Papillon (64 page)

The night was long, but it was drawing to a close. I had stayed awake and was pleased with myself for successfully guarding my liberty against the threat of fatigue. It was a victory of spirit over matter and I was full of self-congratulations when I heard the first cries of the birds announce the coming of morning. Their awakening was soon followed by another: the black stretched, sat up and rubbed his feet.

“Good morning. You didn’t sleep?”

“No.”

“That was foolish. You got no reason to be afraid of me. I decided straight off I wanted to help you.”

“Thanks, Jean. How long do we have to wait for daylight to reach us here?”

“Another hour at the very least. Only the animals know when daylight’s coming. We’ll be able to see about an hour from now. Lend me your knife, Papillon?”

I gave it to him without hesitation.

He cut a branch off a thick plant, handed me a piece and kept another for himself. “Drink the liquid inside, then spread some on your face.”

I drank, then washed. Jean gave me back my knife. Day came. We each smoked a cigarette and set off. We arrived on the outskirts of Inini about midday, after an uneventful morning except for the huge mud puddles we had to wade through.

We ventured near the main access road to the camp. A narrow-gauge railway track ran along the side of a wide, cleared space. Jean told me it was used for wagons pulled by the Chinese and that they made such a racket you could hear them from far away. We watched one go by. Two guards sat on a bench, and behind them two Chinese braked the wagon with long poles. The wheels threw off sparks. Jean explained that the poles had steel points and that they were used for both pushing and braking.

It was a well-used path. Chinese passed by carrying rolls of liana on their shoulders; one carried a wild pig, others bundles of palm leaves. Everybody was heading toward the camp. Jean described the variety of things the men did in the bush: hunting wild game, cutting liana for cabinetwork, cutting palm leaves to weave into matting to protect the vegetable gardens from the heat of the sun. Some hunted butterflies, others flies or snakes, etc. They were allowed to go into the bush after they had finished the work assigned them by the Administration. Everybody had to be back at camp by five in the evening.

“Jean, here’s the five hundred francs and your gun.” I had unloaded it earlier. “I’ve got my knife and machete. You can go now. Thanks for everything. I hope God repays you better than I can for helping a man back to life, that when you tell your kids about this, you’ll say, ‘That
bagnard
was a good man. I’m not sorry I helped him.’”

“Monsieur Papillon, it’s late. I can’t get very far before night. You keep the shotgun, and I’ll stay with you till morning. If you like, I’ll stop one of the Chinese and tell him to pass the word to Cuic-Cuic. He’d be less afraid of me than a white man on
cavale
. Let me go out on the road. Even if a guard comes along, he won’t think anything of me being there. I’ll tell him I’m looking for rose-wood for the Symphorien lumberyard in Cayenne. Trust me.”

“O.K., but take your gun. They’d think it pretty funny for a man to go into the bush unarmed.”

“You’re right.”

Jean planted himself in the middle of the road. I was to give a low whistle when I saw a Chinese I liked the looks of.

“Hello, Mouché,” said a little old Chinese carrying a banana trunk on his shoulder—probably for its delicious palmetto. I whistled, for this polite old man looked okay to me.

“Hello, Chink. Stop a minute. I want to ask you something.”

“What you want, Mouché?”

They talked for almost five minutes. I couldn’t hear a thing. Two Chinese went by carrying a big doe on a pole. It hung by its feet and its head scraped along in the dirt. They didn’t speak to the black, but said a few words to the Chinese, who answered briefly, all of it in Chinese.

Jean led the old man to where I was in the bush. As he came up to me, he held out his hand.

“You
froufrou
[escaped]?”

“Yes.”

“From where?”

“Diable.”

“Good.” He laughed and looked at me hard through his slanted eyes. “That good. Your name?”

“Papillon.”

“Never heard of you.”

“I’m a friend of Chang, Chang Vauquien, Cuic-Cuic’s brother.”

“Ah! Good.” He shook my hand again. “What you want?”

“I want you to tell Cuic-Cuic I want to see him here.”

“Not possible.”

“Why?”

“Cuic-Cuic stole sixty ducks from chief of camp. Chief wanted to kill Cuic-Cuic. Cuic-Cuic
froufrou
.”

“Since when?”

“Two months.”

“Did he go out to sea?”

“Don’t know. I go to camp talk to Chinese very good friend of Cuic-Cuic. He tell me. You don’t move. I come back tonight.”

“What time?”

“Don’t know. But I bring food, cigarettes. No make fire here. I whistle ‘La Madelon.’ When you hear, you come out on road. Understand?”

“Understand.” And he went. “Jean, what do you think?”

“You haven’t lost a thing. If you want, we can still go back to Kourou. I’ll get you a dugout there, food and a sail.”

“Jean, I’m going very far away. I can’t do it alone. But thanks for your offer. If worse comes to worst, I may have to take you up on it.”

We ate a big piece of the palmetto the Chinese had given us. It was wonderfully cool, with a definite nutty flavor. Jean said he’d take the watch. I trusted him. I spread tobacco juice over my face and hands, for the onslaught had already begun.

Jean woke me up. “Papillon, someone’s whistling ‘La Madelon.’”

“What time is it?”

“Not very late. Nine o’clock maybe.”

We went out onto the road. The night was still very dark. Whoever was whistling was coming nearer. I answered back. He was still nearer now, though I couldn’t see him yet. Taking turns whistling, we finally met. There were three of them. Each in turn touched my hand.

“Let’s sit here by the side of the road,” one of them said in perfect French. “Nobody can see us here in the shadows.” Jean came and joined us.

“Eat first, then we’ll talk.” This was from the educated member of the group. Jean and I lapped up a piping-hot vegetable soup. It warmed us so well we decided to leave the rest of the food for later. We drank a delicious hot, sweet tea with a mint flavor.

“You’re a friend of Chang?”

“Yes. He told me to come here and find Cuic-Cuic so we could escape together. I’ve already done one long
cavale
, all the way to Colombia. I’m a good sailor. That’s why Chang wanted me to take his brother along. He trusts me.”

“Maybe. Describe Chang’s tattoos.”

“He’s got a dragon on his chest and three dots on his left hand. He told me the dots meant he had been one of the leaders of the revolt at Poulo Condor in Indochina. His best friend is another leader of the revolt, named Van Hue. He’s got only one arm.”

“That’s me,” the educated one said. “You’ve proved you’re Chang’s friend, therefore you’re our friend. Now listen carefully. Cuic-Cuic hasn’t gone out to sea yet because he doesn’t know how to sail a boat. He’s alone in the bush, about seven miles from here. He makes charcoal. Friends sell it for him and give him the money. When he’s earned enough, he’s going to buy a boat and find somebody to escape with him. Where he is now, he’s safe. Nobody can get to his island because it’s surrounded by moving quicksand. Anyone who tries to cross is sucked down into the muck. I’ll come for you at sunrise and take you to him. You come with us now.”

We followed the edge of the road, for the moon was up and it was bright enough to see fifty yards ahead. We came to a wooden bridge and Van Hue said, “Go down under the bridge. Sleep there, and I’ll come for you in the morning.”

We shook hands and parted. They walked out into the road. If they were caught, they were going to say they had gone to check some traps they’d set in the bush.

Jean said, “Papillon, don’t you sleep there. You sleep in the bush, I sleep there. When they come, I’ll call you.”

“Fine.” I went into the bush, smoked a few cigarettes, and fell asleep happy and my stomach warm from the good soup.

Van Hue turned up before daybreak. To gain time, we would walk on the road until the sun rose. We walked fast for forty minutes. Suddenly it was daylight and we could hear in the distance the sound of a wagon coming along the tracks. We hid in the bush.

“Good-by, Jean. Thanks and good luck. God bless you and your family.” I insisted he take the five hundred francs. In parting, he explained how, if the Cuic-Cuic business didn’t work out, I could locate his village, make a detour around it and find myself on the path where I’d first met him. He used it twice a week, so we’d be bound to meet. I shook hands with my black friend and he hurried off down the road.

Van Hue said, “Let’s go.” We pushed into the bush. He picked out the direction immediately and we moved with good speed. The bush was not very thick; he was able to separate the branches and liana without having to cut them with his machete.

In less than three hours we found ourselves facing a mud pond. There were water lilies in bloom and large green leaves stuck to the mud. We followed along the edge of the bank.

“Be careful you don’t slip. You’ll never be able to climb out,” Van Hue warned me, having just seen me stumble.

“You go ahead. I’ll follow you and be more careful.”

A tiny island sat in the sea of mud about a hundred and fifty yards from shore. Smoke was rising from the middle of it. It must be the charcoal pits. I spotted a crocodile in the quicksand—sub-merged except for its eyes. What on earth could it find to eat in that goo?

We had walked about three-quarters of a mile around the edge of the pond when Van Hue stopped and started to sing at the top of his lungs in Chinese. A man came to the edge of the island. He was small and wearing only shorts. The two Chinese talked at great length, and I was beginning to get impatient when Van Hue said, “Come this way.”

I followed him and we retraced our steps.

“It’s all right. That was a friend of Cuic-Cuic. Cuic-Cuic’s gone hunting, but he should be back soon. We’ll wait for him here.”

We sat down. Cuic-Cuic arrived in less than an hour. He was a dried-up little guy with the yellow skin of an Annamite, shiny, almost black teeth and frank, knowing eyes.

“You a friend of my brother Chang?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You can go, Van Hue.”

“Thanks,” Van Hue said.

“Here, take this hen partridge.”

“Thank you, no.” He shook my hand and left.

Cuic-Cuic drew me to where a pig was waiting. We both followed the pig, literally in his footsteps.

“Very careful, Papillon. One false step and you’re sucked in. In case of accident, we can’t help each other for then we both die. The path is never the same because the quicksand moves. But the pig always finds a way. Once I had to wait two whole days before we could cross.”

The black pig sniffed around and was soon off across the quicksand. Cuic-Cuic talked to it in Chinese. I was mystified by this small animal that obeyed him like a dog. My eyes bugged out as the pig crossed to the other side without ever sinking more than an inch or two.

Cuic-Cuic set off after him, saying, “Place your feet in my steps. We have to be quick because the pig’s traces disappear almost immediately.” We crossed without difficulty. The quicksand never reached above my ankles, and then only at the very end.

The pig made two big detours which made the walk two hundred yards. I was pouring sweat. I wasn’t just scared; I was terrified.

During the first part of the crossing I wondered if it was going to be my fate to die like Sylvain. I saw the poor bastard again at that last moment, but although the body was his, his face seemed to have my features. That walk was purgatory. I won’t forget it soon.

“Give me your hand.” And the little guy, all skin and bones, helped me up the bank.

“Well, my friend, I don’t think any manhunt’s going to use that path.”

“No, we don’t have to worry about that.”

We walked toward the middle of the little island. The smell of carbon gas grabbed me by the throat. I coughed. It was the smoke from two burning charcoal pits. No problem with mosquitoes here. A little woodman’s hut made of leaves stood protected from the wind and veiled in smoke. Standing in front of the door was the little Indochinese we had seen before we met Cuic-Cuic.

“Hi, Mouché.”

“Talk French to him. He’s a friend of my brother.”

The tiny Chinese looked me over from head to foot. Satisfied with what he saw, he held out his hand and gave me a toothless smile.

“Come in. Sit down.”

The hut was clean and entirely kitchen. Something was cooking on the fire in a great big pot. There was a single bed made of branches standing over three feet above the ground.

“Help me make something for him to sleep on tonight.”

“All right, Cuic-Cuic.”

In less than a half hour my bed was made. The two men set the table and we had a marvelous soup, then some meat and onions with white rice.