Enchanted Islands - Couverture souple

Chapter One

You’re not allowed to read this—I’m not even really allowed to write it. But now that Ainslie is gone and I will surely follow before too long, I don’t see that much is the harm. I suppose the government will censor what it will.

A curious effect of childlessness is that your story disappears with you. Of course, everyone’s does eventually, but the suddenness with which my history will be extinguished causes me much consternation. I am of the generation who came of age in the new century, though my formative years were spent in the last—I am therefore pulled between the past and the present.

That my life will be of interest to readers I dare not assume. But it is an unusual one, and for that reason alone record should be made of it.

*

It is the usual manner with these memoirs to begin at the beginning and head toward the end, so I will start with my name: Frances Conway. It was not always thus. Still, this is the name you will read on the placard that is outside my room. I was born on August 3, 1882. I will save you the math—I am eighty-two. It is only thanks to Rosalie’s largesse that I can spend my last years in relative comfort in a private “retirement home” rather than one of those paupers’ adult day cares.

At mealtimes I am supposed to go to the dining hall where the Mexican nurses serve food that is inoffensive to any palate, which is to say, offensive to all. They are surprised that I speak Spanish. I am in complete possession of my faculties, as much as I ever was. It is merely the corporeal situation that is in disrepair—my hands twisted like muyuyo branches and my back as bent as a burro’s. I have to wait for someone to push me in my wheelchair if I want to go anywhere, and that stands in contrast to my days in the Galápagos when it was nothing to walk three or four hours for a chat or to get the mail.

Rosalie is already waiting for me at our table, her walker at attention like an obedient dog beside her. She has started on her soup, and I can hear the slurping from here, an annoying habit she picked up after getting dentures. She waits for me to get situated, but I can tell she has something to say. Her head is cocked toward me, her eyes unnaturally bright.

Lourdes puts an identical plate of soup in front of me, but then, seeing the glare I give her, takes it away.

“Sleep all right?” Rosalie asks.

“Fine,” I say. “You?”

“Listen, Fanny, you’ll never guess, but there’s a ceremony for me!”

“What kind?”

Lourdes returns with a plate of what must be food, though its origins are mysterious. Chicken? Potatoes? I pick up my fork and poke at it.

“I’m to be honored.” Rosalie has a bit of soup on her chin. I motion to her to wipe it and she does so, without breaking her story. “Hadassah of Northern California. They want to celebrate my war work.”

“War work?” I ask. I never knew that Rosalie ever worked, especially not for the war.

“It’s the twentieth anniversary of the end of the war. Can you believe it? Twenty years already.”

“What are they honoring you for?” I ask.

“Fanny, pay attention!” Rosalie drops her soup spoon into the bowl. It clatters, causing those with the mobility to swivel their heads in our direction. “Do we need to get you an ear trumpet?”

I frown at her. “But I don’t understand what you did in the war that deserves honoring.”

“You were there,” she says. “You were there at all those fund-raising parties for Israel. Do you think that state just appeared out of thin air?”

I put down my fork. I’m not going to eat this mush. “Throwing parties is war work?” I see Gloria making her hobbling way toward ourtable. “Incoming!” I whisper.

“Who?” Rosalie leans toward me. Her vision is not the greatest.

“Gloria.”

“Oh Christ.” Rosalie sighs. “We’re waiting for Jemmie, tell her.”

“You tell her,” I whisper back.

“Huh?” Rosalie says I need an ear trumpet, but it’s her hearing that gets worse at convenient times.

“Gloria,” I say, “so nice to see you. Sorry you can’t join us. We’re supposed to have a meeting with Jemmie.”

I feel a bit bad for Gloria as her face falls in disappointment. But I can’t sit through another meal with her dribbling food into her lap and hearing about her successful grandchildren who are always planning to see her but then never quite make it. Here in the retirement home we are nearly all women. The few men in residence are even more decrepit than we old hens. They are cocks of the walk. The younger women mill about, fawning over these toothless skeletons as though they were meat worth catching.

“A meeting for what?” Gloria is from New York, and sounds like she’s a carnival barker.

Rosalie has turned back to her soup, leaving me to deal with the consequences.

“For the . . .” I rack my brain. “Rosalie, what’s the name of it again? My memory fails me.”

Rosalie says, “Huh?,” but I know she hears me.

“The name of the committee. The official name. You know, of the committee we’re meeting about.”

“Oh, the CFC. The Condolence Flower Committee.” Rosalie has always been good with a quick lie.

Gloria has already begun to turn away, a process not unlike that of a giant tortoise, as she says, “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” No one wants to be on any committee that has the word condolence in it. Not in Chelonia Manor.

We call it that because the first day, after witnessing the interminable shuffle to get to the dining hall, I said, “It’s a chelonian stampede.”“What’s that?” Rosalie asked.

“Chelonian. Turtles.”

Rosalie thought this was hysterical, and from then on we lived at Chelonia Manor.

When Gloria’s finally out of earshot, Rosalie giggles.

I shush her. “What if she hears? Now we have to form a Condolence Bouquet Committee.”

“Flower,” Rosalie says. “No we don’t. She’ll forget. Can you please pass the bread?”

Rosalie has become quite plump since we moved in here. I, on theother hand, am my usual skin and bones and tendons. The last time I saw Rosalie heavy was when we were children. Since then, she’s always been vain about her appearance.

I take a piece of bread for myself. It’s a generic white biscuit, but I’ll put some butter on it. Unsalted butter, of course.

“Ay, Señora Conway, pero, no come nada!” Lourdes says to me in mockc oncern. I tell her my plate is still full because the food is tasteless, artificial, though it pains me after those years of near starvation to waste even a morsel. She tells me in a stage whisper that they have beans and rice in the kitchen for the empleados. She brings me a plate. It is not inthe style of Ecuadorian food, but at least it was growing recently, and it is nice and salty.

“No se lo diga a nadie,” Lourdes warns. Really, who cares if someone myage eats salt or doesn’t?

Rosalie and I have lived at the Chelonia in Los Gatos, California, near San Francisco, for two years. We both survived our husbands, though mine was more than a decade younger than I. When Rosalie fell and broke her hip, her son insisted she move in here. So I did too.

It is one of nature’s great injustices that once you have carried out your purpose on earth you are not worth feeding anymore. We saw this daily in the Galápagos, where animals gave their elderly parents no more thought than the bones of the animal they’d just licked clean.

I don’t want to let Rosalie’s announcement go. “I didn’t see you do anything during the war that you weren’t already doing before the war or that you didn’t continue to do after the war.”

“Then you weren’t paying attention. Clarence and I brought over several refugees from Europe. And I knitted. I was constantly knitting.”

I have no memory of Rosalie knitting. I do have a memory of helping her and the maid put up bunting for VE Day, which apparently is twenty years ago next month.

A belch of jealousy burbles up inside me. Rosalie is to be honored. It was always thus, that Rosalie was in the spotlight while I sat in the wings, but this in particular galls me. I am the one who truly served my country during the war. I am the one who stayed in a marriage for the sake of my country, who came close to losing my life for it. And I can tell no one.

“Congratulations,” I say. “Is it a party?” I suspect that Rosalie hears the green-eyed monster in my voice, but she has seventy-five years ofpractice ignoring my uncharitable sentiments.

“A ceremony at the synagogue. They’re sending a car for me. I hope it’s a limousine. I’d love to see these old biddies’ faces when I drive off in a limousine.” Actually, I’d like to see that too. I had no idea that a nursing home would have more cliques than a middle school. “Of course you’ll come, Fanny. I’ll insist. They wanted me to give a speech, but I told them I couldn’t possibly. They nearly insisted until I explained I can’t stand for long because of my hip.”

“You’re not that hip,” I say, and Rosalie, quick as ever, laughs at the joke.

*

Once a month, Rosalie’s Dan comes to see us. We have lunch in a diner and then he takes us to visit Ainslie’s and Clarence’s graves. I would prefer to go to Muir Woods or the ocean. But I don’t know how to tell him and Rosalie this. Nor do I imagine I could do anything at Muir Woods other than sit in the car enjoying the parking lot.

Dan always has flowers for both of us and kisses my cheeks when he comes in my room.

“How are you, Fanny?” he asks. He has Rosalie’s charm, her lively eyes. I think Dan has gotten even bigger since I last saw him. His stomach hangs below his belt, billowing out as if he’s stuffed a pillow in there. When he walks it jiggles to his mid-thighs.

Without asking, he stands behind me and wheels me out of the room. I don’t like being moved without my permission. Being confined to a wheelchair should not turn you into a child. But the wheelchair’s resemblance to a stroller is undeniable. Oh the infantilization of old age!

When we get outside, Rosalie is already situated in the front seat,which I suppose is her right, as it’s her son who is taking us out, but it would be nice if occasionally she would relinquish it to me.

It is a process, always, to get me in a vehicle. I must stand on my own weight, then launch into the seat, hoping I’ve judged the proper trajectory. Dan’s low car does not help the situation. It’s bright red, hard to miss. It is new since his divorce.

The radio blares when he turns the key—rock’n’ roll. I got used to silence on the islands, and that’s what I like now, the sound of living things going about their living. But it’s his car and he finally turns down the volume, telling us the latest about his children, who seem to be spending more time outside school than in.

Dan drops us both off at the entrance to the diner. He parks the car and then comes to wheel me inside. Rosalie performs what she calls her “soft shoe,” the shuffle-step-step that is her gait. We make our way like a misfit parade to a table. I’d like to sit in a booth, but the logistics seem insurmountable.

I order the saltiest thing I can think of, lox, or as they call it here, smoked salmon, and Rosalie orders tongue, which I think tastes like shoe leather. Dan gets a corned beef sandwich. Rosalie has passed on her messy eating habits: While Dan’s still chewing he takes a bite of pickle. I watch the juice run down the corner of his mouth like water from a hole in a cliff face. He says nothing while he eats, makes no attempt at conversation the way he did in the car. I take a couple of bites of my fish,but his eating has put me off mine.

When he is done, he hits his chest twice with his fist as if to knock the food farther into his stomach or dislodge a gas bubble. Then he crumples his napkin and throws it on his plate amid the bits of crust and beef. It still seems a shame to waste food, even though I know we live in a time and place of plenty.

Rosalie, too, has turned quiet, like she always does when we take this trip, like she does when she’s dreading something. I, on the other hand, am happy. Happy to be out of the Chelonia, happy to eat sodium, happy to visit Ainslie.

We visit Clarence’s grave first. I stay in the car, and Dan helps Rosalie to the gravesite. I watch as they pick up rocks and place them on the tombstone, bow their heads for a prayer. The sun has gone behind a cloud and the wind is picking up the leaves.

Dan comes back to the car, giving Rosalie her space. When he gets in, the car bounces. “Cold out there,” he says, blowing on his hands. “Listen, Fanny, I have something serious to discuss with you.”

I straighten up. He attempts to turn so he can see me, but there’s not much room between his belly and the steering wheel.

“It’s about, well, it’s about what no one wants to discuss, mortality.”

“I’d rather discuss it than experience it,” I say. He laughs. Though he said he is cold, he is sweating profusely, round dark circles appearing on his short-sleeved shirt under his arms.

“It’s about the burial plot.”

“Oh,” I say. I’m caught up short.

“You’ll have to choose,” he says. “Ainslie’s not in the Jewish section, so if you want to be buried Jewish—”

“I bought the plot next to him,” I say. “It’s there in the papers.”

“I know,” Dan says. “I just thought you might want to think about it. It bothers Mom, thinking of you with the Gentiles.”

“So now I have to worry about your mother’s eternal rest?”

Dan holds his hands up in a gesture of retreat. “It’s your choice. I’m just giving you the options. You can think about it.”

I look down. There’s an age spot on my thumb. How long has it been there?

*

Dan wheels me to Ainslie’s grave. He stands a discreet distance away so I can converse with Ainslie’s headstone. Of course, I don’t believe I need to be here to speak to him, and I suspect that I’m just talking to myself anyway, but I do feel closer to him here, where there are few buildings. It’s like we’re back on the islands.

I tell Ainslie what Dan said about the religious burial. I tell him I wish he were here to ask his opinion. Then I smile because I know that I would never have to ask. He would give it, asked or not.

I look around at the willow trees, the combed grass. I am always grateful to be out of doors, but today something makes me feel lonely, like the only blade of grass in a clover field. I refuse to feel pity for myself, and I try to straighten up in my chair the best I can with this humped back.

Then I tell Ainslie that Rosalie is being honored for her war work. I tell him how unfair it is that our story goes untold while hers gets inflated. Ainslie tells me in my head (not really, I’m not that divorced from reality) that the negativity I feel is jealousy, and that I need to get over it. It was part of the deal, this secrecy. Still, I wish he were here to commiserate. He was always so good at validating whatever emotion I needed corroborated. And then there is nothing more to tell him unless I start to relate the gossip from the Chelonia, which bores even me. I tell him I love him and I’ll be with him eventually, though I don’t really believe there is any kind of afterlife. I wave at Dan, and he comes over.

“All set?”

I nod. He bends down, not without difficulty, picks up a rock, and puts it on Ainslie’s tombstone. In contrast to the Jewish section, it is the only rock sitting atop all the marble, though there are plenty of wilted flowers. The rock looks a little like a tortoise, swaybacked.

“Want a rock?” he asks.

“I’ll share yours,” I say.

He stands up and turns to me. “Ainslie would have lo...

“Enchanted Islands is a many faceted jewel. It’s a spy thriller, a survivalist memoir, and a portrait of a marriage. . . . Fabulous.... Will carry you away.” —Chicago Tribune
 
“An endearing chronicle of female friendship.” —The New York Times Book Review, Editor’s Choice
 
“A vivid picture of a woman surviving in a place where friends and enemies alike can both enthrall and harm. The result is beautiful, terrifying, and haunting, a deeply moving lovechild between Elena Ferrante and John Le Carré.” —Chicago Review of Books
 
“Steeped in the wondrous history of the Galápagos and bursting with the magic of pure invention. An elegant stylist and a masterful chronicler of the most hidden and luminous corners of the human experience, Amend is a spectacular talent.” —Laura van den Berg, author of Find Me

“A fascinating rumination on identity, friendship and love . . . [Amend] vividly evokes Duluth’s bleakness, Chicago’s sparkling bustle, rural Nebraska’s quietude and San Francisco’s sophistication. Most enticing of all is the otherworldliness of the Galápagos.” —San Francisco Chronicle
 
“Dazzling.” —Travel + Leisure
 
“Amend’s novel manages to encompass a woman’s life, the story of a marriage, a tense standoff between Allied and Axis operatives, and a sensitive examination of women’s friendship.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune
 
“Allison Amend is a wonderful writer—generous and psychologically astute—and Enchanted Islands is both a sweeping epic and a moving exploration of the intricacies of friendship. This is a beautiful novel that will stay with me for a long time.” —Molly Antopol, author of The UnAmericans
 
“Absorbing. . . . Amend’s spirited rendition of [Frances Conway’s] life reads less like a memoir and more like Jane Austen. It has acute interpersonal observations and subjective flights of fancy.” —BookPage
 
“In Enchanted Islands, Allison Amend distills the entire life of Frances Conway—one of, if not the, most fully realized characters I’ve encountered in the last decade—into a captivating narrative. . . . Brilliant.” —Jill Alexander Essbaum, New York Times bestselling author of Hausfrau
 
“Mesmerizing and captivating. . . . The kind of book that will make you want to renew your passport” —Bustle
 
“Secrets, lies, and spies on a faraway island. . . . Appealing characters and vivid local color make for an entertaining read.” —Kirkus Reviews
 
“In this shrewdly textured yet directly told tale of an unorthodox life, Amend fills Franny’s worlds of poverty, intrigue, and indignant old age with rewarding vibrancy and touching vulnerability.” —Booklist
“A taut, powerful tale of human relationships and the sacrifices people make to maintain their balance.” —Publishers Weekly
 
“In this compulsively readable novel, exotic locales and international espionage bend before the greatest intrigue of all: the life of a captivating mind. . . . Enchanted Islands is as moving as it is impossible to put down.” —Matthew Thomas, New York Times-bestselling author of We Are Not Ourselves