Laura Restrepo - Isle of Passion

“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.”