Papillon (61 page)

“One more,” Sylvain called out, “and then the good one!” He was standing in front of his raft to protect it with his body from the coming deluge. I was in the same position, with the added bracing of Chang’s hands. His nails were puncturing my calves in the excitement.

She was on her way; Lisette was coming straight for us, standing up like the spire of a church. With her usual deafening roar she broke over our rocks and swept toward the cliff.

I threw myself in a fraction of a second before my buddy, but we were close together as Lisette sucked us out into the open sea with dizzying speed. In less than five minutes we were over three hundred yards from shore. Sylvain hadn’t climbed onto his raft yet, but I had been up and astride within two minutes. Chang had scampered up to Dreyfus’ bench and, holding a white rag in his hand, was waving a last good-by. Now we were a good five minutes beyond the dangerous area where the waves heading for Diable formed. The ones we were riding were much wider, almost without crests and so regular we could drift with them without bouncing and with no danger of the rafts turning over.

We rose and fell from immense heights to great depths, all the while moving smoothly out with the ebb tide into the open sea.

As I rose to the top of one of the waves, I looked back and saw the white cloth in Chang’s hand for the last time. Sylvain was quite near me, perhaps forty yards farther out. I caught sight of him several times waving his arm in triumphal joy.

The night went smoothly. Then we felt a powerful change in the direction of the sea. The tide which had drawn us out had turned and was now pushing us toward Grande Terre.

The sun rose; it was about six o’clock. We were too low in the water to see the coast, but I knew we were far from the islands because, even with the sun on their summits, they were barely visible. Also they looked like one continuous island. Since I could make out no details, I figured they must be at least twenty miles away.

I smiled at the thought of our triumph.

If I sat up on my raft, would the wind on my back help me go faster?

I freed my chain and wound it once around my waist. The bolt was well greased, and it was easy to screw the nut on. I held my hands in the air to dry them off. I wanted a cigarette. Done. I inhaled in long, deep puffs and let the smoke out slowly. My fear was gone. There’s no need to try to describe the agonies in my gut just before, during and after the leap. The real point is that I wasn’t afraid any longer. In fact, after I’d finished the cigarette, I decided to eat a few mouthfuls of coconut pulp. I chewed a big handful, then smoked another cigarette. Sylvain was quite far away. We caught a glimpse of each other now and then when we crested a wave at the same time. The sun was striking the top of my head with hell’s own heat; my skull was roasting. I wet the towel and wrapped it around my head. Then I took off my wool sweater. Even with the wind the heat was suffocating.

Christ! My raft just turned over and I almost drowned. I took in two huge gulps of sea water. Try as I could, I couldn’t right the sacks and climb back on. The chain was constricting my movements. Finally, by letting it hang from one side, I was able to tread water and take a few deep breaths. I tried to get free of the chain, but my fingers couldn’t work the nut and bolt. Furious, my nerves on edge, I didn’t have the strength to unscrew them.

Finally I did it. That was a bad moment. I had nearly gone out of my mind thinking I couldn’t get free of the damn chain.

I didn’t bother to straighten the raft. I was too exhausted. I just hoisted myself up. What difference did it make whether it was the top or the bottom? I’d never attach myself to it again, not with the chain, not with anything. What a fool I’d been to tie myself to the raft by my wrist! That experience should have taught me.

The sun seared my arms and legs. My face was on fire. And it seemed to be worse when I wet it because the water evaporated immediately and made it burn even more.

The wind died down. This made the going more comfortable but much slower. Better lots of wind and a heavy sea than this calm.

I got such a violent cramp in my right leg that I yelled out. I made crosses on the cramp with my finger, remembering how my grandmother had said that would make the cramp go away. It didn’t work. The sun was now low in the west. It must be about four in the afternoon, and there had been four tides since we started. This one seemed to be pushing me harder than the others.

Now Sylvain and I could see each other all the time. He had taken off his shirt and was making signs at me. He was over three hundred yards farther out to sea. He seemed to be rowing with his hands, because I could see little whitecaps around his raft. Was he trying to slow his raft so that I could get closer to him? I got down on my stomach, plunged my arms into the water and rowed. If he braked and I rowed, perhaps we could close the gap between us.

I’d chosen a good partner for this escape. Sylvain had certainly risen to the challenge—100 percent.

I stopped rowing; it was tiring work. I must conserve my strength. I would try to right the raft. The food bag was underneath with the leather bottle containing the fresh water. I was thirsty and hungry. The best way to turn over the raft was to hang on, facing the waves, then give it a mighty shove with my feet as it was about to take the swell.

After five tries I finally made it. The effort exhausted me and I barely made it back onto the raft.

The sun was on the horizon and would soon be gone. Six o’clock. I hoped the night wouldn’t be too rough, for I realized that the continued drenchings were sapping my strength.

I took a long drink of water from Santini’s leather bottle and downed two fistfuls of coconut pulp. Full up, my hands dry in the wind, I took out a cigarette and smoked with deep delight. Before night fell, Sylvain waved his towel and I mine to say good night. We were still about the same distance from each other. I was sitting with my legs straight out. I wrung out my sweater as hard as I could and put it on. Even wet, those sweaters held the heat, and with the sun gone, it got cold right away.

The wind picked up. Only the low clouds in the west still glowed; everywhere else it was dark and getting darker with every minute. There were no clouds in the east, where the wind was coming from, therefore no danger of rain for the moment. My one thought was to hold on tight and not to get any wetter than necessary. I wondered if it would be a good idea to tie myself to the sacks in case fatigue got the better of me. Or, in the light of my recent experience, was it too risky? Then I suddenly realized that the reason I’d had trouble maneuvering was that the chain was too short: one end was being wasted in a tangle of rope and wire. I quickly freed it, then straightened the chain and attached it to my belt. There was still plenty of grease on the bolt and it worked perfectly. I mustn’t screw it so tight, that was all. Now I felt better, for I’d been scared stiff of falling asleep and losing the raft.

Yes, the wind was building up to something, and so were the waves. It was becoming a real toboggan ride.

Now it was completely dark. A million stars flickered in the sky, the Southern Cross the brightest of them all.

I couldn’t see Sylvain. This night was very important, for if the wind kept up its strength, we would have made real progress by morning.

The wind grew stronger as the night advanced. A reddish-brown moon rose slowly out of the sea. When, round and enormous, it finally floated free, I could clearly see the lines of its face.

It was about ten o’clock. The night grew increasingly clear, and gradually, as the moon rose in the sky, the light of the lunar day became more intense. The waves were dipped in platinum and their strange reflections burned my eyes, already inflamed by the scorching sun and salt water. Even so, I couldn’t keep from looking. I knew it was foolish, but I just couldn’t resist the incredible effect.

I smoked three cigarettes, one right after the other.

The raft behaved perfectly, rising and falling gracefully on the swollen sea.

But what to do about my physical problems? For one thing, if I kept my legs stretched out too long, the terrible cramps returned. Also, most of the time I was wet to the crotch. But at least my chest was almost dry, since the wind dried my sweater and no waves came higher than my waist. My eyes were burning more and more. I kept them closed. From time to time I slept. “Don’t sleep!” Easy to say, but I was beyond caring. Oh Christ, how I fought against it! And every time I returned to reality, I felt a terrible pain in my head. Then I’d take out my lighter and burn myself on my arm or my neck. I was racked with a fearful anxiety that I couldn’t get rid of. What if I fell asleep? If I tumbled into the sea, would the cold of the water wake me up? It was a good thing I had tied myself with the chain again. I must not lose these two sacks; they were my life. Wouldn’t it be great if I toppled into the sea and didn’t wake up!

I’d been thoroughly drenched for several minutes. A freak wave, one that had run across the path of the others, had just broken against my right side. Not only had it soaked me, but it had thrown me crosswise so that the next two waves washed over me from head to foot.

It was late into the second night. What time was it, I wondered. From the position of the moon in the west, it had to be around two or three in the morning. We had been in the water through five tides, or thirty hours. The soaking turned out to be a good thing: the chill of the water woke me up. I was shivering, but I could keep my eyes open without effort. My legs were almost paralyzed, so I decided to draw them up under me. With both hands I pulled the first one, then the other. Finally I managed to get myself into a squatting position. My toes were frozen; maybe sitting on them would warm them up.

I sat for a long time in this Arab squat. The change helped. I looked for Sylvain across the brightly moonlit sea, but the moon was so low that it shone in my eyes and made if hard to see. I couldn’t find him. He had nothing to attach himself to his sacks. Could he have fallen off? It worried me and I kept looking for him, in vain. The wind was strong, but steady and without gusts. This was very important. I had caught the rhythm now and my body was as one with the sacks.

Staring into the night, I became obsessed with the idea of finding my partner. I dried my fingers in the wind and whistled through them with all my might. Then I listened. No answer. Did Sylvain know how to whistle through his fingers? I had no idea. I should have asked him before we left. It would have been so easy to make two whistles. Damn it, why hadn’t I thought of that? I cupped my mouth with my hands and yelled, “Yoo-hoo!” The only answer was the noise of the wind and waves.

Finally I couldn’t stand it any more so I stood up on my sacks, grasping the chain with my left hand and holding my balance through five waves. When I reached the crest of a wave, I stood straight up; when I went up or down, I squatted. Nothing to the right, nothing to the left. Could he be behind me? I didn’t dare turn around while I was standing up. The one thing I was sure of was a dark line that the moon picked out on my left. It must be the bush.

By daytime I’d be seeing trees! I rubbed my toes and stretched my legs again. Then I decided to dry my hands so that I could have another cigarette. I smoked two. What time could it be? The moon was very low. I couldn’t remember how much time there had been last night between the setting of the moon and sunrise. I closed my eyes and tried to bring back the impressions of our first night. No go. Wait a minute! Suddenly I had a picture of the sun rising in the east at the same time a sliver of moon still showed in the west. So it must be about five o’clock. But the moon was taking its time about setting. The Southern Cross had disappeared long ago, as well as the Big and Little Bear. Only Polaris was still there, outshining them all. Now that the Southern Cross was gone, Polaris was queen of the skies.

The wind seemed to be rising. Or, at least, it seemed heavier—if you can call a wind heavy. The waves were stronger and deeper and the whitecaps bigger than at the beginning of the night.

I’d been at sea thirty hours. I had to admit that, for the moment at least, things looked better rather than worse. But the day that was about to begin would be the real test.

Yesterday I’d been exposed to the sun from six in the morning until six at night. When the sun came up today and started cooking me again, it wasn’t going to be any fun. It was still night, but my lips were already burning, as were my eyes, arms and hands. If I could manage it, I wouldn’t expose my arms. That would depend on whether I could stand to wear my sweater. I was also raw between my buttocks from the salt water and the constant rubbing against the sacks.

In any event, old pal, burned or not, you’re on
cavale
and it’s worth a few discomforts. The prognosis on your arriving on Grande Terre alive is 90 percent favorable and that’s something, isn’t it? Even if you arrive literally scalped, with half your body raw flesh, it will be a small price to pay. And you haven’t seen a single shark. Are they all on vacation? This time luck is really with you, and if you don’t admit it, you’re a damn peculiar fellow. This time it’s going to work. All the other
cavales
were too carefully thought out, too well prepared; when all is said and done, the successful
cavale
will have been the stupidest: two sacks of coconuts and let the wind and sea take you! To Grande Terre. You don’t have to be a graduate of Saint-Cyr to know that all wrecks end up on shore.

If the wind and waves could keep this up all day, I would almost certainly reach land by afternoon.