On the other side of the island, Gustav Schultz and Altagracia had not seen the ship approach and were totally unaware of the situation. Everything remained the same, immutable, inside the hermetic bubble where they had taken refuge. Even in his madness, Schultz had the lucidity to understand that the sweet, homely girl was enough of a pretext for him to come to terms with reason and to anchor himself in reality. Thanks to her he did not feel alone for the first time in his life.
That day his warm bath had taken two hours, and according to the ritual they had established, it concluded with the act of love.
Schultz had Altagracia lying by his side, her head on his shoulder. He found serenity in the shade of her extraordinary hair.
“I am going to count every hair on your head, one by one,” he would say, “and every day I am going to count them again, to make sure there is none missing.”
His heart was at peace, his body relaxed, and the fresh sweep of the trade winds carried away all his past anguish.
“The madman has raped the child!”
The wild shouts of the sergeant broke into a thousand pieces the gentle calmness. Before Schultz could get up, Irra and three other men lunged at him and beat him with their bare fists and whatever else they found handy.
“Dirty gringo, get your hands off that girl!” they shouted.
Altagracia got scared like a little animal and ran into the cabin. Through the cracks in the wall she saw how they tied his hands and took him away, shoving and pulling him by his chain.
She overcame her fear and ran after them.
“Where are you taking him?”
“A ship came for him. Today he goes to hell, the madman.”
“Don’t take him that way, Irra,” she pleaded, “at least let him put some clothes on. Don’t you have some respect for a human being?”
“He’s more beastly than the beasts.”
“You are the wild beasts,” she murmured, and while the soldiers struggled at dragging him, she managed to get him into a pair of pants and a shirt.
Schultz roared with a pained blind fury. Everyone could hear his screams, which echoed through the cliffs, but only Altagracia was able to hear a soft, dry cracking sound that escaped from his breast like a sigh.
“They are breaking your soul, Towhead,” she said.
On the other side of the island, Ramón Arnaud had met his wife. She was not crying anymore. Broom in hand, she was sweeping the ramshackle porch at home.
“Why are you sweeping?” he asked her.
“Because I already know what your decision will be. And if we are going to continue living here, it might as well be clean.”
“Come, I want you to understand something.”
They sat on the floor of the eastern terrace where sometime in the past there had been a hammock for watching the sun come up.
“Alicia, do you remember that I told you once I was doing nothing because I felt it was not my war? Well, now I feel this really is my war. I still don’t know whether we should leave or stay; the only thing I know is that I have to fight this war.”
At the dock Arnaud met Cardona, who was hobbling past the piles of wooden boxes, recording everything in a notebook.
“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.