Stranded in Paradise Page 5

  Chapter IV

  Tuesday, April 21.

  The next morning, Migdalia and Wieck are washing themselves with towels in the cool freshwater stream flowing through the woods behind the barn. Out of respect, neither faces each other although both are naked. From a distance, the scene seems surreal, almost fairy tale-ish, like Ruben’s painting “The Fall of Man” come to life. Migdalia gazes intermittently at her captain. The words she wants to say are at the tip of her tongue, yet she’s finding it hard to form them in such a way as to not upset him. Finally, she decides the direct approach is the best solution.

  “They’re talking about you?”

  “Who?” Wieck asks. “The others?”

  “Si. They say you make secret deal with the old man; that you will leave us behind and take off somewhere.”

  “I see. Do you believe that?”

  “I don’t think a good captain will leave his crew.”

  “I'm not a captain anymore.”

  “¿Como?”

  “At least not out here where it really doesn't matter.”

  She ogles him intently. The lines on his furrowed brow appear deeper as if his thoughts are now marking his countenance.

  “You're different this morning,” she notices.

  “I didn't plan on losing my ship this week.”

  “My father lost his boat once,” Migdalia explains. “He went sailing with some friends in Miami and got hijacked.”

  “Happens a lot these days. Did he survive?”

  “Yeah, but not without a fight. He got a nasty scar across his left eye.”

  “Who's your father?”

  “You don't know him. His name is Oscar Mateo.”

  Captain Wieck, recently crossing tracks with a similarly described gentleman, suddenly takes an interest in the young woman’s story. “Oscar? Is he tall and thin?”

  “Why do you ask? I don't want to talk about him.”

  “Does he speak with a heavy voice?”

  She snatches her clothes off a rock, quickly wrap them around her still glistening body, and leaps up. “I don’t want to talk about my father!” She spits on the ground. “To me, he’s dead!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She turns and runs back towards the barn. Wieck hangs his head.

  Over in the compound, Grace is feeding the livestock from a grain bag. Dr. Scott, still limping, approaches carefully.

  “Look at this,” he instructs her.

  Escorting her to a garbage can near the hut, he removes the old lid, reaches inside, brings out two spoons and two bowls from last night’s dinner, and shows it to her. They have the black X’s scribbled under them.

  “They threw out our dishes?” Grace asks.

  “Uh, huh. Just ours.”

  “Why?”

  “It's obvious to me: we're in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Dr. Scott puts the dishes and cutlery back in the can. They walk away from the area.

  “I don't want to stay where I'm not wanted,” Scott surmises. “Let's leave now.”

  “Let’s not be so hasty. Maybe we got it all wrong. Still, where would we go?”

  “Doesn't matter. Anywhere but here.”

  Rochelle is searching the cupboards and boxes in the barn. Keith is standing by her side with his arms folded. He knows his cousin well. Her curiosity is like an unstoppable freight train once it’s on the tracks, and to stand in her way is both dangerous and futile.

  “What are you looking for?” he asks.

  “A map of this island. Since we can't stay here anymore, we may as well have a map.”

  A book sitting on a corner shelf grabs his eye; immediately, he goes over, picks it up and quickly thumbs through it.

  “Look!” he announces, displaying the book.

  Rochelle stops rifling through the contents of a burlap sack and sidles over to the newly found book in her cousin’s hand. Leafing through it, they see black and white pictures of men and women in leather bondage and various sexual positions of a Kama Sutra nature.

  “S & M,” Rochelle explicates from the artwork.

  “You think those two old codgers are into this?”

  “I wouldn't doubt it.”

  Keith lays the tome aside, finds another book and flips a few pages.

  “What's that?” Rochelle asks. “Another bestseller by the Marquis de Sade?”

  “Looks like some sort of Japanese martial arts and killing techniques book. Wow! Look at some of these moves!”

  He tries out a few but it only makes him look silly.

  “You're supposed to be helping me find a map,” Rochelle protests.

  “What d'ya think I'm doing?”

  In a clearing in the woods not far from the cottage, Silverleaf is plucking leaves off a bay laurel tree and stuffing them in his pocket. At times, he’d pause to smell a few bracts. Taking deep breaths, he fills his lungs with their exotic aroma. Nearby, a small freshwater stream trickles casually, purposefully, as if being directed by the lissome hands of an invisible nymph. Eva approaches carrying a shiny metal container with a lid.

  “Gut morgen [Good morning],” she greets him approaching.

  “Morning.”

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “I just went for a stroll.”

  She places the container in the cool stream.

  “You should be careful where you walk,” she warns. “It's dangerous out here.”

  “Why? I don’t see anything that can harm me.”

  “That's not what I mean.”

  Puzzled, Silverleaf studies her curiously for a moment.

  “I was picking leaves off this bay tree,” he reveals.

  “What for?”

  He hands her a few pieces of his dark green harvest.

  “You make tea from it,” he suggests. “Very good for the nervous system. Good for fever, too. You can also use it to add flavor to soups and stews.”

  She sniffs them. “Umm. Very…aromatisch.”

  Silverleaf nods then looks at her container. “What's in the canister?”

  “Eh?”

  He points to it cooling in the stream. “That thing there.”

  “Oh. Ziegemilch. Goat milk. Preserving it to make cheese later. It's a bother since I don't have an icebox.”

  “Very clever. You've adapted well to your surroundings.”

  “When I was a little girl along the Rhine my family went, uh, how do you say, Zelten?”

  “Zelten?”

  Eva snaps her fingers a few times trying to find the English translation.

  “Camping!” she remembers. “Ah, those were glorious times with my sisters. I treasured so much of it as I did take numerous photographs.”

  Silverleaf, feeling a little warm, rolls up his sleeve.

  “Isn’t it hot this morning?” he asks. “I think I might drink some of that stream water to cool down.”

  Eva recoils when she sees dark blue numbers branded into Silverleaf's inner arm.

  “What's the matter?” he quizzes her.

  He realizes what she's staring at.

  “Oh,” he continues, “this. I got it in a labor camp in Poland, Auschwitz-Monowitz, when I was a young man. Oy, those were terrible times. I worked in a factory making rubber. The smell alone could kill you! I was one of the lucky ones who made it out of alive because I was fast and ran like Jesse Owens. A few of us escaped, but the others were shot. Does it bother you?”

  Eva’s countenance abruptly changes from optimism to insecurity. “Nein, nein. I must go.”

  She begins striding off.

  “Wait, Clara. Why are you going so quickly?”

  “I have to go.”

  “Don’t be so hasty. Let's go back to the hut.”

  Eva stops and faces him. “Nein, you mustn't!”

  “Why not? What's wrong?”

  She trudges over to him.

  “You should leave here now,” she insists.

  “Tell me what's wrong, Clara.�
��

  “Listen, I could tell you things that would make your skin crawl, but now is not the time. For your sake, just do as I say.”

  “I see. Well, I'm not running off like some hyaena till you explain yourself.”

  Eva turns and storms off in a huff, abandoning the milk canister in the cold stream.

  “Er ist halt ein Dummkopf! [He's a fool, and that's that!],” she mumbles to herself as Silverleaf gazes in amazement. “Er wird sich umgucken! Ja! [He'll get a shock!] Er sind wohl nicht ganz bei Trost! [He must be out of his mind!] Ja! Je oller je doller! [There's no fool like an old fool!]

  Migdalia, stick in hand, is sitting on the bank of the blue lake dangling her feet in the water. Birds endemic to the island, such as white-breasted thrashers and miniature orangequits, occupy their own individual trees scattered around the serene Caribbean pond, whistling their songs as if auditioning for an avian musical. Although the water is chilly, the young housekeeper doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she’s so lost in thought she hardly notices Wieck approaching.

  “Migdalia,” he calls out.

  “Oh!” she jumps, startled.

  “Can we talk?”

  She angrily points the stick at him. “No. Stay away.”

  “Don’t be so mean, child.”

  “I’m not your child, and I don’t want to talk to you!”

  “Why? What did I do?”

  “Just leave me alone.”

  “Why are you acting so strange? I don’t plan to abandon anyone here on this island, if that’s what you’re so upset about.”

  Migdalia takes a deep breath. “My father traffics illegal arms and contraband from Cuba to Miami,” she admits.

  “You don’t have to talk about it.”

  “I don’t mind,” she avows, “ta bien. One day, I came home early from la escuela. I'd lost my keys, so I went around the back. We had una casa poquito with high, um, how do you say, la caña de indias…rattan fences? You couldn’t see in. There was a man tied to a chair in the yard. My father was slapping him around. His buddies, Juan and Fernando, were standing by. Then, my father pulled out a gun and shot the man in the face. They saw me and I ran. I was so scared. I hid for days at my friend's place. You know Rosalinda? She's a housekeeper on your ship. I put her uniform on, got right on board and started working there. I’m sorry about that, but I plan to disappear where no one can find me.”

  “Why would your own father hurt you? It doesn't make sense.”

  “Living in Miami has made him crazy. He’s loco.”

  “Who are you, really?”

  “I was my father's book keeper.”

  “But why go through all the trouble of storming my ship over one person?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I met your father. He led the invasion on the QVII.”

  “What? He was there? Then,” she realizes, “¿mi papa es morte?”

  “You don't have to worry about him anymore.”

  “Oh, now I feel so bad! It's my fault that so many people died. I was down in the lower decks hiding from the storm like a coward.”

  “Don't take it so hard. There's no guilt in wanting to survive.”

  “That doesn't make me feel better. Everybody is stranded here because of me.”

  “It's okay, Migdalia.”

  “You know who the man was that my father killed? That was one of the biggest bolita operators in Miami. My father's into everything.”

  “What’s bolita?”

  “It’s a lottery they play on the street. They use little bolas blancas, um, white balls with numbers on them.”

  “I see. Is it legal?”

  “No, but a lot of corrupt politicians get rich from it. You know Mayor Robert High? He’s been trying to get rid of it but the gangs attack his assistants all the time.”

  “They’re trying to weaken him, make him give up.”

  “They’re powerful now.”

  “I know. Even I was fooled by my new navigator. I should’ve guessed.”

  “They won’t stop. They’ll even come looking for me because I know too much about their business.”

  “Not out here. Consider yourself lucky.”

  Migdalia groans. “You don't know these people.”

  Over on the western shore, Grace and Dr. Scott are strolling through their old campsite. They notice that the debris left behind, fish bones, papaya shells and other items, has attracted all kinds of snakes – pygmy boas, brown racers, and thread snakes.

  “I thought all those bones were buried,” Grace declares.

  “I thought it was, too,” Dr. Scott believes. “Somehow, we must have gotten our signals mixed up.”

  “Have you ever seen so many snakes in one place in your life?”

  “Sure. The Crandon Park Zoo in Key Biscayne.”

  He suddenly hears a whirring sound in the distance.

  “Do you hear that?” he asks Grace. “Sounds like a plane.”

  Looking upward, they see a small biplane thousands of feet in the air. Running to the beach, they wave their hands frantically as the plane approaches.

  “Hey!” Grace yells. “Down here!”

  “Hello up there!!!” Dr. Scott shouts. “Can you see us? Hey!”

  The plane, not changing its course, flies directly overhead and disappears in the darkening clouds.

  Grace and Dr. Scott stop shouting and waving.

  “They can't hear us,” Grace moans.

  “At least now we know they're out there looking for us.”

  “I can’t tell who it was.”

  “Who'd come all this way for nothing?”

  “Could be the Coast Guard Capt. Wieck spoke about.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Maybe we should start a fire,” Grace suggests. “A nice big one to grab their attention.”

  “Good idea.”

  “We'd better go collect firewood before it starts raining.”

  They walk towards the woods, examine a handful of fallen trees and logs, and begin gathering sticks.

  “Eddie,” Grace asks, “how come you never got married?”

  “I was too busy with school and later with work. You actually don’t realize time flies by that quickly.”

  “I have a daughter. She's with her father.”

  “You lost custody of your daughter?”

  “No. That's where she wanted to live. It's her choice. I miss her a lot. She's a good girl, but very stubborn.”

  They continue gathering sticks. Minutes later, they place their gathered wood in a pile. Using a stick, they brush the snakes away. Grace winces every time she has to handle one of them. By contrast, Dr. Scott manages them as if he was a snake charmer in his past life.

  “I could never be one of those Egyptian cobra handlers,” Grace confesses. “I wouldn’t last a day on the job.”

  “I don’t think it’s a job you apply for, like with an application,” Dr. Scott jokes. “Can you imagine? Help wanted, snake handler. Must be willing to sit cross-legged in the hot sun for hours while wearing a turban and playing a flute for European tourists.”

  Grace smiles. “You’re a pretty funny guy.”

  “Surprising, considering everyone thinks I’m intense.”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  He shrugs. “Must be the demons I fight every day.”

  “What demons?”

  “You don't want to know.”

  Dr. Scott is completing the physical exam of a young boy in his cool, windowless office. Muscular and skeletal posters adorn the walls of this clinical suite. On a counter beneath the cupboards sit several bottles of cotton balls, iodine swabs, square gauzes and other bits of surgical paraphernalia. Other medical equipment such as oxygen tanks and deco industrial lamps stand in a corner or next to the plastic-covered cot in the center of the room.

  He asks the boy sitting on the padded cot to remove his shirt and pants. As the youth complies, the doctor turns towards the counter, opens up th
e cupboard, removes a bottle of chloroform, soaks a few of the cotton balls in them, and turns to face the boy.

  The sky darkens even more as Keith and Rochelle stroll along the eastern beach. Even though it’s the middle of the day, they could feel it is getting cooler and rain is imminent. The trees, they notice is swaying a bit more as the winds have picked up. They see a flock of scarlet ibises feeding from the shore.

  “Aren't they gorgeous?” Rochelle gushes. “Look how red they are!”

  “I don't know about you,” Keith confesses, “but I see breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next few months.”

  She nudges him. “Keith! You're cruel.”

  “Hey, you gotta do what you can to survive. Hell, I bet I can live out here forever.”

  “Without a manual? Hah!”

  Suddenly, lightning flashes in the sky. Seconds later, a loud thunder clap peals.

  “Wow!” Keith remarks. “That was loud.”

  The clouds break. It starts raining heavily. The two cousins dash to safety beneath a nest of huddled thatch palms. Keith tries his best to avoid ogling his cousin who, because of the sudden downpour, now looks like a contestant at a wet T-shirt competition.

  “This is what I hate about the Caribbean,” she laments, “all these goddamn storms.”

  “Is that where we are? I thought we were in the Bahamas.”

  “Actually,” she admits, “the captain’s compass is broken. Even he’s not sure where this island is.”

  “I should’ve asked the old man,” Keith groans, “but he kept that damned rifle in my face so long it slipped my mind.”

  “As paranoid as he is, he wouldn’t have told you anyway. He looks like he worships his privacy. Why would he want the outside world here?”

  Rochelle looks up at the gray sky. “I hope this rain stops soon. I’m starting to get a little tired.”

  Keith nods. “Shouldn’t be long now.”

  Hitler is sitting in the cottage with his stocking’d feet up listening to the shortwave radio. It's broadcasting in German. At times, he shouts “Ach!” or shakes his fist in the air. Wieck, also sitting in the room, is engrossed in a book as thick as a bible. On its cover are the words “Mein Kampf - Adolf Hitler.”

  Hitler is startled by news from the radio. “You hear that?”

  Wieck looks up and shrugs. “I really wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Adenauer is a fool,” the ex-Socialist dictator charges. “He should build a wall across Berlin to prevent those damn refugees from entering West Germany. Schwamm daruber! [Forget it!] Das sieht ihm ahnlich! [That's just what you'd expect of him!]”

  Eva enters from the bedroom with Migdalia who is dressed in a beautiful gray evening gown. Her neckline plunges so deeply that the two men, now standing, practically drool like wolves. Eva, herself, is dressed in a slim print dress fastened with a wide white belt. Around her neck is a stellar string of shiny black pearls.

  Migdalia twirls and curtsies like a schoolgirl. Eva steals a sip from a tiny flask of whiskey concealed behind a photo of the Goebbels family on a shelf.

  The young maid looks at the captain. “Do you like it?”

  “It's gorgeous,” he admits. “Frames you well.”

  Hitler smiles. “Wunderbar!”

  He turns to Eva. “Der Gesellschaftsanzug steht ihr noch! [The gown looks better on her than you!]”

  She's not amused. “Go ahead,” she chastises him. “Mock me all you want. Wer den Schaden hat, braucht fur den Spott nicht zu sorgen! [The laugh is always on the loser!]”

  Migdalia looks at Eva. “What's going on?”

  “Komme, fraulein,” Eva beckons. “We will go outside for the fresh air. It's suddenly too stale in here for me.”

  The two ladies exit.

  Hitler shakes his head. “It’s very hard to live with that one.”

  “Still,” Wieck ascertains, “you've managed.”

  “Ja, don't think it's easy. I give her everything in the world. What die Menchen [people] don’t realize is, throughout the war, she had every opportunity to leave but never did.”

  Out in the front of the cottage, the two ladies stroll over to a juniper tree with a wide twisted trunk that looks like it was transplanted from Hansel & Gretel’s forest. Eva removes a bottle of cherry wine from a crevice within the trunk and shares it with Migdalia. Eva seems disturbed.

  “Ach!” she kvetches. “He gives me nothing but grief.”

  “I feel bad for you,” Migdalia sympathizes, “stuck here like this.”

  “You don't understand,” Eva moans. “I wish I could make you see.”

  “So, tell me,” the young Latina beseeches her.

  “What's the use?” Eva remarks, shaking her head. “You wouldn't believe it anyway. Besides, what's done is done.”

  They hear a “thump” coming from the barn.

  “What was that?” Migdalia asks.

  “It’s the barn,” Eva guesses. “There's something in there.”

  Looking around quickly, she picks up a stick.

  “What are you doing?” Migdalia asks.

  “You're not a scared little fraulein, are you?”

  “No, but it could be a wild animal.”

  “Nein. The one wild animal on this island has a white beard and makes plans all day long.”

  “What is this place called?”

  “It has no name. It’s just an island.”

  Eva begins tiptoeing towards the barn. Reluctantly, Migdalia follows. They stop when they hear the barn's creaky door open. Migdalia picks up a rock. Seconds later, Silverleaf staggers out of the barn.

  “It’s the old man!” Migdalia emotes.

  She drops the rock and runs to him. “¿Como esta, papi? Where you been all day?”

  He sneezes. “I've been sleeping in there all day. I think I've had a low-grade fever ever since we got here. Now it's worse.”

  “You don’t look so good,” the young Costa Rican notices.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He checks out her dazzling new outfit. “That's a nice dress.” Then he turns to Eva. “Obviously, it must be yours.”

  “Why are you around here?” Eva asks him.

  “Why?” Migdalia asks. “He is not welcomed here?”

  “No. He shouldn't be here. Ach! There's too much to explain.”

  “You keep saying that,” Migdalia observes, “but you say nada.”

  Hitler and Wieck emerge from the cottage. Hitler glances at his wife.

  “Eva, kommen in.”

  Eva throws up her arms in disgust. “Can’t I get some peace in my life this century?”

  Migdalia looks at her. “Why did he call you Eva?”

  “I will go now.” Eva retorts, returning to the cottage with Hitler. Wieck stays outside with Silverleaf and Migdalia.

  “I don’t like him,” Migdalia surmises. “Es, eh, pavoroso. Too creepy.”

  “He was an important man in his day,” Wieck explains.

  “I'm sick, Captain,” Silverleaf confesses. “Do they have any medicine in the cottage?”

  “Maybe. I'll see what I can get you. Where's everybody?”

  Silverleaf shakes his head. “I don't know. I haven't seen them all day. I was sleeping in the barn.”

  Migdalia panics. “Maybe they left the island without us!”

  “I don't think so,” Wieck doubts. “We're in the middle of nowhere. Go back in the barn. I'll bring you the medicine. The old man doesn't trust anyone in the house but me because I’m German.”

  “And me,” Migdalia notes, “but I don’t want to go back there.”

  “Why?” Silverleaf asks.

  “I don’t feel comfortable.”

  Wieck grabs Migdalia's arm. “Let's go back inside. Mr. Silverleaf, I'll see you later.”

  Wieck and Migdalia return to the hut. Silverleaf, puzzled, stands alone in the moonlight.

  Over on the eastern shore, Keith and Rochelle are sitting in the entrance to a cave. A large campfire is r
oaring outside beneath the full, beaming moon. A brisk wind blows from the grotto, causing the fire’s light to flicker eerily. Keith is using a sharp stone to create a spear from a stick while Rochelle weaves strands of thin bamboo stalks to make a carrying basket.

  “How’s it going over there, Tarzan?” she asks, breaking from her craft work.

  “Can’t complain.”

  He displays the still unfinished spear. “I can nab a wild boar with this.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “Hey,” he protests, “you’re the one gets to eat in them fancy restaurants. Don’t tell me you ain’t never had boar.”

  “I’ve never had boar.”

  “If you’ve eaten venison, you’ve had something close to boar.”

  “Do I look like I eat venison?”

  “What is somebody who eats venison supposed to look like?”

  “You know what?” she asks, changing the subject. “It's your fault we got lost.”

  “How so?”

  “You should’ve memorized the route.”

  “I sorta did, but how did you expect me to find our way back to the cottage in the dark?”

  “You should know better.”

  “Please, Rochelle. Don't start.”

  A chill passes through his spine. “Brrr,” he grunts. “Cold as a witch’s tit tonight.”

  “That's a surprise,” Rochelle admits. “It's never cold in the tropics, at least not what I remember.”

  “I didn’t know you’ve been to this area.”

  “Not here. I did get a chance to go sailing on someone’s yacht to Key West about two years ago. Gorgeous scenery – like a Monet painting. The sea was so perfect, so calm, as if there was nothing beneath the waves.”

  “You get around a lot.”

  She glances at him. “I’m not sure I like how that just came out.”

  Ignoring her comment, Keith simply yawns. “I’m getting tired. I'm going to sleep. I wanna rest. Tomorrow, I'm gonna start building a boat to get us out of here.”

  “You are? With those meager tools?”

  “Have a little faith in your cousin.”

  He gets up, pushes together a giant nest of leaves together, and lies in the pile. Rochelle follows suit and does the same thing a few feet away.

  “I wish I was back in Miami,” she laments. “Some vacation this is turning out to be.”

  She chokes back a tear.

  Keith notices it. “Are you crying?”

  “I miss Graham. He was a square, but he was my square.”

  Keith crawls over and strokes her hair. Surprisingly, she allows it. He kisses her cheek. She smiles. He tries to kiss her lips but she pushes him off.

  “Don’t try it, mister! We’re blood.”

  “Sorry. I though that's what you wanted.”

  “No. Don’t be ridiculous. Behave yourself.”

  Dejected, he crawls back to his nest and lies down like a fractured lamb. Rochelle stares intently at him for a moment then turns and gazes up at the moon.

 

  Grace and Dr. Scott are lying together in a hammock created from the seine and supplemented by forest down. It is carefully strung up between two Ficus trees on the western beach. Dr. Scott, fully awake, is staring at the moon peeking through the trees while stroking the sleeping Grace’s shiny jet black hair. Although his heart is content, his mind is troubled.

  He turns and looks at her face. She stirs gently. Like a father protecting his child, he wraps his strong arms around her and closes his eyes. Even lacking a blanket, he drifts off to sleep, hoping the heat from their bodies will suffice in keeping him warm throughout the night.