Off the Wild Coast of Brittany

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Any game animals?” Alex asked.

  “There are wild rabbits, which are considered a nuisance, though during the war they were a precious source of protein. These islanders . . . I mean, obviously things have gotten a bit easier in recent years, but they’re tough, used to pulling together to endure hard times. They expect things like storms that knock out the power for days, disrupt the fresh water supply, and interrupt contact with the mainland. The sauvetage boats go out no matter how harsh the weather, and if a boat crew sees another boat needing help, they offer it without question, regardless of how they might feel about one another.”

  “Survival requires cooperation.” Alex nodded. “We learned that at an early age.”

  “It’s like The Commander used to say: Nothing brings a family together . . .”

  “. . . like Armageddon,” they said in unison, sharing a smile.

  “So, I was snooping around the Bag-Noz,” said Alex. “It looks like a lot of the plumbing has been replaced, and there was some good work done on the foundation.”

  Natalie nodded. “We’ve done a lot of work already. It just doesn’t look like it.”

  “That’s the way of most renovations. The fun cosmetic stuff comes at the end. But you know, I used to be a home inspector. I could do a thorough inspection and come up with a list. It probably seems overwhelming, but if we break it down—”

  “I didn’t know you were a home inspector.”

  “You don’t know much of anything about me.”

  That stung. But she was right. In her own defense, Natalie responded: “You don’t know much about me, either.”

  “Of course I do,” said Alex. “I read your book, and you’re all over the Internet.”

  “Oh. That’s true.” It was just that Natalie Morgen, Internet sensation, wasn’t the real Natalie Morgen.

  “In fact, you know what most surprises me about your life here? That it’s so stinky.”

  “It’s a fishing island. And there’s a lot of seaweed.”

  “I get that, but from reading your blog, I envisioned an island that smelled of lavender and—I don’t know—crepes and whipped cream, or something. Maybe with a drizzle of chocolate.”

  “Sounds more like an American hot fudge sundae than a French crepe,” Natalie said with a smile. “But I get what you mean. It’s just that, well, my readers have a certain image of France, and what it’s like to live on an island. No one wants to imagine the stink of rotten fish, so yes, I suppose I gloss over a few of the less savory details.”

  “And François-Xavier was part of that?”

  Natalie let out a long breath. “You could say that.”

  “Sounds to me like the guy’s a jerk. Why would you want him back?”

  “Alex, the whole premise of my second book is the romantic life I’m creating right here on the island. What happens when my publisher learns it’s all a farce? When my fans learn my handsome French chef dumped me? What am I supposed to tell them? Que será, será?”

  “I’m sorry, Nat,” Alex said. “Was he . . . I mean, did you truly love him?”

  “Of course I loved him. I thought you said you read the book.”

  “I did,” Alex said. “And you described your life really well. And François-Xavier was obviously a big part of that, and it was all very romantic.”

  “But?” Natalie said. “There’s a ‘but’ in there.”

  “Maybe I’m just not good at human emotions, but I couldn’t tell from the book if you were actually in love with him, or . . . in love with the idea of being in love with him.”

  When Natalie spoke, her voice was hollow. “What’s the difference?”

  They walked in silence for a few moments.

  “So, here’s something interesting,” Natalie said, eager to change the subject. “The shipwreck cemetery. The islanders weren’t sure of their religions, so they didn’t want to bury them in the Christian graveyard.”

  The fenced-off area had a small marker at each mound but no crosses. Some of the markers were engraved with names, while others had only a date of death.

  “Seems sad, doesn’t it?” Alex said. “Someone heads out to sea and winds up buried on a tiny island. . . . Do you suppose the families ever learned what happened to them?”

  “I have the sense that seafarers often did not return home.”

  They walked past the Hotel Ar-Men, a large three-story building backing onto a pebbly cove.

  “It reminds me of pictures of New England,” said Alex. “With the lobster pots, the coves, the lighthouse.”

  “I’ve heard it’s similar to Cornwall. Maybe that’s why the Celts felt so at home here.”

  On a clothesline to the left, with the view of the ocean behind it, hung two dozen white lobster bibs, whipping this way and that in the wind, the bright orange lobster images flapping madly, like little crustacean flags of surrender. Natalie remembered thinking it was all so picturesque the first time she had walked by here. Now she wondered how anyone could run a lobster restaurant—and deal with all those soiled lobster bibs—without a clothes dryer.

  “I love lobster,” said Alex.

  “Really? I don’t think of you as loving food.”

  “Of course I love food. Everybody loves food.”

  “You never seemed to care.”

  “No way to care much about pemmican, right? And anyway, Nat, things change. Whether we want them to or not, they change.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Violette

  Without the fishing boats, the threat of hunger hovered over us with the persistence of a malevolent spirit. A few of the stronger young women did their best with the dinghies left behind, but small boats cannot safely go out far enough in the open water to bring in much fish. So we made do with what we could collect in the shallows, gathering little feeder fish, digging up clams, and harvesting mussels and other shellfish off the rocks.

  Every household kept meager stockpiles of flour, sugar, dried fish, and lard, which we doled out carefully, and there were a few cows and goats to provide milk. We no longer made butter or cheese; the milk was reserved for the children, now deprived of their fish pies and hearty stews. Our chickens gave us eggs, occasionally we managed to trap a wild rabbit, and our kitchen gardens yielded potatoes and carrots, cabbage, herbs, green beans, and tomatoes, depending on the season and the rainfall.

  Since the Vichy government had officially declared our men to be deserters, we received no military pay, but even for those with francs in hand there was little to buy. Our movements were controlled by the German military, so we could no longer hop on a boat or ferry to visit Audierne at our own discretion, and the shelves of our sole island store, La Melisse, were nearly bare.

  As the days and weeks ticked by, our hunger grew. Our fear even more so.

  And the German soldiers ate. Supposedly they were supplied by the army on the mainland, yet still they helped themselves to what little we had, making a show of “paying” us for what they took—at a fraction of what the supplies were worth.

  Eventually the Vichy mairie began issuing ration tickets, and the owner of La Melisse was permitted to receive shipments from the mainland, so our panic eased somewhat. Still, butter was impossible to come by, and cheese was but a memory. We queued up for hours for a ration of bread and lard, flour and sugar.

  Daily life became a constant overwhelming obsession with the search for food on an island with limited resources.

  Hunger, we learned, does not bring out the best in people. Hearing one’s children cry in the night from empty stomachs was especially trying. We islanders had a tradition of helping one another, but as the months passed and the German invaders remained in our pathways, on our beaches, and in our beds, fissures developed within our community.

  Some whispered that we had to get along with the Germans, to make the best of a bad situation, wh
ile others denounced those who dared make such suggestions as “appeasers” and “traitors.” My old friend Noëlle had a very decided opinion about those of us who tried to remain neutral.

  I hated the Germans for invading our country; of course I did. But absent any other realistic alternative, I thought it best to try to get along as well as we could.

  One evening I was drawn to the sound of someone pounding on my grandmother’s piano in the parlor. He was pounding well, but was pounding, nonetheless.

  I peeked around the doorframe.

  I had seen the man for the first time several days before, when German officers took up residence in our home, claiming our guest rooms. He was of average height and well-built, blond, with prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw: Hitler’s ideal Aryan. The other soldiers seemed to take a step back when he appeared, as though recognizing his innate authority.

  I had the sense that the others would follow his lead, which meant that if he was cruel or unkind, we would be in for trouble.

  Now I watched him at the piano. He was not playing the music of that very famous German Beethoven like my mother always asked me to do, or the lilting compositions of Chopin, which were the favorite of my mamm-gozh. Instead the officer played a jaunty tune, the kind one might hear in a talking picture, like one I had seen in Audierne a few years ago.

  The upbeat music stopped when he spied me hovering in the doorway. The piano stool scraped on the wood-plank floor as he pushed it back and stood, bowing his head ever so slightly.

  “Mademoiselle, bonjour.” His French was nearly perfect, with only a slight German accent discernible in the harshness of his consonants. “Pardonnez-moi. I hope I was not disturbing you.”

  I shook my head and turned to leave.

  “Please allow me to introduce myself,” he continued. “I am Rainer Heisinger.”

  I paused, one foot still on the threshold. I had sworn to myself that I would not speak a word to the enemy, but my mother’s training ran deep and I found it difficult to be rude. Worse, blatant discourtesy might be dangerous. We were sharing our home, our land, with these Germans.

  “My first name, it means pluie in English,” he continued, his fingers trailing along the piano keys, making them tinkle pleasantly. “And your name, mademoiselle?”

  “Violette. Violette Fouquet . . . Guilcher.” I often forgot that I was married. “And it’s madame, not mademoiselle.”

  “Violette?” He grinned, softening his strong features and showing his very white teeth. “So you are a flower, and I am the rain.”

  “You are very forward, monsieur.”

  The smile dropped from his face. “I apologize. Sincerely, madame. I am . . . I am not accustomed to this situation.”

  “What situation?”

  “Occupation. War.”

  That made me pause. “How does anyone become accustomed to war, monsieur?”

  He gave a sad, small smile. “By living in it long enough, I suppose. In any case, do you mind if I play this beautiful instrument? I should have asked before, but I gave in to temptation.”

  “I doubt it’s even in tune,” I replied. “No one plays anymore, now that my grandmother has passed.”

  “It sounds lovely to me. Far preferable to the snores of my compatriots.”

  I felt awkward, and a bit nauseated, and turned to leave once again.

  “Madame?” he called me back. “If I promise not to be too rough with your grandmother’s piano, may I play?”

  He stood there, filling out his uniform in all his blond Aryan glory. Rainer was a German. An invader. Why was he asking me for permission to do anything? What kind of game was he playing?

  I shrugged. “Comme vous voulez, monsieur.” As you wish.

  * * *

  • • •

  It seemed ironic that the man was named for rain.

  On the Île de Feme, rain is life. Rain is everything. On the Île de Feme, no one complains about storms, as they are our sole source of fresh water. Also, the tempests bring the shipwrecks, and though we risk our lives to save the victims of such catastrophes, there is no denying the bounty they bring to the island: new blood in the form of those who decide to remain with us, as well as the salvaged cargo—barrels of liquor or beer, boxes of exotic spices. Occasionally, bullion or other treasure. Even the wood from the ships, hulls is a boon, for ours is an island lacking not only fresh water but also trees. We islanders seize upon the lumber with an avarice forest dwellers might reserve for salt or wine.

  Rainer. He said in English, it meant pluie, rain.

  How did he know the English language? Or French, for that matter? I knew that some Germans who lived near the border could speak passable French, but most of the soldiers who had crossed my path did not know a single word. They expected us to understand their language, and soon we learned a few phrases: Entschuldigen Sie bitte or Ja, ich habe meine Papiere (“Excuse me, please” or “Yes, I have my papers”). It was the bare minimum to get by, to survive what we all hoped—and insisted to ourselves—was a temporary situation.

  So, a man named for rain came to our tiny island all the way from Germany, and was now speaking French, playing our piano, living in our home.

  In the house that used to be our home.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Alex

  Nat was in full-on tour guide mode, pointing out plants like thrift, criste marine, and pavot cornu, a stubborn type of poppy that grew despite the salty earth.

  “Water’s a constant concern, since there’s no natural source,” Nat explained, pointing to one of the tanks that dotted the island. “These days, water is brought in from the mainland. But the islanders still collect rain in large cisterns like this one.”

  “Speaking of rain,” Alex said, “Jean-Luc said he heard there’s a storm coming, and I noticed the stack of slate shingles in the shed. Do you have someone coming to repair the roof soon?”

  “I . . . Yes, I do, or I did. They seem to have flaked out.”

  “Because it’s August?”

  “Maybe.”

  Alex tried to study her sister’s expression, but Nat didn’t give much away.

  “Couldn’t you hire someone else?”

  “It’s not that simple. It’s not like the islanders don’t already have a lot to do,” Nat said.

  “Maybe, but I’d be surprised if there weren’t at least a few who’d be willing to take it on for the right price. What about that crew, there?” Alex asked, gesturing toward three men who were repairing a stone wall. “We could ask them.”

  Nat shook her head. “No . . . I don’t think so. Maybe you and I could do it.”

  Alex snorted.

  “Jean-Luc said he was willing to help.”

  “Which is very nice of him, but from what I’ve seen, his handyman skills aren’t much better than yours. Besides, roof repairs aren’t anything to screw around with. Seriously, Nat, I think you ought to hire someone.”

  It was one thing to put off repairing interior plaster or applying a coat of fresh paint, things that made a home more comfortable and more attractive. But to allow the roof of an ocean-side guesthouse to deteriorate was foolish in the extreme. Repairing the roof should have been Nat’s first priority, not installing pretty new bathroom tiles.

  “So, when did you become a home inspector?” Nat asked. “I thought you worked on a dude ranch.”

  “I did, but I got licensed as a home inspector as well. But I don’t need to be an inspector to know the roof needs attention—you can tell from the ground you’re missing some shingles.”

  “Yeah, it’s on the list. Thanks.”

  “Why not just hire someone else? I thought you were rolling in money.”

  “Yeah, right,” Nat said.

  “Did François-Xavier contribute to the renovations?”

  Natalie gave a quick shake of her he
ad and said, “I’m the one with the money in this relationship. Or I was, anyway.”

  “Does that mean you’ve paid for everything?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Alex studied her for a moment. “Did you think I would judge you for being short of cash? Given the way we were raised, money problems are our birthright.”

  Nat gave a breathy laugh. “So at least I come by it honestly. Anyway, it’s only temporary. As soon as I can send in a decent draft of this book, I’ll get a progress payment, and there should be a royalty check in the offing for Pourquoi Pas? as well.”

  They continued along the narrow stretch of the pathway, the ocean on one side and bracken-covered fields on the other.

  Alex tried to memorize it all. The chalky blue of the weather-beaten shutters, the little fish-shaped doorknob adorning the front entrance of a small stone cottage that looked like an overblown dollhouse. The lighthouse tower, standing tall and sure, the rocky shelves blazing gold with lichen, the strangely shaped boulders looking like figures hunkering down along the shoreline.

  There wasn’t much human presence beyond the hotel. Besides that one small house, there was nothing but scrub and sand and rocks and algae, the ocean to either side, as they continued down a path that led to the lighthouse.

  “A very old woman lives in that little cottage, there,” said Natalie. “It’s called the House of Meneï. I think she may have put a curse on me.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “When I first got here, I was snapping pictures of everybody—especially the old women. I guess I didn’t consider that not everyone wants their picture taken, much less shared on the Internet.”

  “Ah.”

  “Her name’s Ambroisine.”

  “Great name.”

  Natalie nodded. “And she’s got a great face to match. Very full of character. I’m sorry I blundered so badly with her; apparently she’s the oldest person on the island and a font of information.”

  “Have you tried apologizing?”