Papillon (63 page)

The sun was at its most radiant and I’d never seen the sea so beautiful. I looked long and hard at the spot where I figured Sylvain had disappeared. I washed in sea water and the sun soon dried both me and my clothes. After a cigarette and a last look at my friend’s grave, I started into the bush. The walking was quite easy. My sack slung over my shoulder, I moved slowly through the thick vegetation until after two hours I finally reached permanently dry ground. No tidemarks at the base of the trees. I decided to camp here and rest for twenty-four hours. I would open the coconuts one by one, take out the nuts and put them in my sack, ready to eat whenever I was hungry. I could light a fire, but that probably wasn’t too good an idea.

The rest of the day and the night was uneventful. When the birds woke me up with the sun, I finished extracting the coconut pulp and, with my much reduced sack on my shoulder, headed west.

Toward three in the afternoon I came upon a path. It must have been for either balata prospectors or prospectors after hardwoods, or maybe for bringing supplies to gold panners. The path was narrow but well cleared—apparently it was used often. Every so often I came across the hoofprints of a donkey or an unshod mule and sometimes the prints of human feet, the big toe clearly outlined in the dried mud. I walked until nightfall. Occasionally I’d chew some coconut, which was both nourishing and thirst-quenching, and then I’d use a mixture of oil and saliva to coat my nose, lips and cheeks. My eyes, full of pus, often stuck together. As soon as I got the chance, I’d rinse them out with fresh water. Along with the coconuts in my sack, I had a waterproof box containing a piece of Marseilles soap, a Gillette razor, twelve blades and a shaving brush.

I walked with my machete in hand although the path was so clear I didn’t need it. On either side of me I noticed what seemed to be freshly cut branches. There must be a lot of activity on this path. I’d better be careful.

The bush here was different from the bush I’d known during my first
cavale
from Saint-Laurent-du-Maroni. This one had two levels and was not as thick. The first level rose to a height of fifteen to twenty feet; above that was the green vault at a height of over sixty feet. Daylight reached only the right-hand side of the path; the left was in almost total darkness.

I was walking fast now, sometimes coming to a clearing—whether made by man or by lightning, I couldn’t tell. The slant of the sun’s rays indicated that it was near dusk. I turned my back to the sun and headed east toward the blacks’ village of Kourou, where the penitentiary of the same name was located.

Night was about to fall, so I went into the bush to find a place to lie down. I found one not thirty yards off the path, well protected by a thick cover of shiny leaves like those of a banana tree. I cut some down and made a kind of bed. This time I would be really dry—there was a good chance it wouldn’t rain. I smoked two cigarettes.

I was less tired tonight and the coconut pulp had eased my hunger. If only my mouth weren’t so dry! I had almost no saliva.

The second stage of my
cavale
was under way and I was starting my third night on Grande Terre without unpleasant incident. If only Sylvain were here! Well,
mec
, he isn’t, and there’s not much you can do about it. Since when have you ever needed advice or support, anyway? What are you, a general or a private? Don’t be a fool, Papillon. It’s fine to grieve for your friend, but you’re no worse off in the bush for being alone. It’s five days since you left the islands. They must have alerted Kourou by now—first the guards in the forest camp, then the blacks in the village. There may be a police station there as well. Is it wise to be heading for this village?

I knew nothing about the surrounding country, only that the camp was wedged in between the village and the river.

On Diable I had planned to hold up the first man I came across and force him to lead me to the edge of Camp Inini, the Chinese camp where I was going to look up Cuic-Cuic, Chang’s brother. Why change the plan now? If Diable was convinced I had drowned, there’d be no trouble. But if they suspected a
cavale
, Kourou would be dangerous. Since it was a forest camp, there’d be a lot of Arabs and therefore plenty of people available for a manhunt. Watch out for them, Papillon! No mistakes now. Don’t be caught in a vise. Make sure you see them before they see you. So I came to the conclusion that I’d better not walk on the path but stay parallel to it in the bush. It was damn stupid to go galloping down that trail armed only with a machete; worse than stupid, insane. From now on I’d keep to the bush.

I woke up early to the cries of the beasts and birds greeting the morning, and shook myself to the sounds of the waking bush: another day was starting for me too. I carefully chewed a handful of coconut, spread some on my face and started out.

I kept very close to the path but well hidden in the bush. It was difficult walking because, even though the liana and branches were not very thick, they still had to be separated to make a passage. For all these difficulties, however, I had done well to leave the path, for I suddenly heard someone whistling. I peered out; fifty yards of path stretched before me. Nobody. Ah yes, there he was! A Negro black as coal carrying a pack on his shoulder and a gun in his right hand. He was wearing a khaki shirt and shorts and was barefoot. He didn’t take his eyes off the path and his back was bent under the weight of his heavy burden.

I hid behind a thick tree by the edge of the path and waited for him, my knife open in my hand. As he passed by the tree, I leapt on him. My right hand grabbed his rifle in midair and I twisted his arm until he dropped it. “Don’t kill me! For the love of God, have pity on me!” Holding the point of my knife against his neck, I bent down and picked up the gun—an ancient single-barreled shotgun undoubtedly loaded to the muzzle with powder and lead.

I raised the hammer of the gun, stepped back a couple of yards and ordered, “Drop your pack. You try to run away, I’ll kill you like a dog.”

Terrified, the poor black did as he was told. Then he looked at me. “You escaped from the
bagne
?”

“Yes.”

“What you want? You can have everything I got. But, please, don’t kill me. I got five kids. Let me live.”

“Oh, stop that crap. What’s your name?”

“Jean.”

“Where you going?”

“I’m carrying food and medicine to my two brothers. They’re cutting wood in the bush.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Kourou.”

“You live in the village?”

“I was born there.”

“Do you know Inini?”

“Yes. I sometimes do business with the Chinese in the prison camp.”

“See this?”

“What is it?”

“It’s a five-hundred-franc note. You’ve got two choices. If you do what I tell you, the five hundred francs is yours and you get your gun back. If you don’t, or if you rat on me, I’ll kill you. Which do you choose?”

“What you want me to do? I’ll do anything you ask, even for free.”

“I want you to take me to the edge of Camp Inini. When I make contact with a certain Chinese, you can go on your way. O.K.?”

“O.K.”

“But rat on me and you’re a dead man.”

“I won’t. I swear I won’t.”

He had some condensed milk with him. He took out six cans and gave them to me, along with a two-pound loaf of bread and some smoked ham.

“Hide your pack in the bush—you can pick it up later. I’ll make a mark on this tree with my machete so you’ll know where it is.”

I drank a can of milk. He also gave me a brand-new pair of blue work pants. I put them on, never letting go of the rifle.

“O.K., Jean, let’s go. Be careful no one sees us. If we’re caught it’ll be your fault and your tough luck.”

Jean walked better in the bush than I did; he was so nimble at ducking liana and branches that I had trouble following him. In fact, the bugger walked with the greatest ease.

He said, “Did you know Kourou has been warned that two
bagnards
escaped from the islands? I must be honest with you: it’s very dangerous around Kourou and we have to go near there.”

“You seem like an honest man, Jean. I hope you’re being square with me. What’s your advice as to how we get to Inini? Remember, your life depends on my safety. If I’m caught, I’ll have to kill you.”

“What do I call you?”

“Papillon.”

“O.K., Monsieur Papillon. We must go deep into the bush and make a big detour around Kourou. I can guarantee I’ll get you to Inini if we go through the bush.”

“I’m in your hands. Pick the path you think safest.”

It was slower going in the bush, but since we’d left the vicinity of the path, the black had seemed more relaxed. He wasn’t sweating so much and his face was less tense. It was as if he’d taken a tranquilizer.

“Jean, you don’t seem so scared any more.”

“I’m not, Monsieur Papillon. Being so near the path was very dangerous for you—and for me too.”

We made good headway. The black was smart; he never let us get more than twelve feet apart.

“Wait a minute. I want to roll a cigarette.”

“Look, I’ve got a pack of Gauloises.”

“Thanks, Jean. You’re a good man.”

“It’s true. I am a good man. You see, I’m a Catholic. It hurts me to see how the white guards treat the
bagnards
.”

“You’ve seen a lot of them? Where?”

“At the forest camp in Kourou. It breaks your heart to see them dying a slow death from cutting that wood, or from yellow fever or dysentery. You’re much better off on the islands. You’re the first really healthy convict I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s true. It is better on the islands.”

We sat down for a bit on a big branch. I offered him one of his cans of milk, but he refused it, preferring to chew on a coconut.

“How old is your wife?”

“She’s thirty-two. I’m forty. We’ve got five children—three girls and two boys.”

“Do you make a good living?”

“We don’t do so badly with the rosewood, and my wife does washing and ironing for the guards’ wives. That helps a little. We’re very poor, but we always have enough to eat and the children all go to school. And they all have shoes to wear.”

The poor devil! He thought everything was O.K. because his children had shoes. He was almost as tall as I and his black face was not unsympathetic. To the contrary, his eyes said clearly that here was a man who was full of the right sentiments, a strong worker, good family man, good husband, good Christian.

“What about you, Papillon?”

“Jean, I’m going to start a new life. I’ve been buried alive for ten years and I keep on trying to escape so that someday I can be like you, a free man with a wife and kids, without harming anyone, even in my thoughts. You said it yourself: the
bagne
is rotten, and any man with a shred of self-respect has to try to escape.”

“I’ll do my best to help you. Let’s get going.”

With never a second’s hesitation and with an extraordinary sense of direction, Jean guided me straight to the Chinese camp. We arrived about two hours after dusk. We could hear some banging in the distance but saw no lights. Jean explained that to get near the camp we would have to skirt a couple of sentry posts. We decided to stop and spend the night where we were.

I was dead tired but afraid to fall asleep. What if I were wrong about the black? What if he were putting on an act and took the gun while I was sleeping and killed me? It would be a double victory for him—he’d be shed of the danger I represented, and he’d win a bonus for killing an escaped con.

Yes, he was smart all right. Without a word he lay right down and went to sleep. I still had the chain with the bolt. I thought of binding him with it, but there was no point in that; he could undo it as easily as I could. So I would have to try to stay awake. I had Jean’s pack of Gauloises. I’d do everything I could think of not to fall asleep. I couldn’t trust Jean; after all, being an honest man, he must classify me as a criminal.

The night was very dark. Jean was lying only six feet away, but all I could see of him was the white of his bare soles. I listened to the night sounds of the bush and the constant chattering of the large-goitered monkeys with their powerful, raucous cry that you could hear miles away. This was very important, for as long as the cries were regular, the troop was eating and sleeping in peace. Therefore, we too were safe from man and beast.

Stretched out rigid, I held my own against the temptation to sleep without too much effort, aided by an occasional cigarette burn, but even more by a swarm of mosquitoes determined to drain me of my last ounce of blood. I could protect myself with a lotion of saliva mixed with nicotine, but without them buzzing around me I was sure to fall asleep. All I hoped was they weren’t carrying malaria or yellow fever.

I passed the time in reflection. Here I was, provisionally at least, off the road of the condemned. When I started down that path, it was 1931 and I was twenty-five. It was now 1941. Ten years had passed. In 1932 that fiendish prosecutor, Pradel, had thrown me, a young man at the height of his powers, into the sinkhole that was the French penal system, there slowly to dissolve in the slime until I had disappeared altogether. I had brought off the first part of the
cavale
. I had climbed out of the hole and was clinging to the edge. Now I must commit all my energy and intelligence to success in the second part.