Enchanted Islands (31 page)

When I looked around the room again, Mr. Hradistsky was gone, and I thought no more about him.

Now that the base on Baltra was up and running, I expected Ainslie home soon. The Office of Naval Intelligence was folded into the centralized Office of the Coordinator of Information, but my job changed very little. It appeared, though, that there was more to do on “The Rock.” I received a letter from Ainslie saying that they wanted him to stay and help run it. He even got a promotion to commander. I was green with envy when I read his letter, which was completely devoid of any sympathy for me alone at home and expressed the most generic sentiments of missing me. I crumpled the letter up, then, embarrassed, smoothed it out. I put it with Ainslie's other letters in the desk drawer and stood at the kitchen window, looking out over the tops of buildings at the tiny sliver of the bay that was visible from my apartment. It was my apartment, I thought. Not Ainslie's at all. He'd been there a handful of nights.

Why did I even still live in San Francisco? What was here for me? What was there for me anywhere? I had no roots, no children, no family, and my husband was not really my husband. Thus encloaked in self-pity, I decided to go for a walk.

When I returned the mail had arrived and there was an invitation from Rosalie to dinner that Friday. She already knew I would accept; I would have no other plans. I reflected on how lonely I'd be if I hadn't run into Rosalie. What role chance plays in our lives, I mused. And then I ate a peanut butter sandwich for dinner and read a book until I fell asleep.

At dinner on Friday, Mr. Hradistsky was there, along with four couples. “Sorry,” Rosalie whispered. “Clarence's friend wanted to bring him, and the numbers were off anyway. I put you on my right so you don't have to talk to him all night.”

If he recognized me, he gave no sign, extending his hand for me to shake and telling me to call him Joseph. He was kind enough to pull my chair back for me. “Miss Conway,” he said.

“Mrs. Conway,” Rosalie corrected him.

As it turned out, we had much to talk about, and Rosalie was engaged in conversation to her left, where she was adamantly arguing that the American Jewish Congress's moderate approach would do nothing.

“Rabbi Silver was right,” she said. “Palestine is historically ours. We need to take it back, not wait for some committee to vote about it.” I was surprised that she had such a vehement and informed opinion.

“I want to move to Palestine,” Mr. Hradistsky said. I could see his eyes alight; finally a subject about which he showed passion. “But I'm troubled. What if our utopia is not all we hope it will be?”

“Utopias are better in theory than in practice, I've found,” I said. “But this has been a Zionist dream for so long.”

“I don't like it here,” he said. “I'm sorry.” He took a sip of wine. “I don't mean to insult you. This country took me in, and I am alive and for that I give thanks. But I can't feel at home here, do you understand?”

“I think I do,” I said. I watched him drain his glass. He had surprisingly small, feminine hands. “Well? Will you go, to Palestine? After the war?”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged.

He looked so sad. I wanted to comfort him somehow. So I put my hand on his and gave a small squeeze.

About a month later, I was sitting in a luncheonette waiting for Rosalie. She had maintained her childhood habit of never being anywhere on time. I had only one hour to eat, which she knew. After about fifteen minutes, I ordered a chicken salad sandwich and a cup of coffee. The bread wasn't toasted. I sent it back and at that moment, I saw Mr. Hradistsky sit down at the counter.

I debated whether or not I should get his attention. I knew Rosalie disliked him, but I felt warmly toward him. On the other hand, he was a bit of a wet smack. If I wanted to return to work without having my good humor dashed against the rocks, I would do well to keep my nose in my book. Did I really want to discuss Zionism before one in the afternoon?

I reread the page I'd just finished, and I became aware of a presence next to me.

“Mrs. Conway.”

“Mr. Hradistsky, how nice to see you!” I might have overcompensated, sounding too happy. He was wearing the same tweed suit I'd seen him in the previous times I'd met him, and his glasses were smudged. The milky eye stared at me unfocused.

“I came downtown,” he said. “I have a visa matter to attend to.”

“Oh,” I said. “Won't you join me?” I cursed myself. I'd uttered this statement without thinking. Rosalie was bound to show up soon, and what would she think? And then I thought to myself, Who cares what she thinks?

He considered, sighed, and sat down heavily as though he'd been carrying a bushel of rice up a long hill. “Have you ordered?” he asked. I nodded. He motioned to the waitress. “I will have whatever she is eating.”

“That's a lot of trust,” I said. “I don't keep kosher.”

“Obviously,” he said.

“I mean, I might have ordered pork. Or bacon and cheese on a burger.”

“But you probably did not.”

“I didn't.” I smiled. He did too. His teeth were very straight.

He set his hat down on the empty chair and there was a silence. Had we already run out of things to talk about?

He began to speak about his work, which had to do with the process of how governments can affect and effect the recovery from economic slumps. He spoke to me as to a fellow economist, using terms I didn't understand and referring to philosophies whose authors I was not familiar with. In the middle, our sandwiches arrived. He made no move to eat his. I was hungry, and my lunch hour was escaping, so I added a bit of mustard and took a bite. Undaunted, he continued with bond purchasing, interest rate adjustment, federal reserves…before long I had finished, and he had yet to take a bite. When he finally finished expounding his own theory about how the United States might avoid another depression, he stopped talking and attacked his food. Three bites later and both halves of the sandwich were consumed.

He sucked his teeth and reached for a toothpick from the dispenser. I expected him to start picking right there, at the table, but he shielded his mouth and only spelunked for one particularly offensive particle. “Well?” he asked.

I smiled politely.

“What do you think?”

“About…?” I asked.

“Hradistsky's theory.”

“I don't know enough about economic theory to say anything other than it sounds fully formed.”

“And you?”

“Me?” I checked my watch. I had ten more minutes before I had to leave.

“What is your passion?”

“I—” No one had ever asked me that before. “Well, my husband and I are—”

“Not his passion. Yours.” He leaned forward. The collar on his shirt was threadbare. He had a university appointment, so it must have been neglect and not poverty that made him use his clothing so hard.

“I loved living off the land, the solitary tilling of the garden, making do only with what there was.”

“What else?” he asked.

I saw Rosalie approaching. She was carrying a shopping bag, out of breath and a bit sweaty from hurrying. “Fanny, I'm so sorry, I got—oh, hello, Mr. Hradistsky.”

He stood and picked up his hat. “Hello, Mrs. Fischer. I was just leaving. Mrs. Conway and I ran into each other. Two souls having lonely lunches. I'm sure we'll see each other soon. Goodbye, both of you.”

“If he is not the queerest man I've ever met, I don't know who is.” Rosalie sat down. His question was still resonating within me, even as I agreed with Rosalie that they came no queerer.

“I'm starving,” Rosalie said. “What did you eat?”

“Chicken salad, but Rosie, I have to go.”

“No!” Rosalie protested. “We were to have lunch!”

“I only have an hour,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

Rosalie sighed. “It's my fault. I just lost track of time. Why are mornings so short and afternoons so long?”

I debated informing her that when you work an eight-hour day with an hour for lunch, the mornings and afternoons are of equal length.

Rosalie's spoiledness was still a bone of contention in our relationship, but part of her brattiness was affected. These were the roles we played. She was flighty and irresponsible; I was irascible and serious. She was forever late to everything; I was always five minutes early. But Rosalie was more my sister than my actual siblings, and we don't get to choose our sisters. We can't even let their personality differences annoy us too much—they are a part of us. And so Rosalie's behavior, which I would not have tolerated in anyone else, I simply accepted. I believe she felt the same way. I know that my routines, my inflexibility, my refusal to pay attention to my clothes and hair infuriated her, and yet she accepted this in me. I found this very comforting. There was nothing I could do that would ever make her hate me.

I got up to pay the tab at the cashier. “Here,” Rosalie said, handing me money, “you don't have to pay for Hradistsky. It's my fault you know him. And I stood you up, so take this.”

I ignored her proffered cash and bent to kiss her on the cheek. “We'll meet next week for lunch,” I said.

When I got to the cashier I was informed that Hradistsky had already paid both of our checks.

I was unused to the phone ringing, and it startled me. I was so shocked to hear the voice on the other end of the line that it took me a moment to figure out what Mr. Hradistsky was asking. Would I meet him for coffee?

“Why?” I asked.

“I don't know many people here. I sense that you do not either. We can practice human company together.”

I had to laugh. His request would have been insulting if it weren't so earnest. I was about to decline, but I remembered that he had bought me lunch. I owed him at least a listen. And he was right; I could use the practice with human company. Besides my colleagues, I only ever saw Rosalie. “I have to work,” I said.

“How about on your lunch break, at the same diner?” he pressed.

I could think of no excuse not to meet him. “All right.”

We settled on the following day. I was surprised to find myself trying on various outfits that morning. Usually I threw on any old thing; the Galápagos had done away with whatever vanity I might have possessed. I didn't actually tie my sudden interest in things sartorial to my lunch appointment until I got on the bus and found that my shoes were pinching. And then I scolded myself, promised I would think no more of it, and spent the morning busy with work, pushing out any thoughts of lunch until the hour approached.

First, I want to make it clear that I wasn't looking for anything. I was married, and though my husband was absent, many husbands were, and it didn't give wives leave to go about in search of a replacement. And I didn't want anything. An affair seemed so complicated. Yes, Ainslie did have…assignations, but it was merely physical. I didn't have the same physical needs as he did, and if I felt lonely, it was because of the war. We all felt lonely.

Second, I was not attracted to Hradistsky. He was short, as I've said, and his clothes needed a good wash. His beard was unkempt and old-fashioned. No one wore facial hair anymore. He walked with a bit of a hunch, like life had beaten him down, which it probably had. In comparison to Ainslie…well, there was no comparing them. Apples and oranges. Plantains and guavas. Hradistsky merited no emotion other than pity.

When I arrived at the diner, exactly on time, he was already seated. He stood up when I came over and helped me scoot in my chair.

“Thank you for meeting me,” he said. I opened the menu, though I knew it by heart.

Neither of us spoke. I pretended to read the menu until the waitress came over. I was here often enough that she knew me and nodded in recognition. “What can I get you?”

“I'll have coffee,” I said.

“Not lunch?” Mr. Hradistsky said.

“Oh, are you ready to order?” I asked.

He nodded and showed his palm as if to say, You first.

“The usual?” the waitress asked.

“Tell them to toast the bread.”

“I'll have the same,” he said.

The waitress took our menus. “Be right back with coffee,” she said. “Want some too?”

“I will have tea,” Mr. Hradistsky said. A wave of superiority washed over me.

There was more silence. Finally, I said, “So, Mr. Hradistsky—”

“Joseph,” he said, making the first letter sound like a Y. “Please call me Joseph.”

“All right, Joseph,” I mimicked his pronunciation. “What would you like to talk about?”

“Umm,” he said. “Perhaps you could tell me about what it is like living on a desert island.”

That I was glad to do. Sometimes the Galápagos seemed a dream. I wanted to speak of it, but there was no one to listen.

“Well,” I said, “it's more like a tropical island. Deserted, not quite, and desert, yes, but not like sand. More like thick, tangled bramble.” I spent a few minutes describing the
muyuyo
and palo santo trees and how difficult it was to cut through them. I also described Ainslie's struggles with the machete. “If I ever go back, I will be sure to bring a quality machete, and a whetstone.”

“Will you? Go back?” he asked.

Our beverages arrived.

“I can't imagine so,” I said. “But I would never have imagined we'd go there in the first place, so I wouldn't put any money on my imagination's abilities.”

“You would like to return?”

I thought about it for a minute. It seemed so unlikely, I hadn't even entertained the concept. “Yes and no,” I said. “But isn't that how most things are? How about you? Do you want to go back to Czechoslovakia?”

“Today we are talking about you.”

“You do understand that's not how conversation works?” I said. “Usually humans ask each other questions in turns. It's what separates us from the lower species.”