Laura Restrepo - Isle of Passion

“It’s not because of them. It’s because of the hurricane,” Arnaud corrected, not wanting the hostility toward the newcomers to spread.

“It’s the same,” Daría countered. “Castaways and hurricane, hurricane and castaways. Both came together, and now we go hungry.”

In fact, most of the foodstuffs had been lost. Not everything, though, as Arnaud had feared at the beginning. Many sacks of grain got wet and rotted. Of the garden patch and its fruits and vegetables, there was not even a trace, and the ocean had dragged away many cans of food and other provisions. There was no more milk, no sugar, no flour, and very little coffee. But they still had some dry meat, corn, canned goods, and beans in enough quantities to allow minimal sustenance for the old as well as the new inhabitants for two or three months. On condition, of course, that the distribution be made with Calvinist niggardliness and Franciscan austerity. The situation was one of famine, but not of starvation, except for the dramatic lack of vitamin C. They could get by — Arnaud kept reassuring everyone — until the next visit of El Demócrata or the Corrigan II .

The castaways turned out to be Dutch, even though their ruined schooner — the Nokomis —flew the U.S. flag. Her captain was an old salt named Jens Jensen, with whom Arnaud was able to communicate in English. He found out that Jensen trafficked in diverse farm products and that he was taking his cargo to the other side of the world. The night of the hurricane, the Nokomis was sailing from Costa Rica to San Francisco, and the story of how the crew had survived did not differ much from what Victoriano Alvarez had guessed.

Jensen’s wife was named Mary, like the Virgin, and she walked around, transparent and angelical, on the harsh Clipperton shores, her gaze lost beyond the horizon. The couple had two daughters, Mary, aged six, and Emma, aged four, and in spite of having a pale complexion like their mother’s, they joined the children’s hunt for crabs in the crevices, as well as their other earthly games.

The twelve Dutch folks were peaceful, well-mannered people. In spite of the pitiful physical state in which they arrived in Clipperton, they were grateful for the hospitality and started to work from the beginning at reconstructing the buildings that had not been hopelessly destroyed. They recovered medications and some clothes from their ship, and placed everything at Captain Arnaud’s disposal. They participated as much as they could, and did not ask for more than was given them. They dismantled the wreck of the Nokomis and used her timber in the reconstruction of the isle. Even though they did not intend to annoy people, time passed and they were still there, eating. They ate as little as everybody else, but they ate, and that, for this hungry lot, was the worst thing they could do.

One evening Tirsa Rendón took some food to Secundino Cardona, who, despite some setbacks, was recovering after his miraculous rescue, thanks to his animal strength, Arnaud’s care, and the prayers and sacrifices Tirsa offered to the Saint of Cabora. She helped him sit down against the wall, and gave him a full plate of beans and tortillas.

“You are lucky after all because, since you are wounded, you are the only one who eats a full ration. The rest of us have only one third of this.”

“That makes sense. Otherwise we’ll soon die of starvation.”

“The others don’t think that way. They are saying that the officers and the foreigners have enough food to eat, while the troops don’t.”

“Then tell Ramón to send me the same amount everybody else gets.”

“He already had a fight because of this. He found out that a rumor was going around that you were the pampered favorite. That you weren’t doing anything, while they had to work, and that you ate for three.”

“Sons of bitches.”

“That is exactly what Arnaud called them, he doesn’t mince words anymore. He used to speak with elegance; now he’s as foul-mouthed as a fishwife, cursing and calling anyone who crosses his path a bastard. The others are not much better. You’d have to see how the people have changed. As if the devil had peed on them. Victoriano is the one who protests the most and commands those who are disgruntled. Last night someone busted the padlocked door of the pharmacy, where the food reserves are kept, and stole a few cans of food.”

“What rotten luck. We just had to struggle with the hurricane, and now we have to struggle over food. Who do you think did it?”

“Who knows. Someone left a sign on the wall that says, ‘For the people’s welfare,’ and signed it ‘The Hand That Strangles.’”

“Then we’re in trouble.”

“Yes indeed. At daybreak Arnaud noticed it, and you should have seen him during the closed distribution, his eyes were on fire. He ordered a general inspection and said that anyone who has stored food cans would be whipped raw. He gave the warning that he, personally, with his two God-given hands, was going to squeeze the balls of The Hand That Strangles until the last grain of rice was returned. So the thief better stop stealing and fooling around with signs on the walls.”

“And what about The Hand That Strangles? That’s funny, all right. Did they finally find anything?”

“No, nothing. The women say it’s Victoriano, and others swear that it was the gringo.”

“Schultz?”

“Yes, him.”

“He’s no gringo, he’s German.”

“What is the difference?”

“You don’t know anything about geography.”

“Well, gringo or German, the thing is that he’s a turncoat. When the Indians here opposed Arnaud and the other white men, Schultz took the side of the Indians.”

“What a life! And then an Indian like me takes sides with the white men.”

“Schultz is in cahoots with Victoriano. Arnaud can silence the soldier with a couple of shouts, but nobody can control the German fellow. He says that he’s a civilian and wipes his ass with military discipline. That no one can order him around. That if it were up to him, he would dump those Dutch people into the ocean and make them leave the same way they came.”

“And how come people can now understand what he says?”

“They don’t. Victoriano tells them. Maybe that German is only saying Hail Marys and Victoriano translates him the way he wants to. Who knows.”

The animosity against the Dutch was growing like a red tide. The Clipperton people closed their eyes when they went past the Nokomis , not to see the wreck. They also closed their eyes not to see Captain Jensen’s face whenever they met him. Alicia suspected that the source of the problem was deeper than the scarcity of food, and she talked to Ramón about it.

“There is something else,” she said. “People don’t just hate them, they are scared to death of them.”

The fear was growing at night in what was left of the soldiers’ barracks. A story had circulated that kept men, women, and children awake and terrified. They didn’t know how it got started, but it was repeated in the firm belief that it was true. The story is about a Dutch captain whose ship gets caught in a storm. The crew begins to shout and plead with the captain to look for a safe refuge, but he, in his mad arrogance, refuses, and they all die. For this he is condemned to sail the high seas for all eternity, always trying to weather terrible storms. He is the Flying Dutchman. He feeds himself molten iron and drinks only bile. He can return to land only once every seven years, and wherever he goes, he brings God’s wrath with him and death to all who see his ghostly ship.

The Clipperton men put two and two together and it all fit, increasing their fear. It was the year 1914, and fourteen is a multiple of seven: this was the year of the Dutchman’s return. It was the Nokomis that had brought the hurricane and the hunger: they were God’s punishments. Jens Jensen was indeed the Flying Dutchman, and they were all condemned.