Colony

by Hugo Wilcken

  ‘Once the building work’s finished, I’m going to open up that flat land to the north, by the river. We’ve got no livestock here to feed the bagne, let alone the rest of the Colony. All that meat has to be imported. It’s costing us a fortune! We have fresh water in abundance and all we need to do is open up suitable grazing land.’

  But Sabir has switched off. He’s heard this about the livestock before. According to Bébert, one of the country lads Sabir works with on the garden, this plan to carve grasslands out of the forest is doomed to failure. Once the trees are cleared, the topsoil’s quickly washed away and it’s impossible to maintain any kind of pasture. You just end up with huge expanses of mud. Bébert’s been here six years, has tried to escape twice. Now, he appears to be resigned to his fate and spends his money gambling. ‘He hasn’t been here long enough,’ he said about the commandant, ‘but he’ll learn. He’ll learn.’

  Nonetheless, through sheer enthusiasm and willpower, the commandant has achieved an awful lot in a short space of time. There’s the land cleared up by the main camp, the buildings there and the avenue; and then there’s this grand house by the river, already nearing completion, and the garden Sabir is in charge of creating. Rumour has it that the commandant is a very wealthy man, that his house and garden are being built at his own cost – albeit with free convict labour. Perhaps it’s true. The things Sabir has managed to sneak out of the house over the past week and hide in the undergrowth – bottles of burgundy, silver spoons, a jambon de Bayonne – suggest someone who’s made no concession to colonial life, regardless of cost. Despite this, the commandant appears to be a man of ascetic habits. It’s a paradox. Sabir’s even seen him lunching off dry bread and broth – convict rations, in other words.

  The commandant’s still talking; Sabir slowly tunes back in. ‘You’re a good man,’ he’s saying, ‘you’re doing a fine job with this garden. My wife will be so pleased. I know she’ll like you.’

  Past eleven now and the boat still hasn’t arrived. The commandant can wait no longer; he has business up at the main camp. Sabir is left on his own. There’s a guard and a dozen men working down by the river, but they’re too far away to see what he’s up to. For once, there’s no one in the vicinity, and he has the perfect right to be in the house – he can take a good look around without fear of being caught out.

  Upstairs, two rooms are finished; the rest of the floor is in a skeletal state. Sabir pushes the door to one of the rooms. The first thing he notices is the full-length looking glass. It’s a shock to catch sight of himself like that. While he sees his fiancée’s face everywhere, his own has been a blank all these weeks and months. There are no mirrors out here, none that a convict can use, in any case. You can stare into your dinner tin, and it gives you a blurred, distorted image. Other than that, there’s imagination and memory. Which are always wrong. Always telling you what you want to hear, that you’re the same as when you were arrested, that the months of imprisonment have had no effect, nor will the years to come in this scorched colony. The person that now stares out at Sabir seems to be someone else. The shaved head, the leathery, sun-hardened skin and the gaunt features give his face the skull appearance that he’s noticed in others. He’s been here such a brief time, and yet the transformation has already happened.

  In the room there’s a bed, a chest of drawers, a chair and table, a few other pieces of furniture. Sabir jerks open one of the drawers; there’s nothing in it. This is to be the wife’s bedroom, evidently. The curtains are frilly, feminine. The sole other decoration is a framed photograph sitting on the bedside table. It’s of a house by a river. Sabir does a double take: the house looks just like the one he’s in right now, built at the same angle to the river, with the same garden layout. He takes a closer look at the photograph. No, actually it’s a different river, with European trees and vegetation. A different house. Nonetheless, the similarity is striking.

  The other bedroom’s clearly occupied. The bed’s unmade, there are clothes on the chair and piles of books on the floor. Downstairs is a similar mess of books, paper, food, clothes, cutlery. It’s what makes it so easy to steal from here: what Sabir takes, the commandant will assume is lost somewhere. Or he simply won’t care. He shows little interest in possessions. It’s occasionally the way with the rich, Sabir has noticed. Those who’ve never had to struggle to own anything.

  He picks up one of the books: The Principles of Hydro-Engineering: An Introduction. He flicks through it – it’s full of notes. Most of the other books have some practical slant as well. The man’s a self-starter, a Robinson Crusoe. On top of one of these piles of books, there’s an album crammed with photographs. Some have been stuck in, others just jammed between the pages, so they spill out when Sabir opens the album. He bends down to collect the ones he’s dropped, shuffles through them. There’s one of the commandant as a boy, in a sailor suit. Another of a frowning man in a top hat, beside a matronly woman in a voluminous dress. Several photos of the house – that same house from the picture in the wife’s bedroom. And several more of an attractive, dark-haired woman in her mid to late twenties. The commandant’s wife, Sabir supposes. There’s something odd about her, although Sabir can’t immediately put his finger on it. Her face is completely expressionless in each image – like that of a saint, or of a dead body. There’s just one image of her smiling, at the beach. She’s wearing a swimming costume, revealing the curve of her hips and breasts. Sabir slips this photo into his pocket.

  Before lock-up he has another rendezvous with Carpette, down by the edge of the forest. Sabir has some more stolen goods for him. This time, Carpette has specifically asked for paper and ink. Very easy to spirit away from the commandant’s desk: he’s one of those men who’s always firing off a mess of ideas, and that’s what his desk looks like. In general, it’s not the thieving that’s so difficult, it’s hiding the stuff and then getting it up to the main camp. The endless trips he has to make down an indistinct path running parallel to the main one, to avoid the guards …

  It seems, though, that he’s managed to allay Carpette’s suspicions of him. And so far, Carpette’s been as good as his word: he’s fenced the things Sabir’s brought him and paid up promptly. No doubt Carpette’s swindling him – the silver spoons he’d stolen are probably worth ten times what Carpette gave him. And yet Sabir couldn’t care less – he’s at least getting some proper money, for the first time since his arrival. That immediately makes him feel better, less vulnerable. The first payment went to buying a plan and a knife. Since then he’s been saving. And buying food to supplement his rations: above all, it’s important to stay in decent health.

  The dealings between the two have until now been furtive, brief. But this afternoon there’s more time, and as they exchange goods and money, Carpette asks Sabir if he has any plans.

  ‘I’m getting out, of course,’ Sabir says, ‘as soon as I’ve got the dough.’

  Carpette shakes his head. ‘You’ll need a lot more than that.’

  ‘I know.’

  He offers Carpette one of the cigarettes he’s just stolen from the commandant; together, they smoke in silence. A bloated sun hovers over the green horizon. Never before has it looked so huge, so near. Back in France, Sabir didn’t know what the sun was really like. Out here, it’s the true fire. It penetrates your body like a knife. And burns with an intensity that reduces a whole life to a mere moment.

  ‘Edouard says I can trust you. So I’ll tell you that we’re getting out, too.’ Carpette says nothing further, and neither does Sabir. It’s such a pleasure to smoke a real cigarette. Carpette exhales languidly; he doesn’t gulp down the smoke like most convicts. The sun nudges the horizon now; it’s sinking into the forest. It’ll be dark very soon. Here, night falls like a stone.

  As they walk back to the barracks, Sabir can see the men queuing for their dinner ration. Theoretically, it’s the keeper’s job to collect the rations from the kitchen and dole them out – but no doubt Carpette’s paid someone else t
o do it. There’s nothing you absolutely have to do in this colony, if you have the money to avoid it.

  ‘Edouard used to work in the botanical gardens,’ Carpette now continues as they walk. ‘But he has his enemies in Saint-Laurent. That’s why he was sent to the camp. That’s why they won’t transfer him back. And that’s why I bribed my way into this job, out here. It cost me all my savings. Back in Saint-Laurent, I used to run the postal service. It was a damn good job. We were happy in Saint-Laurent!’ He spits out the word happy with a bizarre violence. ‘So now we’ll escape. We’ll need a boat and sail; that’s not a problem. I don’t know why, but Edouard trusts you. If you want in, though, you’ll need two hundred francs up front. A hundred for the boat, fifty for the sails, fifty for the food and water. Then another few hundred for when we get to Colombia, if you want to make a go of it. The problem is finding someone to sail the boat. If there’s anyone in your barracks who’s likely, sound him out. Tell him his expenses’ll be covered.’

  Night again. The knife in his hand makes him feel no safer. It just emphasises the fact that in here everyone has knives. They’re locked in behind heavy iron doors, the guards are nowhere near, and there’s no way out in case of trouble. Certainly, everyone’s extremely wary tonight and practically nobody’s asleep. Antillais is stretched out on the bed board, hands behind his head. He’s spent the past half-hour at work on a toy boat he’s building, using the wood from his cat’s manger. Masque is in the corner near the privy, arguing with another fort-à-bras. He looks drawn, tired. The atmosphere is weirdly calm. Sabir forces his mind onto other things.

  He thinks back to his conversation with Carpette. something new has happened. For the first time since he’s been here, escape is not just an abstract project, but a real, concrete prospect. Visions of a different world come to mind. Dark-haired men with large moustaches and sombreros. Is that Colombia? Or maybe it’s Mexico he’s thinking of. Sabir knows nothing of any of these countries, except that they all speak Spanish there – a language of which he has no knowledge. He knows nothing of boats either. And yet Carpette’s proposing an epic ocean voyage of, what, hundreds of kilometres? Or thousands? In a way, it’s all the same. His dreams are a blank canvas that he can colour with whatever images he chooses.

  What of Carpette and Edouard? He didn’t see it at first, but Sabir now recognises Carpette as one of two ‘types’ who generally manage the best here. The first are the forts-à-bras, who use brute force, intimidation and protection rackets to get what they want. And then there are the hustler types like Carpette, the small-time capitalists who keep a low profile but build up networks of accomplices to create mini-trading empires. The forts-à-bras are to be avoided, but it’s useful to know the hustlers.

  Carpette is also a somewhat effeminate man. In a mainland prison, he’d have to hide it, or get regularly beaten up. Not here. The hyper-virility of the bagne craves its opposite. It’s the men in the middle – men like Sabir – who are the invisible ones, who play no part in the sexual economy. Without even really thinking about it, Sabir assumes that Carpette and Edouard are lovers. It’s the only form of solidarity that exists out here, after all. Otherwise, you’re utterly on your own. There’s no such thing as friendship or camaraderie, as there was at the front.

  Sabir tries to remember what Edouard was like in those days, when they shared a trench section and much else besides. It’s not easy. In a relationship like theirs, the other person is the mirror you gaze into, and his real nature remains obscure. Edouard now strikes Sabir as something of a mysterious character, although he didn’t feel that at the time. Taciturn, given to acid remarks and black humour. There was that day he let slip that he was a widower: ‘She was thrown from a horse and died the next day. We were married just long enough for us to realise we couldn’t stand each other!’ No, he certainly wasn’t like other enlisted men. For a start, he wasn’t even working class. He was educated, he read educated books. He had a business, he’d been an importer of exotic plants. Why did he join the infantry, when he was clearly officer class? He had the reputation of being a brave soldier, in any case. Scrambling up the dirt walls to take potshots at the German wire-cutters with his old hunting rifle, in full view of the enemy lines. Reckless, death-wish behaviour. Sabir also recalls that Edouard used to be a keen sketcher. He always carried a little sketchbook with him. Sabir once flicked through one of them and found it full of desolate landscapes. A single tree stump in a field, a dark farmhouse against the sky …

  Darkness smothers the barracks. Over by the night-light, a card game is getting under way. The game they play here is called the marseillaise, a version of baccarat. Often it goes on until dawn. Not that Sabir has ever joined in. It’s too easy to get addicted to gambling, and once that happens, it’s the end. You’ll never get out. You’ll start winning, maybe huge amounts; you’ll find yourself living for the game, thinking about it incessantly all day and playing it all night. Then, after a while, you’ll start losing. When you’ve exhausted your funds, you’ll borrow money you can’t hope to pay back. Soon you’ll owe half the barracks. You’ll become an outcast, no one will play with you. You start receiving threats. Your nerves are gone, you’re pulling your knife at the slightest provocation. You’re in a hopeless spiral that can only end one way.

  Masque is the banker. He rattles the money box and a few convicts get off the bed board to join in. It’s the banker’s job to deal the cards, manage the game, settle any disputes. He gets a ten per cent cut of all the winnings, so it’s a lucrative position. You’ve got to be ruthless to do it, though, ready to defend yourself and draw your knife the moment there’s any trouble. Consequently, it’s always the toughest fort-à-bras who takes the job. Masque has been banker for the past month, but lately he’s let his second take over the role almost every night. Maybe he thinks it makes him too vulnerable to an attack from Antillais. If so, he seems to have changed his mind tonight. The tension in the barracks visibly eases: if Masque doesn’t think he’s going to be attacked, he must have good reason.

  Sabir watches the game from his corner. Behind the players, several people wait in attendance. There’s the man who earns a few sous spreading the blanket they play on. Another convict puts the cigarettes in front of each player; yet another pours the coffee: an entire mini-economy revolves around the game. Masque says nothing as he deals. His tattoos are a carnival joke. He’s bald on top but has tattooed in his hair. Around his eyes, tattooed glasses. On one cheek, an ace of spades; on the other, an ace of clubs. On his upper lip, a purple moustache. In civil society, he’d be a freak. But men like Masque rarely try to escape; the bagne is their life and it’s impossible for them to live outside it.

  One by one, the makeshift lamps go out. But the game goes on. One of the players, Sabir notices, is the Basque boy Say-Say, the one who’d come up from Saint-Laurent with the story of Bonifacio’s escape. He looks about seventeen, has freckles, big jug-handle ears and bad teeth. Too ugly to appeal to the forts-à-bras, but they’ve found another way to misuse him anyway. He had a full plan on arrival in the camp, and was too young and inexperienced to shut up about it. So the forts-à-bras coerced him into the card game and are in the process of picking him clean. Once they’ve done that, there’ll no longer be any future for him in this camp. Being from the Basque country, though, Say-Say probably knows his way around a sailing boat. As he watches the boy lose again, Sabir recalls the lad who’d bunked beside him on the journey out. Gaspard, with the country accent you could hardly understand. What happened to him, he wonders. Is he still alive? He remembers the promise he made to the boy to look out for him and feels a stab of shame. Perhaps he can redeem himself by transferring the promise to this other hopeless case.

  Hard rain starts to pound the roof. That means it’s about midnight. Before coming here, Sabir would never have believed how clockwork the weather could be. Life’s uncertainties have become certain, and vice versa. He listens to the dead sound of cards being shuffled, fingered, slapped d
own onto the blanket. There’s an occasional muttered curse. Everyone not involved in the game is lying down now, except a toothless old convict who’s darning a pair of trousers. Out of the corner of his eye, Sabir notices Antillais silently rising from the bed board. He moves like a ghost towards the card game. Masque has his back to him. A flash of something in Antillais’s hand. Sabir can feel a hundred eyes flaming up in the night. But Antillais sails straight past the card game. Nothing happens. Masque doesn’t even turn round. And Antillais continues down the short corridor, into the privy.

  For a minute, Masque continues with the card game. Then suddenly he tosses the pack to his assistant and leaps noiselessly to his feet, like a cat. Again, a flash of something in the reflection of the night-light. The assistant starts dealing. In a second, Masque has disappeared down the corridor to the privy.

  Now another man jumps up. Impossible to see who it is; he’s too quick. He’s been lying on the bed board right by the privy. The corridor swallows up his shadow as well. Nobody moves. The players freeze mid-game. In the vacuum, the sound of an uneven drip fills the air like a tolling bell. Suddenly, a scuffling. The noise of a garment being ripped, a muffled grunt. Then a pig’s squeal of a scream that splits open the night. It’s followed by a gurgling, guttural noise, like someone trying to clear his throat. Then nothing. The barracks is engulfed in a chaotic silence.

  A tiny, eternal moment of stillness before everyone snaps into action, in a storm of energy. The remaining little lamps are snuffed out. Players grab their money from the floor and race to the bed board. Men scramble to hide their knives. The marseillaise blanket and money box disappear and once again silence invades the barracks. Outside, the rain thunders on. And from the privy, groans, growing ever fainter.

  A man walks back out through the corridor. It’s Pierrot. The convict whose winnings Masque had brazenly made off with a few weeks back. He strolls over to the water barrel, starts washing his hands. He takes off his shirt, plunges it into the water barrel as well, wrings it out and casually tosses it over a piece of string to dry. Then he lies back down on the bed board by the privy. Another man walks out of the privy. Antillais. He’s muttering to himself. He too finds his spot on the bed board and lies down. Even he stops mumbling now, as an expectant hush shrouds the barracks.