‘Please don’t be offended, Mohand. We would like you to have some handsome clothes.’ Madame Lefevre smiled at him. ‘You must be anxious to get out of that prison uniform.’
Mohand looked around himself, open-mouthed. He didn’t see this coming. His first thought was that it would be wonderful to have nice cloth on his back, but then he thought, what would I do with a suit in prison?
‘You are very kind, Madame Lefevre. Thank you, but I do not need any clothes.’ This was clearly a lie as he had hardly any clothes to his name. The couple had been in his cell and they could have seen for themselves the full extent of his worldly possessions.
The prefect’s wife turned to him.
‘Are you not happy with what you just did for us?’
‘Of course I am happy. But I only did what was right at the time. I felt it was my duty. If I did not try to save her, I would be feeling guilt for the rest of my life.’
The woman was clearly someone who was not used to being turned down. ‘No, you have to take something.’
‘In that case…’ said Mohand, wondering how to deflect the attention elsewhere. He pointed at the mayor. ‘I will take the trousers from your host, the mayor.’
The mayor was a good-looking man, with a head of thick black hair and a warm expression. He laughed. ‘I can’t give you my trousers. My wife bought me these for my birthday.’
‘I already have trousers,’ said Mohand with a comic expression. With each hand he held out the meagre cloth of his to the side.
Everyone laughed.
The two men clapped Mohand on the shoulder.
‘I respect your wishes, Mohand,’ said Monsieur Lefevre. His eyes were full of understanding and a fresh appreciation of the young man before him. His expression showed that he realised Mohand was trying to retain some form of dignity. He bowed somewhat formally.
‘Another time, perhaps?’
Mohand nodded. This was an ideal solution. The gift was offered and accepted at some indeterminate time in the future. In this way, everyone would save face.
FOUR
Tea with the Mayor
At the mayor’s residence, Mohand found that he was the guest of honour at a small party to celebrate the safe return of Valerie to her parents.
The residence was a grand home built in the colonial style, with large windows, wooden floors and swathes of linen. An army of servants stood at attention as they walked in and, with quiet efficiency, set about looking after the guests.
Each of them was handed a small glass of wine and as Mohand sipped at his glass he took the opportunity to look around himself.
Soft chairs in pale fabrics were positioned around the room he was standing in. Large tables of dark, rich wood leaned against the four walls and each table was topped with a lush display of flowers. So clean and tidy was everything around him that Mohand continually wiped his hands on his trousers.
On one wall a large oil painting of the bay of St-Laurent-du-Maroni was on display. Struggling to maintain some form of equilibrium, Mohand walked over to the painting and studied it.
He had never seen anything so beautiful. That man could make such a thing was a wonder to him.
‘This was the scene where you were very effective today, Mohand.’ He heard a woman’s voice and turned to see the mayor’s wife at his shoulder.
‘This is very beautiful,’ he said….
‘Why thank you, Mohand.’
‘My wife is a very talented painter, monsieur,’ said the mayor, moving over to join them, a strong light of admiration in his eyes.
Mohand looked from the painting to the woman. He formed a small bow.
‘Wonderful,’ he said. He looked away from the woman back to the painting. Her frank gaze was making him feel a little uncomfortable. It had been a long time since he had last known the pleasures of a woman’s body and he could feel himself respond.
‘The colours…’ He gave a little cough. ‘How you achieved those colours…’
The mayor’s wife touched his shoulder. ‘Practice, Mohand. Just a little practice and anyone could do it.’
The mayor leaned forward and pecked his wife on the cheek. ‘So modest, my love.’ Then he turned to the small group of people and said, ‘I believe that the food is now ready. If you would all follow me?’
He turned to face a set of double doors painted a bright white, opened them and walked through into another room set with a large table, groaning under the weight of food.
Plates of fruits, meat, fish and bread were arrayed in a dizzying display that brought an instant growling response from Mohand’s belly.
A servant pulled back a chair for Mohand. Another set a napkin over his lap. Yet another filled a glass with water. This initially made Mohand deeply uncomfortable. He observed the servants as they quietly and efficiently worked around the room, ensuring that each plate and glass was full. It was all he could do not to jump up from his chair and join in serving the others. He felt that he should be working alongside the servants, some of whom were clearly ex-convicts. He caught a few glances from them, but in the main the servants treated him with the same deference they showed the other guests.
Valerie sat beside him, made sure that she had the lion’s share of Mohand’s attention, and she kept up the same stream of chat that she had started on the walk over.
It was like a dream. Mohand had never been treated this way. Back in Algeria, even with the Samsons he had never experienced this level of luxury. The two families were obviously devoted to the little girl, who was completely unspoiled by all of this attention. They were also clearly political animals and adept at making sure their guests were at ease.
They treated Mohand with respect. They asked questions about his background and his family life back in Algeria. At first, he was reluctant to answer but when it was clear they were being asked from a position of genuine interest, he relaxed and was happy to answer.
At one point a servant came in to the room and whispered something in the ear of the mayor. The two men left the room.
They returned moments later. The two wives asked what had happened.
‘Nothing to concern you, ladies,’ the mayor answered and smoothly changed the conversation.
Mohand puzzled on this for a moment and returned to the flow of the chatter. The evening passed quickly. The conversation barely paused and Mohand’s wine glass was never allowed to empty.
Madame Lefevre tried to tell Valerie that it was long past her bedtime, but she was reluctant to leave Mohand’s side. Only when her head was resting on the table did she allow her father to carry her to bed. Before she left the room she roused herself a little and quietly insisted that she give Mohand one last kiss.
After she pressed her lips against Mohand’s cheek, he smiled. ‘Pleasant dreams, ma cherie.’
Once the girl had been taken from the room, Mohand stood up from the table with wearied reluctance. The thought of leaving the comfort of this house and the affection in which he was clearly held was difficult for him to accept.
But what other choice did he have?
‘I must go back to my room,’ he said.
Just then, Monsieur Lefevre returned.
‘Are you sure we can’t give you something, Mohand? We owe you our daughter’s life.’ He pulled a wallet from his pocket and started to count out some money.
‘Monsieur Lefevre, I can’t accept your money. The fact that your daughter is alive is all the thanks that I need.
‘Are you absolutely sure, Mohand?’ asked the mayor.
‘If you insist on giving me something, Monsieur Le Maire, I will take your trousers,’ Mohand repeated his earlier request with a grin. Again everyone laughed.
Now that their formal behaviour had been softened by wine, both women hugged Mohand at the door and the men shook his hand warmly.
Then the two men insisted that they escort him back to his room. At the door to his cell, the prefect placed a hand on each of Mohand’s shoulders and looked deep into
his eyes. The emotion evident there sparked a response in Mohand. He coughed to disguise how he was feeling.
‘You have no idea what you have done for us, Mohand,’ Monsieur Lefevre said. He looked beyond the door and into Mohand’s cell. ‘I will find a way to make life a little easier for you in this place. It’s the very least I could do.’
Mohand, realising he had protested enough throughout this evening, held his tongue. If good came from this, he would take it and thank Allah. If it didn’t, he would endure. That was what he did.
When the men eventually said goodbye and left, Mohand felt their leaving with a heaviness that took him by surprise. He slumped onto his bed.
From all that kindness and luxury to this small and empty dark room. There was simply no comparison. Despite all of their good intentions and well wishing, the difference between them was a stark one. They held positions of privilege and wealth, while he was a convict in one of the worst prisons on earth.
He sat up, a little dizzy with all of the wine. A sudden longing for company, any company gripped him. He could go down to Lacroix’s bar. Maybe Simone would be there. He hadn’t spent time with him in a while. Maybe there would be some prostitutes hanging around willing to relieve some lonely man of a few coppers.
No. After spending time with those genteel sisters in such a beautiful home, the thought of rutting at the side of the road with a common whore was a good deal less than appealing. If it ever held any appeal for him, that is.
He stood up and walked the three steps to his door. He stepped out, sat against the wall, and looked up at the night sky. He thanked God once again for giving him the strength to save the little girl and for giving him the opportunity to meet such important people in his present situation.
He stood up and started walking. He was not sure of where he should go, only that he couldn’t go back and sleep in that cell of his at the moment. He had to let the events of the day and the evening that followed wind down in his mind, or he would never find sleep.
Some minutes later he heard the low mumble of voices. One urgent, one moaning, both male.
His first thought was that someone was being attacked, but then he became aware that it was the noises of passion he could hear. Disgusted that he should almost be witness to two men having sex, he turned and walked in the other direction.
He continued for a good ten minutes until he found a low wall on which he could sit and collect his thoughts. The breeze was cooling on his neck, the insects for once weren’t biting and the only noise he could hear was the lullaby of the tropical night animals.
The peace didn’t last long. He heard a man moving towards him. Then the noise of a match flaring into flame, and a cigarette being lit.
‘Oh, it’s you, Saoudi. I almost didn’t see you there.’
Mohand turned round to face the newcomer.
‘Hassan. What are you doing out and about at this time of night?’
‘Taking some air.’ Hassan stepped closer, drawing deep from his cigarette. He then held the glowing ember towards Mohand, offering him a puff. With a smile Mohand reached out and accepted the gift. He breathed deep, filling his lungs with the tobacco smoke. Felt the hit of the drug and handed the cigarette back to Hassan.
He exhaled a mouthful of smoke. ‘Thanks.’
The two men stood side by side in silence for several minutes. It was rare for them to be together without the presence of Simone and for the first time since the day with the weedkilling bagpipes, Mohand felt Hassan thrum with tension. He looked to the side and assessed the other man, who was studiously staring ahead into the darkness. The silence was like an itch. For the sake of Simone and continued smooth relations, he thought he should speak.
‘Where’s Simone?’ asked Mohand.
Even in the dark Mohand could see the answering shrug. Hassan took a deep draw from the cigarette, the small light from the ember pulsing in the dark.
‘You two fell out?’
‘Sometimes I think men are worse than women,’ Hassan answered and then looked over to study Mohand’s expression. ‘I have had women, you know. I’ve not always been… what you see here.’ In the weak light, Hassan’s features appeared softer, less burdened, and Mohand got a glimpse of the man he might have become if…
‘Life hasn’t been kind to you, Hassan.’ The old guilt at how he had a role to play in Hassan’s life in the bagne twisted at the muscle in his jaw.
‘Luck is something that happens to other people, Saoudi.’
Mohand read so much into that small sentence and he realised with a start that any act of friendship from this man had been nothing but just an act.
‘I thought we could become friends, Hassan. I thought…’ Mohand shook his head. ‘You don’t like me, do you?’ he asked.
Hassan drew another lung-full from his cigarette and exhaled noisily before he answered.
‘I don’t blame you for everything.’
‘What in Allah’s name is that supposed to mean?’
‘I killed someone. I was angry. Furious. That was my mistake. Everything else…’
‘You can’t be serious,’ said Mohand. He looked at Hassan, searched for some kind of humanity within his stare. ‘All this time… the hours you and I have spent with Simone…’ He paused again, swallowed down his irritation. ‘I have come to love Simone as a friend. For his sake I am willing to pretend we are also friends.’ He stopped speaking, allowing time for the other man to reciprocate.
Hassan cleared his nasal passages and hawked into the dirt. ‘Yeah. That will work.’
Mohand bit down on the curses that were piling up behind his teeth. He exhaled and thought about the man standing beside him. How he had saved Simone in the jungle. What he had done to save Simone in the jungle.
The noises he heard earlier came back to him. The two men fucking at the side of the road. He wondered how Simone might feel about this now, in the relative safety of the camp.
‘Simone. Does he know that you have other close friends?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Hassan demanded and then looked back over his shoulder at where he had come from and turned back to face Mohand. His face in a sneer.
‘Not all of us can become heroes in order to earn some money, Saoudi.’ He rattled some coins in his pocket, his meaning clear to Mohand.
‘There must be some other way, Hassan. Surely you don’t have to…’
‘Shut up,’ answered Hassan. ‘How can you possibly know what I do and don’t have to do? You don’t have a clue, country boy.’ He took another deep drag on his cigarette and studied Mohand’s expression. Several thoughts flitted across his face before he looked away. He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. He filled his lungs with smoke once more.
‘You get it all so fucking easy, Saoudi, that you forget how difficult it is for everyone else.’ He kicked at a stone. ‘One day your blessed life will end and then you will know the pain I have suffered.’ The expression on his face suggested he was the one who would make it happen.
FIVE
New Friends
The prefect was as good as his word and within days Mohand received an important promotion. He became the main man in charge of the whole depot, with the other convicts working under his authority.
His old boss was moved to another part of the administration and, without rancor and more than a little pleasure shining in his normally laconic expression, he showed Mohand to his new quarters. This was a room, not a cell, and it was actually outside the prison camp, just a few steps from his office.
The two men stood at the doorway to Mohand’s new home; one smiling as if he had just won a prize and the other scratching his head in amazement that this had just happened to him.
‘Monsieur Deschamps, I don’t know what to say.’
‘Say nothing, Mohand. You deserve everything that is happening to you today.’ He patted him on the shoulder. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a small card with some official-looking print on it.
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‘And this,’ he said, handing the card to Mohand, ‘is a grocery card. This allows you good meat every day from the butcher and a daily ration of bread from the baker.’
Mohand stared at it as if he had just been given the keys to unimaginable riches. Which to many prisoners, this simple piece of card would be.
* * *
The months passed by and Mohand worked hard in the office, drank moderately when he had time off, continued to grow his fruit and vegetables for the hospital and kept himself fit by swimming in the sea whenever he had the time. You never know, he laughed with Simone, he might manage to once again save the child of a visiting dignitary.
There was one difference, however and that was the introduction of a pair of hens. He kept them in a small enclosure within his garden and every day he had a pair of freshly laid eggs.
In his quieter moments he would realise that, in comparison with most of his fellow convicts, he was a fortunate man. He was not happy in prison – he was miserable, in fact – but he had managed to build himself a situation that gave him a small degree of contentment. Provided he kept out of the way of certain people and maintained a positive relationship with the authorities, there was no reason why things should change.
Of course his mind drifted regularly back to his family in Algeria, but he would quickly steer it on to safer ground. He knew that he had to accept that he would never see them again, or it would drive him insane. Reason told him that this was his home now and he had to keep himself busy, work hard and keep his nose clean.
Sometimes he wondered what had become of little Valerie. She would be back in Paris now, studying in school, teasing the boys and pleasing her proud parents.
* * *
The Guillotine Choice Page 27