Papillon

by Henri Charrière

  For the next week, morning and evening, the Indians watered the ground in front of Zato’s hut and tamped it with the heels of their feet. When they were finished, there was a large circle of red clay. The next day they set up a big cowhide tent, and I guessed there was to be a celebration. Stones were put in place and, near them, a pile of both dry and green wood that grew with each passing day. Much of the wood was old driftwood, dry, white and highly polished. There were three huge tree trunks salvaged from the sea, God knows how long ago. Two wooden forks of the same height were put in place to serve as supports for an enormous spit. Four overturned turtles, two sheep and over thirty large, live lizards, their claws tied to prevent their escaping, waited to be slaughtered. There were at least two thousand turtle eggs as well, and twenty huge earthenware jars of the Indians’ favorite drink.

  One morning fifteen Indians arrived on horseback, each wearing a collar around his neck, a large straw hat, the loincloth that left the thighs, legs, feet and buttocks bare, and a sleeveless sheepskin jacket. Each had a huge dagger stuck in his belt, and two of them carried double-barreled hunting rifles. Their chief wore a magnificent jacket with black leather sleeves and carried a repeating rifle and a well-stocked ammunition belt. Their horses were superb: small, high-strung, dappled-gray, and on the rump of each a bundle of hay. When they were still at some distance, they announced their coming with a barrage of rifle shots. Then, riding at a fast gallop, they were soon upon us. Their chief had a curious resemblance to Zato and his brother, with a few years added on. He got off his thoroughbred, went up to Zato, and each touched the other on the shoulder. Then the visitor went into the house alone, Zato following behind, and emerged with the infant in his arms. He held it out for everyone to see and went through the same motions Zato had made: he lifted it to the east where the sun rises, then hid it under his armpit with his left arm and went back into the house. All the riders got off their horses, tied them up and filled their feed bags with hay. Their wives arrived at noon in a big wagon pulled by four horses and driven by Zorrillo. There were at least twenty young Indian women and seven or eight children, all of them boys.

  Before Zorrillo’s arrival, I was introduced to all the visitors, starting with their chief. Zato showed me how the little toe of his left foot was twisted over the next toe and that the same was true of his brother and the chief who had just arrived. Then he showed me how each of them had the same mole under one arm. I gathered that the new arrival must be his brother also. Zato’s tattoos were much admired, especially the tiger head. The Indian women had brightly colored designs on their faces and bodies. On some Lali placed coral necklaces, on others, necklaces of shells. I noticed one particularly handsome woman who was taller than the rest and had the profile of an Italian, like a cameo. Her hair was purple-black, her large eyes a true jade green fringed with very long lashes. Her hair was cut Indian-style with bangs and a part in the middle. Her breasts were the texture of marble, starting close together and spreading apart in a classically graceful way.

  Lali introduced me to her and led her to our house, together with Zoraima and a young Indian girl who carried goblets and what looked like paintbrushes. The visitors had come to paint the Indians of my village. I watched as the beautiful Indian worked on Lali and Zoraima. The brushes were bits of wood tipped with a small piece of wool which she dipped in the different colors. I took out my paintbrush and, starting at Lali’s navel, I painted a plant whose two branches ended below her breasts. I added pink petals and painted her nipples yellow like a half-opened flower showing its pistils. The other three wanted me to do the same design on them, but first I had to ask Zorrillo’s permission. He said I could do what I liked as long as they all consented. What I got myself into! For over two hours I painted all the breasts of all our young Indian visitors and our own besides. Zoraima demanded that I do hers exactly like Lali’s. Meanwhile the men roasted the sheep on the spit and cooked two of the turtles over the coals, having first cut them up into small pieces. The turtle meat was beautiful and red like beef.

  I sat next to Zato and the visiting chief under the tent. The men ate on one side and the women on the other, except for those who waited on us. The celebration ended late in the night with dancing to the music of a shrill wooden flute and two sheepskin drums. Many were drunk—women as well as men—but not disagreeably so. The sorcerer arrived on his donkey and everyone took turns looking at the pink scar where his ulcer had been. They were amazed that the familiar sore had healed. And only Zorrillo and I knew how it had happened.

  Zorrillo explained that the chief of the visiting tribe was actually Zato’s father. His name was Justo, meaning “The Just.” He was the one who administered justice to all the tribes in Guajira. When there was trouble with the Iapus (another Indian race altogether), they met to discuss whether they would go to war or settle the matter amicably. If an Indian was killed by someone of another tribe, it was agreed that in order to avoid war, the killer should pay for the death. It sometimes cost him as much as two hundred head of cattle, for the tribes had vast herds in the villages up in the mountains. Unfortunately they weren’t vaccinated against foot-and-mouth disease, and epidemics carried off large numbers of them. But, according to Zorrillo, even this had its good side, for without these outbreaks they would be overrun. They were not allowed to sell their cattle in either Colombia or Venezuela for fear of spreading the disease, but Zorrillo said there was extensive smuggling through the mountains all the same.

  Through Zorrillo, Justo asked me to visit him in his village. It had over a hundred huts, and Lali, Zoraima and I would be given one of our own. They would provide everything we might need, so I was to bring only my tattooing materials in order to make a tiger for Justo too. He took off his black leather wristband and gave it to me. According to Zorrillo, this gesture carried great significance: it meant that he was powerless to refuse my slightest wish. Justo asked me if I wanted a horse, and I said that I did but that I was in no position to accept one, for we had hardly any grass. He said that whenever we needed grass, Lali and Zoraima had only to go a half day’s journey on horseback to find it. He explained where it was and that it was both tall and good. So I accepted the horse and he said he’d send it soon.

  I took advantage of this long visit with Zorrillo to tell him that I trusted him not to tell anyone about my plan for going to Venezuela or Colombia. He described the dangers of the frontier, saying that from what the smugglers reported, the Venezuelan side was even more dangerous than the Colombian. He offered to accompany me himself into Colombia, almost to Santa Marta, pointing out that I had already made the trip once and that the way was better marked. He agreed that I should buy another dictionary or, better yet, a phrase book with standard Spanish expressions. He also suggested that it would be a good idea if I learned to stammer, because people would get bored listening to me and would finish the sentence for me; this way my accent wouldn’t be noticed. So it was decided that he would provide me with the books and the most detailed map he could find, and that he would handle the selling of my pearls when I needed Colombian money. Zorrillo said that all the Indians from the chief down would approve my decision since it was what I wanted. They would be sorry to see me go but would understand my desire to return to my own people. The main problem would be Zoraima and Lali. Either one of them, but particularly Lali, was quite capable of finishing me off with one shot of the rifle. Then Zorrillo told me something else: Zoraima was pregnant. I hadn’t noticed a thing and I was stunned.

  The celebration was finally over; everyone left, the tent came down and things returned to normal, or so it seemed. My horse arrived, a magnificent dappled-gray with a tail so long it almost touched the ground and a wonderful platinum-gray mane. Lali and Zoraima weren’t very happy about it. The sorcerer summoned me to tell me that Lali and Zoraima had asked him if it was all right for them to feed the horse broken glass in order to kill him. He had told them not to, that I was protected by an Indian saint, and that if they did, the
broken glass would end up in their own bellies. He thought the horse was now out of danger but that I should be on the alert. If they saw me getting ready to leave, they had only to kill me with a shotgun—Lali in particular. Could I get them to let me go by promising to return? Impossible. Never let on that I intended to leave.

  The sorcerer and I covered a lot of ground because he had asked Zorrillo to come and act as interpreter. Zorrillo’s conclusion was that the situation was so serious that I must take every precaution. I went home. Zorrillo had come and gone by a different path. Nobody in the village knew that the sorcerer had summoned us together.

  I had now been here six months and I was anxious to be on my way. One day I came home to find Lali and Zoraima bent over the map. They were trying to figure out the strange markings, especially the four arrows indicating north, south, east and west. They had guessed that this piece of paper had something very important to do with our lives.

  Zoraima’s belly was beginning to bulge. This made Lali jealous and she demanded that I make love to her at all hours of the day and night, regardless of where we happened to be. Zoraima also made demands, but fortunately only at night.

  I went to visit Zato’s father, Justo. Lali and Zoraima came too. Luckily I had kept the drawing of the tiger and was able to use it for his tattoo. In six days it was done, for the first scabs fell early, thanks to a solution of water and quicklime he had made. Justo was so pleased that he looked at himself in the mirror several times a day. Zorrillo came by during my stay. I gave him permission to tell Justo about my plan because I wanted a different horse. The Guajiros’ horses were all dappled-grays, a type that did not exist in Colombia and would therefore be conspicuous. Justo had three Colombian chestnuts. As soon as he learned of my project, he sent for the horses. I picked the one that seemed the best tempered, and he had it saddled, spurred and bridled with an iron bit. (Generally the Indians rode bareback with a bit made of bone.) Equipped in true Colombian style, I mounted the horse. Justo handed me the leather bridle; then in my presence he counted out thirty-nine gold pieces worth one hundred pesos each, which he gave to Zorrillo. Zorrillo was to keep them until I was ready to leave. He also wanted to give me his Manchester repeating rifle, but I refused it and Zorrillo said I wouldn’t be allowed to enter Colombia armed anyway. So Justo gave me two little arrows the length of a finger, wrapped in wool, and a small leather case to keep them in. Zorrillo told me they were poisoned arrows and that the poison was very quick-acting and very rare. He himself had never seen or owned a poisoned arrow. He was to keep these too until I left.

  How could I express my gratitude for Justo’s magnificent generosity? He told me that through Zorrillo he had learned something of my life, and that what he didn’t know must be rich stuff indeed, for I seemed to be a completed man. I was the first white man he had ever known; he had assumed they were all his enemies, but from now on he would love them and try to find another one like me. “You should think twice before going to a country where you have many enemies when here you have only friends.”

  He said that he and Zato would watch over Lali and Zoraima and that Zoraima’s child would always hold a place of honor in the tribe—if it was a son, of course. “I don’t want you to go. If you stay, I’ll give you the beautiful Indian girl you met at the celebration. She is a wonderful girl and she loves you. You can stay here with me. I’ll give you a big hut and all the cows and cattle you want.”

  I left this extraordinary man and returned to the village. Lali was silent during the entire trip. She sat behind me on the chestnut, her thighs chafed by the saddle. Zoraima rode behind with an Indian. Zorrillo had left for his village by another road. It got cold as night fell so I handed Lali the sheepskin jacket Justo had given me; she let me put it around her without a word. She accepted the jacket but no more. The horse broke into a fast trot, but she wouldn’t hold onto me. Once back in the village, I went to pay my respects to Zato. Lali took the horse home, tied him to the hut and placed a bundle of hay in front of him without removing his saddle or bit.

  When they are sad, the Indians—and particularly their women—have closed faces. Not a muscle moves; their eyes may be swimming with tragedy, but they never cry. They may sometimes let out a moan, but that is all.

  That night, in my sleep, I must have moved and jabbed Zoraima in the belly, for she cried out with pain. I didn’t want this to happen again so I got up and lay down in another hammock. It hung very low, and as I got into it, I had the impression someone had been tampering with it. I pretended to be asleep. Lali sat down on a tree stump and watched me without moving. A moment later I smelled Zoraima’s presence (she was accustomed to scenting herself by crushing orange blossoms and rubbing them on her skin; she bought these in little bags from an Indian woman who passed through the village from time to time). When I woke up, both girls were still there, motionless. The sun was up; it was nearly eight o’clock. I led them to the beach and stretched out on the sand. Lali remained seated; so did Zoraima. I stroked Lali’s breasts and her belly; she was as still as marble. I pulled her down next to me and tried to kiss her; her lips were closed tight. Later the fisherman came for Lali. One look at her face was enough: he turned around and left. I was deeply troubled and didn’t know what to do except caress them and kiss them to show that I loved them. They remained silent. It upset me that they should feel such grief at the thought of living without me. Then Lali almost raped me, giving herself with a kind of despair. Why? What was behind it? It could only be one thing; she wanted me to make her pregnant too.

  That morning, for the first time, I caught a hint of jealousy between Lali and Zoraima. We were lying on the beach in a protected hollow. I was caressing Zoraima’s breasts and belly and she was biting my ears. Lali arrived, took her sister by the arm, passed her hand over her sister’s swollen belly, then over her own slender flat one. Zoraima got up as if to say, “You’re right,” and gave her place to her sister.

  Each day my women prepared my food but ate nothing themselves. They had not eaten for three days. I took the horse and almost committed a serious error—my first in more than five months. I left for the sorcerer’s without first asking his permission. I realized it halfway there so, instead of going straight to him, I passed back and forth in front of his tent at a distance of some two hundred yards. He finally saw me and made a sign for me to come in. I explained as best I could that Lali and Zoraima had stopped eating. He gave me a kind of nut which I was to put in our drinking water. I went home and placed it in the big earthen jar. They drank from it several times but still didn’t eat. Lali also stopped fishing. Then, after four days of fasting, she stupidly swam two hundred yards out from shore and returned with thirty oysters for me to eat. Their silent grief was so disturbing that I had almost stopped eating too. This went on for six days. Then Lali took to her bed with a fever. During the six days she had sucked a few lemons and that was all. Zoraima ate once a day at noon. I didn’t know what to do. I sat down next to Lali. She was stretched out on a hammock I had folded in two to make a kind of mattress and was looking fixedly at the roof. I looked at her, I looked at Zoraima with her bulging belly, and without quite knowing why, I started to weep. For me? For them? Who knows? I wept, and great tears ran down my cheeks. Zoraima saw them and began to moan, then Lali turned and saw them too. With one motion she got up and sat between my legs, all the while moaning gently. She kissed me and caressed me. Zoraima put an arm around my shoulder, and Lali started to talk; she moaned and she talked and Zoraima answered back. She seemed to be reproaching Lali for something. Lali took a piece of brown sugar as big as her fist, dissolved it in water and swallowed it in two gulps. Then she went out with Zoraima and I could hear them pulling on the horse. I went out and found him saddled, the bit between his teeth, the bridle over the pummel of the saddle. Zoraima gave me the sheepskin jacket, and Lali placed a folded hammock on the saddle. Zoraima was the first up and sat far in front, almost on the horse’s neck; I sat in the middle and Lali in back.
I was so confused that I set off without telling anyone good-by, without even speaking to the chief.

  Lali pulled back on the reins, perhaps thinking we were going to the sorcerer’s. But no, she pulled the reins again and said “Zorrillo.” So we were going to Zorrillo’s. Hugging my waist as we rode along, she kissed me several times on the back of the neck. I held the reins in my left hand and caressed Zoraima with my right. We arrived at Zorrillo’s village just as he was returning from Colombia with three donkeys and a heavily laden horse. We went into his house. Lali spoke first, then Zoraima.

  According to Zorrillo, this was their story. Up to the moment I had cried, Lali believed that I was just a white man who didn’t really care about her. She knew that someday I would leave, but it was deceitful of me not to tell her. She said she was deeply disappointed because she had thought she was capable of making a man happy, that a happy man didn’t leave home, and that there would be no reason to go on living after such a calamity. Zoraima said more or less the same thing, but in addition, she was afraid her son would turn out like his father: a silent man and a false one, who made such difficult demands on his women that for all that they were ready to give their lives for him, they were unable to understand him. Why was I running away from her as if she were the dog who had bitten me the day I arrived?