The Guillotine Choice

by Michael J Malone

  All of this meant that Mohand was comparatively well compensated and he was given time off at weekends, which he spent mainly in bars with his friends, or swimming down at the convict’s side of the beach. Simone and Hassan were among them and they were often found mumbling over a jug of rum into the early hours. During one such drinking spree, Simone had a word of warning for Mohand.

  ‘Don’t be too flash with your money, Mohand,’ he whispered after Mohand had bought another jug of rum. He only ever called him Mohand when he was worried. When he finished speaking, he looked around the small café as if checking for potential assailants. As always, Hassan was at his side.

  To Mohand’s relief, after a few weeks of his company, Hassan had relaxed. He doubted they would ever be strong friends, but they had a common connection in Simone and this was enough to soften any acrimony Hassan might have felt for him.

  The Moroccan smiled and finished off Simone’s thought. ‘There have been a few unfortunate events recently. There was that guy, that libéré, who was murdered.’

  Mohand smiled at Hassan, thought about the libéré who had been attacked. ‘What was that guy’s name?’

  Hassan shrugged. ‘Whatever it was, he didn’t have a sous to it once those bastards were finished with him.’

  Just a few days before, news had reached them that a libéré had been murdered in a small farm just outside the town and every sous he had scraped together had been stolen, together with his crops and even his tools. This wasn’t the first; apparently there had been a spate of such murders throughout the colony. Although life was relatively easy for Mohand, most of the convicts and indeed the libérés lived a hand-to-mouth existence. A situation that led to many desperate men taking what they needed without too much concern about the consequences.

  Men like Mohand, who had managed to make life a little bit easier for themselves, were seen to be an easy target. Fingering the roll of notes in his pocket, Mohand was suddenly struck by the truth of this.

  ‘Anyone tries to steal from me’, he held up a fist, ‘and the bastards will get more of a fight than they bargained for.’

  ‘I’m terrified, Saoudi. You are safe from me,’ said Simone with more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘But keep in mind what the new regulations are.’

  Mohand nodded. A few weeks before, in an effort to stem the increasing number of deaths in the camp, the authorities had placed a five-franc limit on the amount of cash a convict could carry on his person. To be in possession of more would lead to a report, at best, and possible confiscation.

  He rubbed his eyes, not realising until now how tired he was. He should make his way to the Chinaman in the morning and put more into his account. He should also make his way back to his bunk for a good night’s sleep.

  ‘I’m dead on my feet. I’m going back to the barracks.’ He placed a hand on Simone’s shoulder and restrained him as his friend made to leave with him. ‘No. You stay here with Hassan…’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I insist, Simone.’ Mohand smiled at both men, aware that his smile faded as it was aimed at Hassan. There was just something about the man. However, he was fond of Simone and wanted to keep his friend happy. Everyone knew that the two men were lovers, but Mohand’s presence gave them an air of legitimacy that prevented many of the unsavoury types from giving vent to their hatred of homosexuals. ‘You two don’t get much chance to talk when I’m around. Stay. Chat. Drink some more rum and I’ll see you later.’

  Hassan inclined his head and offered Mohand a small smile of appreciation, while Simone chased him from the bar with a barrage of insults that somehow managed to question his gender, his race and his genus.

  Mohand began the short walk back to the barracks. The sky was studded with stars, the air warm and heavy with the perfume of the jungle: fertile loam, flowers and decay. Birds called warning. Night creatures under the cover of leaf and darkness waited to eat or be eaten.

  He heard the noise of someone stumbling behind him. The warning that Simone delivered in the café shot into his mind. He turned round. A tall, thin figure was standing beside a large bush. Whoever he was, he all but merged into the darkness. There was a glint of teeth and a voice spoke.

  ‘Give me your money or I’ll stick you.’ The voice was deep.

  ‘If you want it, come and get it,’ Mohand said, matching the voice’s tone. Adrenalin sparked along his arms and down his legs. His heart beat like a drill in his chest. He was on his toes, ready to defend himself, or run if that was necessary. Whatever happened, this man was not getting his money easily.

  The figure stepped out from the bush and into the moonlight. He was dressed in rags. Those patches of skin that were visible, were streaked with dirt.

  ‘I said, give me your money, boy.’ He took another step forward. His eyes were black spots under the overhang of his heavy brows.

  ‘And I said come and get it,’ Mohand answered, and wondered where this courage was coming from. This man was a good six inches taller than him. Something shone in the moonlight. And Mohand realised with a shock that the man was carrying a blade.

  ‘Okay. I will.’ The man moved forward again, but this time it was more of a shuffle.

  ‘What kind of thief are you?’ Mohand demanded. It occurred to him that this man was either too drunk or too tired to carry out his threats. ‘I could be in another country by now.’ His shock was fading but the adrenalin was still surging through his muscles. Tired this man may be, but he was still desperate. Mohand was ready for anything.

  ‘A hungry one.’

  ‘Come and get it.’ Mohand took one step towards the man and then another, trying to judge his state of mind. Then, without conscious thought, he rushed him. The would-be assailant stepped back in alarm and fell over on to his back.

  Mohand aimed a kick at the man’s hand and with relief saw the knife skitter across the earth. He then moved closer and was about to aim another kick at the man’s gut when he heard him make a noise. He expected a note of pain from the kick, but this… it sounded like the man was crying.

  With astonishment he realised his would-be attacker was in tears.

  Mohand’s anger evaporated in a flash. He bent forward and reached out a hand. The man saw it and flinched.

  ‘Here. Let me help you up onto your feet,’ Mohand said while keeping his hand outstretched.

  ‘You don’t want to…’

  ‘I want to help you up onto your feet …’

  ‘What, so you can stick me?’

  ‘I don’t want to stick you, idiot. I want to help you.’

  Even in the weak light, Mohand could see that the man’s expression was thick with confusion. He stood up and brushed the dirt from the seat of his trousers, which from where Mohand was standing, was a complete waste of time, but he thought it suggested some level of pride.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Mohand asked.

  ‘Armand,’ he answered. ‘And I’m terribly sorry I tried to rob you. I’m just so…’

  ‘Desperate?’

  Armand nodded.

  ‘Stupid?’

  He nodded again.

  Mohand was suddenly overcome with empathy for this poor shadow of a man in front of him. From Armand’s diction, he could tell he had once been a man of education. That he was reduced to a sorry attempt at mugging told Mohand almost everything he needed to know.

  ‘Why don’t we go to Lacroix’s and I’ll buy you a snack.’

  Armand looked over at the lights shining into the dark from the bar and shook his head. ‘Lacroix won’t let me in.’

  ‘He will if I show him the colour of my money.’

  ‘No, young man. I’ve troubled you enough.’ Armand looked in the other direction, deep into the woods. ‘I’ll… I’ll just head…’

  ‘What’s your story, Armand?’

  ‘I’m a buffoon. A clown that’s lost his circus. A turtle that needs to crawl back into his shell.’

  ‘When were you given your freedom?’

  Arman
d looked into Mohand’s eyes for the first time.

  ‘The life of a libéré is harsh one,’ Mohand said.

  Armand hugged himself, rubbing his right shoulder with his left hand and read the empathy in Mohand’s eyes. ‘You’re a strange one,’ he said. ‘I try to rob you and you stand there as if we just met at a cocktail party.’

  ‘A party where the required clothing is a set of rags.’

  The two men looked down at themselves and laughed.

  ‘I was a teacher in Alsace.’ Armand’s mouth stretched into the line of a weak smile. ‘My father was to gambling what Joan of Arc was to firewood. He owed the local hotshot a few francs. He set his men onto him. I was visiting and rushed to my father’s help. One of the men sent to attack my father was unfortunate enough to fall onto the bread knife I was holding. Made a hell of a mess of the kitchen tiles. I was charged with his murder.’

  ‘Tough story, my friend.’

  ‘I’ve been free for two weeks.’ Armand laughed at the word. ‘Free. I was better off in prison. I was released into the wider community at eight in the morning. Given a pair of trousers and a hat. Warned to stay away from bread knives and told to report to the police twice a year.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘And officially notified that I was to live in French Guiana for the rest of my life and told I was forbidden to live in Cayenne for the next twenty.’

  Mohand could say nothing. He couldn’t fail to notice the irony. Here was a man who was technically free, yet he was at this point much worse off than he.

  ‘There’re no jobs?’ Mohand asked, knowing the answer.

  ‘And my family back in Alsace have sent me any cash father failed to lose on the cards…’

  Mohand thought about the men he sometimes used down at the quayside to help him unload the boats. He explained to Armand how he might be able to help him.

  Armand shook his head as if failing to understand how events had arrived at this point. ‘I should try and rob someone every night.’ He grinned and waved his knife grandly through the air.

  ‘Yes, because you are so good at it,’ Mohand laughed. He then felt in his pocket for a note, fished one out and pressed it into Armand’s hand. ‘An advance. Meet me at the dock tomorrow at ten.’

  Armand simply stared at the piece of paper in his hand. When he lifted his head up, Mohand could see the tears that silvered his cheeks in the moonlight.

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Say nothing, Armand. Time to climb out of the gutter, my friend.’ Mohand gripped Armand’s shoulder for a moment. Released him and then turned and walked back to the barracks.

  On his own now and surprised at the turn of events, he could still feel the alcohol in his system and as usual when his body was slowed with alcohol, his mind strayed to home. His Saada and her smile as bright as any of the stars overhead. His faithful brothers. His father, Hadj Yahia. Was he still alive? And Saada, if he had avoided jail, how many children would they now have? Would he be as good a father to his sons as Hadj Yahia was to him? The names his sons would have. Names of courage. Of hope.

  As always his mind turned last to Hana Addidi. She was the one who would be suffering most from his absence. What mother could bear to know about the suffering of her child? He could write to her, he decided. Explain that, despite everything, he was coping. Then he remembered his decision to remain distant from his family. He couldn’t allow himself such thoughts. He spat on the soil. Crazy, Mohand. That is the way to insanity.

  TWO

  Quartier Libre

  Back in the office, Mohand continued to work hard in order to keep memories of home at bay. There were times when he missed his family so sharply that it was all he could do to lift himself from his bed. But he forced himself to go to work and so occupy his mind that the memories were swamped by lists, actions and the workings of the colony. The irony was that all of this hard work did not go unnoticed by the authorities and he became an even more valued member of their staff and to ensure his continued output, he was moved to the Free Quarter, where the guards were much more relaxed and where he was given a small cell to himself.

  He managed to furnish this room with a bed, a real mattress and a small table where he could store his most prized possessions: his books. From the moment he had learned to read in the French schools, he always had loved the power of the written word and whenever he could he would lose himself in a story. He had managed to acquire half a dozen books and these he read one after the other, over and over again. His favourite was The Man In The Iron Mask. He could relate to the unfairness of it all and this afforded him the chance to address his own feelings towards his own incarceration. He may be living in the Free Quarter, but he was an imprisoned convict with a number tattooed on his wrist and nothing other than unconditional liberty would make that change.

  He was now able to take more control of what was happening down at the docks and with this came more money. These were not huge sums, but over the months they would build up, until he could deposit it with Monsieur Chin as a tally of gold.

  With some of this extra money he did what he could to help his fellow convicts. Late one evening after another sixteen-hour day, he realised that the patch of ground that he walked across from his office to his cell was untended. It was a plot of ground that was clearly ignored by the gardeners and was nothing but weeds. Perhaps it could be put to better use? He considered his own recovery from yellow fever and how fresh fruit and vegetables had helped. He also remembered that these simple foods were rare in this part of the colony. Why was that? This was rich fertile soil. Vegetation was in riot wherever he looked. Surely it would be a simple enough matter to grow some nourishing food.

  That night he barely slept and at first light, he dressed, had his usual simple breakfast of bread spread thickly with butter and a mug of black coffee and then walked over to the office.

  As usual, his boss was the first man there. Unable to contain the enthusiasm that had kept him awake all night, Mohand opened his mouth and a flurry of words filled the air.

  Deschamps looked up from his papers with a smile on his face.

  ‘What do you want to do with this land?’

  ‘I could grow fruit and vegetables. The land is just going to waste anyway.’ So caught up was he with the importance of this new project that Mohand thumped a hand down on the desk. Both men were startled by the sound of this. His boss recovered more quickly and chuckled at the force of Mohand’s conviction. He instantly regretted his action and with a small smile of apology he took a step back.

  ‘The land must be fertile. I could have a small market garden. I could grow all kinds of fruit and vegetables that could be used at the infirmary…’

  ‘Okay, okay, okay,’ Deschamps said and put a hand up. ‘You’ve convinced me. As long as your work here doesn’t suffer.’ His expression grew mock-stern, for he knew that he could rely on Mohand to complete any task he set him. ‘And as long as I get a share of any profits.’

  Mohand could barely wait to get started on this and at the first opportunity he made a visit to Monsieur Chin and ordered seeds and new plants that he could use to start his venture. Any spare moment he had, even to the extent that on occasion he was forced to work in the dark, he tended his garden. So lush was the soil and so strong the strong sun, that his plants flourished and within weeks he was able to start supplying the hospital kitchens with nourishment for the sick convicts.

  * * *

  Following his recuperation from yellow fever, Mohand had often gone for a swim to help build up his strength. Whenever he could, he went swimming and after some time became very proficient, swimming for long hours and for long distances out into the ocean. Here, at least, he had an illusion of freedom. Out at sea he could pretend to be on his own.

  Given that the weather was usually sunny, whenever the local people had some spare time they would also rush to the beach. This meant that after work hours and at weekends the beach could be very busy. The convicts were forbidden from mixing w
ith the public, even those prisoners that were considered well-behaved. So Mohand was used to taking a spot at the far end of the beach, a good distance away from the crowd.

  The sun was strong overhead, which made walking on the sand with bare feet a painful experience. When he was satisfied that he was suitably at a distance from the crowds, he stripped to his shorts and made himself a little camp with his shoes and his shirt.

  He sat down on the sand and looked back along at the others, fighting back his feeling of resentment at their freedom. They were mostly camp guards, soldiers on leave and managers of the various elements of the colony. These men had the luxury of being able to relax with their wives and children. This was like a holiday spot for them, while he was nothing but a prisoner.

  Still. He was in the fortunate position of being able to come here and enjoy the same space, while most of his fellow convicts were being worked into an early grave. He looked out to sea and noticed that it was calm.

  His eyes were drawn to a dark cloud in the distance. There, the brightness of the day seemed to be swallowed up by a spell of bad weather. For a few minutes he stared at this cloud and tried to judge the direction of its movement. In that period it seemed to be moving closer to the beach. Even from here he could see that the cloud was almost as low as the sea and that waves were being formed by the weather it was producing.

  He judged that given the speed that it was moving he might have another half hour before it struck the beach, so if he was going to go for a swim he should go now.

  There was a large rock jutting out from the sea away to his left. He could swim until he was alongside it and then turn and come back to shore.