Papillon (34 page)

I told him something of my
cavale
, and then I asked him casually, “What about you?”

“Me? Man, I’m really screwed up. I’m afraid I’m going to get five years for a simple escape. I was in the
cavale
they call the ‘cannibals’
cavale
.’ All that stuff you hear in the night is for the Graville brothers.

“There were six of us who escaped from Kilometer Forty-two. In our
cavale
were Dédé and Jean Graville, two brothers in their thirties from Lyon, an Italian from Marseilles, me from La Ciotat, a
mec
with a wooden leg from Angers and a kid of twenty-three who acted as his wife. We got out of the Maroni fine, but we could never get going once we reached the sea. In a few hours we were beaten back to the Dutch Guiana coast.

“We couldn’t save anything from the wreck, no food or anything. We found ourselves in the bush. In that area there’s no beach and the sea runs right up into the forest. It’s a jungle, and impassable because of the fallen trees uprooted by the sea and all tangled together.

“We walked for a whole day before we reached dry land. Then we split up into three groups: the Graville brothers, me and Guesepi, and the wooden leg with his little friend each went in different directions. To make a long story short, after twelve days we met up with the Graville brothers in almost the exact same spot where we’d separated. The whole place was surrounded by a kind of quicksand and we couldn’t find a way out. We had spent thirteen days with nothing to eat but roots and young shoots. We were dying of hunger and fatigue; we were at the end of our rope. It was decided that with what strength we had left Guesepi and I would go back to the coast and hang a shirt as high as possible on a tree and give ourselves up to the first Dutch coast guard that came along. The two brothers were to rest a few hours, then try to pick up traces of the other two.

“To make things easier, we agreed when we separated that each group would indicate where it had gone by cutting branches along the way.

“A few hours after we left, they saw the man with the wooden leg coming toward them alone.

“‘Where’s the boy?’

“‘I left him way back there; he couldn’t walk any more.’

“‘You’re a son of a bitch to leave him there alone.’

“‘It was his idea.’

“At that moment Dédé noticed that the guy was wearing the queer’s boot on his good foot.

“‘Along with everything else, you left him barefoot so that you could wear his shoe? Congratulations! And you look in good shape, not like the rest of us at all. You must have been eating well.’

“‘Yes. I found a big wounded monkey.’

“‘Lucky you.’ At that, Dédé got up with his knife in his hand. Wooden-leg’s knapsack looked well stuffed, too, and Dédé was beginning to get the pitch.

“‘Open your knapsack. What you got in it?’

“He opened the sack and in it Dédé saw a piece of flesh.

“‘What’s that?’

“‘A piece of the monkey.’

“‘You bastard, you killed your boyfriend and ate him!’

“‘No, Dédé, I swear I didn’t. He died of exhaustion and I only ate a little bit. Don’t hold it against me …’

“He didn’t have time to finish; Dédé’s knife was already in his gut. Then he searched the body and found a leather pouch with matches and a striking pad.

“Dédé was wild with rage at the thought that the man hadn’t even shared his matches before they separated originally; then, with his hunger being what it was … To cut it short, they lit a fire, cooked the
mec
and started to eat him.

“Guesepi arrived in the middle of the feast. They invited him to join in, but he refused. He’d eaten some crabs and raw fish by the edge of the sea. So he watched without taking part as the brothers put more pieces of flesh on the fire, adding the wooden leg to keep the fire going. That day and the next the brothers ate the
mec
and Guesepi looked on, even noting which parts they ate: the shinbone, the thigh and the buttocks.

“I was still waiting by the sea when Guesepi came for me. We filled a hat with small fish and crabs and cooked them on the Gravilles’ fire. I didn’t see the corpse. They must have dragged it off somewhere. But I did see several pieces of meat scattered about in the ashes.

“Three days later a coast-guard boat picked us up and returned us to the penitentiary at Saint-Laurent.

“Guesepi couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Everybody in this room knows the story, even the guards. That’s why I’ve told you and that’s why you hear those voices in the night.

“Officially, our offense is attempted escape, aggravated by cannibalism. The bad thing is that, to defend myself, I’d have to expose the others, and I can’t do that. Everybody, including Guesepi, would deny it at the interrogation. They’d say that the others disappeared into the bush. And that’s my situation, Papillon.”

“I’m sorry for you,
mec
. Obviously your only defense is to accuse the others.”

A month later, in the middle of the night, someone plunged a knife into Guesepi’s heart. We didn’t need to guess who’d done it.

Tonight I took another place along the bar. I replaced a man who had left, and by asking everybody to move over one, I got next to Clousiot.

Where I was now, by sitting up I could see what was going on in the yard, even with my left foot shackled to the bar.

Surveillance was so tight that the rounds had no rhythm. They never stopped, and guards were relieved at any and all times.

My feet bore my weight well now; they hurt only when it rained. I was even considering getting something new under way. But how? There were no windows in the room, only a grill that spanned the entire width and reached up to the roof. It was facing so that it was open to the wind from the northeast. After a week’s careful observation I still couldn’t find the smallest gap in the surveillance. For the first time I came close to admitting that they’d be locking me up in solitary on Saint-Joseph after all.

Everybody said it was a terrible place. They called it
la mangeuse d’hommes
[the devourer of men]. And another thing: in the eighty years of its existence, no one had ever escaped from it.

This partial acceptance that I’d lost the ball game made me look toward the future. I was twenty-eight, and the judge was going to give me five years in solitary. It would be hard to get away with less. So, by the time I got out, I’d be thirty-three. I still had a lot of money in my
plan
. Therefore, if I didn’t escape—and it didn’t appear I was going to—the least I could do was keep myself in good health. Five years of complete isolation would be hard to bear without going mad. From the first day of my sentence I would discipline my brain according to a carefully thought-out and varied program: I would avoid as much as possible all dreams of castles in Spain and, particularly, all dreams of revenge. From that moment on I would prepare to surmount the terrible punishment that lay ahead. Yes. I’d make it a big waste of their time. I’d leave solitary strong and in full possession of my mental and moral faculties.

I felt better for having set up my code of behavior and accepted with a certain serenity what lay ahead.

I was the first to feel the breeze that penetrated the room. It felt good. Clousiot knew when I didn’t want to talk; he just went on smoking. A few stars were out. I asked him, “Can you see the stars from where you are?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning forward a little. “I don’t like to look at them. They remind me too much of our
cavale
.”

“Don’t take it so hard. You’ll be seeing thousands of them on our next one.”

“When? In five years?”

“Clousiot, don’t you think the year we’ve just spent, the adventures and the people we got to know are worth five years in solitary? Would you rather have been on the islands all this time? Knowing what lies ahead—and I grant you it’s going to be tough—how do you really feel about our
cavale
? Tell me the truth. Do you regret it or not?”

“Papi, you forget you had something I didn’t: your seven months with the Indians. If I’d been with you, I might agree. But I was in prison.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“That’s O.K. Sure, I’m glad we had our
cavale
because I had some good times too. It’s only that I’m a little worried about what to expect at
la mangeuse d’hommes
. I don’t know if it’s possible to last five years there.”

I explained my plan and he seemed to think it a good idea. I was glad to see his spirits pick up. We were to appear before the tribunal in fifteen days. According to rumor, the presiding officer was severe but fair. He wouldn’t be a pushover for the Administration’s lies, and that was good news.

Clousiot and I refused to use a guard as our lawyer. We decided that I should speak for the three of us and that I’d handle our defense myself.

I had a haircut and a shave and was dressed in new denims with red stripes; I was even wearing shoes. We were waiting in the courtyard to go before the tribunal. Clousiot had been without his cast for two weeks now and walked naturally, with no trace of a limp.

The tribunal had begun Monday. It was now Saturday morning. The first five days had been spent on a variety of cases. The Graville brothers got only four years, for lack of proof. Their case took over half a day. The other murder cases got four or five years. In general, among the fourteen cases tried, the sentences were on the severe side, but in proportion to the crime.

The tribunal started at seven-thirty. We were standing in the room when an officer came in dressed in the uniform of the Camel Corps and accompanied by an old infantry captain and a lieutenant who were to serve as assistant judges. On the President’s right sat a captain representing the Administration.

“The case of Charrière, Clousiot and Maturette.”

We were about twelve feet from the President. I could see the officer’s face in detail: it was weathered by the desert, and his hair was silver about the temples. He appeared to be a little over forty years old, with bushy eyebrows and magnificent black eyes that looked right into your own. A real military man. But without meanness. He just looked at us, taking us in. My eyes met his, then I deliberately lowered mine.

The captain representing the Administration overstated his case, and that’s what lost it for him. He labeled our knocking out the guards as attempted murder and claimed that it was a miracle the Arab hadn’t died from our treatment. Another bad move was when he said that we had brought more dishonor on France than any convicts in the history of the
bagne:
“Mr. President! These men have covered fifteen hundred miles! Trinidad, Curaçao, Colombia—all these countries have had to listen to their smears and lies about the French penal administration! For Charrière and Clousiot, I ask for two sentences to be served consecutively for a total of eight years: five for attempted murder and three for escape. For Maturette, I ask only three years for escape, as the testimony indicates that he did not participate in the attempted murder.”

The President spoke. “The tribunal would be interested in hearing a very brief recital of your odyssey.”

So I described our trip to Trinidad, skipping over the Maroni part, and told them about the Bowen family and their kindness. I quoted the chief of police in Trinidad: “It’s not for British authorities to judge French justice. But what we don’t approve of is the way they send their convicts to French Guiana. It’s inhuman and unworthy of a civilized nation like France.” Then I told them about Irénée de Bruyne of Curaçao, the incident over the bag of florins, then Colombia and why and how we got there. Then I gave them a quick description of my life among the Indians. All the while the President listened without interruption, except when he asked for a few more details about the Indian episode, which seemed to interest him greatly. Then I told him about the Colombian prisons in general, and the underwater dungeon in Santa Marta in particular.

“Thank you. The court has found your recital both enlightening and interesting. We will now have a fifteen-minute recess. Where are your lawyers, the lawyers for the defense? I don’t see them.”

“We don’t have any. I ask that you allow me to speak for our defense.”

“You may. It’s within the rules.”

“Thank you.”

The session resumed fifteen minutes later.

The President said, “Charrière, the tribunal authorizes you to present the defense for your friends and yourself. But we must warn you that the tribunal can revoke your right to speak if you show disrespect for the Administration. You are free to offer your defense, but you must do so in a suitable manner. You may begin.”

“I ask the tribunal to lay aside only the charge of attempted murder. We don’t deserve it, and I can prove it. Last year I was twenty-seven and Clousiot thirty. We were in very good condition, having just arrived from France. We’re both big men. We hit the Arab and the guards with the iron legs from our beds. Not one of the four was seriously hurt. We tried as hard as we could not to do them serious harm, and we were successful. The prosecution forgot to say, or didn’t know, that we wrapped the iron legs in cloth for that very reason. You men on the tribunal are career officers and you know what a strong man can do when he hits someone, even if it’s only with a bayonet butt. So you can imagine what we could have done with these iron legs if we’d wanted to. I want to remind the tribunal that not one of the four men we attacked had to be hospitalized.