By force of having nothing else to do, my study of German was coming along. The only problem was that I had no one to practice with and therefore my knowledge was theoretical and literary rather than fluent. Would I understand an actual person when he or she spoke?
It was hot in Guayaquil, and foreign, and after two weeks my spirits were low. Ainslie tried to cheer me up, but the fact that we were nearly strangers merely increased my despondency.
“So tell me, bride,” he’d say. “What’s your favorite ice-cream flavor?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Vanilla maybe?”
Another time: “Do you like turkey?”
Me: “What does it matter? There won’t be a delicatessen on Floreana.”
Ainslie: “True, true, but just humor me.”
Me: “I’ve actually grown fond of bacon.”
Ainslie raised his eyebrows at this one. “Well,” he said. “You always want what’s forbidden to you. Yes, the forbidden fruit, that might be my favorite food.”
Ainslie walked the streets by himself after dinner. I think he would go down to the wharf to watch the ships. One night he came home with a chocolate bar. It was Ecuadorian chocolate, rough and bitter, and I have an aversion to chocolate, but I thanked him anyway. I recognized that he was trying to be a good husband.
It was during this time that we consummated our relationship. We went out for dinner one night and imbibed what was becoming our usual excess of alcohol (my liver would be glad to get to a place where there was no booze). We completed our evening ablutions, and I climbed into my bed to read. Ainslie came out of the bathroom and instead of going to his bed, he wordlessly climbed into mine. And it was…nice. There are secrets a lady must keep to herself, even in her intimate memoirs, and so I will say no more except that we were truly married at last.
During those weeks, he acted more like my husband. He was always home for dinner and rarely went out afterward, content to sit and read and smoke his pipe. He was also fond of taking apart and putting back together the radio in our hotel room. When he was done, there were invariably parts left over, small screws and wires, washers, and bits of solder.
Our room had a small balcony, and Ainslie spent many hours out on it, practicing knots and snares, and smoking his pipe, lost in thought. We spoke as married couples do, about meals and errands, about funny anecdotes from our days, about the idiosyncrasies of the Spanish language. We played cards and read books. If it weren’t for my anxiety about our mission, and my constant worry of contracting stomach viruses, I would have considered it a pleasant vacation.
*
Came the day to sail, and I sobered to discover that our ship had already consumed eight of its nine cat lives. There was even a bracket for a gun mount on the deck, dating from the motor schooner’s use as a fighting ship in the Great War. Needless to say, I was not anxious to make the crossing, having finally again filled out the trousers that hung off me when we arrived on the mainland. It was a five-day sail, five miserable, tempest-toss’t, stomach-churning days, our skin frying in the hot equatorial sun, until we put into port at Chatham, the regional capital.
I was shocked at the landscape of the first island. It was like a desert, with white-hot sand and rough rocks. Here and there gnarled branches of shrubbery stuck out like pimples on a young person’s face, equally as angry. I later found them to be prickly to the touch and often full of pink-red berries that were veined inside with darker red and which the islanders told me not to eat, though I wasn’t planning to. Higher up there were a few trees, also gnarled, like the hands of farmers, and thickset like the indigenous people.
“Welcome to Las Islas Encantadas,” I said to Ainslie.
He looked at me quizzically.
“Las Islas Encantadas, the Enchanted Isles, the old name for Galápagos. Did you not read the brief at all?”
“Of course I did,” Ainslie said. “I just didn’t understand your Spanish accent.”
I gave him my best disapproving look.
“Wait, they’re enchanted?” Ainslie said. “Turn the ship around!”
Our fellow passengers looked at us like we’d gone mad, two sunburned gringos yelling in English.
We anchored and took a dinghy to the dock, which was the center of a little town. Shacks had been thrown up haphazardly, in between what passed for trees. There were women waiting for us on shore, squatting on their haunches as though birthing a baby. I tried it later and fell over backward. Hips must be trained from childhood if they want to hold you up like that later in life.
Ainslie paced the dock nervously smoking, using up precious cigarettes, making sure no one stole our cargo. When he was satisfied, we went into the “town” to buy seedlings and seeds for the garden (pineapple, yucca, camote vines, bananas), a few chickens for eggs, lard, coffee, and tobacco, and possibly a donkey. Also, we wanted to find out what we could about Floreana and its residents.
One small hut served as a sort of general store, and we found that the proprietor spoke English, of a sort. He had been sent to the islands to serve out a prison sentence (for what, we did not ask). It was not lost on me that I was volunteering to go to a place where people were sent for punishment. Ainslie and he negotiated prices then sat down for a smoke.
I helped his wife shuck corn, and while doing so I found out the following: The most current count of souls on Floreana was nine. One German couple and their son, who had come for the salubrious salt air (the child had a congenital lung disorder). Another elderly couple had come to study with Dr. Ritter and were devastated to discover that he had died and they had crossed paths with his widow somewhere in the ocean. They stayed, however, and took over the garden at Friedo, Dore and Ritter’s home, continuing their idiosyncratic Nietzschean isolationism. Another couple had lived on the island for a year or so, young, attractive, outgoing. They seemed an odd pair to be survivalists, according to this woman, but then all people who wanted to come to this godforsaken place were odd, no offense.
None taken.
There was also the governmental representative and his wife, a cousin of the woman in whose “kitchen” I was standing. My hostess apparently did not like this cousin; she spit on the ground as she said her name, which I didn’t catch. All this was communicated to me in rapid-fire Spanish. The woman did not care that I spoke very little; she continued her narrative apace. I repeated back to her what I thought she said, and she nodded vigorously.
This I reported to Ainslie once we were back on the San Cristóbal. We stood near the motor to “sound mask.” The fumes were overwhelming but no one could hear us above the din. Ainslie had to lean down so he could hear what I was saying. I put my lips right to his ear and we took turns offering the sides of our heads.
“You are apparently a better spy than I,” he said.
“Speaking the language helps.”
“Don’t rub it in. So it seems the newest residents are our most likely bet for German government representatives. The others have been here too long.”
“What if they’re just people?” I asked. “How do we even know they’re here for any other reason than to get away from it all?” The wind kept whipping my hair into my eyes and mouth, and I kept brushing it back.
“Are you doubting the intelligence of the United States Navy?” he asked in mock indignation. “I don’t even know where this intelligence came from. We’ll just live out our year, keep our eyes and ears open, and we’ll have served Uncle Sam plenty. Just be Frances Conway. That’s all you have to do.”
*
Luckily, Floreana was the next stop on the San Cristóbal’s tour, for I was anxious to get off the ship. I craned my neck to make out the barest hint of land, and then—was that a cloud? No, it was a mountain with a rounded top, and a few minutes later it was joined by its cousins. Then it took on a green tint, and as we got closer I got a first look at our island. Cliffs, covered in birds and their “souvenirs,” fell down to the water. Here and there a little greenery would tentatively ma
ke a stab at growth, while up above scrub brush tangled with its neighbor.
We weighed anchor at Post Office Bay, a small strip of sand that rose sharply to the wall of thornbushes that guarded the bay. Hardly a warm welcome.
Floreana is shaped like a sphere, about eight miles wide, but it is impossible to cross without a team of Indios machete-ing the way for you. There is only one beach on the east side, and so it and the south side are underexplored. It has seven hills, or cerros. The landscape is desert from the beach up about two miles to higher ground, called arriba, where it becomes abruptly green, thanks to the garúa, the mist that lingers even in the dry season from May to December.
When the dinghy arrived ashore, I experienced such a wave of regret that I nearly burst into tears. I had expected it to be desolate, but now, faced with the utter absence of any sign of human habitation, I was nervous. An army of land and marine iguanas stood sentry, their ancient jowls seemingly salivating at our approach (they are vegetarians). The two or three sea lions who had accompanied us hoisted themselves onto the rocks and gave heavy sighs as they lay down in the sun. I asked our skipper how they could possibly be comfortable on the sharp points of lava.
Misunderstanding me, he answered, “Oh señora, you must never eat these. They are so few.”
Ainslie smiled at me and raised his eyebrows as if to say, I told you so.
He began to drag our belongings up the beach so that when the tide came in it wouldn’t sweep them to sea. I went with Capitán Oswaldo to look at the post barrel, which was actually a barrel; Floreana residents used it as an official post office. They put their letters inside and the next passing ship would take them to post. The captain emptied the box; later we saw him reading the contents.
Returning to Ainslie, I said, “Miraculous thing, mail. How does a little piece of paper find the right person?”
Ainslie smiled. “It’s a big world, but it’s a small one too.” He was taking a break, leaning against the oil drum. He was wearing a shirt, which would be an uncommon occurrence in subsequent days, and its white fabric contrasted with his deep tan. His arms were sinewy with muscle. He really was a very good-looking man, my husband.
There is nothing quite like getting off a boat on an island without knowing where you will be spending the night, or rather, knowing you’ll be spending it on the shore, fending off insects and curious animals. Add to this the anxiety of getting off a boat on a spy mission on an island of possibly hostile Germans, and you are bound to suffer indigestion at least. It must have registered on my face.
“Could be worse, pet,” he said.
“Could be not raining,” I replied. Of course, it wasn’t raining. It never rained that time of year and we had heard that drought was a real worry.
“Cheer up,” Ainslie said. “We’ll have lots to do and new friends to make.”
We had not even finished carrying our belongings up the beach when we had our first visitors. Of course, they spotted the boat when we entered the harbor, and began their one- or two-hour journey to the beach to see what the boat had brought, and probably to get and send some letters. I turned to see a graying blonde of about forty, cheekbones like golf balls in her expressive face. Even though she was very thin, she still had enormous breasts that were pendulously threatening to leave her threadbare blouse. She smiled; her teeth were bucked, and yet she looked at me with the confidence of someone used to finding people daunted by her beauty. A few steps behind her was a short young man, compactly built, with blond hair, cheeks red from re-burning every day.
“ ’Alo. You are coming to live on the island?” she said in Spanish, her strong German accent discernible even to me. Her face was concerned, and I didn’t blame her. Any new person on a nearly deserted island would be suspicious and likely unwelcome, spy or not.
“Frances,” I said, knowing that Ainslie probably didn’t understand even this much Spanish. The woman stuck out her hand. It was heavily callused. “Genevieve,” she said. She pointed to the man. “Victor.”
“Ainslie,” I pointed at Ainslie. “Encantada.” That much Spanish I knew. Yes, the old name of the Galápagos is also the word you use when you meet someone. We stood around looking at one another, not sure which language to speak nor what to talk about, taking each other’s measure. Finally, as one unit, we went to sit under the meager shade of a small tree. Simultaneously, we offered each other water.
Ainslie pulled out his pipe. Victor’s eyes lit up and so Ainslie, though I knew how much it cost him to share, handed it to him once it was lit. The two puffed together. It was seemingly all the conversation they needed. Genevieve and I tried to talk in a mixture of hand signs and broken Spanish, as I could not reveal I knew any German.
She said something in Spanish that I didn’t understand. I shook my head.
“No casas,” she said.
“Ja,” I said, and then realized this was German. I pantomimed building one.
“Dónde dormir?” she asked. We had no plans for where we’d sleep that night, and her question reminded me of this.
I shrugged to show that we didn’t know. “Playa,” I said. I wouldn’t have minded sleeping under a roof tonight. I hated the exposure of the beach.
Genevieve muttered something to the extent of “suit yourself.” She fingered the fabric of my blouse, now faded from the sun and salt water. “Bonito,” she said, clearly meaning the opposite. Our first encounter was not going well.
Just then the brush behind them began to rustle and from it emerged a pair of young cholo Indians with a donkey held loosely by a rope. They were the only plump people I’d yet seen on the islands, and it must have been a congenital situation, for I would come to see that while we didn’t starve, there was not a surplus of calories. They introduced themselves as the Jiménezes, Gonzalo and his wife, Gansa, which means goose. I never learned why they called her that.
Gonzalo told us he was the Ecuadorian representative on the island. I’m not sure if he was self-appointed or actually sanctioned in an official capacity. They had lived on Floreana for almost a year and were about to celebrate their first anniversary. He kissed her and she blushed. As the government official, he informed us, he was able to marry people, if there were any people who wanted to be married. He was in charge of all large-game hunting, and he reminded us of the law that we could only kill male pigs and steers. We would come to see that he frequently ignored his own directives, as the sows and heifers were much tastier. He also felt entitled to the lion’s share of anything a passing boat might gift to the island and its residents. Still, he was such a friendly person, and his wife so generous (and a good cook to boot), that we forgave him his idiosyncrasies. He had learned his governance style from Ecuadorians, after all, and he knew no better.
The other two families lived on the other side of the sierra, and would not have seen the boat. The captain left some provisions for them, and the Jiménezes promised to pass them along. Then the San Cristóbal pulled out of the bay, and any possibility of returning to civilization went with it. I swallowed the lump in my throat and stared after the old bucket of bolts like she was my lover going off to war.
The sun slipped down behind us; darkness fell quickly in the islands. Genevieve, Victor, Gonzalo, and Gansa had been watching us unpack. They now reluctantly took their leave, carrying some of our bounty of fruit and seedlings from Chatham we had offered. Genevieve patted me on the head in leave-taking, condescendingly, I thought, and Victor bowed deeply. Gonzalo shook my hand and Gansa kissed me on the cheek. Then Victor stepped in front of Genevieve and pulled aside a branch for her, letting it slap back afterward, almost hitting the Jiménezes. When they had disappeared into the brush, Ainslie came up behind me and whispered softly, “Don’t say anything yet.”
So I unpacked our few necessary belongings in silence. Could Genevieve and Victor be our German equivalents? What if the only spying we were doing was on each other? I imagined a College Humor cartoon where spies trained field glasses on each other whil
e real sabotage goes on behind them. These were the lofty ideas I was contemplating as I laid out our dinner—beef jerky, biscuits, fruit, a boiled egg.
In front of me the Pacific Ocean slumbered, placid, and a light breeze was cooling the air and keeping the bugs at bay. To my right, the trail shone with golden dust in the dying light, illuminating the hills up high with a red-violet glow.
When it grew too dark to see, Ainslie finally spoke to me. “We’ll have to see tomorrow about a place to settle.” He was stating the obvious. I could hear the weariness in his voice. In the meager light of the new moon, I could see the angles of his face. “And a place for our other belongings,” he said, hinting at the radio. I nodded. I could hear the rhythm of the island—the waves on the shore, the birds calling to each other and the wind answering. Far off, I heard a bull bellowing and a donkey braying and the hum of a thousand predatory insects.
Everyone was trying to stake a claim on this island, fauna and humans alike.
*
The water was so calm the night we first went in. I remember that Ainslie took off his clothes and jumped in as free as a bird. I was more modest, tiptoeing to the edge of the water, afraid of the rocks underneath the thin coating of sand. I was seduced by Ainslie’s yelping and hooting (the water was cold). And we were alone, really alone. Alone in a way humans rarely are on this earth. So I took off my culottes and waded in, self-conscious and chilly.
Ainslie swam toward me and peeled my hands away from my torso. The water reflected the moonlight onto his face, chiseled and pointed, the inherited genes of the Anglo-Saxons, who, Darwin-like, took on the phenotype of the craggy bluffs of Dover. He led me farther into the water, and then, once I was floating, took off swimming parallel to the shore, leaving me to tread water and contemplate what monsters of the deep might be nibbling on my toes.
I later learned there were sharks off this bay. We never swam out past the break again.
*
The following morning Ainslie said he was going to look for a site for our homestead. I stayed behind and organized our belongings, making sure nothing ate the seedlings we’d purchased in Chatham and that they remained watered. There was a sort of path up from the beach, and Ainslie disappeared quickly into the brush. His plan was to find a place close to the natural spring up near Asilo de la Paz so we wouldn’t have to walk too far for water. He would go up high and then follow a game trail to a likely place. We wanted to be arriba because there was more water and therefore an environment more hospitable for growing plants. The Jiménezes were up there as well, though they made it clear they didn’t want us too near them, and the feeling was mutual. Genevieve and Victor were lower down, not far from Black Beach (not far by Galápagos standards, about an hour’s walk). They had taken over the ruins of a Norwegian fishing camp and were living off provisions they’d brought as well as fruit from the trees that someone had fortuitously planted years ago.
Enchanted Islands Page 17
