Papillon (36 page)

The boat made for Ile Royale from the south and we lost sight of Diable. From what I’d been able to see, it was one enormous rock covered with coconut palms and no buildings of any size; only a few houses by the water’s edge painted yellow with gray roofs. I learned later that this was where the political prisoners lived.

We were now coming into the port of Royale, which was protected by a big jetty made of huge blocks. To build it must have cost the life of many a con!

Three blasts of the siren and the
Tanon
dropped anchor about two hundred and fifty yards from the pier, which was a long, well-built quay ten feet high made of cement and large pebbles. Facing us was a row of white buildings, with signs painted in black: “Poste de Garde [Guard Station],” “Service de Canots [Navigation],” “Boulangerie [Bakery],” “Administration du Port [Port Administration].”

We could see convicts watching the boat come in. They weren’t wearing stripes, but pants and a kind of white jacket. Titi la Belote told me that on the islands, if you had any money, you had yourself done up by the local tailors. They used flour sacks with the printing removed, which made comfortable outfits with even a certain chic. Hardly anybody wore the convict’s uniform.

A launch approached the
Tanon
. There was one guard at the tiller, two armed guards with carbines on his left and right, and behind him, six cons naked from the waist up and standing as they rowed. They made quick work of the crossing. A large empty lifeboat was roped to the stern. Once the launch was tied fast, the two convoy leaders got off and took up positions in the stern. They were followed by two armed guards who went to the bow. Still handcuffed, but with our feet unshackled, we got into the boat in pairs, first the ten in my group, then the eight who had been in the bow. The cons started to row away; they’d return for the rest of the group later. We were let off at the pier and waited in line in front of the building marked “Administration du Port.” We had no packs. The cons standing about paid no attention to the guards and talked to us in loud voices, though at a safe distance of five or six yards. Several had been in my convoy and gave me a friendly greeting. César and Essari, two Corsican bandits I’d known at Saint-Martin, told me they were rowers for the Navigation Service. Then up came Chapar, who I’d known before my arrest in France. Without a thought for the guards, he said, “Don’t you worry, Papillon! You can count on your friends. You won’t lack for anything in solitary. What did they give you?”

“Two years.”

“Not bad. It’s over fast enough and you’ll be back here before you know it. You’ll see. Things aren’t so bad here.”

“Thanks, Chapar. Where’s Dega?”

“He’s a clerk up on the hill. I’m surprised he isn’t here. He’ll be sorry he missed you.”

At that point Galgani came up to me. A guard tried to stop him, but he pushed him aside, saying, “You can’t stop me from greeting my brother!” He embraced me and said, “Count on me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m in the Postal Service.”

“How are things?”

“Not bad.”

The last ones had arrived and joined us. Our handcuffs were removed. A guard said to Titi la Belote, Bérac and a few others, “Let’s go. Off to camp.” They had their packs from the
bagne
. They slung them over their shoulders and took the path that led to the top of the island. The warden arrived with six guards. They took the roll call. Everybody was present. Our escorts withdrew.

“Where’s the clerk?” the warden asked.

“He’s on his way, chief.”

I saw Dega coming, handsomely dressed in white with a buttoned jacket. He and the guard accompanying him each carried a big book. One by one we stepped out of the line and were given our new classification: “Prisoner in solitary so-and-so, transportee identification number X, you are now solitary, identification number Z.”

When it came my turn, Dega walked up and hugged me.

The warden asked, “Is that Papillon?”

“Yes, sir,” Dega said.

“Good luck in solitary. Two years pass quickly.”

The boat was ready. Of the nineteen of us, ten were to go in the first lot. I was called. Dega said crisply, “No, he goes on the last trip.”

I was astonished at the way the
bagnards
talked. There seemed to be no discipline; they didn’t give a damn for the guards. Dega came over and we started talking. He knew all about my escape. He had heard it from some men I’d known in Saint-Laurent who had come to the islands. He didn’t say he was sorry for me; that would have been beneath him. What he did say was, “You deserved to succeed, my boy. But you’ll make it next time!” He didn’t say “Chin up.” He knew I didn’t need it.

“I’m the chief clerk and I’ve got an in with the warden. Take care of yourself in solitary and I’ll send you tobacco and food. You’ll have everything you need.”

“Papillon, let’s go!” It was my turn.

“Good-by, everybody. Thanks for your kind words.”

I stepped into the boat. Twenty minutes later we docked at Saint-Joseph. I took note of the fact that we had only three armed guards aboard for six rowers and ten solitaries. It would have been a cinch to take over the boat.... At Saint-Joseph we were met by a reception committee headed by the warden of the penitentiary on the island and the warden at the Réclusion. As we entered the large iron gate with “Réclusion Disciplinaire” written above, I realized that this prison was no joking matter. The gate and the high surrounding walls obscured at first a little building marked “Administration-Direction” and three other buildings marked A, B and C. We went into Direction. It was cold.

We were lined up in two rows and the warden said, “
Réclusionnaires
, as you know, this prison is for the punishment of offenses committed by men already condemned to the
bagne
. Here we don’t try rehabilitation. We know it’s useless. We try to break you. We have only one rule: keep your mouth shut. Absolute silence. If you get caught trying to ‘telephone,’ you risk an even heavier sentence. Unless you’re seriously ill, don’t ask to go to the infirmary. You’ll be punished for an unwarranted medical call. That’s all I have to say. Oh, one thing more—smoking is strictly forbidden. All right, guards, let’s get going. Search them thoroughly, then put each one in a cell. Don’t put Charrière, Clousiot and Maturette in the same building. Mr. Santori, will you see to this, please.”

Ten minutes later I was locked up in my cell—number 234 in Building A. Clousiot was in B, Maturette in C. We said a mute good-by. Each of us understood that if we ever wanted to get out of here alive, we would have to obey their beastly rules. I watched them go, my companions of our long
cavale
, proud and brave comrades who never complained and never regretted what we’d brought off together. The fourteen months of our struggle for freedom had forged an unbreakable bond between us. I felt sick at heart.

I looked around my cell. It was hard to believe that a country like mine, France, the cradle of liberty for the entire world, the land which gave birth to the Rights of Man, could maintain, even in French Guiana, on a tiny island lost in the Atlantic, an installation as barbarously repressive as the Réclusion of Saint-Joseph. Imagine one hundred and fifty cells, back to back, their four thick walls pierced only by a small iron door with a wicket. Painted above each wicket was the warning: “Do not open this door without special permission.” On the left was a wooden bunk with a wooden pillow, just like Beaulieu. The bunk folded back and hooked to the wall; there was a blanket, a cement block in the corner to sit on, a hand broom, a mug, a wooden spoon, and a metal sheet hiding a pail attached to it by a chain so that it could be pulled outside the cell to empty it, and pulled back in when you needed to use it. The cell was nine feet high. Its ceiling was made of iron bars as thick as streetcar tracks, so close together that nothing of any size could get through. Above that was the actual roof of the building, about twenty-two feet above the ground. Above the cells and looking down on them was a walk a yard wide with an iron railing, where two guards paced back and forth from opposite ends, stopping when they met and turning to retrace their steps. There was a little light at the top, but at the bottom of the cell you could barely see even in broad daylight. I started immediately to walk, waiting for the whistle to signal the lowering of the bunks. To avoid the slightest noise, both prisoners and guards wore slippers. I said to myself, “Charrière, you’re here in number two thirty-four; try to live for two years without going crazy. That’s seven hundred and thirty days. It’s up to you to give the lie to that Réclusion nickname—
la mangeuse d’hommes
.”

One, two, three, four, five and turn. One, two, three, four, five and turn. The guard just passed over my roof. I didn’t hear him come. Suddenly he was there. The light came on, but very high up; it hung from the top roof twenty feet above. The walk was lighted, but the cells remained in the dark. I walked. The pendulum was back and swinging. Sleep in peace, you members of the jury who condemned me to this place; sleep in peace, for I do believe that if you had known what you were really doing, you would have pulled back. It was going to be difficult to keep my imagination from wandering. Almost impossible. Better to direct it toward less depressing subjects than to try to suppress it altogether.

The blast of a whistle announced that we could let down our bunks.

A deep voice said, “For the new men: Now you can let down your bunks and lie down if you want to.” He said, “… if you want to.” Therefore I kept on walking; it was too crucial a moment to sleep. I had to get used to this cage. One, two, three, four, five; right away I picked up the rhythm of the pendulum: head lowered, hands clasped behind my back, the length of the paces exactly right, a pendulum swinging back and forth, interminably. It was like sleepwalking. At the end of the five steps I didn’t even see the wall but grazed it on the turn in this marathon without beginning or end.

It’s a fact, Papi:
la mangeuse d’hommes
is no joke.

It was a weird effect when the guard’s shadow hit the wall. If you lifted up your head to look at him, it was even worse: you felt like a leopard in a pit being watched by the hunter who’d just caught you. It took me months to get used to that awful sensation.

One year equals three hundred and sixty-five days, two years, seven hundred and thirty days, unless one’s a leap year. I smiled at the thought. One day more wouldn’t matter much. The hell it wouldn’t! One day more is twenty-four hours more. And twenty-four hours is a long time. And seven hundred and thirty days each made up of twenty-four hours is one hell of a lot more. How many hours does that make? Can I figure it in my head? No, I can’t; it’s impossible. Why, of course, it’s possible. Let’s see. A hundred days, that’s twenty four hundred hours. Multiplied by seven—it’s easy—it makes sixteen thousand eight hundred hours, plus the thirty remaining days times twenty-four, which makes seven hundred and twenty hours. Total: sixteen thousand eight hundred, plus seven hundred and twenty, which makes, if I haven’t made a mistake, seventeen thousand five hundred and twenty hours. My dear Mr. Papillon, you have seventeen thousand five hundred and twenty hours to kill in this cage with its smooth walls especially designed for wild animals. And how many minutes? Who gives a shit! Hours is one thing, but minutes? To hell with minutes. Why not seconds? What does it matter? What matters is that I have to furnish these days, hours and minutes with something, all by myself, alone! I wonder who’s on my right, on my left, behind me. If those cells are occupied, the men in them must be wondering who just moved into 234.

I heard the quiet thud of something falling into the cell. What could it be? Could my neighbor be agile enough to throw something through the grill? I tried to figure out what it was. I could just make out something long and thin. Then as I was on the point of picking it up, the thing started to move toward the wall. I jumped back. As it reached the wall, it tried to climb up but fell to the ground. The wall was so smooth it couldn’t get a grip. I watched it try three times; when it fell on the fourth attempt, I squashed it under my foot. It was soft. What could it be? I got down on my knees to see it as best I could and made out an enormous centipede over eight inches long and wider than two fat fingers. It was so disgusting I couldn’t bring myself to pick it up and throw it into the pail. Instead I pushed it under the bunk with my foot. I’d do something about it tomorrow, in the daylight. I was to see plenty of centipedes; they fell from the upper roof. When I was lying down, I learned to let them walk over my naked body without disturbing them. I had learned what a tactical error could cost. One sting from the revolting beast and you had a terrible burn for almost six hours and a raging fever for twelve.

However, it was a distraction. If a centipede fell when I was awake, I’d torment it with the broom, or I’d amuse myself by letting it hide from me; then a few moments later I’d go find it....

One, two, three, four, five.... Complete silence. Doesn’t anybody snore here? Anybody cough? The heat is suffocating and it’s night. It must be hell during the day! It seemed I was destined to live with centipedes. When the water rose in the dungeon at Santa Marta, they came in large numbers, but they were smaller. The same family, however. At Santa Marta we had the daily flooding, but at least we could talk, shout, sing, or listen to the screams of the ones who were going nuts. It wasn’t the same. If I had to choose, I’d take Santa Marta. You’re crazy, Papillon. Over there, there was a unanimous opinion that the most a man could stand was six months. Here there are lots who have to do four and five years and even more. It’s one thing to give a man that sentence; it’s quite another to serve it. How many kill themselves? I don’t see any way to do it. Yes, I do. It wouldn’t be easy, but you could hang yourself. You could make a cord out of your pants and tie one end to the broom. Then, by standing on the bunk, you’d be able to slip the cord around one of the bars. If you got flush with the wall, the guard might not see the cord. And immediately after he’d passed by, you’d let yourself go. By the time he came around again, you’d already be cooked. And besides, he’d be unlikely to hurry down to your cell to unhang you. How could he open the cell door? He couldn’t. It says on the door: “Do not open this door without special permission.” So, nothing to worry about. Anyone who wants to kill himself has all the time he needs before the “special permission” unhooks him.