One afternoon Mohand was lying on his bed in his room when he heard a knock. He sat up. Someone actually knocking on his door was unusual. The last time that happened… he jumped to his feet and walked over to open the door. As soon as the door opened, a young girl bounded into his arms. She kissed him on both cheeks and cried, ‘My second father.’
Mohand was completely taken aback. It took a moment for him to recognise her. She had grown taller and her hair was longer. He looked over the girl’s shoulder and saw a man standing there.
‘Valerie. It’s you,’ said Mohand. ‘It’s been such a long time.’
‘I am fine, my second father,’ she said, stepping back from him and recovering her composure. Her enthusiasm and pleasure at seeing Mohand again had overridden the behaviour that polite French society decreed should rule her movements.
‘I am not your second father,’ Mohand laughed while feeling unaccountably pleased that this girl should still hold him in such high regard.
‘Off course you are, silly,’ she grinned. ‘Since you gave me my second life.’ She paused and looked over her shoulder to introduce the man who was standing watching. The expression he was struggling to keep from his face was one of horror. That his charge should be so familiar with a convict was clearly breaking every rule he held dear. ‘This is Matthieu. He is my chaperone for the day. We have come to invite you to a party at Monsieur Le Maire’s residence.’ She spoke formally, in the manner of one well trained in the niceties of French high society.
‘When? Now?’ asked Mohand.
Valerie nodded excitedly, once again a small girl.
Of course, Mohand was delighted to have this opportunity to escape his miserable life just for an evening.
‘We should not keep the mayor waiting, let’s go.’
* * *
When they entered the main salon in the mayor’s house, Mohand was pleased to see that Valerie’s mother and father were in attendance, along with a small number of other guests. A group of men sat chatting in one corner and a group of women in another. As soon as they saw Mohand, they all jumped to their feet.
The mayor held him warmly by the shoulder and introduced him to each of the guests, who were all the important personalities of the town, including the judge and his wife.
‘Madame Le Maire,’ Mohand smiled. He looked over a long table laden with food and gave a small bow. ‘My stomach grumbles in anticipation.’
Save that there were more guests at this event, the evening passed in a similar way to the dinner party Mohand had attended the year before. The food and wine were plentiful and delicious, once again served by an army of waiters.
Again, Valerie demanded his full attention, but Mohand found her company easy and refreshing. She was a bright girl, displaying knowledge of a wide array of subjects and on more than one occasion, Mohand wished he had access to more information than the gossip of the other convicts so that he could offer her more of a conversation.
One man there intrigued Mohand. He sat at the far end of the table with his wife. Both of them had straight black hair, dark faces with delicate features, and were dressed in simple linen. The only adornment was a small dot of colour in the middle of the woman’s forehead. When she spoke, her eyes were cast down to the table and she deferred to her husband. When he spoke, his words were insightful and chosen carefully and pitched beautifully in his soft voice; an accent that Mohand had never heard before.
Valerie noticed the direction of his attention.
‘That is Judge Kathari and his wife,’ she said quietly. ‘He is from India. And he is in charge of all the judges in French Guiana.’
At this moment, aware that he was the subject of discussion, Kathari looked over at Mohand and gave a small nod.
Mohand couldn’t have been more surprised had she said that he spent his winters in a red suit and delivered presents to all the Christian children in the world. A judge? His only experience of judges so far had been the man who had sent him here: Truck. The two men could hardly be more different.
This man wore a half-smile like it was part of his permanent mood and had an aura that suggested benign wisdom. Therefore, a judge from a different world compared to the court of the French colons.
Mohand nodded in return and thought that he would seek out this man at the earliest opportunity. Not to gain any favour, but for the simple realisation that he could be a friend.
He shook his head at the thought and dismissed it as quickly as it rose. He’d clearly been drinking too much of this delicious wine.
‘What do you think the likelihood of war is, Mohand?’ asked Valerie, breaking his train of thought.
‘Darling,’ interrupted Madame Lefavre, ‘that is not a topic for debate at the dinner table.’
‘Pardon, Mama.’ Valerie coloured slightly and studied her plate.
‘The girl is only repeating a question that is on the lips of each of her elders, my love,’ Monsieur Lefavre said, defending his daughter. ‘One would have hoped that Europe learned its lesson the last time, but Hitler’s need for power knows no bounds.’
‘And the father defends the daughter by continuing the conversation the mother would rather not hear,’ his wife said and smiled primly. She may have shown displeasure at her husband’s words, but her eyes showed real affection and for a moment Mohand felt a sharp pain in his gut that he would never again have such a relationship with a woman.
The prefect’s wife nodded at Mohand’s glass in an attempt to change the conversation. ‘More wine, Mohand?’ Her eyes searched his as if looking for something else. He coloured, thinking that his loneliness might be apparent to everyone sitting at the table. He coughed and then realised that some levity was required. ‘Wine? But of course,’ he said. And then, to much laughter, ‘Provided it’s not German.’
During a lull in the conversation, Mohand looked around the room and wondered about the nature of his relationship with these people and why they had continued to seek out his company. He was nothing but a criminal. What worth could he be to them? Did it amuse them to think that they had such a person in their midst? A convicted criminal no less. He remembered doing things as a child: running down a steep hill, climbing a tree, diving into water that was too deep. These actions were done by way of searching for danger, while knowing that someone was always on hand nearby to save him if things became too difficult. Was this how the French couples saw him? Were they using him to feel the presence of ‘danger’ while knowing they were perfectly safe?
But he remembered the light in Madame Lefavre’s eyes as she looked at him during that moment when loneliness squeezed at his chest. Was there real affection there?
A voice interrupted his reverie. The mayor’s wife was speaking to him, an expression of fondness illustrating her question.
‘You had a wife back in Algeria, non? You must miss female company?’
‘Please don’t quiz the man, darling,’ said the mayor.
His wife dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
‘Forgive me for my clumsiness, Mohand. It’s just that my sister and I were talking, and we wondered if it was not a marriage that you wanted?’
Mohand’s jaw fell open. It must have been minutes before he felt able to speak.
‘No, madame,’ he coughed. ‘I do not want marriage.’
‘Are you sure you are not crazy? Did some guard beat you over the head?’ She laughed at the idea of this as if it would never happen.
Mohand looked at the creature in front of him and realised she had no real idea of what life might be for him. Her husband had done a highly effective job of keeping the reality of this place from her. He looked around the room, at the furnishings, the large muslin-draped windows, out into the garden and down the path towards the town square. Her view of the world was so different from his they might as well be different species. He considered his history lessons and the story of L’Autrichienne herself – Marie Antonette – the ignorant young French queen/girl who said, ‘Let them eat
cake.’ He should have felt anger at this, but he could only feel a deep sadness. None of this was her doing. She was simply playing a role she had been given.
He then felt that he should give this woman an idea of what he longed for most, but as he opened his mouth to speak, he found that he couldn’t articulate it.
‘What I want most in this world, you cannot offer. No one can.’
SIX
Closing the Bagne
On 2nd November, 1937, Mohand was called to the director’s office. When he was handed the formal slip requesting his presence, he pushed it to the side and continued on with the tasks he was required to complete for that day. He had a ship due in at the port; an inventory to prepare for the goods due to replace those being removed from the hold. Important work that no one else could do with the same attention to detail as he.
He looked up from his work and glanced at the summons. He tutted to himself. ‘What does he wants from me now? I wish they would leave me be.’ He carried on working, delaying his visit to the director’s office deliberately. On the whole he was a willing worker, but occasionally he found that, despite his best intentions, he would find small ways to keep the authorities waiting. A small rebellion as pointless as a teat on a bull. But a rebellion nonetheless.
Eventually, his conscience and a little curiousity got the better of him and when he arrived, the director was sitting behind his desk, his welcoming smile laced through with impatience.
‘What kept you all this time? I have some good news for you; don’t you want to hear it?’
‘Sir, I was very busy,’ replied Mohand with respect for the man’s position. ‘I have many tasks to perform, and,’ he paused and offered a placatory smile, ‘I did not know that it would be good news.’
The director stood up and held a hand out to Mohand.
‘Because of your excellent conduct, it has been decided to reduce your sentence by one year.’ His voice was loud and his tone thick with pride.
‘Why, thank you,’ Mohand took the hand and shook it. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ He was sure his mixed feelings at this news would be obvious, but he wasn’t sure how he wanted to react. He had been sentenced to doublage. That meant when his sentence was served, he would still have to remain in French Guiana for the remainder of his life. What would becoming a libéré one year earlier mean to him? What was a year’s reduction of his sentence worth when he still was unable to get back home?
He looked at the pleasure shining in the director’s eyes and realised that the man really thought the administration had done Mohand a great favour. Was he really so blind to the situation? Did he really not realise that this meant little to a man with doublage and perpetuity added on to the end of his sentence?
The director’s expression was slipping from pleasure into mild confusion at his muted reaction and Mohand thought he ought to show a little more grace. After all, this man quite literally held his life in his hand. One word and he could be posted back to the jungle.
He offered a smile that would appear larger than the thought behind it. ‘Sir, any good news is better than bad news. I welcome any clemency. Thank you.’
Reassured that Mohand agreed with his feelings about the development, the director’s smile slid back into place. He handed Mohand the official slip.
‘Congratulations, Monsieur Saoudi. This shows your fellow convicts that hard work will be rewarded.’
Walking towards his office and now freed from the need to appear agreeable to the situation, Mohand felt a scowl form on his face. The numbers ran through his mind. His twenty-year sentence had officially started in 1927, which meant he had to do nine more years in the camp as a convict and a further nineteen years outside for doublage. Then he would be ‘free’ but still unable to leave French Guiana. He felt his feet thunder on the wooden planks of the corridor.
‘They can keep their clemency,’ he muttered. This was a gesture that was completely without merit. The authorities made only themselves feel good with this small pardon. The next time he went to the toilet, Mohand thought, he should wipe his arse with the paper. That was how much it was worth to him.
* * *
Around a year later, Mohand was ordering goods for the prison from a catalogue. He was comparing the previous year’s order with the current number of prisoners and then trying to formulate numbers for the upcoming year. This work was mind-numbing and after ten hours bent over a desk, he felt he deserved a break. One of the guards had left behind a local newspaper. He would make himself a coffee and read the paper for half an hour before going back to his work.
He leafed through the pages, enjoying the crackle of the paper as he turned to the next page. He treasured the written word and worshipped every medium it arrived in. As he read, he wondered if every local newspaper in the world contained similar news.
Some lady had won a flower arranging competition. The local soccer team had beaten a team from the other side of the country. Local personages of importance were mentioned as they arrived back in the colony after time away in Paris. Newborns were listed, as were deaths. Good job they don’t mention the deaths out in the logging camps, he thought ruefully, or they would need the same amount of paper again.
His habit was to quickly leaf through the paper and mentally tick off pages that he wanted to come back to later and study. Having done so, he returned to page one and was immediately stunned. How did he miss this?
‘La fermeture du bagne avait été décidée par le décret-loi de Daladier, le 17 Juin 1938’.
The French government had passed a law to close the bagne. He read the article over and over again. Could this be true? The bagne closed by legal decree? He read it again. There was no closure date given. How could they do this and not provide a date?
Hope flared in his chest. Then died as he considered what he knew about the French mindset. They were more than capable of passing a law and then ignoring it. They might not implement this particular law for years.
* * *
A few nights later this article was being discussed in detail down at the bar. Even Lacroix stopped serving to come over to the table and offer his cent’s worth.
‘Don’t get your hopes too high, gentlemen. The French abolished slavery in 1818, but didn’t get round to enforcing that until 1848.’
‘Thirty fucking years?’ someone at the back of the room shouted. ‘I’m not waiting thirty fucking years.’
‘What are you here for, Manceau?’ his friend asked, leaning back on his chair.
‘Murder. I killed the man who…’
‘I could care less why you killed someone, you idiot. How much more of your sentence do you have?’
‘Thirty years.’
Laughter boomed around the room. This was a welcome distraction from the nervous energy that flowed with the rum.
‘The bagne could be closed soon,’ a voice whispered in the corner. A voice hushed with awe.
‘Not a chance,’ someone else said.
‘It’s never going to happen,’ yet another voice added. Then everyone clamoured to add their opinion. Every voice pessimistic.
Mohand couldn’t stand the negativity in the space around him. He wanted to believe this was possible. He needed to believe it was possible. He picked up the paper and left the bar.
Walking back to his room, thoughts circled his mind. Excitement burned its energy down the length of his legs as he marched. If they closed the bagne, he thought, then doublage would automatically be cancelled. Even if they delayed the implementation until his projected liberation date of July 1946, he had only eight years left.
He turned his face to the night sky. The moon winked from behind a cloud.
‘This means I will go back home to my family,’ he whispered to the stars. ‘Thank you, Allah, for giving me the strength to survive this hell. And making it possible to see my loved ones again.’
That night he could not get to sleep. His mind burned with possibilities as if liberation was just around the corner.
The next morning, full of hope of returning home, he decided he should write to get news from the family.
In spite of himself, he was keen to know who of his family were still alive. In his own letter to them he deliberately failed to mention anything about his cousins. He was certain the authorities would have passed this information on and he had no wish to remind them of this loss.
A reply arrived within two months. Mohand held the letter for long moments before he could force himself to open it. He held the envelope to his nose, closed his eyes and sniffed at it as if it held the perfume of home. He was searching for pine trees, olives, figs, the dry heat of Algerian soil. All he got was paper, ink and the stale smell of a sea crossing.
He put the envelope down on the table and stared at it. He had asked for this, he should be able to open it. And yet…
He could fill in the blanks; everyone was well, they were all brimming with health and sending him hopes of the same.
And yet…
He knew.
And there it was at the end of the first sentence.
His father was dead.
The man he cared for more than anyone else on the planet had passed away. He stared at the floor until it became a grey, watery blur. It started with a sniff. Then a low keening sound. Before he knew it he was rocking back and forward, his knees pulled up to his chest.
His father was dead.
He howled. This was more pain that he could handle. Nothing compared to this.
A brief flash of awareness and he was at the bar. A jug of tafia on the table beside him and furtive expressions of concern from those around him.
The next morning when he woke up he could barely move his head. His limbs ached. His mouth felt as if it had been filled with sand while he slept. For the first time since his yellow fever, he took a day off sick.
Before he had even taken an inventory of the state his body, the thought had returned. His father was dead. He held a hand to his eyes. The tears flowed again. A part of him wondered how there could be so many tears. Would his eyes not dry out? Did he not expect this? His father would be an old man. No one lives forever.
The Guillotine Choice Page 28