by Hugo Wilcken
‘Indeed I am.’
Thursday. And the proposed date for the escape is Friday. She might well stay in Saint-Laurent a day or two. Or she might come straight here. In which case, Sabir may just get to see her before the escape. He imagines her on a boat down the river, sitting upright in the canoe like a haughty princess, to be ferried ashore by the Bonis like so much cargo … The trouble is that when he thinks of the commandant’s wife, she is so very real. And yet when he dreams of escape, it feels like fantasy.
This is the first time in his life that he’s felt a small measure of fulfilment. Since leaving the barracks, things have been very different. He’s decently fed now, and he has work to do that doesn’t grind him down, not in the way factory work did. He’s a gardener. He’s developing a skill. The garden offers possibilities. A sort of liberty, even. Because life before his arrest – when he never had the luxury to think past the next meal, the next few francs – was anything but free.
‘What about you?’the commandant says. ‘Did you have a girl back home? Do you have a girl here?’
A girl here? He wonders how the camp commandant could understand so little of convict life.
‘No girl here, sir. A girl back home, though. My fiancée.’
‘Really? What’s her name?’
‘Renée.’
It isn’t; the name just came out like that. He’d been hoping for the commandant to say how strange, that’s my wife’s name, too. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even pick up on the coincidence.
‘She’s waiting for me, sir,’ Sabir continues. ‘She’s what makes it all bearable. She writes to me every week. When I get a stable position here, when I get a land concession, I’m going to send for her.’
‘I see, I see. Very good.’
It’s the first time the commandant has ever asked him anything personal, but already he’s lost interest. The questions were nothing more than an expression of boredom, politeness, or simply a desire to bridge the silence. Sabir intuits that although the commandant’s attitude towards the convicts is different from other functionaries, the men are no more real to him.
The sun is low in the sky now. It’ll be dark in half an hour. Together they walk back to the house. Sabir’s long shadow paints the door, and as he moves towards it, it’s as if he’s falling into his own negative.
Later that night, in the folly, Sabir pulls the stolen money from his pocket and counts it: three hundred francs. Enough for the escape and plenty more besides. Now he has this money, he feels changed. In the holding prison, on the boat, in Saint-Laurent, in the camp barracks, during all this time, everything in his mind has been organised around the idea of escape. Now that it’s possible, even probable that it’ll happen, the idea is starting to lose some of its mystic power. He’s wondering whether he shouldn’t sit it out here for a while. After all, he could hardly have hoped for things to have turned out as well as they have. He’s avoided hard labour, avoided barracks life, he has an occupation he likes, he has money, and it seems he has a protector in the shape of the commandant. What’s more, he knows that, in an emergency, he’ll always be able to force the cupboard door and make off with the rest of the money. And then there’s the commandant’s wife.
He tries to decipher the letter from the Swiss doctor that he’s stolen, only half-understanding: ‘… symptoms reflecting an excessively morbid disposition … they are, to my mind, of a largely psychosomatic nature, provoked by profound guilt at the death of her cousin … this morbidity manifests itself, at the deepest level, in a transference of fortunes … when she speaks of her own body as “dead meat”, she is merely expressing a desire for the converse to be true of her cousin’s body … it is this hysterical notion of sacrifice that must be confronted in the most vigorous manner possible.’ The letter is studded with psychiatric jargon unknown to Sabir, throwing the meaning of whole sentences into doubt. Even so, even if he understood all the terms, it’s clear that what he has here is not the story itself, but a commentary on the story.
Under one of the floorboards, Sabir has hidden a glass jar where he keeps his ‘treasure’. Although the jar is sealed against humidity, the photos inside are already fraying at the edges. He gets them out, spreads them by the lamp, stares at them. That picture of her at the beach. Several others he’s stolen since. Her, with a man in uniform, not the commandant. Her, sitting thoughtfully, reading a book. The book cover is visible, but the photo isn’t clear enough to read the title.
My cousin was a military man, she now tells Sabir. A captain of the tenth regiment. We were in love. Marriage, for the moment, was impossible, he had no money. I urged him not to worry about that, but, no, wait until after the war, that was what he kept telling me. I have an army friend who’ll put up the money for a business, he’d say. After family dinners, we’d sneak off, we’d meet up in a folly at the bottom of the garden … a folly just like this one. And we’d lose ourselves, among the orchids. On the last night, the night before he had to go up to the front, we embraced. I was ready – but no, he said again, I respect you too much for that; we’ll wait until after the war. I was angry at his refusal. Naked for the first time in front of a man, I was changed. I didn’t want his respect. I wanted him to be driven by the same lust for me as I felt for him.
She’s naked in front of Sabir. Mosquitoes fizzle and hiss in the lamp flame. She steps forward and he embraces her, buries his head in her breasts. Sabir, back from the front to reclaim his lover. The cousin is dead, and she’d thought she was lost. Well, now here he is again. With a different face. Toughened by war. And hardly now the type to reject a beautiful woman’s advances. ‘I’ve found you again,’ she says. The curve of a shoulder; a beauty spot beneath the breast. They fuck. No more of this pretension of respecting or disrespecting anyone or anything. It’s beyond that, Sabir now knows. It’s beyond anything. Once you step off into that cool vacuum, what else could possibly matter?
VIII
Sabir half-expects something to happen after breaking into the cupboard – but nothing does. It gives him the feeling that the commandant will never move against him. Some of the money’s gone to paying off the escape, the rest is safely in his plan. And the doctor’s letter is with the rest of his ‘treasure’ in the glass jar. He thought of putting it back in the cupboard, should he ever find it open again, and he thought of burning it over the lamp. In the end, he kept it. Somewhere in the back of his mind is the memory of that day in the holding prison, when they took his letters and photos from him.
As he wanders back to his folly one evening after rum with the commandant, he wonders why he’s been given such leeway. No doubt the commandant has checked his record – and there he’ll have found that Sabir served in Belgium; that he was even decorated. It might be part of the reason. The commandant himself has never mentioned the war, and Sabir guesses it’s because he didn’t fight in it. Perhaps he was posted to Algeria for the duration. A man like the commandant would take that hard. And overcompensate in his other endeavours. Such abstract guilt is another of those luxuries of his class. As for Sabir, he didn’t join up out of any sense of duty. The patriotism was certainly there, but only skin-deep. It affected him no more than the cheap sentiment of a music-hall melody. Going to war was simply what young, working-class men of his generation did.
And yet he’d never seriously considered deserting, either. He recalls now one particular night in 1917. All through the afternoon, word had been spreading along the lines that the offensive would begin at four o’clock the next morning. Sabir remembers nothing of this offensive, nothing at all of going over the top. All he can recall is that evening when the nervous young officer finally told them, after the weeks of waiting. Some men were in shock and babbling in the trenches that night, but in general the news had a tranquillising effect. Men who normally jumped at the sound of every mortar now went about their business quite calmly. To Sabir it felt like relief – the relief one might experience on learning one had a terminal illness, after months of suspect
ing it. As usual, after dinner they played cards – Sabir, Edouard and a couple of other fellows in the trench section. It was simply an evening like any other, only more so – to a pitch of intensity that drove away consideration of anything else but the game. As it got dark they continued to play, until they could barely see the cards, until it became impossible to go on. Even then, they stayed sitting at the ‘card table’ for another half-hour. And while they played, they remained almost silent, with an absorption that had been absolute. Nothing else – not the occasional shell or desultory gunfire, not the officers shouting orders, not the sordid hustle of trench life, nor the lice nor the rats – nothing could penetrate their world.
Later, probably an hour or two before the offensive, Sabir stared up at the stars. In his state of heightened awareness, they seemed like tiny cysts covering the night’s black skin. A lot of the men were sucking on the morphine-soaked pieces of cardboard that chemists sold to wives and mothers, who sent them on to the soldiers. When the signal came, they’d climb up in a drugged haze, not properly understanding what was happening. Perhaps, like a drunk in an accident, they’d actually fare better than the other soldiers.
Even now, there was the chance of getting out, of deserting, if you really wanted to. There was a conduit from a disused trench section that led to a field just behind the lines, and from there you could make it under cover of night to the nearest village, which was surprisingly close by, or to the town, some twenty kilometres distant. It was a well-known escape route, occasionally used by the men for sorties to local bars and brothels. As long as you were back by morning, as long as you didn’t abuse the privilege, no one said anything. Even the officers knew about it, and judged it a useful pressure outlet. And it would have been conceivable to use it now. You’d have had to get civilian clothes from somewhere, you’d have had to cover an awful lot of ground in a short space of time, but it could have been done. It was a comforting thought in a way, because it made Sabir realise he actually had no desire to desert. And it certainly wasn’t anything to do with duty, honour, bravery, pride or even fear of the firing squad. Here in the Colony, as he walks towards his folly, as he thinks about that night for the first time in years, it remains unfathomable to him.
The last embers of sunlight have died away, although a full moon casts a silver sheen over the forest. The folly stands there in its clearing, like a miniature lighthouse. Something’s not right about it, although for a moment Sabir can’t see what. The door’s open. A shadow stains the back wall against the moonlight. Someone is slumped on the floor. The shadow somehow seems more substantial than the body itself. Sabir freezes by the door – it’s not Say-Say, as he thought it would be at first. Sabir can feel fear moving down his legs, his arms and to his fingertips, the way the nicotine does after the first morning drag on a cigarette. He could turn around now, go back to the house, or sleep out in the garden, or in the aborted orchid nursery, which he’s already marked out as his next home once the commandant’s wife gets here and reclaims the folly.
Bonifacio’s not asleep. Just lying down, watching Sabir carefully, without a word, without a trace of panic. He’s like a wounded animal. His bare feet are ripped and raw – a mess of blood and bruises. What agony it must have been to walk on them.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m … I’m … the gardener.’ Sabir waves feebly in the direction of the house. It’s all he can do to get the words out of his mouth.
Bonifacio lets out a low chuckle. ‘The gardener, eh? The gardener …’ The chuckle turns into a racking cough, which continues for a minute or so. It gradually subsides. His breathing is shallow, like an animal panting. It seems he doesn’t recognise Sabir, despite the fact that their hammocks were hooked up side by side on the boat out. Sabir wonders how much he’s changed since. Then again, perhaps Bonifacio never noticed him in the first place.
‘What are you doing out here at this hour?’
‘I … I sleep down here. While the work on the house …’ Sabir’s words trail off.
‘You know who I am?’
‘No. I mean, yes. I think so.’
‘You think so … Well, listen, Mr Gardener. I need to eat. Understand me? Food.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Bonifacio stares at Sabir. Moonlight reflects off his eyes, making them look otherworldly, cat-like.
‘Yes. You see what you can do.’
The house is dark. Sabir makes his way across the garden by moonlight. He toys with the idea of waking the commandant, denouncing Bonifacio, but decides against it. No doubt Bonifacio has his friends and colleagues among the convict population. He remembers the story he was told about Bonifacio, how he’d risked travelling thousands of kilometres back to France just to kill a man. And he remembers that punch he gave a man on the boat, immediately winding him into silence, irrelevance.
Sabir tries the French windows at the back, which look out over the river. There’ll be a patio here, once the building is finished, and a path down to a jetty. He can already picture the commandant’s wife wandering out through the windows, strolling down this path in her swimming costume to read her book by the water. He’s thinking of forcing the windows open, but in fact finds they’re unlocked. Careless of the commandant. Too easy for someone to slip in and kill him. Perhaps that’s exactly what’ll happen one day. The bagnards are locked up at night, but dozens of évadés, like Bonifacio, wander up and down the river.
As he silently creeps his way through the house, Sabir notices that he’s shaking; he hasn’t done that since the war. The sound of drunken snoring from upstairs; moonlight flooding in through the window, creating a world of shadow: lines criss-cross the walls, like giant cracks. They remind Sabir of the orchid drawings in the commandant’s book. In the larder, he finds some meat slices and a loaf of bread.
Bonifacio’s sitting up. He’s bandaged his feet with what Sabir recognises as one of his own shirts. Blood has soaked right through, and with his stubby legs it looks as though all he has is two bloody stumps. In front of him is Sabir’s glass jar. It was well hidden under a floorboard, and yet he’s found it anyway. Thank God Sabir has his money in his plan. Bonifacio’s smoking one of Sabir’s cigarettes too, and flicking through his photos.
‘Fancy-looking girl you got there. Who is she?’
‘My fiancée.’
‘She French?’
‘Yes.’
‘Doesn’t look it.’
Sabir shoves the food in Bonifacio’s direction to forestall any more questions. Bonifacio drops the photos and rips into the loaf like a zoo animal. The tendons on his neck jut out, hard as wire. In a few minutes, the food is gone. The click and whirr of insects fill the air. Bonifacio says nothing for a long time, as if the effort to digest is taking up all his concentration. He’s breathing heavily. Eventually he looks up at Sabir. ‘This where you sleep?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sleeping here tonight. You sleep by the door.’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll talk in the morning.’
‘Yes.’
Bonifacio picks up the photos, hands them back to Sabir. ‘Don’t forget your sweetheart. Hope she hasn’t forgotten you.’
He has a shirt on; it’s filthy and torn. He pulls it off to use as a pillow and lies down, stretches himself out from wall to wall, the same way Sabir usually does, lying on his stomach. He’s snoring within the minute. The gigantic cross he has tattooed on his back rises up and down, glistening with sweat. Sabir sits hunched up by the door, watching Bonifacio sleeping in the lamplight. Sabir’s shake hasn’t gone; he crosses his arms, as if against the cold, although it’s still steaming hot.
It wouldn’t be so difficult to kill Bonifacio now if he wanted to. He pictures himself plunging his knife into the back of Bonifacio’s neck. The death convulsions. Then dragging the body out into the forest. The humidity and the wildlife would do the rest. He shakes the idea from his head. Quite apart from whether he’s capable of
it, he might as well see what Bonifacio’s planning first. Surely he’s not going to risk sticking around here for long. He’ll push off in a couple of days, once he’s recovered. Sabir stays awake deep into the night, smoking, until the folly is thick with the fumes and even the insects are driven away. It’s his habit to drift off to sleep thinking about the commandant’s wife, thinking about undressing her, swimming with her in the river. Tonight that’s impossible. Bonifacio has chased her away, and for that Sabir feels angry with him.
He wonders what Bonifacio’s been up to all this time. Probably hiding out by the river on his own, for weeks on end, stealing food where he can. Must have been difficult, though. Escaped prisoners are a commonplace; guard killers are not. They’re the one category of prisoner the Administration makes every effort to recapture – all the more so with a celebrity like Bonifacio. There’s a price on his head. He’d have to steer clear of the Indians and Bonis. Even other escaped bagnards camping out in the forest would be wary of him, since the penalty for aiding a guard killer is permanent removal to the islands.
Sleep comes a few hours before dawn. In Sabir’s dreams, he’s back in the trenches, playing cards with Edouard, Masque and Bonifacio. It’s hard to focus on his cards, though – every time he looks, they seem to have reconfigured themselves and it’s impossible to tell whether his hand is a winner or not. Too late, the stakes are too high, there’s nothing to do now but play on. Occasionally he looks up to see Edouard opposite him, penetrating him with his gaze, his glass eye fixing Sabir to the spot.
Day breaks through the slats of the shutters. Sabir opens his eyes, tries to focus. His head is dull with the ache of too little sleep, his throat dry. Bonifacio is already sitting up, staring at him, smoking. The bandages on his feet are stiff with dried blood.
‘Gimme your shoes.’
‘But I only have this pair!’
Bonifacio pushes his hand into his trousers, pulls out an oily wad of money. He thumbs off a few notes and hands them over to Sabir. ‘Get yourself a new pair. A new shirt as well.’