“I think you are a dedicated man,” Joenes said carefully.
“You’re right. And I’ve got a beautiful wife and three wonderful children. I’ve taught them all how to shoot a revolver. Nothing’s too good for my family. And Watts thinks he knows something about emotion! Christ, these smooth-talking bastards get me so sore sometimes I can feel my head coming oil. It’s a good thing I’m a religious man.”
“I’m sure it is,” Joenes said.
“I still go every week to see that priest who got me out of the gang. He’s still working with kids, because he’s dedicated. He’s getting sorta old to use a knife, so now it’s usually a zip gun, or sometimes a bicycle chain. That man has done more for the cause of law than all the youth rehabilitation centers in the city. I give him a hand sometimes, and between us we’ve redeemed fourteen boys who you would have thought were hopeless criminals. Many of them are respected businessmen now, and six have joined the police force. Whenever I see that old man, I feel religion.”
“I think that’s wonderful,” Joenes said. He began backing away, because the policeman had drawn his revolver and was toying with it nervously.
“There’s nothing wrong with this country that good-heartedness and straight thinking won’t cure,” the policeman said, his jaws twitching. “Good always triumphs in the end, and it always will as long as there are good-hearted men to help it along. There’s more law in the end of my nightstick than in all the musty old lawbooks. We bring them in and the judges let them go. What about that? Nice state of business, huh? But us cops are used to it, and we figure one broken arm is worth a year in stir, so we take care of a lot of the sentencing ourselves.”
Here the policeman drew his nightstick. With it in one hand, his revolver in the other, he looked hard at Joenes. Joenes sensed the sudden hugeness of the policeman’s need to enforce law and order. He stood utterly still, only hoping that the policeman, now advancing toward him with shining eyes, would not kill him or break any bones.
A crucial moment was approaching. But Joenes was saved at the last moment by a citizen of the city, who, made absentminded by the tropic sun, stepped off the curb before the traffic light changed to green.
The policeman whirled, fired two warning shots, and charged toward the man. Joenes walked quickly away in the opposite direction, and continued walking northward until he was beyond the limits of the city.
6. JOENES AND THE THREE TRUCKDRIVERS
(This and the three Truckdriver stories which comprise it arc told by Teleu of Huahine.)
As Joenes was walking along a highway to the north, a truck stopped beside him. Within the truck were three men who said they would willingly give him a ride as far as they were going.
Very happily Joenes got into the truck and declared his gratitude. But the truckdrivers said the pleasure was theirs, since driving a truck was lonely work, even for three, and they enjoyed talking to different men and hearing of their adventures. This being the case, they asked Joenes to tell what had happened to him since he had left his home.
Joenes told these men that nothing had gone right since he had left his home, and everything had gone badly. Therefore he considered himself very unfortunate.
“Mr. Joenes,” said the first truck driver, “you have indeed gone through misfortunes. But I am the most unfortunate of men, for I have lost something more precious than gold, the loss of which I bemoan every day of my life.”
Joenes asked the man to tell his story. And this is the story which the first truckdriver told.
THE STORY OF THE SCIENTIFIC TRUCKDRIVER
My name is Adolphus Proponus, and by birth I am a Swede. Ever since I was a child, I loved science, believing it to be mankind’s greatest servant.
Because of my humanistic instincts and my scientific inclinations, I become a doctor. I applied for work at the United Nations Health Commission, desiring the furthest and most wretched place on earth. I was sent to a place on the coast of Western Africa, there to be the sole doctor for an area larger than Europe. I was replacing a man named Durr, a Swiss who had died of the bite of a horned viper.
In this area there was a great prevalence of diseases. Many of these were known to me, for I had studied them in books. Others were new. The new ones, I learned, had been propagated artificially, as part of the neutralization of Africa.
These diseases had wiped out several hundred million Western troops, who were engaged in combat against Eastern guerillas. The guerillas, too, were wiped out. Also many species of animal had been destroyed, although a few had thrived. The rat, for example, flourished. Snakes of all species multiplied. Among insects, there was a great increase in flies and mosquitoes. Among birds, the vulture had increased beyond counting.
I had never known about this state of affairs, since news like this is generally ignored in a democracy, and is banned in a dictatorship. But I saw these horrors in Africa. And I learned that the same was true in the tropical parts of Asia, Central America, and India. All of these places were now truly neutral, through accident or through design, since they were engaged in a desperate struggle for life itself.
I was saddened by the perverted way in which science had been used. But still I believed in science. I told myself that evil men of little vision had created much harm in the world; but that humanitarians, working through science, would set it all right again.
I set to work with a will, aided by humanists the world over. I went to the tribes within my district, treating their illnesses with my supplies of drugs. My successes were overwhelming.
But then the spawning diseases became resistant to my drugs, and new epidemics began. The tribes, although strong in their resistance, suffered terribly.
I wired urgently for newer drugs. These were sent to me, and I put down the epidemic. But a few of the germs and viruses managed to survive, and disease spread once again.
I requested newer drugs, and these were also sent to me. Once again disease and I were locked in mortal combat, from which I emerged victorious. But there w ere always a few organisms which escaped my drugs. Also, there were mutations to be reckoned with. Given the right environment, I learned that diseases could change into new and virulent forms much faster than men could make or discover new drugs.
In fact, I found that germs behaved quite like humans in times of stress. They showed every evidence of an astonishing will to survive; and quite naturally, the harder one struck at them, the faster and more frantically they spawned, mutated, resisted, and at last, struck back. The resemblance was, to my way of thinking, uncanny and unnatural.
I labored prodigiously, trying to save the poor, patient, suffering population. But disease outstripped by latest drugs and raged with unbelievable violence. I was in despair, for no new drugs had been invented to meet these newest ills.
Then I found that the germs, in mutating to meet my new drugs, had become vulnerable once again to the old drugs. Therefore, in a perfect frenzy of scientific fervor, I began to apply the old drugs once more.
Since I had come to Africa, I had battled no less than ten major epidemics. Now I was beginning to fight my eleventh. And I knew that the germs and viruses would retreat before my attack, spawn, mutate, and strike again, leaving me to fight a twelfth epidemic, with similar results, and then a thirteenth, and so forth.
This was the situation into which my scientific and humanistic zeal had carried me. But I was drunk with fatigue, and half-dead with my labors. I had no time to thing of anything but the immediate problem.
But then the people of my district took the problem out of my hands. They possessed very little education, and they only saw the great epidemics which had ravaged them since my coming. Those people looked upon me as a sort of supremely evil witch doctor, whose bag of healing drugs actually contained the refined essences of the diseases which had ravaged them. They turned to their own Witch doctors, who treated the sick with useless daubs of mud and bits of bone, and blamed every death upon some innocent tribesman. And they fled from me t
o an area of desolate swamp, where food was scarce and disease was common.
I could not follow them, since tire swamp was in a different district. This district had its own doctor, also a Swede, who gave out no drugs at all, no pills, no injections, nothing. Instead he got drunk every day on his own supplies of alcohol. He had lived in the jungle for twenty years, and he said he knew what was best.
Left completely alone in my district, I had a nervous collapse. I was sent back to Sweden, and there I thought about everything that had happened.
I realized that my science and my humanism had helped no one. On the contrary, my science had done nothing but produce more pain and suffering, and my humanism had foolishly attempted to wipe out other creatures for man’s benefit, and by doing so had upset the balance of forces upon the Earth.
Realizing all this, I fled my country, fled Europe itself, and came here. Now I drive a truck. And when someone speaks to me in glowing words about science and humanity and the marvels of healing, I stare at him as though he were insane.
That is how I lost my belief in science, a thing more precious to me than gold, the loss of which I bemoan every day of my life.
At the end of this story, the second truckdriver said, “No one would deny that you have had misfortunes, Joenes. But these are less than what my friend has just told you. And my friend’s misfortunes are less than mine. For I am the most unfortunate of men, and I have lost something more precious than gold and more valuable than science, the loss of which I bemoan every day of my life.”
Joenes asked the man to tell his story. And this is the story which the second truckdriver told.
THE STORY OF THE HONEST TRUCKDRIVER
My name is Ramon Delgado, and I am from the land of Mexico. My one great pride was in being an honest man. I was honest because of the laws of the land, Which told me to be so, and which had been written by the best of men, who had derived them from Universally accepted principles of justice, and had fortified them With punishments so that all men, Hot just those of good will, would obey.
I labored for many years in my village, saved my money, and led on honest and upright life. One day I was offered a job in the capital. I was very happy about this, for I had long desired to see that great city from which the justice of my country derives.
I used all my savings to purchase an old automobile, and I drove to the capital. I parked in front of my new employer’s store, Where I found a parking meter. I Went inside the store in order to get a peso to put in the parking meter. When I came out, I was arrested.
I was taken before a judge who accused me of illegal parking, petty larceny, vagrancy, resisting arrest, and creating a public disturbance.
The judge found me guilty of all these things. Of illegal parking, because there had been no money in the meter; petty larceny, because I had taken a peso from my employer’s till to put in the meter; vagrancy, because I had had only a single peso on my person; resisting arrest, because I had argued with the policeman; and creating a public disturbance, because I had wept when he took me to the jail.
In a technical sense, all these things were true, so I considered it no miscarriage of justice when the judge found me guilty. Nor did I complain when he sentenced me to ten years of imprisonment. I knew that the law could be upheld only through stern and uncompromising punishment.
I was sent to the Federal Penitentiary of Morelos, and I knew that it would be good for me to see the place where punishment is served out, and thus to learn the bitter fruits of dishonesty.
When I arrived at the Penitentiary, I saw a crowd of men hiding in the woods nearby. I took no notice of them, for the guard at the gate was reading my commitment papers, he studied them with great care, then opened the gate.
As soon as the gate was open, I was amazed to see that crowd of men come out of hiding, rush forward, and force their way into the prison. Many guards came out and tried to push the men back. Nevertheless, some were able to get into the Penitentiary before the admittance guard was finally able to close the gate.
“I had always thought that prisons were for the purpose of keeping people in, rather than out,” I said to the guard.
“They used to be,” he told me. “But nowadays, with so many foreigners in the country, and so much starvation, men break into prison merely to get three meals a day. There’s nothing we can do about it. By breaking into prison they become criminals, and we have to let them stay.”
“Disgraceful!” I said. “But what do foreigners have to do with it?”
“They started all the trouble,” the guard said. “There’s starvation in their own countries, and they know that we in Mexico have the world’s best prisons. So they come great distances in order to break into our prisons, especially when they can’t break into their own. But I suppose foreigners are really no worse or better than our own people, who do the same thing.”
“If this is the case,” I said, “how can the government enforce its laws?”
“Only by keeping the truth a secret,” the guard told me. “Someday we will be able to build penitentiaries which will keep the right people in and the wrong ones out. But until that time comes, the thing must be kept secret. In that way, most of the population still believes they should fear punishment.”
The guard then escorted me inside the Penitentiary, to the office of the Parole Board. There a man asked me how I liked prison life. I told him that I wasn’t sure yet.
“Well,” the man said, “your behavior for the entire time you have been here has been exemplary. Reform is our motive, not revenge. Would you like an immediate parole?”
I was afraid of saying the wrong tiling, so I told him I wasn’t sure.
“Take your time,” he said, “and return to this office any time you want to be released.”
Then I went to my cell. Within I found two Mexicans and three foreigners. One of the foreigners was an American, and the other two were Frenchmen. The American asked me if I had accepted a parole. I said that I hadn’t yet.
“Damn smart for a beginner!” said the American, whose name was Otis. “Some of the new convicts don’t know. They take a parole, and wham, they’re on the outside looking in.”
“Is that so bad?” I asked.
“Very bad,” Otis said. “If you take a parole, then you don’t have any chance of getting back into prison. No matter what you do, the judge just marks it down as a parole violation and tells you not to do it again. And the chances are you don’t do it again because the cops have broken both your arms.”
“Otis is right,” one of the Frenchmen said. “Taking a parole is extremely dangerous, and I am the living proof of that. My name is Edmond Dantes. Many years ago I was sentenced to this institution, and then offered a parole. In the ignorance of my youth, I accepted it. But then, on the Outside, I realized that all my friends were still in prison, and that my collection of books and records were still here. Also, in my juvenile rashness, I had left behind my sweetheart, Trustee 4342-2231. I realized too late that my whole life was in here, and that I was shut out forever from the warmth and security of these granite walls.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I still thought that criminality would bring its own reward,” Dantes said with a wistful smile. “So I killed a man. But the judge simply extended my period of parole, and the police broke all the fingers of my right hand. It was then, while my fingers were healing, that I resolved to get back in.”
“It must have been very difficult,” I said.
Dantes nodded. “It called for a terrible patience, because I spent the next ten years of my life attempting to break into this prison.”
The other prisoners were silent. Old Dantes continued:
“Security was more rigid in those days, and a rush through the gates, such as you saw this morning, would have been impossible. Therefore, unaided, I tunneled under the building. Three times I came up against sheer granite, and was forced to begin a new tunnel search somewhere else. Once I came almost to
the inner courtyard, but the guards detected me, counter-tunneled, and forced me back. Once I tried to parachute onto the prison from an airplane, but a sudden gust of wind forced me away. Thereafter, no planes were allowed to fly overhead.”
“But how did you finally get in?” I asked.
“I returned to the prison disguised as a special investigator. At first the guards were reluctant to let me pass. But T told them that the government was considering a reform bill in which guards would be granted equal rights with the prisoners. They let me in, and I then revealed who I was. They had to let me stay, and some man came and wrote my story. I only hope he put it down correctly.
“Since then, of course, the guards have instituted rigid measures which would make the repetition of my plan impossible. But it is an article of faith with me that courageous men will always surmount the difficulties which society puts between a man and his goal. If men are steadfast, they too will succeed in breaking into prison.”
All the prisoners were silent when old Dantes finished speaking. At last I asked, “Was your sweetheart still here when you got back?”
The old man looked away, and a tear coursed down his cheek. “Trustee 43422231 had died of cirrhosis of the liver three years previously. Now I spend my time in prayer and contemplation.”
The old man’s tragic talc of courage, determination, and doomed love had cast a gloom over the cell. In silence we went to our evening meal, and no one showed good spirits until many hours later.
By then I had thought until my head ached about this whole strange matter of men wanting to live in prison, The more I thought, the more confused I became. So, very timidly, I asked my cellmates whether freedom was not important, and if they never hungered for cities and streets, and for flowering fields and forests.
“Freedom?” Otis said to me. “It’s the illusion of freedom you’re talking about, and that’s a very different thing. The cities you talk about contain only horror, insecurity and fear. The streets are all blind alleys, with death at the end of every one of them.”
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