Laura Restrepo - Isle of Passion

Arnaud knew that one of the reasons he had been assigned to Clipperton was his knowledge of several languages. More than for international litigation — that was the province of diplomats in Europe — he would need them for communicating with the representatives of the guano company and the supervision of their activities in the name of the Mexican government. He greeted Schultz in strained English, taking extreme care in his pronunciation.

Schultz’s loud laughter interrupted him. Then in an incomprehensible pastiche of German, English, Italian, and Spanish, he mentioned something about palm trees and laughed again with great relish. Disconcerted, Ramón grew silent, and Lieutenant Cardona rushed to explain.

“Do not worry, Captain, nobody understands the blond guy — none of the workers, not even his wife. He lives here surrounded by foreigners. His men are all Italians who have not learned Spanish. He has in his head such a jumble of languages that he is the Tower of Babel personified. But he works hard and keeps good company records. At least we can understand his numbers, and that way we find out what is going on. Every time you see him, he tells the story of those palm trees. He brought them himself, it seems, and then planted them over there.” Cardona pointed his index finger at a group of ten or twelve coconut palms, the only trees on the island. Schultz was looking at Cardona and nodding, either in approval of or stunned by what he heard, as if he, too, did not understand anything other people were saying.

The troops finally came up with the flag. Those who had just landed stood in formation next to the soldiers already assembled. One of the new arrivals, no older than fourteen, who had made his living as a mariachi player before signing up, was now the army bugler and made the call to attention.

“Platoon! Fix… bayonets!” ordered Arnaud, trying to instill some life into those present.

With dissonant metallic clatter, the bayonets were attached to the muzzles of their rifles. The flag was hoisted, green, white, and red, with the eagle at its center seemingly pecking at the serpent, all shining brightly in the sun. The adolescent bugle boy played the national anthem with surprising elan. In a timid voice, as if breathed in, the others sang, “Think, O dear homeland, that Heaven has sent you a soldier in every son…”

Arnaud would have liked to feel moved, but only succeeded in feeling worried. Are these the sons of our homeland? he wondered. They look like a sorry lot. He took a good look around him: about thirty half-naked people, a lot of crabs, a depository of bird droppings, and a large rock. That was all.

This is Mexican land, and I am its governor, he thought, with a creeping feeling between ridicule and pride. It’s slim pickings, but still Mexican pickings, as long as I live. Let them send the whole French army if they wish, but nobody will get me out of here. They can torture me, but they will not get me out.

Now he was moved. His eyes welling, he stumbled over the words of a speech appropriate for the occasion, then shouted, “Viva México!” three times. And thus he closed the ceremony of taking territorial possession of Clipperton Island, formerly known as the Isle of Passion. It was over, and after leaving orders for unloading the cargo, Arnaud, together with Cardona, started on a reconnaissance tour. First, they were to take Alicia to her new home, then to inspect the constructions, and, finally, to get together with Schultz at his cabin. He had said good-bye still dwelling on the palm trees story and uttering, from the depths of his throat, the word “drinks” several times.

“He means that he is inviting us for a toast,” explained the lieutenant.

They started walking toward the southwest of the island, where the Arnauds were going to reside. On their way, they passed by the sheds used to store the guano, by the workers’ quarters, and by the soldiers’ barracks. These were flimsy rudimentary structures, barely able to stand and offering scant protection from the elements. All around there were large earthenware jars to collect rainwater, besides garbage, dogs, and a few skinny pigs running after the crabs for a meal.

An air of poverty permeated everything. Alicia was then amazed to see, solitary in the distance, the house that would be her home. It was a wonderful one-story structure in fine varnished pine, with a pitched roof. It faced an open stretch of beach and rested on stilts about five feet above the sands, safe from tides and crabs. There was an ample veranda all around, and, inside, the sunny and airy rooms were interconnected, each with its own access to the veranda. They were all spacious except one, which later became Alicia’s favorite refuge. It was a small study next to the master bedroom, with large stained-glass windows in various colors, all facing the ocean.

It was not precisely a mansion, but in the midst of everything else it seemed like a sample of Oriental splendor. There was nothing in the house that was not functional and in good order, nothing left to improvisation: everything had been made with care, to perfection. It had belonged to the preceding representative of the guano company, an Englishman who returned to Europe when the German Gustav Schultz came to replace him. The former owner, Arthur James Brander, was persnickety and a lover of luxury. He had accepted the position from the other side of the planet on condition that he be allowed to take with him a ready-to-assemble house of the best quality, and that the company would also pay for his Filipino servant’s fare. The man was a devoted servant who allowed his master to win at chess and who, even in Clipperton, served him his tea with just-baked muffins, promptly at five o’clock.

The Englishman had set the house in the only place on the island where the opaque, gray Pacific Ocean became translucent with underwater glimmerings, and where the unhealthy, suffocating smells from the lagoon were blown away by the breeze from the trade winds. An expert carpenter himself, Brander had complemented the basic structure with details of refinement: built-in bookcases and shelves, carved shutters for the windows. For the veranda facing east, he had brought from Nicaragua a hammock where he would lie, a shot of authentic Scotch whiskey in hand, to watch the sunrise. On the other side, on the corridor facing west, he enjoyed another hammock, another Scotch, and sunsets.

Within an hour, boxes and trunks filled with the Arnauds’ paraphernalia invaded the corridors of the Brander house. In the following days Ramón watched, crestfallen, as Alicia toiled with the eagerness of a worker ant and the nimbleness of a squirrel, moving things around and locating them almost anywhere but the places he had so meticulously planned.

She ordered the pots of geraniums to be unloaded where he had thought of constructing a chicken coop; she placed beds and mattresses where he wanted to have the dining room; kept her embroidery and sewing fabrics in the drawers of a desk he had thought his; housed chickens and ducks where he had the toolshed in mind; and stored preserves and marmalades on the shelves he had reserved for medications.

“Please stop for just a minute, honey,” he begged her, “and let’s have some lime blossom tea, which will soothe us while we put some sense into this pandemonium.”

She sat beside him, perspiring, listened to him uneasily, and five minutes later was again on her feet emptying trunks, hanging curtains, planting lettuce. She ordered her Pianola unloaded and placed in one corner, then in another; then she changed her mind and ordered it taken out again.

“You are running around like a chicken without a head, without thinking,” Ramón said to her on the third day of seeing her incessant rushing around, not even allowing time to eat or sleep.