, shaping it into tightly wound cakes that we set out on the rocks to dry in the sun. A factory on the mainland bought the cakes to extract the iodine; it sent a boat over once every week or so, bringing with it mail and news: The Germans were now established in Paris, and the Free French Forces were amassing in London.
So we ate our meager meals, ignoring as best we could the empty chairs at the tables, the subdued looks upon the girls’ faces, the whining of the younger boys who wanted to follow their older brothers into battle, the soft weeping of the old people who remembered all too well the toll of the War of 1914.
But we weren’t alone for long.
This time German forces not only invaded France but came to occupy our own little island.
CHAPTER TEN
Natalie
When Natalie walked into the parlor and saw Alex looking through cardboard boxes, a wave of panic swept over her.
Alex saw everything. She noticed everything. How was Natalie going to keep things under wraps with her big sister snooping around?
Of course she knew that it was only a matter of time, with or without Alex here. Pretty soon people were going to figure out that François-Xavier had no intention of returning from Paris, and then what? It would take only a single post going viral on social media for her brand to blow up in her face. What would her readers say, or her publisher? What would the islanders think? Would François-Xavier’s extended family allow her to stay at the guesthouse?
“This is called the quai des Paimpolais,” Natalie said as they walked along the seawall, the cove on one side, cafés on the other. “It’s the main drag.”
“It’s cute,” said Alex.
Small groups sat on the stone parapet, sharing beers and chatting. Gulls whirled and hovered overhead, occasionally dipping into the shallows in search of mussels. Dogs roamed the walkway, sniffing for scraps and chasing lizards, and a Siamese cat basked in the late-afternoon sun. The air was filled with the scent of brine and seaweed, overlaid by the aroma of fish frying and stewing.
“So, Nat, why isn’t anyone working on your house?” Alex asked.
I knew it. Leave it to Alex to zero in on what Natalie didn’t want to talk about.
“It’s August . . . ,” Natalie began. “A lot of things shut down in France in August.”
“Huh. Well, I’ll tell you one thing: Even you, Nat, couldn’t get lost on an island like this. You’ve got the water on one side and the houses on the other.”
“True,” said Natalie. “And no cars to worry about.”
“I read about that. There are no vehicles at all?”
“There are a couple of very small trucks and tractors used for big jobs, but you’ve probably noticed that there aren’t any real roads—this seawall walkway is the widest lane, and the ones running between the houses are even narrower. They don’t fit anything bigger than a handcart.”
Just then a young father passed by, pushing a wagon filled with a few boxes and bags with baguettes sticking out. A pigtailed girl of about three reclined on the bags, her chubby legs swinging off the side.
“Some say the pathways were built like that so drunken sailors would never lose their way,” said Natalie, lapsing into tour guide mode as she recited the words she had written earlier in the day. Maybe that’s why I am having such difficulty with the manuscript, she thought suddenly. It isn’t a memoir so much as a travelogue. The problem was, she couldn’t write the truth of her current life. Her readers looked to her for self-fulfillment and romance, not existential terror.
“But I think the real reason,” Natalie continued, “is that the small pathways shelter the islanders from the winds that beset the island, and provide a little shelter from the storms. Anyway, this place was founded long before cars were even dreamed of. There are two Neolithic menhirs by the main church.”
“What’s a menhir?”
“A rock that’s been carved or changed and set on end . . . like Stonehenge. Ever hear of that?”
“Yes, Nat. I may not have gone to college, but even I’ve heard of Stonehenge. Is this the place you had in mind?” Alex asked as they passed by the nearest eatery. “Looks a little busy.”
The Pouce Café was hopping, its big yellow umbrellas sheltering a throng of tourists as young servers weaved nimbly between the tightly packed tables, carrying aloft large trays of fish and clams, lobster and crevettes.
Natalie shook her head and waved at Loïc, the café’s bearded, rotund owner who was simultaneously yelling at a waiter and ringing up a customer. “That’s a tourist place.”
“That one has some empty tables,” Alex said, nodding at a small café named Chez Brigitte.
“I don’t feel like fish and chips,” said Natalie.
“The chalkboard lists other things, like kebabs,” said Alex, gesturing to the café’s menu written in careful script on a little A-frame chalkboard.
“She always puts out that chalkboard, but Brigitte only serves fish and chips.” I should write something about this on my blog, Natalie thought. She could make it sound quirky and charming, rather than merely annoying.
The café’s owner, the eponymous Brigitte, emerged from the restaurant, set two glasses and a bottle of wine in front of a young couple, and ignored another couple that was trying to get her attention. A plump woman in her forties with a mop of curly brown hair, Brigitte always seemed overwhelmed and frazzled, whether she was serving one customer or twenty. Her fisherman brother-in-law kept her café well stocked with fresh cod or haddock, which made Natalie wonder whether Brigitte simply didn’t feel like cooking anything else, or whether she, like Natalie, could not be bothered to get her grocery order to the ferry on time.
“Go ahead,” Natalie said to Alex. “Ask her if they have kebabs today.”
“Pardonnez-moi, est-ce qu’il y a keb—,” Alex began in careful French.
Before Alex could finish, Brigitte folded her arms, shook her head, and replied brusquely: “On a que fish et chips aujourd’hui.”
Natalie smiled at Brigitte and wished her bonsoir as they continued on their way.
“‘Fish et chips’?” Alex repeated to Natalie. “They say it in English?”
“Yeah, not sure why. Speaking of which, since when have you spoken French?” Alex’s accent was atrocious, but Natalie was surprised her sister knew even a single word. Foreign languages hadn’t been a priority to The Commander, who apparently assumed all the survivors of the Apocalypse would speak English.
“I don’t, not really,” said Alex. “We had a surprising number of French visitors at the ranch, so I learned a little. Mostly weirdly specific words, like “stirrup”—étrier. And I made sure to learn a few travel phrases before I left, just in case. Everyone says the French speak English, but I assumed that was mostly in the urban areas.”
“Most Parisians speak at least some,” said Natalie with a nod. “But you’re right. In the countryside it’s not as common. And even those who do speak English appreciate it when foreigners make an effort to speak their language.”
“In my case, I think I merely irritated your friend Brigitte.”
“She’s always irritated,” said Natalie with a shrug. “Toujours de mauvaise humeur. But Brigitte gets a pass, because she’s a true islander. Born here, into a family that has lived on the island for generations. Her husband, Auguste, is the
cook. He’s from a small town outside of Nantes, and even though he and Brigitte married right out of college and moved to the Île de Feme twenty-five years ago, he’s still considered a newbie islander. I’m one, too, obviously. An outsider.”
“We were always outsiders, though,” said Alex. “It’s a good fit for us.”
“I suppose so.” The thought depressed her. “I’m taking you to Milo’s, which is the best restaurant on the island. It’s at the very end of the curve of buildings, just a little farther.”
“What’s with all the animals running around?” Alex asked, trailing her hand along the seawall as they walked.
“Most islanders let their dogs and cats roam free, since there are no cars to endanger them, and they can’t get lost because there’s nowhere to go. We’re all hemmed in by the waters of the Raz.”
An orange tabby cat lounged in the walkway, gazing at them.
“Don’t expect too much,” Natalie said as Alex crouched down and held out one hand. “The animals on the island aren’t overly focused on humans, since they have plenty to occupy themselves.”
But the cat got up, stretched, and sauntered over to Alex, winding around her ankles.
It is part of the enigma of Al, Natalie thought to herself as Remy the terrier mix trotted up to her sister, demanding his share of affection. Her sister had always had a way with animals.
Alex was like a deadly Doctor Doolittle, who would eat one of those pets as soon as she’d blink if her survival required it. Meanwhile, Natalie would be left sniveling in a corner, crying for the animal even while hoping her sister would share her bounty.
Off the Wild Coast of Brittany Page 7
