Off the Wild Coast of Brittany

by Juliet Blackwell

  “You are in no way a freak, Rainer.”

  He gave me a sad smile. “Tell that to my mother. Most boys don’t want to wear girl’s clothing, as she was quick to remind me.”

  “Most girls don’t think like me, either,” I said. “You and I must each have unruly hearts.”

  “I used to gaze at myself in the mirror when I put on skirts, feeling the way they brushed my legs, knowing they suited me better, somehow.”

  “And just look at yourself now,” I said, turning him toward the looking glass.

  He gazed at his reflection for a long moment, his large hands passing over his chest and waist. Then he met my eyes, and when he spoke, there was a note of wonder in his voice:

  “It fits me so well.”

  “Ah, but that’s not all.” I fitted his new jibilinnen over his short blond hair. “Now you are very fetching, indeed.”

  “I’m a little . . . tall and wide.”

  I smiled. “We islanders are a sturdy people. You look like a true, strong Fémane.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Natalie

  While she waited for Alex to get changed, Natalie opened her laptop, called up a search engine, and typed in “retinitis pigmentosa.”

  As frightened as Alex was at the prospect of losing her sight, Natalie was willing to bet that what unsettled her sister most was the thought of losing her independence, of being forced to rely others. Alex was a stoic, an adventurer, someone who, when fate rolled a boulder in her path, found a way to go over it, around it, or through it.

  But she wasn’t prepared for this.

  Natalie read numerous articles posted to websites devoted to eye health and eye diseases. The prognosis for patients with retinitis pigmentosa was not good, and the existing treatments were of limited value. Alex might lose all her sight, or she might be left with some ability to detect motion and sense light and dark. Either way, she was going to need help.

  This time fate had thrown a boulder at Alex that was too heavy, even for her.

  And that meant they would have to figure out another way. Natalie took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Approaching a problem this big was like writing a book—you couldn’t sit down and write the thing all in one go. You wrote word by word, one sentence at a time, chapter after chapter.

  Not that Natalie had taken such advice with her own writing lately, she thought with a rueful sigh.

  Break it down, make a list, get to work. Starting with ways to mitigate the impact of Alex’s loss of vision upon her daily routine. Her sister could learn to use a cane to get around without tripping and could listen to audiobooks instead of reading. Those were easy to take care of. She would also qualify for financial assistance from Social Security, and while it wouldn’t be a lot of money, every little bit would help. Natalie could help her get started with the paperwork on that right away.

  Natalie scrolled down through more search results, and a website for guide dogs caught her eye. She read some more, then sat back in her chair and smiled.

  That would lift Alex’s spirits, she thought. A new Buddy.

  Later, as the sisters headed to meet Christine at chez Ambroisine, each with a basket of goodies slung over one arm, Natalie noticed Alex waving and nodding to Loïc at the Pouce Café, to Brigitte as they passed by her fish et chips restaurant, to Tarik and Madame Cariou and old Monsieur Toullec. Alex had been on the Île de Feme such a short a time, and already fit in so much better than Natalie, though Natalie was the one who prided herself on being so worldly and adaptable.

  Speaking of adapting . . .

  “So, here’s a thought: a guide dog,” said Natalie as they walked through the narrow pathways of the village.

  “Funny you should say that. I was wondering if Korrigan could be my guide dog,” Alex said. “Assuming Ambroisine is amenable.”

  “Not to mention Korrigan.”

  Alex chuckled. “Her, too.”

  “The problem is that Korrigan could only lead you around this island. Real guide dogs are trained to help you cross the street in traffic, that sort of thing. They call it a ‘guide dog lifestyle.’ You have to go to the center and stay while you get trained.”

  “I thought the dogs were trained.”

  “They train you, too, I think is the point. The two of you together. The dogs are true service animals, and have little jackets to let people know not to pet them.”

  “Korrigan doesn’t like to be petted,” said Alex. “I think she’d be great.”

  “You’re not taking this seriously.”

  “Oh, but I am,” said Alex.

  “At least think about it,” said Natalie. “I could help you get signed up, and pay for your plane ticket. After all, I’ve got all that rent coming in from Jean-Luc, in addition to the book money.”

  “Oh, about that . . .”

  “What?” asked Natalie as they emerged from the heart of the village and headed down the pathway toward the hotel, the ocean on one side and fields of vegetables on the other.

  “On the plus side, you now have an empty, newly painted, fully rentable room upstairs.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jean-Luc . . . He . . . We . . .”

  “You like him.”

  Alex gave a quick shake of her head. “It’s worse than that.”

  “You love him?”

  “No. No. He . . . he says he wants us to have a future together.”

  “But that’s really sweet. Isn’t it?”

  “It isn’t a love thing. It’s a pity thing. He says he wants to take care of me, like his dizzy old cat.” Alex frowned, looked out at the darkening ocean, and switched on her heavy flashlight against the fading light. “I don’t need his help. His charity.”

  She spit out the last word as if it were a curse.

  “I doubt he meant it that way,” said Natalie softly. “I know we haven’t known Jean-Luc long, but from everything I’ve seen, he’s a good man. I’m sure he meant only kindness. And besides, I think it might have a little something to do with love, or at least strong like. Have you seen the way he looks at you?”

  Alex shrugged. “Whatever. It’s better without him around.”

  Natalie wasn’t so sure, but decided to let it go for now. “What time frame are we talking about, Alex? I read up on retinitis pigmentosa, but it seems like the disease is pretty variable. Where are you at on the spectrum?”

  “It’s strange. Some days are better than others. My night vision and peripheral vision are compromised, and my field of vision is growing smaller over time. Pretty soon it may be all gone.”

  Alex crouched, set her basket on the ground, and started rearranging the already neatly stowed baked goods and bottles of cider they were bringing to Ambroisine. Natalie realized, as she hadn’t before, the frantic nature of her sister’s busyness, how she used it as an avoidance tactic.

  “We have to prepare, Alex,” Natalie said.

  Alex stilled and admitted in a fierce whisper: “I don’t know how.”

  “I know you don’t. Neither do I. But I’m here. We’ll figure this out together.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Christine met the sisters at Ambroisine’s door with her typical effusiveness. If she noticed their subdued mood, she didn’t mention it, and launched into a story about getting her net caught in her dock neighbor’s motor this morning as she pulled out of the harbor.

  Inside the cottage, Korrigan glowered at them from her post by the fireplace. Ambroisine greeted them and began poking through the baskets to see what they had brought her. She nodded, apparently pleased, and told them to stash them in the kitchen. Then she invited them to sit with her at the table and, without preamble, began to speak.

  “There was a young woman named Marceline Carmèle. That wasn’t her real name, of course; she was with the French resistance
, and had managed to take photographs of the Nazi shipbuilding facilities in Brest. She was shot at some point and came to the Île de Feme in search of medical attention. My mentor, Madame Thérèse, was called in to try to help her.”

  Natalie translated for Alex, while simultaneously jotting down notes.

  “The young woman had already developed a high fever from the infection and needed the bullet removed. Madame Thérèse was a skillful healer but she was not a surgeon. We did the best we could, but the young woman had to be taken off the island for proper surgery.”

  “Wait,” interrupted Christine. “How did she get here, to the island? Was she a Fémane?”

  Ambroisine shook her head. “She came with false papers. Violette’s German soldier granted her entry.”

  “Who was ‘Violette’s German soldier’?” asked Natalie.

  “His name was Rainer,” said Ambroisine. “It means pluie in English, does it not? I don’t remember his last name. Anyway, he helped us.”

  “Was he in love with Violette?” Natalie asked.

  “Do you want to hear the story or not?” snapped Ambroisine.

  Christine poured a generous portion of cider into the old woman’s cup. “Yes, please, we would like to hear more.”

  Ambroisine nodded, mollified. “The Germans had long since found and destroyed Henri Thomas’s radio, but Noëlle Guilcher was in touch with a smugglers’ boat that made regular runs between France and England, avoiding the German patrols. It sometimes came close enough to the island to deliver packages. But they had to find a way to signal the boat, and the only way they could think of to do that was to use the lighthouse.”

  “The lighthouse?” Alex asked. “Phare” was one of the words in French that she recognized.

  “Yes,” said Ambroisine. “The plan was to signal the smugglers’ boat when it was safe for it to come to the cove and pick up Marceline. Noëlle had a code to use to communicate with them. The problem was how to distract the soldiers while all this was going on.”

  “That would be a problem,” said Natalie. “Weren’t there hundreds of soldiers on this tiny island?”

  Ambroisine nodded and lit a cigarillo. “This was why they needed the help of the island women. The men, the German soldiers, were bored because there wasn’t much to do on the island. They were young, and while many of them were glad to be far from the fighting, others wanted to see more action. And all of them were far from their homes, jealous of their colleagues who were in Paris, enjoying the cafés and revues that went on there.

  “So Rainer proposed to the men that the women would create a spectacle for them, for one night only.”

  “A spectacle?” asked Alex when Natalie translated the phrase directly.

  “They mean like a show, with dancing and singing,” said Christine.

  Alex smiled. “Like ‘Hey, kids, let’s put on a show!’?”

  “Something like that,” Natalie said to Alex. It did sound pretty far-fetched; perhaps Ambroisine was exaggerating for the sake of a good story. On the other hand, they had found those costumes tucked away in the attic, and that photograph of the cabaret. . . . Natalie looked up to see that Ambroisine’s eyes were on her, as though she were waiting. “Sorry. Please continue.”

  “The women turned their energy to making costumes. Time was of the essence, as the boat was due in three days. The women used whatever they had: material from old wedding dresses and lace from nightgowns, candy box silk liners and old linens, whatever they found tucked away in drawers and attics. But most of the decorations were gifts from the ocean: shells and feathers, with sea glass for beads. They used all their skill to transform the Abri du Marin into an underwater fantasy, for one night only.”

  “Pretty gutsy,” Alex muttered. Christine translated for Ambroisine, who nodded in approval.

  “It was indeed. This generation of island women wore the robe noire and jibilinnen every day of their adult lives. And they were fiercely patriotic, so the idea of ‘consorting’ with the enemy was anathema to them. But Violette—or Noëlle—convinced them it would be a valuable contribution to the war effort.”

  “I still don’t understand how I’ve never heard about any of this,” said Christine. “Why were there no rumors, and only that one photograph?”

  Ambroisine grinned. “Noëlle took that photograph, in case she needed to blackmail someone later. Always scheming, that one. But the reason no one talked about it was simple: Their men never would have understood.”

  “You mean the men who sailed away and left the women to deal with the invading army by themselves? Those men?” Alex said.

  “It was a different time, child,” Ambroisine said softly. “This island is very old-fashioned in some ways, and was still more so back then. The women were embarrassed even to be seen not dressed in black, much less clad in feathered costumes.”

  “Did you join the women in the show, Ambroisine?” Christine asked.

  “Madame Thérèse forbade me from going. She said I was too young.”

  “But you went anyway, didn’t you?” Alex asked, and Ambroisine smiled.

  “Of course I did. I snuck in and hid behind the stage curtain to watch what was happening. It was beautiful, the Abri du Marin transformed, and all the women dressed as sirens, feathered and bejeweled.”

  “And what kind of show did they put on?” asked Natalie.

  She laughed. “A short one! Madame Thérèse had brewed a sleeping draft that the women mixed into the beer and cider served that night. After a few songs and a dance or two, the men fell sleep. They awoke the next morning with a terrible headache and assumed they had drunk too much.”

  “That’s amazing,” said Christine. “So that’s where the costumes came from?”

  “I suppose so. They were hidden away in attics and basements. None of the women wanted their men to know what had happened. A few rumors leaked out, mostly fueled by the old men who were, of course, not invited that night. But the women kept their secrets, and even when France was liberated and the collaboration investigations began, none would say aught against the others.”

  “That’s true courage,” Alex said.

  “And Violette was in love with one of the soldiers?” Natalie asked.

  Ambroisine nodded, but seemed lost in thought. “That’s what people said. Whether it is true or not . . . ? All I know is that Rainer, the German officer, helped the island women that night. When his mission was accomplished, he turned his back on the Nazis and started for England in a boat too small to make the journey. Sadly, he did not get very far. They found some of the wreckage just offshore.”

  “Were they able to signal the passing boat? Marceline was rescued?”

  “She was rescued, yes,” Ambroisine said, stubbing out her cigarillo.

  “Why wasn’t there a formal inquiry?” asked Natalie. “Given what the Nazis were capable of, I would have imagined they would have investigated this thoroughly, maybe even torn the island apart to find the guilty parties.”

  “The Germans covered it up.” Ambroisine chuckled. “The unit’s commanding officer did not wish to advertise that a group of women had distracted his soldiers and even the guards at the lighthouse, and the soldiers themselves were afraid of being reassigned to the Eastern Front if the German High Command learned what had happened. So they kept quiet, too. It was better for everyone that way.”

  Natalie had been translating the story to Alex, who was petting Korrigan. They all sat for a long moment, contemplating those women so long ago duping their German occupiers to save a life and to help the cause of freedom.

  “I have a question,” said Alex after a moment. “They say the two women who ran the Bag-Noz, Violette and Doura, were sisters. But according to the family’s livret de famille, Violette’s sister, Rachelle, lived with her husband in his mother’s house. So who was Doura?”

  “I’ve talked en
ough for one night,” said Ambroisine. “Alex, you must go to the Chapel of Saint Corentin to lay a loaf of bread at his feet. And you’re welcome to take the dog, if she wants. Korrigan goes where she wants.”

  “Um . . . okay,” said Alex. “Does it matter what kind of bread?”

  The old woman chuckled. “Not in the least, but it must be fresh, not stale bread you would throw away. To have meaning, it must be a sacrifice.”

  Alex nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ambroisine peered at her. “Don’t you want to know why I say this?”

  “I assume you have your reasons,” Alex said with a shrug.

  Ambroisine gestured at Alex and said to Natalie: “I like this one. This is the one I like.”

  “Yeah.” Natalie smiled. “I like her, too.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The Bag-Noz was not the same without Jean-Luc.

  Natalie missed his cheery moods in the morning when she came out to the kitchen. She missed his coffee. But mostly she missed the way Jean-Luc used to make her sister smile, how Alex lit up when he was around, became relaxed and chatty.

  Through the grapevine Natalie learned that Jean-Luc had started working with Ismael at the climate change initiative, and had found an apartment next door to Monsieur Le Guen, the mayor’s assistant.

  She made a mental note to go by and say hello, make sure he knew there were no hard feelings, at least on her part. Natalie had the distinct impression Alex would come around eventually. She had found Alex in Jean-Luc’s room the other day, gazing out the window. Alex claimed she was making sure the room was ready for guests, but Natalie was certain there was something deeper at play.

  Still, Alex had never been particularly astute at dealing with her emotions. Maybe once she had a plan for the future she would be able to make the mental space for Jean-Luc.