Off the Wild Coast of Brittany

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Long story,” said Natalie. “But if your friend or in-law or whatever he is has money to burn, why doesn’t he hire someone with a boat to take him back to Audierne?”

  “I suppose he wants to stay,” Milo said, appearing done with the conversation. He lifted his chin in greeting to a couple coming through the door of the café before turning back to Natalie. “So, what shall I tell him?”

  “Tell him yes,” Natalie said. “If he’s willing to deal with less-than-ideal accommodations, he’s welcome to stay at the Bag-Noz.”

  “Bon,” Milo said, and left.

  Alex raised her glass of cider. “To your first paying guest. How do you say ‘Cheers’ again? Yeck-something?”

  “Yec’hed mat.” Natalie raised her glass of pastis, and the sisters toasted the outsider from Paris willing to pay two hundred euros a night.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Violette

  The Germans landed on a cold, foggy morning in July.

  A few scouts had arrived earlier and scoped out the island, informing the residents that our lives were about to change, and setting up a table down at the quay to issue every islander an official carte d’identité, which included a photograph and personal information. And then on July 11, the largest ferries we had ever seen pulled up to our docks. Nearly three hundred enemy soldiers surged off and marched in formation along our quai des Paimpolais.

  The older islanders hid in their houses, closing their shutters against the Germans the way they would guard against a storm blowing in from the sea. Others, mostly young women and boys defying our mothers, lined the seawall, curious about the new arrivals.

  That’s when I spied my childhood friend and sister-in-law, Noëlle, standing to one side with a bucket of fish guts in one hand, a look of sheer hatred on her face.

  I sidled up to her, placing my hand over hers.

  “Arrête, Noëlle!” I whispered fiercely, urging her to stop. “You think those rifles are just for show?”

  Noëlle had confided to me that her mother lost her first love to a trench mortar in the Battle of the Marne during the War of 1914, and sometimes still cried at night, calling out to her fallen lover as well as to her beloved father, who succumbed to dysentery while serving near the Belgian border. Noëlle’s uncle still suffered from the shrapnel lodged in his body. And now both her brothers had gone to fight.

  Noëlle had no love for Germans.

  Noëlle and I weren’t as close as we were as girls, when we used to scramble over the rocks, playing pirates and discovering “fairy pools” left by the tides. Lately, since talk had turned to war, Noëlle had hardened, something deep within her calcifying, making her turn away from old friends. She would disappear for days at a time.

  The fingers wrapped around the bucket’s handle were stained with ink from her grandfather’s old printing press, hidden in the basement of her family home. I imagined that was where she now spent the majority of her time.

  “Nazi swine,” Noëlle nearly spat through gritted teeth.

  “Will it help your mother and sisters if you are arrested?” I whispered. “Your brothers have already gone to fight the Germans. Will you endanger those who are left on the island?”

  She glared at me, tried to throw off my hands.

  “Are you a Vichyste, Violette?” Noëlle demanded.

  “Of course not. My husband is in England, too, remember? As are my brother and father.”

  I wasn’t a German sympathizer; I just wasn’t sure what they were capable of, these well-fed men in their smart belted uniforms and shiny leather boots. We had all heard the rumors and knew what had happened in the last war. The Germans were a formidable enemy, not to be underestimated.

  And now that our own men were gone, what was to keep these soldiers from exacting revenge upon the women on the island? The kind of terrible, whispered revenge that men so often take out upon women and children.

  Noëlle and I, and all the others, were stuck here on this island of women, of veuves, of fatherless children. while German soldiers took the place of our men, sleeping in their beds, sitting at their tables, their shadows dwarfing our Lilliputian walkways.

  “Arrête, Noëlle,” I repeated. “If we defy them, it can’t be like this. We have to be smart about it.”

  She gazed at me with eyes that looked much older than they had a mere few weeks ago, before our men left, before our home was invaded.

  After a long moment, she put down the bucket and we stepped back and watched as the soldiers made their show of force, marching down the quay like Teutonic phantoms, invading our lives and awkwardly inhabiting the spaces our men had left behind.

  * * *

  • • •

  My great-grandparents had added on to their proud stone home to house their large family of eleven children, plus assorted other relatives. Later, my parents had begun taking in guests to fill the empty rooms, offering a refuge to weary sailors and stunned shipwreck survivors, and the rare visitor to the island who had no family with whom to stay the night.

  And now we were to house Germans. Nearly every Féman family became an unwilling host, as the men took over marital beds and children’s nurseries, couches and cots. The soldiers slept four to a room at the hotel and filled the dormitories of the Abri du Marin, but there were still hundreds in need of shelter.

  It wasn’t long before the rooms in our guesthouse were claimed by the officers.

  I had always loved my little bedroom on the third floor. I had a view of the ocean, and the windows opened out from a deep sill. Sometimes I grabbed a book and a pillow and crawled up onto the sill to read in the soft afternoon light. But I gave up my chamber willingly, as I had no inclination to sleep near any of the German officers. I moved downstairs to share a bed with my mother in a small room off the kitchen that had once belonged to a housekeeper, and more recently to Mamm-gozh.

  The soldiers carried with them an unfamiliar scent that took over our home as surely as they had our country: These men did not smell of fish and brine, as ours always did, but of sweat and musk and the wool of their fine uniforms. Heavy boots thundered overhead, as if warning of an approaching storm. My mother and I did our best to ignore the guttural, harsh male voices booming through our halls.

  And they issued proclamations: No gatherings of more than three islanders at a time would be permitted, except for the harvesting of goémon. A strict curfew would apply after dark. And anyone wishing to leave the island had to file a request with the occupying authorities. Permission was seldom granted.

  When our men were home, they were accustomed to telling us women what to do. Now the German soldiers were giving us orders, but unlike our fathers and husbands, these occupiers offered nothing in return.

  The first order of business was surviving, persevering long enough for our men to return to the island. So we kept our heads down and avoided making eye contact with the soldiers, whether on the village pathways or in our own homes, trying not to engage even at the most basic level.

  We called it “feigning blindness.”

  * * *

  • • •

  One morning I surged up from the bed and retched into the chamber pot.

  “It’s because of the hunger,” my mother said.

  I nodded, though I knew it wasn’t true. It was something else, something secret within. Something I wanted to hold on to, just a little bit longer. A barely-there fluttering I was at first sure I must have imagined. But my flow had not come this month, and usually it was as regular as clockwork.

  The regret I tasted as I stood on the pier and waved good-bye to Marc was now displaced by nausea. We had been together only a few nights, but it was enough. I was with child.

  I felt confused, unsure. In my experience, the arrival of children meant relinquishing all else, especially dreams of something more, of a different kind of life. A child would tie me even
more tightly to Marc, a man I did not love. On the other hand, there was a strange, enticing intimacy in the idea that I would now be related by blood to Salvator. And the prospect of a new life seemed like a buffer, mellowing the harshness of war and occupation.

  I was not prepared, much less eager, to be a mother to anyone, but I was pleased I could bring so much happiness to our families.

  That afternoon my belle-mère, Gladie, wept with joy when I told her I carried her first grandchild in my belly. We sat in her warm, crowded kitchen, where, despite our lack of meat and vegetables, the huge pot of broth bubbled merrily on the stove.

  “Noëlle!” shouted Gladie down the basement stairs. “Noëlle, come and say hello to dear Violette! She has news!”

  Noëlle came up from the basement but did not smile, even at my news, instead appearing to view me with suspicion. Was it because I had stopped her from attacking the Germans that first day? Or was she, perhaps, the only one besides my mamm-gozh who understood what I felt for Salvator?

  Salvator.

  Not long after the soldiers arrived, when we were still allowed to receive mail from England, across “enemy” lines, the busy postal clerk handed me a letter. It was from my brother-in-law, and it was addressed to me, not to his mother or sister.

  I slipped it into my sleeve, hoping no one noticed and that the overworked postal clerk would not mention it and fuel the fierce island gossip network. Climbing out onto the rocks, where I liked to come to read when the weather was fine, I opened the note with shaking hands.

  Salvator wrote that he had watched me for many years, waiting for me to grow up, but that in the end he knew he was too old for me. He wrote that he wished me nothing but the best, that his brother was a good man, a true man. That Marc was not tempted, as Salvator was, to go down to the café in the evenings, to drink too much and dance with barmaids, to wander the world in search of the next best thing. That his brother would make a much better husband than Salvator ever would. Finally, he confessed that even though he had told his mother he was engaged to be married, he had no intention of tying the knot. He had told his mother that to ease her mind, because she worried that he was so far from family and had for so long avoided the marriage state.

  I leaned back against the rocks, looking up at the lighthouse, taking it all in.

  The man I loved wasn’t married. But I was. And I was carrying his brother’s child.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Alex

  This must be my lucky day,” Jean-Luc said as he approached their table, smiling broadly.

  Jean-Luc Quenneville appeared to be in his early fifties, and was attractive in a beige sort of way, the kind of man one might nod to pleasantly on the street and forget a moment later. By far the most interesting thing about him was his voice: Deep and velvety, it reminded Alex of the narrator of the wildlife show she used to watch late at night when she couldn’t sleep.

  “I do have to warn you,” said Natalie, “we’re really not set up for guests, and parts of the house are still under construction.”

  “Milo explained that to me,” said the man. “A roof and a bed would be jolly good.”

  “It’s settled, then,” said Natalie. “We’re about to have dinner; why don’t we walk back together afterward?”

  “Perfect. Bon appétit! I’ll just wait over by the bar.”

  Jean-Luc Quenneville returned to his stool and made a stab at engaging the other men in conversation. They cast him suspicious glances.

  “Poor fellow. They don’t seem thrilled with him,” said Alex in a low voice.

  “Bretons can be a little . . . gruff. They sometimes take a while to open up.”

  “Like Milo?”

  “What about him?”

  “Gotta say, our genial host is a bit of an ass.” At Nat’s look of surprise, Alex added, “Sorry. Maybe that’s just the way of Bretons, as you said.”

  “Milo’s not an ass. He’s . . . complicated. He reminds me of that café owner on Gilmore Girls. Did you ever watch that show?”

  Alex shook her head. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “He was a curmudgeon, but hot. And a really good guy, under the rough exterior.”

  “Ah, I get it.” Alex leaned back, a small, knowing smile on her face. “You’ve always had questionable taste in men.”

  “What are you talking about?” Nat replied, bristling.

  “You like him.”

  “No, I don’t. I mean, it’s just that Milo’s—” Nat’s eyes shifted to a spot over Alex’s shoulder. “Oh, damn.”

  “What?” Alex twisted around to see two middle-aged women stumble into the café, books tucked under their arms.

  “Pilgrims.”

  “Pilgrims? Like Thanksgiving?”

  “That’s what I call them,” Nat said, scooching down in her chair and looking out the window to avoid their gaze. “People—women, mostly—who read my book and come here looking for me.”

  “What, here? To Milo’s?” asked Alex.

  “Here, to the Île de Feme. There are only so many restaurants on the island, and the locals know I tend to come here, so . . .”

  The newcomers approached Milo behind the bar, who pretended for a moment that he didn’t speak English before relenting and nodding toward Nat and Alex. The women made their way across the now-crowded restaurant and, flustered and giggling, stepped up to the table.

  “Oh, please, we don’t mean to interrupt,” said a neat blonde with a soft British accent wearing an expensive-looking pantsuit. The other, a petite brunette, hovered behind her. “But are you Natalie Morgen? The Natalie Morgen?”

  Nat sat up and gave them a brilliant smile that conveyed warmth and welcome. Alex watched, fascinated, as her little sister assumed the persona of an international bestselling author: dignified, gracious, and charming in the face of the women’s effusive comments. She signed their books, added a personal note to each, and asked about their own dreams of moving to a new country, of learning the art of French cooking and the sensuality that it conveyed.

  “I swear, you must be the luckiest woman in the world!” The brunette sighed. “François-Xavier is just gorgeous!”

  Nat smiled. “Every day I remind myself to be grateful. I think that’s the most important thing, don’t you?”

  “I do!” the blonde gushed, and the brunette nodded. After what seemed like an interminable interlude, the women thanked Nat, nodded to Alex, apologized again for interrupting, and departed. Through the window, Alex watched them walking along the seawall and chatting animatedly, comparing the inscriptions Nat had written.

  “Can’t you do something about that?” Milo asked as he approached their table, frowning. “I don’t like the rock star thing in my café. Anyway, you know what you want to eat?”

  “I’ll go with chef’s choice,” said Alex.

  “The menu?” Milo asked.

  “Here, the menu du jour is a set meal,” Nat explained.

  “Works for me,” said Alex. “I’m not picky.”

  “Two menus,” Nat said to Milo, who grunted and left the table.

  “Yeah,” said Alex as she watched him saunter back to the bar, ignoring several patrons who were trying to get his attention, “I’m gonna go with ‘a bit of an ass.’”

  Nat laughed despite herself.

  The first course soon arrived and Alex gave Nat a side-eyed look. “I came all the way to France to eat a bowlful of bugs?”

  “They’re not bugs. The small ones are bigorneaux, or periwinkles, a kind of sea snail. They’re delicious. Bulots are whelks, and praires are prairie clams. They dig them out from the sand when the tide’s out. They say they’re good for you, high in magnesium and potassium.”

  “Looks like something Dad would make us eat.”

  “You said you aren’t picky, remember?”

  “You got me there. Um,
how do you eat these things?”

  “Use one of these to extract the meat from the bigorneaux, like this.” Nat picked up a tiny fork and demonstrated how to pluck out the morsel from its twisty shell, before dipping it in the garlicky aïoli.

  “I saw a set of these little forks in that cardboard box in the parlor,” said Alex. “Didn’t know what they were for.”

  “I haven’t made it through all the boxes, obviously,” said Nat.

  “Why not?” Alex asked.

  “There’s been a lot to do,” said Nat. “You don’t see it all—most of the work so far has been inside the walls, down in the basement, that sort of thing. Ah, here’s the fish.”

  The main course was halibut in a mushroom sauce, served with a bottle of Muscadet from outside of Nantes. And after, for dessert, Milo brought two small plates with a square of pastry on each.

  “This is a traditional Breton dessert called kouign-amann,” Nat explained. “The butter and sugar are folded into the pastry to make layers, and the sugar caramelizes during the baking process. Doesn’t sound very interesting, but it’s luscious, especially when accompanied by Calvados, which is a kind of apple brandy.”

  Alex took a sip of the strong Calvados, then pushed the small glass across the table to Natalie. She couldn’t help but notice that after all these years, they didn’t have much to talk about other than the food. Alex remembered her baby sister as dreamy, excitable, irresponsible, but this was different: Nat was drinking freely and acting in a show-offy, oddly performative manner, as though they were on film or under observation. There was a definite edge to her, but Alex couldn’t parse whether it was excitement or fear.

  When the bill came, Nat whipped out a credit card and tossed it on the little tray without looking at the total. Natalie tried to catch Milo’s eye as they left, but he was engrossed in conversation with a pair of attractive young women.

  “I guess he’s busy,” said Nat, as if it didn’t matter.