Isle of Passion (24 page)

“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.

Altagracia Quiroz ran after them. The moment he saw her, Schultz was able to collect all the loose pieces of his delirium. With a violent jolt he broke free from Irra, embraced Altagracia, and even though he could not fully control his numb, sticky tongue, the words he uttered came from deep inside.

“Come with me, Altita.”

“I can’t, Towhead. I wish I could. I came with Mrs. Alicia, and I have to stay with her.”

Recovering, Sergeant Irra again grabbed Schultz and threw him into the rowboat, where two soldiers were waiting to take him to the
Cleveland
.

The boat left. Schultz defied his condition and the rocking of the waves, and managed to stand up.

“I’ll come back for you, Altagracia,” he shouted. “I swear to you. I swear to you I’ll get you out of here and marry you. I swear!”

The ocean was gray, the sky was violet, and the girl remained at the dock, alone. She heard the German’s words, and to bid him farewell she took off the shawl covering her head. Her hair cascaded almost to the ground, sparkling under the afternoon sun, and waved softly in the breeze like a black flag.

In the meantime, Ramón Arnaud ordered the troops to interrupt their tasks and report in formation to the plaza—where their old vegetable garden, now barren, had been—in full uniform, rifles and all. Young Pedro Carvajal made the bugle call, and the men mustered.

“Platoon, charge . . . weapons!” barked Cardona. Arnaud, next to him, just watched.

The ten soldiers who made up the garrison were standing in the inhospitable and harsh wasteland. If a soldier had shoes, he had no shirt; if he had a rifle, he had no sword; if he had a cartridge belt, he had no ammunition. They had only whatever the hurricane had not taken away. Around them in a semicircle, the women stood watching, babes in their arms. They were all battered people in a battered place.

“Present . . . arms!”

They sang the Mexican national anthem and raised the new flag, the one nuns had embroidered. When it was up, Arnaud saw that it was as faded and frayed as the old one. There was no red or green, the white center now extended to the sides. And without the eagle and the serpent, it was nothing but a white sheet in the sun.

Easy come, easy go, Ramón thought, and watched his people. We look like ghosts, and on top of that, we belong to an army which no longer exists. How could he convince them to go on, not to quit? Worse yet, with what arguments could he convince himself? He focused on the tortured nights that he had spent in prison, on his regrets while facing the black walls in Tlatelolco, and as he felt the taste of humiliation in his mouth, he managed to find the arguments he was looking for.

He began his speech hesitantly. About the defeat of their army he didn’t say much, not to demoralize them. And about the world war, he said nothing, not to overwhelm them. He picked up energy getting into his historical account of foreign invasions and the national resistance. His enthusiasm rose together with his voice as he informed them of the events in Veracruz, and he waxed poetic talking about the defense of Clipperton. By the time he began to notice it, everybody was crying with heroic fervor.

“In honor of those who fell in the struggle against the American invaders,” he announced at the peak of his harangue, “we are going to give them the twenty-one-gun salute President Wilson wanted. But this time, damn it, we’ll be saluting our own flag. The Mexican flag!”

Cardona approached him and murmured in his ear.

“Twenty-one volleys is too much, my friend. We’ll have no powder left.”

“Well, ten then.”

“Five?”

“There will be only five blasts,” shouted Arnaud. “But with ball, so they reach Washington!”

“And even Paris!” broke in Cardona, who was not forgetting their quarrel with the French.

More or less in unison, the ten rifles fired five times. The thunder of fifty shots was heard, and the smoke from the blasts darkened the sky. Their nostrils felt the burning and their eyes smarted, partly because of the powder and partly because of emotion. All, even the women and children, ended up crying.

They are already mine, Ramón thought. He explained the possibilities and the difficulties of trying to survive on the island, the military and political significance of staying, the personal advantages of leaving, and he informed them of the offer by the captain of the
Cleveland
to take them back to Acapulco, together with their families.

“Whoever wishes to leave has my permission to do so,” he added last. “In these confusing circumstances, I cannot decide your fate by asking you to stay.”

He gave them some time to think about it and discuss it with their women. They dispersed. Each one joined his own family. Once in a while, someone would go from one group to another. Whispers, laughter, crying, and arguments followed. Some returned to the plaza before the call. When they were in formation, Arnaud called the roll one by one, for each man to report his decision.