Isle of Passion

by Laura Restrepo

  Images were flashing fast in his mind, driving him to despair. Two were much more insistent than the others. They were contradictory, irreconcilable; one he would have to reject because there was no room for both, and his head was about to crack like the crabs he was stepping on.

  In one he saw Alicia crying and his children abandoned, wild, badly undernourished, and sick.

  “I cannot stay here,” he said out loud. “I cannot stay here.”

  In the other he saw himself a few years back, facing the blackened walls of the prison at Tlatelolco and making his solemn promise that “the next time I will stand firm, come what may, next time I will prevail. Better dead, a thousand times better, than being humiliated again.”

  “I cannot leave,” he contradicted himself. “I cannot leave.”

  He looked for Cardona. He found him standing in the shed, trying to take his first steps using two pieces of wood as crutches.

  “Cardona, sit down. And think carefully about what I am going to tell you.”

  “The gringo ship arrived to rescue the Dutchmen, right?” asked the lieutenant.

  “Yes.”

  “Then the four on the little boat made it to Acapulco—”

  “Yes, but only three of them got there.”

  “That was not a bad deal then. Who didn’t make it?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Another Flying Dutchman who eats melted iron and drinks bile.”

  “May he rest in peace.”

  “Ramón, tell me, do you really believe that someone who dies like that, without a Christian burial, can ever find peace? I would not like to be floating about for all eternity.”

  “Who knows? But there is a serious matter here, Secundino. Listen to this.”

  Ramón read his father-in-law’s letter, and then the news about the invasion. Cardona did not utter a word until he finished.

  “Twenty-one-gun salute? Sure. Right away. Just give me a minute—”

  “The captain of the Cleveland is also offering to take us to Acapulco. You already know what my father-in-law says—If not now, when? On the other hand, those who are rescuing us here are the same ones who invaded over there. It’s not an easy thing to decide, and I would like to know your opinion.”

  Cardona scratched his head.

  “What could happen if we leave? Wait—I mean for a few days, in order to make contact with Colonel Avalos, or with someone who could tell us what’s what, who could tell us what the plan is. Hey, we cannot continue the way we are. This looks like an orphanage.”

  “And if this maneuver is just an enemy trap?”

  “It looks more like a friendly trap. Besides, which enemy? The gringos or the French? Aren’t we supposed to fight against the French to keep from losing this island?”

  “From what I see, now it’s the gringos we are fighting against in order not to lose all of Mexico. I don’t know, Cardona,” he said in a firmer voice and straightening his back. “However, I feel it’s our duty to stay in honor of the hundred and twenty-six Veracruz patriots.”

  “Well, yes,” Cardona offered after some thought. “But Veracruz was invaded, and Clipperton was not. . . .”

  “But we don’t know what might happen.”

  “No, we don’t. But there isn’t much we could do anyhow.”

  “We could offer the ultimate sacrifice for our homeland, like our fellow soldiers in Veracruz. . . .”

  “What a darned life.”

  “Yes, sure enough, life could be better.”

  They remained in silence for a long time, until Arnaud got up.

  “I want to make clear to you that your condition as a seriously wounded soldier places you in a special situation, very different from mine. We cannot take care of you properly here, and you have every right in the world to leave in order to get proper treatment. If you leave, you will not fail Mexico, you will not fail your military honor, you will not fail me or anybody else.”

  Lieutenant Cardona did not have to think much about it.

  “Do you remember what you told me in the cave during the hurricane?” he asked Arnaud. “Either the two of us live, or the two of us die. That was what you said. It was good then, it is good now. If you stay, I stay.”

  “Let’s shake on it.”

  “Here.”

  “I must look for Alicia,” Arnaud said walking toward the door. “She had never complained, and today when she did, I left her talking to the wall.”

  At that moment Sergeant Irra rushed in. He had been looking for Arnaud everywhere on the island. He informed him that the captain of the Cleveland wanted to meet the port captain to deliver the food supplies; that he had orders from the British consul to take Gustav Schultz to Acapulco, if he so wished; and that Jens Jensen and the rest of the Dutchmen wanted to say good-bye personally.

  “You take care of going to the Cleveland for the provisions,” Arnaud said to Cardona, “and tell the captain that I will make the official clearing later.”

  “I can barely walk, Ramón.”

  “Have some of the men carry you.”

  “But I wonder, wouldn’t it be better if you went? In what language do you want me to communicate with him?”

  “Find a way. I must talk with Alicia first, the rest will have to wait.”

  “And what do we do with Schultz, Captain?” asked Irra, waiting for orders. “Do we let him loose, or do we take him in tied up?”

  “Set him him free, Irra, and we’ll see what happens. If he becomes too nervous, triple up his dosage of passionflower tea, but make sure he boards the Cleveland,” answered Arnaud, considering the matter closed.

  On the other side of the island, Gustav Schultz and Altagracia had not seen the ship approach and were totally unaware of the situation. Everything remained the same, immutable, inside the hermetic bubble where they had taken refuge. Even in his madness, Schultz had the lucidity to understand that the sweet, homely girl was enough of a pretext for him to come to terms with reason and to anchor himself in reality. Thanks to her he did not feel alone for the first time in his life.

  That day his warm bath had taken two hours, and according to the ritual they had established, it concluded with the act of love.

  Schultz had Altagracia lying by his side, her head on his shoulder. He found serenity in the shade of her extraordinary hair.

  “I am going to count every hair on your head, one by one,” he would say, “and every day I am going to count them again, to make sure there is none missing.”

  His heart was at peace, his body relaxed, and the fresh sweep of the trade winds carried away all his past anguish.

  “The madman has raped the child!”

  The wild shouts of the sergeant broke into a thousand pieces the gentle calmness. Before Schultz could get up, Irra and three other men lunged at him and beat him with their bare fists and whatever else they found handy.

  “Dirty gringo, get your hands off that girl!” they shouted.

  Altagracia got scared like a little animal and ran into the cabin. Through the cracks in the wall she saw how they tied his hands and took him away, shoving and pulling him by his chain.

  She overcame her fear and ran after them.

  “Where are you taking him?”

  “A ship came for him. Today he goes to hell, the madman.”

  “Don’t take him that way, Irra,” she pleaded, “at least let him put some clothes on. Don’t you have some respect for a human being?”

  “He’s more beastly than the beasts.”

  “You are the wild beasts,” she murmured, and while the soldiers struggled at dragging him, she managed to get him into a pair of pants and a shirt.

  Schultz roared with a pained blind fury. Everyone could hear his screams, which echoed through the cliffs, but only Altagracia was able to hear a soft, dry cracking sound that escaped from his breast like a sigh.

  “They are breaking your soul, Towhead,” she said.

  On the other side of the island, Ramón Arnaud had m
et his wife. She was not crying anymore. Broom in hand, she was sweeping the ramshackle porch at home.

  “Why are you sweeping?” he asked her.

  “Because I already know what your decision will be. And if we are going to continue living here, it might as well be clean.”

  “Come, I want you to understand something.”

  They sat on the floor of the eastern terrace where sometime in the past there had been a hammock for watching the sun come up.

  “Alicia, do you remember that I told you once I was doing nothing because I felt it was not my war? Well, now I feel this really is my war. I still don’t know whether we should leave or stay; the only thing I know is that I have to fight this war.”

  At the dock Arnaud met Cardona, who was hobbling past the piles of wooden boxes, recording everything in a notebook.

  “Two hundred boxes, Ramón,” the lieutenant shouted with enthusiasm. “We have dried beef, wafers, sausages, lard, coffee, you name it. Enough for three more months.”

  “That will give us the option to stay or to leave.”

  “What I would like to know is who sent this food and for whom.”

  “Who else could it be? The Mexican Army sent it to us, of course.”

  “I don’t believe so, Ramón. With the little English I know, I understood it came from the British consul for Gustav Schultz.”

  “Then, let him leave it to us as his legacy. Any citrus fruit?” Arnaud inquired.

  “Haven’t seen any.”

  “That’s bad news. Very bad.”

  Arnaud got into a boat and asked to be taken to the Cleveland. He still did not know what his decision would be, and he could think of nothing on the way. At 1520 he boarded, and Captain Williams received him in his private office, adjacent to his cabin. It was a small interior room, all paneled in cedar, with the scent of good wood and fine tobacco. On his working table there were writing pens and an inkwell, and a machine of such novel design that it took Arnaud some time before he figured out it was a typewriter. The furniture was sparse but deep cushioned, covered in barely faded, wine-red velour. A Persian rug covered the floor, and a copper and opaline glass lamp lit the room evenly, giving the effect of natural light. In one corner was a trunk in embossed leather, and, in the opposite corner, a heavy iron stove obviously in disuse and covered with books.

  Captain Williams’s physique seemed more at home in this intimate environment than in the impersonal harshness of his battleship. He was an older man, pale, and so refined-looking that he seemed never to have been exposed to direct sunlight or even a sea breeze. He wore very thin rimmed spectacles, and one could detect a discreet scent of cologne. He offered Arnaud a seat and a cup of espresso along with a glass of cognac. As they exchanged the customary greetings, Arnaud kept fingering the velour, the leather, the warm cup, and took in the wonderful scents of wood, cologne, and tobacco, his body inspired by the memory of these almost forgotten textures and smells. An uncomfortable nostalgia for a better world was beginning to creep over him. He felt dirty, unkempt, smelly, and jarred by a great irrational impulse to leave. He had delayed this interview as much as possible because he knew it would place him in a disadvantageous position. After not even two minutes, and in spite of Williams’s politeness, he did not wish to prolong this meeting a second longer than purely necessary.

  Arnaud expressed gratitude for the boxes of supplies, and Williams asked about Gustav Schultz. Ramón, who had completely forgotten the German fellow, explained that he was being brought on board because this strange man’s altered state, after suffering several mental breakdowns, had made it advisable to sedate him before departure. He spoke ill of Schultz, in too many words and with too many adjectives, which he regretted, noting the detachment in Williams’s blank expression as he listened.

  Looking at the list of names, Williams said that Lieutenant Cardona had informed him that two ladies, Daría and Jesusa—already on board—would travel with Mr. Schultz as his wife and daughter.

  “That is correct, sir. They are his wife and daughter,” answered Arnaud emphatically, but realized his error a second later. He understood the sense of Williams’s query when he imagined the scene as sharply as if he were actually seeing the two women climbing on board and embracing their Dutch lovers. His face turned red.

  “Well, more or less,” he stammered, not knowing what else to say.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Captain, I understand; it was just a routine question.”

  The issue of Daría and Jesusa, which he had overlooked, had already placed him in a bad light. And he knew things would get worse. In openly cordial tones, Williams repeated his offer to take him to Mexico together with his family and the rest of the people in Clipperton. Jensen had told him about their hospitality and generosity in spite of conditions. “That kind of conduct deserves a reciprocal gesture,” Williams added.

  “I am deeply grateful, but I have not received orders yet from my superiors to abandon my post.”

  “At this point your superiors are in no condition to issue orders, not even to themselves,” answered Captain Williams with a kind smile. “The federal army is disbanded.”

  Arnaud felt deeply hurt. Realizing it, Williams retreated.

  “It’s just my personal opinion, of course,” he said. “Don’t take offense.”

  Ramón Arnaud took time to answer, to feel the weight that each of his words would have, and finally said, “Having to take care of public order makes things difficult for Colonel Huerta, and the arbitrary invasion by your country makes things difficult for my country. Those are two powerful reasons why I cannot abandon my post.”

  “Everything has changed since you were sent here. Everything. It is not just Mexico’s internal situation, it is, above all, the war.”

  “Are you referring to the war between your country and mine?”

  “No, Captain Arnaud. I am referring to the war that is about to break out between one half of the world and the other half. I suppose that you are aware of this,” answered Williams, while offering him a Havana cigar. “Would you care for one?”

  Ramón felt the rug pulled out from under him. The news had jolted and stunned him like an exploding grenade. It was too much. What war? What world? Why? Which side would Mexico be on? He was dying to know, and his heart began racing like a mad horse. He had to summon all his military pride and all of his willpower in order to lie.

  “Of course, Captain Williams. I am fully aware of the imminence of war. But that does not affect my decision.”

  His own words reverberated in his head: “But that does not affect my decision.” He was closing the last door, he felt. This was suicide, and he was condemning his men, his wife, his children. But he contained himself and did not retract. From the corner of his eye he saw the Cuban cigar Williams was offering him. It was a Flor de Lobeto, fragrant and magnificent. For many months he had not seen one. He would have gladly exchanged his little finger for it. But he lied.

  “A Havana cigar? No thanks, I just had one.”

  “As you wish,” he heard the other man say.

  Time was melting in his head. The minutes stretched with rubbery elasticity, unbearably: “As . . . you . . . wish.” Between one word and the next there was an eternity, and meanwhile, the only possibility of being rescued vanished, escaped like the smoke of the cigar that Williams had just lit.

  Suddenly, time recovered its usual speed. The Mexican captain felt an unexpected tingling in the pit of the stomach, and an irrepressible urge to live made him speak.

  “However, Captain Williams, since this is a question that also affects my men, I would like to ask for some time to consult with them before I give you a definitive answer.”

  “Of course, Captain. Think about it, and consult with them.”

  Williams pulled his watch chain and checked the time.

  “I wish to sail in an hour, if there are no objections,” he said.

  They said their good-byes. On deck Ramón met Jens Jensen, his wife,
Mary, as evanescent as ever, and the rest of the Dutchmen. They embraced and wished one another good luck.

  Once in the rowboat on his way to the dock, Arnaud breathed deeply, relaxed on the seat with a brief smile, and thought: There is an invasion, a civil war, and a world war while I am here, wrapped in my own thoughts, worrying about whether booby eggs are better fried or scrambled.

  It was already 1555. Before 1655 he had to make the most serious decision of his life.

  After landing, he told Cardona: “A world war broke out. Or is about to. Don’t ask me any more. I did not dare ask, I didn’t want to concede to that gringo that I didn’t know. We’ll find out when the Mexican boat gets here.”

  “If we wait that long, we’ll find out who started it and who won, all at the same time.”

  Arnaud and Cardona summoned the rest of their people, and, a few minutes later, Sergeant Irra appeared on the dock holding Gustav Schultz by the arm. Due to the triple dosage of passionflower tea, the poor German fellow struggled, like a sleepwalker or a drunkard, in an iridescent, blurred, elusive world. He sensed vaguely that something ominous was about to happen to him, but he couldn’t figure out what. Even his own anguish dissolved into a nameless feeling. His head was turning around, then it stopped; it rushed forward; it swooped down in a painful and confused trajectory to the depths. His feet tripped forward; he mouthed incoherent words; he was beating Sergeant Irra clumsily.