Laura Restrepo: Isle of Passion

This merely served to free the torrent of Colonel Avalos’s patriotic fervor. His words were gushing out in spurts. Ramón Arnaud could perceive only fragments, unconnected phrases that reached his ears slowly, as if deferred, moments after being uttered.

“There are issues that must take precedence,” the colonel went on irrepressibly. “Now is the time for daring action… think of your country, your homeland… of defending this piece of Mexican soil from the French, who want to take possession… of taking up arms against historical injustice. .. You speak French, and have the right qualifications… of giving up your life if necessary… Mexicans do answer the call to arms. ..”

Arnaud was not concentrating on Avalos’s words. These bastards, he thought. They really want to torture me. But anyway, he held on to his dejected mien and his pleading look, in the faint hope of softening Avalos with his victimized expression. The result was, though, that the persuasive, deliberate voice of the colonel began to ring with impatience, suddenly acquiring a metallic vibration, and, coming down like an ax, it struck this threat:

“If you refuse, the Mexican Army will consider it a second desertion.”

“But, Godfather, if I accept, it will be close to a dishonorable discharge.”

The obvious blackmail had sent a shot of adrenaline through Arnaud’s brain, and, to his own amazement, his voice sounded virile and convincing, giving him strength to continue. “I’m not going to play the fool anymore; this one I am going to fight,” he told himself, and he was already going to let his anger out in a barrage of words when Avalos stopped him cold.

“Easy, young man,” he said. “If you stop taking it the hard way, I’ll tell you what’s good about it.”

And then he began dribbling the encouraging news: that same day he would be promoted to lieutenant, and President Porfirio Díaz in person would name him governor of the island.

“If you want to get married, my dear Ramón, you can go to Clipperton with your wife, and we’ll give you a good furlough to take care of the whole thing. I have met Alicia, and I know she will like that. I will put at your disposal whatever it is you need, so you’ll have everything. What’s more,” added Avalos, “within a week, you and I will depart for Japan on a special mission that has to do with your appointment in Clipperton. I will explain later, very delicate matters of state, you know.”

Clipperton, Japan, lieutenant, governor… Ramón did not quite understand. Then Avalos lunged upon him.

“You’ve got it made, my son. Congratulations,” he heard him say, while getting a big bear hug, with big paws patting him on the back.

That was how Ramón received notice that the following day the president was to send for him and assign him to a delicate mission because he considered him the right man, recognized his merits, pardoned his misdemeanors, and was going to name him governor of Clipperton Island and raise his pay. Arnaud was still stunned by it all. What at first had sounded like a terrible disgrace and a punishment had suddenly turned into that golden and unique opportunity to change the course of his life.

When his appointment with Don Porfirio came to an end, he took his leave with a lot of genuflections, and left the splendidly luxurious billiards room of the Chapultepec Castle, completely sure he was, at last, going to be a happy man.

The blood throbbing in his temples drowned the sound of his own footsteps — too quick to be martial — and he had the sensation that his black shoes, meticulously polished very early that morning, scarcely touched the parquet, an ostentatious display of precious woods. For a moment he feared that the weight of the president’s gaze on his back would make him lose control of his legs, and he anguished over the possibility of tripping and falling, but when at last he went through the door and heard it close behind him, he was finally able to breathe deeply and recover his composure. He looked up at the cherubs painted on the ceiling and felt that the smiles of their little rosy lips were for him.

After leaving the Chapultepec Castle, which was the presidential summer residence, Arnaud started walking aimlessly along the brand-new Paseo de la Reforma in total disbelief of the preceding events, and without seeing anything else but the two new resplendent metal bars on his army jacket that now accredited him as a lieutenant. He kept thinking that none of the pedestrians who crossed his way could help but admire them, and did not even notice that the unforgiving noonday sun was overheating him too much inside his dark woolen dress uniform.

He tried to reconstruct, word by word, his dialog with Porfirio Díaz, and mentally repeated each phrase about ten or twelve times. Though he did not say anything special to him, Arnaud made an effort to remember every word. Nor did the president receive him in his office, as anticipated, but instead, Arnaud was forced to walk around accompanying the president on an inspection tour of the esthetic reconstruction already under way at the castle.

In fact, the president had spoken only about furnishings: “Lovely brass candelabra. I had them brought in from Paris,” or “Notice this Pompadour boudoir. Solid mahogany, feel it,” or “Do you see the tapestry designs depicting the ancient Greek games? Thirty-five hundred pesos,” or “Do you like the billiards room? Queen’s style. The table is a Callender and the curtains are English.” The president’s comments were all of this nature, obsessed as he was with the restoration of his summer residence.

Walking ahead a few blocks, Arnaud remembered also his own answers: confused monosyllables, false exclamations of admiration. He could hear the exact tone of his voice repeating “I find everything just right for my taste, Your Excellency” whenever the president pointed at some object or piece of furniture. “Just right for my taste,” he had said in a forced timbre, and recalling it now made him blush. Did His Excellency care about his taste? Probably his phrase was not even grammatically correct.

The evening before he had been carefully preparing to say different remarks, like, “When I was a child, my father used to tell me about your heroic campaigns,” but when the time came, he had only come up with “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” and, to top it all, in that falsetto voice. He had lost sleep reviewing everything concerning Clipperton, its possibilities as a source for exporting guano, the many judicial facets of the litigation with France, its strategically important location in case of war. He could have gone on for hours discussing these things with Don Porfirio, and would have dazzled him with his factual knowledge, with his enthusiasm for the island, with his firm decision to establish himself there. But Don Porfirio gave him no opportunity to deal with those issues.

The fact was, the sole indication of the importance of his assignment, of the trust bestowed upon him, was the strong farewell pat on his shoulder, and the president’s final words: “Good luck, young man.” He did say that to him, “Good luck.” Surely His Excellency meant good luck in Clipperton, the radiant Arnaud elaborated as he walked aimlessly, as if mesmerized, along the Paseo de la Reforma. Or maybe luck on the trip to Japan, luck in this difficult undertaking, luck in the defense of the national sovereignty. Or maybe not. Perhaps he had only wished him good luck.

But the meaninglessness of their dialogue was not enough to dampen Arnaud’s joy. What he told the president did not matter; what counted was that Don Porfirio had called for him, that gesture was significant, that he had personally received him — him, of all people; him, Ramón Arnaud, in spite of everything. He had not been so brilliant in his interview, he had to admit, but that did not count. After all, Porfirio Díaz had not been so brilliant either, Ramón Arnaud thought, satisfied with himself.