Enchanted Islands (12 page)

The report on the disappearances, I saw, was signed by Allan Hancock, whose name was familiar as an oil baron and amateur scientist. I wasn't aware he was working for the government. Included were a copy of his ship's log, with several photos of the sailors dressed as women and Roman gods to celebrate his first trip across the equator. “The Pollywogs and King Neptune” read the caption.

As for Floreana, the log showed several pictures of the deceased in livelier times (pun intended). I studied the baroness's house for a while. It was a scene from
Mutiny on the Bounty
, palm trees and gracefully draped platform beds and chairs. There was a rug on the ground, and the baroness was smiling, thin-lipped. In other photos, Hancock was holding a large iguana by its tail, and in still another he was laughing with Friedrich while Dore pet her donkey, Fleck.

I am never one to shy away from a challenge, and reading about the Galápagos I was being issued one. “You can't make it here,” the literature said. “You are old and not up to the task.”

“I'll show you,” I said to myself. “I have homesteaded in Nebraska and joined the gold rush in San Francisco. A few brambles on an island don't scare me.” Let it be known that I lived on a long-established farm in Nebraska and was half a century too late for the gold rush. The only panning I did was to search for a decently punctuated sentence among my students' papers. If you're going to have an imaginary debate, however, you might as well embellish the facts.

I will not deny that the idea of spending more time with matinee-idol Conway was a tick in the pro column. Yes, I was north of fifty, and though literature stops recording desire once the decrepitude of thirty sets in, real life does not immediately follow suit. I knew him not at all, but I liked the cut of his jib, as they used to say.

It is also worth remembering that I tend to make decisions impetuously where drastic life changes are concerned. It has always been a feature of my personality. Some would compliment me on my devil-may-care attitude. Others might disparage it as myopia and insanity. They would both, of course, be correct.

He was very, very handsome. After a separation, I was always struck breathless by his beauty as if seeing him for the first time. He was less intimidating sitting down, though the second he saw me, he stood and kissed me on the cheek, which made me blush. Luckily the supper club was dark enough that no one could see.

He pulled out my chair and pushed it in as I got settled. Then he motioned for the waiter. “What'll you have?” he asked.

“Um…” I rarely drank. “What are you having?”

The waiter stood at attention tableside. His white apron brushed the tablecloth.

“Manhattan.” He raised his glass. “I'll take another.”

“I'll have a Tom Collins,” I said.

“So,” Ainslie said, leaning forward. I took the slight tremble in his elbows for nervousness, which calmed me. “I don't know what I should ask you. What's your middle name?”

“I don't think I have one,” I said.

“You don't know?” he said.

I did know, actually, but I didn't want to tell him. It was my Hebrew name, Franya. Yes, my parents named me Frances Franya Frankowski. I shrugged. “You?”

The waiter brought the drinks. I took the smallest of small sips. It was strong. Ainslie drank deeply.

“Ainslie actually
is
my middle name. Elmer is the first. It's also my father's name so I took the middle one.” Then he said something that sounded like “Homely name.”

“I don't think it's that homely,” I said. “I've certainly heard worse names.”

“Family name, I said. But good to know you think it's not too homely.”

I could feel the heat spring to my cheeks. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” I said. “I'm so embarrassed.”

“Don't be. I happen to agree with you, which is why I go by Ainslie.”

“I feel terrible.” How had I made such a tremendous error during the first five minutes of our acquaintance?

“Nonsense. Here, I'll insult your name and we'll be even. Ummm…”

“I'll help. My nickname means…derriere.”

Ainslie laughed. “And in England it means something worse.”

“That's their word for taxes?”

“I don't get it,” he said, leaning forward on his hand.

“ ‘Taxes' is the only word worse than ‘fanny.' ”

He tossed his head back, guffawing.

“I'm going to like you, Fanny,” he said, winking at me.

“I really thought I'd left that name in Duluth.” The alcohol was taking effect and I was enjoying our banter.

“What shall I call you then? How's Franny?”

“I'll ask her.”

He grimaced.

“That's fine. I answer to Franny.”

“So, Franny, tell me about yourself. All I know is that you're from Duluth.” I gave him an abbreviated and cleansed history of my travels, and asked him the same.

“Childhood on horseback in California, enrolled in the navy on my eighteenth birthday. Sent to the Philippines to fight Mohammedans. They always arrange their children's marriages. It seemed to work out all right, so I have good hopes for this one.”

I laughed in nervousness. Ainslie took another sip of his drink so I tilted mine back and let the liquid touch my lips.

“Have you been married before?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Confirmed bachelor.” He used the same words Childress had. “You?”

“Never.”

“Well, then, neither of us will have expectations. I'm afraid I'm probably everything Childress told you. He and I go back to the Great War, when he plucked me out of my unit and drew me to his bosom. Every time I try to get out of the racket, he lures me back in.”

“What's so enticing about this assignment?” I asked. “In fact, what is this assignment?”

“You're part of the draw, naturally,” he flashed his teeth in a grin and signaled to the passing waiter for one more.

“Naturally,” I said. It was kind of him to offer a compliment. He could hardly have been interested in me, eleven years his senior.

“But seriously, they haven't told you what we'd be doing?”

“My clearance hasn't…cleared.”

“My God, the bureaucracy is maddening.” His drink arrived and he plucked the cherry out of it with his fork and ate it. The waiter also set bread and butter on our table. Ainslie first tilted the basket toward me, but I was too nervous to eat. When I shook my head, he took a roll, ripped it in two, and slathered both halves generously with butter. He ate one half, and washed it down with half his drink. His fingers were long, too thick for the rest of his spindliness. “I've been told I have a prodigious appetite.”

“I see,” I said.

Ainslie finished the roll and brushed the crumbs into a neat pile near his plate. The waiter handed us our menus. Ainslie buried his face in his but continued talking to me. Later I would understand this was part of his training, to cover his mouth if talking about sensitive topics. I could still hear him over the din if I leaned in.

“I'll just tell you. It's hardly the stuff of spy thrillers. You know where the Galápagos are, I assume?”

I nodded.

“And you'll have read those
Time
and
Life
articles about the disappearances or murders—whatever you like.”

Again I nodded.

“Did it strike you as odd, so many Germans living on a remote island?”

“It did. But I have known some Germans, and they like to do things in their own manner.”

“True,” Ainslie said. “I'll have the lamb chop.” The waiter had materialized, and I hadn't noticed.

“The sole,” I said.

“Very good, madam.” He took our menus.

“And another round, please,” Ainslie said, though my drink was almost as full as it had been when the waiter first brought it to the table. “We find it very suspicious, and by we I mean naval brass.”

“Aren't they just living out their Swiss Family Robinson fantasies?”

“Maybe,” Ainslie said. He ate another piece of bread. The butter was gone. “But I bet they're up to something. Maybe it's just residual suspicion from the Great War. I always think Krauts are the enemy.”

“What would they be up to?”

“I'm talking with my mouth full on purpose,” Ainslie said. “Don't think I'm rough. I'm a little rough, but mostly trained.” He laughed, then choked a bit, grabbing for his drink and draining it. “Lean in, take my hands so we're sweethearts sharing intimate nothings.” I did so. His hands were cool and smooth and I regretted not manicuring mine better. I have bony hands, and time has not been kind to them. “I'm not sure what the Germans are doing there,” he said. “But someone should find out.”

Our salads arrived, a mountain of green lettuce clinging leaf to leaf. Ainslie ordered a glass of red wine. “Do you want one? I got into the habit in France.”

“Sure,” I said. I liked wine.

“Make it a bottle,” he said to the waiter. “We shouldn't talk about this here. Let's just get to know each other.”

Ainslie told me about his upbringing in California. He was rather wild, rode a horse to school, joined the navy for adventure. What followed was a hilarious account of a stint in the Philippines followed by misadventures with the Rough Riders in Mexico. It was like a Charlie Chaplin movie with sound instead of vision, the verbal equivalent of pratfalls. Ainslie imitated a Mexican convincingly, and told me how he once delivered a baby. Then someone confused him with another Conway and he became a rifle instructor. He had no idea how to teach riflery, and faked his way through the first two months because it was easy duty until the officers found out and threw him in the brig. He was surprised to be sprung less than twelve hours later, by Childress, who had heard about his deception and decided he'd be perfect for intelligence. He worked his way up to lieutenant commander.

Thus he ended up in France. There was a little combat, which he didn't talk about, but mostly his job was to charm villagers, keep his ear to the ground.

“So you speak French?”

“Nah,” he said. “Didn't need it. It made people more relaxed around me, talk more freely with each other.”

“But it was in a language you didn't understand.”

“That would be the essence of military intelligence.” He poured the last of the wine into our glasses. I was a bit tight now. “As it happens, I did manage to pick up one piece that was interesting.”

“What?” I leaned in, interested.

“Can't say,” Ainslie said coyly.

“Come on, tell me!”

“Lips are eternally sealed.” He held them together with his fingers until, infected by my laugh, he began to chuckle too hard. It was so funny. What was, exactly? I'm not sure, but I hadn't laughed so hard in ages. My stomach began to hurt and other people were giving us looks.

“Time to go,” he said. “Let's have a nightcap. My place?”

I was completely enraptured. Ainslie had the uncanny ability to make you feel like you were the only person in the world, and that his attention, which could be bestowed on anyone, had alighted on you because you are so special. And having been invisible for so long, the spotlight was warm and inviting. A small feather tickled my lower stomach. It was something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Ainslie's apartment was not far. It was a small one-bedroom, neat as a pin, nary a personal touch in sight. It might have been a hotel room for all its personalization. He poured us two scotches and we sat on the sofa.

I set my glass on the coffee table. “Why on earth would you want to do this?” I asked, seriously.

“I like the taste,” he said, and took a sip. I tilted my head at him and he smiled. “You're lovely,” he said. He pretended to pinch my cheek.

“I'm old,” I said. “I'm eleven years older than you. And don't you dare say something asinine like ‘old is how you feel.' ”

“I don't even know what that word means,” he said. “See? That's the kind of thing I'd want my wife to say.”

“This is crazy,” I said.

“A lot of what I do is.” He looked into my eyes, actually seeing me. His look was inscrutable. It wasn't desire…what was it? “What's the worst that could happen?”

“We could hate each other and be stranded on a desert island, wallowing in misery for the rest of our lives or killing each other in a murderous rage.”

“That is a bad-case scenario,” he agreed. “I have an idea. Let's go camping this week. I'll get Childress to give you three days. We'll go up to Humboldt, tool around in the mountains. I have a pair of pup tents we can use. Separate tents, of course. If we survive that, we'll know if it'll work.”

There was no reason not to agree.

“I've never been camping,” I admitted, as we were motoring over the Golden Gate Bridge out of the city. It was overcast, and I had my scarf around my ears for warmth. Per Ainslie's instructions I had donned my first trousers, and I had bought walking shoes, which made me feel like I was wearing a pair of ottomans.

“It's not hard,” Ainslie said. “It's just living, only dirtier.”

He turned the radio on and began to sing along to “Paris in the Spring.” He sang horribly, off-key, making up his own lyrics. The wind was loud, so I joined in with my warbly alto and we disharmonically headed north.

On the other side of the bridge the sky cleared, and we wound around Route
1
, getting glimpses of the Pacific as it reached the continent's cliffs. “Not so bad, is it?” Ainslie asked.

“Eh,” I said, pretending to be unimpressed. “At least it's not raining.”

The trip was a success in that I learned that I didn't mind camping, fortunate, since we were effectively about to spend eight years of our lives doing exactly that. Ainslie and I got along splendidly. We made each other laugh.