Off the Wild Coast of Brittany

by Juliet Blackwell

  “What did you say today, to that officer, Hans?” I asked. “What did you tell him to make him stop?”

  “I reminded him of his sister. I have known his family most of my life. We are both from Berlin.”

  “Is his sister the type to lose her temper?”

  He chuckled and nodded. “She’s a . . . How do you say it? A harpy.”

  “That’s not a nice thing to say.”

  “No. But it is nevertheless true.”

  “How is it that you speak French so well?”

  “My father’s mother was French. I grew up in Berlin, but spent the summers with my grandmother and cousins in the Champagne region.”

  “It must be awkward to be here now, given the circumstances.”

  He nodded.

  “You play the piano very well,” I said.

  “Thank you,” Rainer said with a grin, then set the book down, went to the piano, and played a quick interlude. “Believe it or not, I was raised in the cabaret my father opened after the Great War. We barely got by, moneywise, but as long as there was song and dance . . .”

  “Violette?”

  I jumped at the sound of my mother’s voice calling from the kitchen. In my mind’s eye I saw the disapproving look on her face, the strained pursing of her mouth.

  “J’arrive, Maman,” I said, then bade Rainer a good night and hurried down the hallway to the kitchen.

  As I expected, Maman’s expression suggested she was disappointed in me. It was a familiar look. I disappointed her each day that I rose and refused to don the jibilinnen. Still, I was a hard worker, I had married an island boy rather than escape to the mainland, and I was pregnant with the next generation of islander. I felt I was doing my part.

  “Why are you talking with that man?” Maman hissed. “He is the enemy.”

  “You think I don’t understand that?” I asked. “I was thanking him. He defied an officer today, stepped in to save Madame Canté’s cows from slaughter.”

  “That’s not how I heard it. I heard it was Noëlle who asked for the milk for the children. That it was she who gained their respect, and their cooperation.”

  The gossip network on the island was impressive in its speed, if not its accuracy. It infuriated me how the popular version of events tended to paint the islanders as ever noble, strangers as unworthy. No matter what the truth might be.

  “That’s not what happened,” I said. “We need to be careful, Maman. Some of the Germans are reasonable, and it would be wise to keep them on our side so that they might be willing to intervene on our behalf.”

  “We don’t need their help. We islanders have endured—”

  “I know, Maman, I know. We have endured cholera epidemics and the inundation of nineteen twenty-seven.” I had been raised on the stories of survival and persistence, of enduring whatever was thrown at us. “And we made it through the War of Nineteen Fourteen, or at least most of us did. But this is different, can’t you see? This time the Germans are here, living with us. There are rumors—Monsieur Thomas said he heard on the radio that the Nazis are rounding up Jews in Poland and forcing them into work camps.”

  “Why do you care about Jews?”

  “Why should they be persecuted for what they believe?”

  “They’re not Christian.”

  Neither were the Gallizenae, I thought to myself. My stomach clenched when I saw my mother like this, small-minded and fiercely dedicated to her insular way of life, the way things had always been. It was at times like this that I reminded myself that the blood of the Gallizenae ran through my veins.

  “I care because they’re human beings,” I said. “And my point is that the Nazis are extreme and they are dangerous, so if we find some reasonable soldiers, we should do our best to remain in their good graces.”

  I watched as my mother kneaded her dough, pounding the small ball in a dull sort of indignant resignation. My mother had always been a woman of few words, living her life by a strict set of rules and beliefs, apparently cut off from her feelings. If only my mamm-gozh were with us. I could still hear her in my mind, taking my side as she so often did in my conflicts with my parents: “The child’s clever, my daughter. You should listen to her.”

  “Besides,” I continued, “our men are gone and we’re starving, Maman.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  “So if that means being pleasant to a German officer so the children will have milk, then I will do so.”

  Maman was already writing something down in her cookbook. It was very old, with numerous recipes scrawled on the backs of envelopes, scraps of paper, and even linen, and tucked inside. “We use everything here on the island,” she taught me growing up. “Everything is useful.” It grated on my nerves that she remained so intent on preserving the ways of the past, seemingly marooned on an island that hadn’t existed in decades. I was enough of a Fémane to respect our people’s history, to value tradition. But I wanted something . . . more.

  “When our men return, things will be different,” said my mother. “When your father and brother return. When your husband returns.”

  I went to wash my hands, her words echoing in my head.

  My husband.

  I glanced down at the ring he had given me, using my thumb to make it spin on my finger. It was his grandmother’s silver claddagh ring: two hands clasping a heart, topped by a crown. The design reminded me of friends reaching out to each other, and I thought to myself that it was fitting. Marc Jean Guilcher felt more like a friend than a husband.

  On top of the bureau where my mamm-gozh had kept her death drawer were framed photos of my brother and my father. My mother had placed candles and flowers before the photographs as if it were an altar. A small white porcelain statuette of Mother Mary stood over it all, her palms held out in supplication.

  I wondered if my mother had a death drawer prepared. Was I expected to do the same, now that I was married? Should I wrap my wedding dress in waxed paper and tuck it away to serve as my eventual shroud? I had married in such haste that I had worn my simple flowered cotton dress, adding a small veil to mark the occasion. It hardly seemed special enough for death.

  I had a vision of myself in that moment, lying in a wooden coffin and dressed in a shroud decorated with shells and feathers and seaweed, a Gallizena gone to her final resting place.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Alex

  The owner of La Melisse grocery store was a severe-looking woman in her fifties, thin to the point of gaunt, named Severine. Her long dark hair was sprinkled with gray and pulled back into a tight ponytail.

  Nat greeted her as they walked in, introducing Alex. Severine responded in English: “I heard you had arrived. This is so nice to know Natalie has family here.”

  “News travels fast,” said Alex.

  “It is a small island.” Severine shrugged.

  As the only source of groceries on the Île de Feme, Severine took her responsibilities seriously. The resident Fémans ordered most of their groceries from the mainland, but inevitably an item or two would be forgotten, and the visitors and guests at vacation rentals always needed supplies. Tourists often failed to heed the warning that there were limited dining options, which meant long lines at the restaurants and cafés at the height of the season. So in addition to the usual corner store offerings of chips and crackers and sweets, Severine sold bread—it was shipped from a mainland boulangerie each morning, and when it sold out there was no more until the next ferry—as well as fresh fruit, a variety of cheeses, and a small selection of quality pâtés and meats. An old sign hanging on the rear wall advertised locally butchered meat, Charcuté ici mÊme, a l’Île de Feme.

  “The sign’s outdated,” Nat explained. “The island’s butcher retired a few years ago and moved to be with his kids in Bordeaux.”

  “Maybe you should volunteer,” said A
lex.

  By the time Nat was ten years old, she could skin a rabbit while keeping the fur intact. She would hang it to recover the blood, which her mother used to make sausage; locate the spots in the joints where it was easiest to cut; and swiftly break it down. Alex remembered her little sister yammering on about trying to figure out how all the parts fit together, how a creature that was once warm and sentient was now sitting on the counter, being readied for dinner.

  “I don’t do that anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s . . . it’s not something normal people do,” said Nat.

  “Chefs do it all the time, don’t they?” Alex asked.

  “I’m a writer, not a chef.”

  “You wrote a lot about cooking in your book.”

  “I did, but I was never a real chef.”

  “You left that part to François?”

  “Xavier.”

  “What?”

  “It’s François-Xavier. You have to say both names.”

  “I really don’t.”

  Nat gave a reluctant chuckle. “I mean, it’s a different name, if you don’t say both. It’d be like calling someone Mary when their name is Mary Ann.”

  “Whatever. I’ll just stick with ‘scumbag.’”

  “Shhh,” Nat said, glancing around to be sure no one was listening. “Anyway, grab that round of Camembert, will you? And let’s get some jambon de Paris and a baguette. I’ve got the apples. We don’t need much—I put in an order with Carrefour this morning, which should arrive on tomorrow’s ferry.”

  “How does that work?” Alex asked. “Do you send a carrier pigeon or something?”

  “No, I go to their website,” Nat said. “You are familiar with the Internet, aren’t you? You’re welcome to use my computer if you want to check e-mail or pay bills or something.”

  Alex laughed. “I am part of the real world, too, Natalie. Just like you. I was asking because—I don’t know—it just seems so isolated out here.”

  “Nothing’s truly isolated anymore, unless you seek it out. Like The Commander. Have you heard from him recently?”

  “He seems okay. You could write to him, you know, if you want. He’s living in Idaho, near a town called Horseshoe Bend. If you arrange a time to call, there’s a pay phone at the post office that he can use.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Nat said with a little shrug.

  They both knew Nat had no intention of calling him. Their father didn’t read much, much less darken the door of a library, but he could have heard about Pourquoi Pas? from one of the guys hanging out at the town bar. Alex didn’t imagine Nat wanted to know what The Commander might say about her book or her current lifestyle.

  As they brought their selections to the counter, Alex said: “If I live to be a hundred, I will never get over how easy it is to buy groceries in a store.”

  “No one understands me when I say that,” Nat said. “But it does have a kind of miraculous quality about it, doesn’t it?”

  “No bag?” Severine asked as she rang up their purchases, and she sniffed when Nat shook her head.

  Just as they were leaving, Tonton Michou entered the store in search of cigarettes. He greeted them like long-lost daughters, speaking rapidly and at length to the uncomprehending Alex. It was frustrating not being able to understand, but Alex forced herself to relax and allow the words to swirl over and around her, enjoying the cadence of the language, the soft vowels and gentle consonants, the repetitive ooo sounds.

  No doubt about it, she was going to add “Learn French” to her list of skills to acquire.

  As they returned to the Bag-Noz, arms full of groceries, Alex tried to take in every detail: the narrow stone walkways that wound between the village buildings, stepping aside to make way for a woman pushing a little charette laden with supplies, the chatty tourists, the children’s grins, the pink cheeks and sunburned noses, the garishly colored beach toys. Trying to commit it all to memory.

  “That will be all over the island by tomorrow, you know,” said Nat.

  “What will be?” asked Alex.

  “That we bought food at Severine’s because I forgot to place my order at the Carrefour. And that I forgot my bag.”

  “How will you survive the shame?”

  “Also, they’ll gossip about you. A lot of them read the French edition of the book and are curious about our family.”

  Alex shrugged. “Why do you care so much about what other people think, Nat?”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to live here.”

  “Do you?”

  Nat said nothing. Alex studied her as they walked. Her sister kept insisting she was happy and that all was well, when it so very clearly was not. Alex thought about the stories of the perfect boyfriend, the gracious treatment of her fans even when she wanted to be left alone, the easy-breezy interaction with her absentee boyfriend’s elderly relatives. All the while Nat worried about what they thought of her, what the other villagers thought of her, what complete strangers thought of her. Nat wrote in her blog as if everything were bright and sunny on an island that smelled of crepes and lavender, when in reality a storm was brewing, her roof was leaking, and the whole damn place stank of rotting fish.

  “Are you happy living out here on this island, Nat?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean just what I said: Are you happy?”

  “Of course. I’m living my dream, Alex,” Nat said, flashing a bright smile. “Didn’t you hear what the women said last night? I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”

  “No, you’re not,” Alex said, stopping in her tracks and facing her sister. “Your so-called boyfriend abandoned you, and you’re drinking in the middle of the day surrounded by an unfinished major renovation.”

  “I . . .” Nat trailed off with a shake of her head, but her cheeks turned a bright red and her eyes shone with tears.

  “Look, how about we go home, have a bite to eat, and I’ll start putting together a fix-it list? And then we can talk about where to go from there. I can help you, Nat.”

  Nat’s eyes darted back and forth, as though looking for inspiration. Finally she seemed to relax, took a deep breath, and nodded.

  “Thanks, Alex. That’s a great idea. I would really appreciate it.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Natalie

  Back at the house, they made sandwiches and ate quickly at the kitchen counter. Alex was itching to create the punch list of what needed to be done to ready the Bag-Noz for guests.

  “What can I do?” asked Natalie, her voice flat even to her own ears.

  “Why don’t I go through the house and work up a list?” said Alex. “And then we can review it together. Besides, don’t you have to get back to writing?”

  Natalie nodded. “Okay, thanks. Shout if you get stuck behind the water heater or something.”

  “Will do,” Alex said with a smile, as she hurried out of the kitchen.

  Watching her go, Natalie thought about what Alex had asked her.

  Natalie’s social media followers assumed she was happy. Her agent and editor were invested in the idea of her happiness, as were the fans of her book who wished they had her life—the pilgrims who followed her path in France because she was so obviously living a dream. Her dream.

  But . . . did Natalie really want to set down roots on this isolated rock, with nosy neighbors in a tiny village? Live in an old house that was falling down around her? An old house that came with an extended family whom she felt responsible for, but with whom she never seemed to fit in? Had she given up her life to follow François-Xavier out here, only to be abandoned when he moved on?

  How had she gotten herself into this situation?

  Maybe old Ambroisine really had cursed her. It was as good an explanation as any.

  Natalie thou
ght again of the video of the woman she had seen on the Internet with those goats. Or were they sheep? Whatever they were, the woman was on her own adventure, living alone with her dog. It seemed like a really good dog, too. Running her livestock and spinning their wool to knit things. Natalie wouldn’t mind learning to spin wool, and . . . maybe even learn to knit? The point was, the woman was living her life, not a life someone else had decided for her.

  On the other hand, such an isolated life would probably meet with their father’s approval. That was a disturbing thought.

  With Alex’s arrival, a flood of childhood memories had washed over Natalie. How she had failed at almost everything, disappointed almost everyone, especially The Commander. So instead of writing about her current life on the island, Natalie wrote an essay about her childhood, hoping the act of putting her thoughts into words would help her to make sense of it all.

  I have a single good memory of being with my father. It was just the two of us and now, looking back, I wonder where the others had gotten to. The older girls were probably helping our mother with the endless cooking, cleaning, and sewing, or perhaps Hope had already run off to get married. Alex was no doubt repairing something or practicing her archery; she was always busy being useful.

  I heard my father call my name. My stomach clenched.

  He was forever dressing me down for yet another one of my failures, calling me on the carpet to parrot his lessons or to demonstrate the proper bug-out tactic. I went to him slowly, but I went, because not obeying was not an option. But this time, this one time, it was different. I found him in his workshop, where he had arranged four pieces of wood on top of his bench in the shape of a diamond.

  “What do you think this is, Natalie?” The Commander asked.

  “A diamond.”

  “That’s the shape, but what is it?”

  “I . . .” My mind grasped at straws and I tried not to shrug—shrugging was strictly forbidden. “Is it a trap, maybe?”

  He actually laughed. “A trap? These flimsy pieces of wood?”