by Hugo Wilcken
Manne’s condition had got progressively worse, until finally he’d had to limp back into Panama City, mentally and physically at the end of his tether. The weeks in the jungle had nearly killed him, had got him nowhere. He’d found nothing of real interest, had merely accumulated enough new specimens to cover expenses.
A tasteless meal, a sleepless siesta, then a visit to a Chinese tailor to hire evening wear. By now the sun was low in the sky, about to sink into the jungle. His room behind the café had begun to feel like a prison cell, but it was still too early to go to the governor’s residence. Instead he wandered aimlessly south of the pier until he came to a muddy beach, sitting down on a rock that jutted out of the grey sand. For a long time Manne simply gazed into the river, with its melancholy ripples of sunset orange and yellow. Then he stared over to Albina, the tiny, whitewashed settlement on the other bank. His mind spun away into that occult place halfway between thought and dream.
Something had changed in him since he’d crossed over the river. He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly. It had to do with the vertigo he often felt, in dreams mainly but sometimes in waking moments too. A sensation of falling, forever falling, that he’d been falling for years. Since the war at least, or maybe all his life. Without ever reaching the bottom, or even knowing if there was one. Well, he’d reached it now. Before, up had been the same as down, forward the same as backward. No longer.
The river, sky, jungle were melting away into the blackness – night fell so quickly here. Manne was perfectly used to it, though. What seemed alien to him now was the thought of those languorous European twilights, with their eternal shadows and filtered light. Manne got up from the rock he’d been sitting on and headed back to the café. There he changed his clothes and walked slowly back up the boulevard.
He’d passed the governor’s residence before: a rather splendid affair on a wide street shaded with mahogany trees. An immaculately turned-out butler let him into a sumptuous garden, bursting with exotic vegetation. Manne followed the man down a path, through the huge front door, then on to some sort of reception room, where he was announced. A couple of dozen people were being served cocktails by an army of servants. The men were mostly in smart military uniform, the women in summer frocks, adorned with jewellery that in Paris might have been judged too showy. Manne could feel eyes wandering over him with a small-town intensity. The tedium of garrison society hung heavily over the room.
For a few minutes Manne stood by himself, sipping his cocktail, until a pudgy, balding man approached him and bowed curtly. ‘Monsieur Hartfeld?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Please allow me to introduce myself – Captain Leblanc. I’m the governor’s secretary. I’m afraid he couldn’t be here this evening, but he asked me to …’ The captain stopped mid-flow, peered at Manne. ‘But this is most odd … haven’t we met before?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You didn’t serve in Belgium, did you?’
‘I wasn’t in Belgium. I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘I’m sorry … could have sworn … to tell you the truth, you look awfully like someone I served with. Now I think about it, poor chap died in action. Silly mistake of mine.’
‘That’s all right.’
Leblanc continued to look at him oddly for a moment, then snapped out of it with a smile. ‘In any case, why don’t you tell me about your mission here? The governor is most anxious to help in any way he can.’
‘Well, we’re hoping to receive funding for a botanical survey of the lower Maroni area. We think this could be of immense scientific and commercial interest to the Colony and the French government. The institute has sent me out to do a preliminary feasibility report …’ Manne hadn’t thought it through, but what came out sounded plausible enough. The captain asked him a few questions, and Manne found himself effortlessly extemporising – as always, the bigger the lie, the easier to tell.
‘Your first stop here should probably be the botanical gardens. The old convict in charge, he’s been there for years, if not decades. Probably knows more about the local flora than anyone else. He’s something of an expert on local orchid species, so they tell me.’
‘Thank you, I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Of course, outside Saint-Laurent, things will be more difficult. This is penal territory, so you’ll understand there’ll be restrictions on your movements. The inland and coastal camp areas are out of bounds, for a start.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. It’s the river system that’s the focus of the study.’
‘Well, there’s relatively easy access to the river between here and about fifteen kilometres south. Beyond that is the camp de la relégation, which is under different jurisdiction, so you might have to apply to Cayenne for permission to enter.’
‘What about to the north?’
‘To the north it’s all penal territory. There are labour camps. A couple on the river: Saigon, then further up there’s Renée. There are paths along the river, right up to the coast. Although, as I said, the coastal camp areas are out of bounds.’
‘And the river camps? If I wanted to stay at one of them, would that be possible?’
‘Oh, you’d have to stay at one of them. Outside Saint-Laurent, you must report to the authorities every evening. And I’m afraid I’d also have to ask you to sign a promise not to publish anything about the camps or take photos of them. You’ve probably read some of the sensationalist tripe journalists have written about the bagne. It’s been most damaging.’
‘I’ve no interest in writing about the camps, I can assure you. It’s the flora I’m here for.’
‘Good. Well, yes, as I said, to the north there’s Saigon, which is pretty basic. Beyond that there’s Renée. The camp commandant’s built a rather grand house there. If you do want to go north, he’d probably put you up.’
A bored-looking girl of about fourteen or fifteen had been hovering about, listening in on the conversation, eyeing Manne. Suddenly she broke in: ‘Oh, do go to Renée and tell us what’s happening up there!’
‘Oh … hello, dear,’ the captain said. ‘Monsieur Hartfeld, let me introduce you to my daughter, Elodie.’
‘How do you do.’
‘Elodie, this is Monsieur Hartfeld. He’s a botanist.’
‘How d’you do … Oh yes, do go up to Renée! Has Papa told you about the commandant’s wife?’
‘Really, Elodie. Monsieur Hartfeld is not in the least interested in local gossip.’
‘Oh, rot! Everyone likes gossip!’
‘Well, now,’ said Manne. ‘You’ve certainly piqued my curiosity.’
‘See, Papa?’
‘Elodie, why don’t you run along and see how your mother is. Monsieur Hartfeld and I have things to discuss.’
The daughter sloped off, a look of profound ennui on her face. If she’d been two or three years older, Manne mused, she’d have flirted shamelessly, tried to seduce him even, out of sheer frustration with the claustrophobia of colonial life …
‘Ha ha, you must excuse my daughter! She’s going through a rather blunt stage.’
‘Nothing to excuse. She seems delightful.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I must say I’m rather intrigued now about this commandant and his wife.’
‘Well, if you do want to go up to Renée … I suppose you might as well know that the commandant’s regarded here as rather a rum chap. He … well, his family’s very rich, and he’s built his house up there with his own money, most unusual. He’s also invested in some building and agricultural schemes that have not, um, met with universal approval … but as long as it’s not the Administration’s money, I suppose it’s his own affair.’
‘And his wife?’
‘Strange business.’ The captain lowered his voice. ‘She simply appeared here in Saint-Laurent one day, a few weeks ago. In a most awful state. Bedraggled, hysterical. Walked all the way from Renée through the forest by herself to get here. Not a sou on
her, no papers, nothing. She was asking about for help to get to … I think it was Buenos Aires. Somewhere absurdly far away, in any case. None of us had even met her before – the commandant had whisked her straight up to Renée the moment her boat had got in. So we couldn’t even be sure she was who she said she was … until her husband turned up the next day. In the meantime, we’d put her up in a room here. Fed her, gave her some clothes. By the next day she’d calmed down. My wife tried to get her to talk, but she wouldn’t. When the commandant appeared … well, we were expecting a frightful row. But she went back with him. If not happily, at least not unwillingly. All most bizarre. As you can imagine, the whole business set tongues wagging.’
A few more minutes of conversation, before the captain excused himself to greet a newcomer. Leblanc – such a common name. Not one that would stick in the mind. Even if he’d once known him, Manne might not recognise him now. A decade ago, Leblanc had probably been slim, with a full head of hair. Men who’d fought in the war often aged more quickly than others. Manne’s own still-boyish looks were a perverse exception.
III
Black clouds scudded low across the sky. In the forest, everything was still, and in the stillness Manne could hear the thud of rain, a couple of kilometres away. It would be upon them in minutes, and Manne scouted about to find some cover for himself and the boy convict who was accompanying him on the trip up to Renée. Eventually they ducked under the branches of a mahogany tree. Moments later, the rain came down in what seemed like a solid mass. As if an enormous lake had stood suspended just above the forest canopy.
Manne had hardly exchanged more than a handful of words with the convict boy so far. He hadn’t wanted a servant. It was Leblanc who’d imposed one on him, and Manne still felt angry about it. The meeting in Leblanc’s office had been wholly different in tone from their initial chatty encounter at the cocktail reception, two days before. This time, there’d been no gossipy stories about colleagues and their wives. Leblanc had been rather cold, and if not obstructive, then not terribly helpful either. At one point, Manne had caught Leblanc staring at him oddly again. And when Manne had insisted he needed no servant, Leblanc had insisted otherwise. But it was Leblanc who was signing the permits, so there was nothing Manne could do about it.
As the meeting had wound up, Leblanc had said to him: ‘Hartfeld … Jewish name, is it?’ Manne had replied no. Although now that he thought about it, he had no idea whether it was or not. After all, he was only gradually getting a feel for who Hartfeld was, and in what ways he differed from Manne. It was true that in certain military circles ‘Jewish’ was code for subversive, unreliable, unpatriotic, dreyfusard.
Manne had been tempted to ask who it was that Leblanc had initially mistaken him for at the cocktail party. But it might have looked suspect – and he’d already made himself more conspicuous than necessary. As he’d marched through the forest in silence, Manne fell to wondering why he had to be accompanied, when in any case he reported to an official every day. The best he could come up with was that he was being spied on.
Now immobile beneath the mahogany, Manne looked around for almost the first time since plunging into the jungle. A palm tree was practically bent double from the force of the rain. In the lower reaches of the canopy, he could make out small clumps of orchids, their petals twisting into each other in a sensuous grip. One of the commoner varieties of Cattleya – nothing worth shinning up a tree for. A few months ago, he’d have climbed up anyway, just to be sure.
Next to him under the tree, the convict boy was hunched up and shivering under the rain. After a while, Manne noticed that the boy wasn’t only shivering, he was also snuffling and crying, but trying to hide it as well. Manne felt suddenly ashamed of his suspicion that the young convict was a spy. This simple lad, lost in a new country, terrified by the solitude of the jungle …
‘What’s your name?’
The boy uttered something long and unpronounceable. Arabic. It was the first time Manne had even noticed that the boy was Arab and not French. ‘The others call me Guépard. You can call me that.’ He had dark splotches running all the way down the left arm and leg, probably some sort of birthmark.
‘How long have you been in the Colony?’
‘Came in on the last convoy, m’sieur.’
‘Just a few days, then?’
The boy nodded. He must have been sixteen or seventeen, although he looked more like fourteen.
‘What did you do to find yourself here?’
A thick North African accent made the story almost incomprehensible, but from what Manne could gather, the boy had been sentenced for the murder of a café proprietor in Algiers, during a botched robbery. The boy hadn’t even been present, he insisted, but he’d been rounded up along with the guilty ones, since they all lived on the same street and ran around together. His French was poor and he hadn’t been able to defend himself properly at the trial.
As he told his story, the snuffles gradually dissolved into outright sobbing, the boy’s body shaking as if in spasm. He gripped Manne’s arm. Through his tears, he implored: ‘Please help me, m’sieur! You can help me! You can talk to the governor, please! You can write to France! I’m an honest boy, I did nothing wrong. Please help me!’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Don’t worry. I’ll put in a good word for you. I’ll do what I can.’
His reassurances seemed pitifully insufficient. He thought: at the very least I’ll write a note to Leblanc commending him. The feelings of compassion the boy had aroused in him made Manne feel good about himself, then, seconds later, bad about himself. Bad that he needed the misfortunes of another to feel good. The rain dropped to a drizzle, continued for another ten minutes, then cut out altogether. Steam rose up from the ground. It was as if something were trapped underneath, trying to push its way out. A rolling sea of mist was spreading noiselessly across the river. They moved on through the silence.
Manne watched the young convict as he walked a few paces ahead, clearing the path of stray branches. He wondered whether it was fatherly concern that he felt for him. Not exactly. If the boy were his own son, then he’d do anything for him, make whatever sacrifice necessary. And what a relief it must be to feel that way, he now thought. To be wholly absorbed in someone’s problems and pleasures, and yet without having to be that person. A means of finally escaping yourself.
Orchids dotted the canopy. It was refreshing in this heat to contemplate their frozen grace. Edouard was right – the Maroni would offer rich pickings for the orchid hunter. No doubt only a handful of hunters had ever passed this way, owing to entry restrictions for the penal territory. Who knew how many new species might be sheltering up there? In the greenhouses of Europe, they withered and died without constant attention. Here, it was the opposite. The orchids flourished, twisting their way towards the same sun that flayed the European exiles.
Several hours later, the path ended abruptly. Without any forewarning, Manne found himself at the base of a wide avenue. Administrative buildings and barracks lined the avenue, and at the top, work was in progress on a new structure, shrouded in wooden scaffolding. Some sort of arch. With the exception of the arch, the camp resembled one of those military garrisons he’d come across in the Colombian jungles.
Not many people were to be seen. A guard pointed him in the direction of an administrative building which apparently housed the camp commandant’s offices. The building seemed relatively deserted as well. At a desk by the main entrance sat a man in a soiled white uniform, playing solitaire. He showed no sign of putting the cards away as Manne approached.
‘I’d like to see the commandant.’
‘He’s not here.’
Manne waited for an explanation, but the man said nothing further.
‘Could you tell me where he is?’
‘He’s never here in the afternoons, is he? He’s at his house.’
‘Could you show me where it is, then?’
The man eyed him suspiciously. ‘This is pen
al territory. You can’t just wander in here. You need a permit. What’s your business here?’
Annoyed, Manne pulled out Leblanc’s letter from one of his bags. ‘I have a letter of introduction from the governor’s office.’
‘Let me see that.’
The man tore open the envelope carelessly and skimmed over the letter. Manne felt a sudden fury: the letter was addressed to the commandant, not this slovenly official. He was about to say something but then checked himself. No point in making a scene. He remembered that he’d even contemplated opening it himself after Leblanc had given it to him, but had finally resisted the temptation.
The official handed the letter to Manne’s servant boy. ‘Take this down to the commandant’s house, along with monsieur’s luggage. You can ask one of the men outside for directions.’ He turned to Manne. ‘And you, sir, if I might detain you a moment while I register your details.’