Dear Lord above! It wasn’t going to be easy to get away from an atmosphere like this. Charlot, Simon, Alexandre and no doubt a good many others had been positively bewitched. I saw why they were so thoroughly happy among these cheerful people, so different from ours. I went to bed.
“Get up, Papi! It’s ten o’clock. And there’s someone to see you.”
“Good morning, Monsieur.” A graying man of about fifty; no hat; candid eyes; bushy eyebrows. He held out his hand. “I’m Dr. Bougrat. * [* The hero of a well-known criminal affair in Marseille during the twenties. A dead man was found in a cupboard in his consulting room. Bougrat pleaded professional error in the amount of an injection. The court said it was murder. They gave him a life sentence, but he soon escaped from Devil’s Island and made himself a new life in Venezuela.] I came because they told me one of you is sick. I’ve had a look at your friend, and there’s nothing to be done unless he goes into the hospital at Caracas. It’ll be a tough job to cure him.”
“You’ll have supper with us, Doctor?” Charlot asked.
“I’d like to. Thanks.”
Anisette was poured out, and as he drank Bougrat said to me, “Well, Papillon, and how are you getting along?”
“As a matter of fact, Doctor, I’m taking my first steps in life. I feel as if I’d just been born. Or rather as if I’d lost my way like a boy. I can’t make out the road I ought to follow.”
“The road’s clear enough. Look around and you’ll see. Except for one or two exceptions, all our old companions have gone straight. I’ve been in Venezuela since 1928. Not one of the convicts I’ve known has committed a crime since being in this country. They are almost all married, with children, and they live honestly, accepted by the community. They’ve forgotten the past so completely that some of them couldn’t tell you the details of the job that sent them down. It’s all very far away, buried in a misty past that doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe it’s different for me, Doctor. I have a pretty long bill to present to the people who sent me down against all justice--. fourteen years of struggle and suffering. To see the bill is paid, I have to go back to France; and for that I need a lot of money. It’s not by working as a laborer that I’m going to save up enough for the voyage out and back--if there is any return.”
“And do you think you’re the only one of us with an account to settle? Just you listen to the story of a boy I know. George Dubois is his name. A kid from the slums of La Villette--alcoholic father, often locked up with the dt’s, the mother with six children: she was so poor she went around the North African bars looking for customers. Jojo, they called him; and he’d been going from one reformatory to the next since he was eight. He started by knocking off fruit outside shops--did it several times. First a few terms in the Abbé Rollet’s homes, then, when he was twelve, he got a tough stretch in a really hard reformatory. I don’t have to tell you that the fourteen-year-old Jojo, surrounded by young fellows of eighteen, had to look out for his ass. He was a puny kid, so there was only one way of defending himself--a knife. One of these perverted little thugs got a stab in the belly, and the authorities sent Jojo to Esse, the toughest reformatory of the lot, the one for hopeless cases. Until the age of twenty-one. Then they gave him his marching orders for the African disciplinary battalions, because with a past like his, he wasn’t allowed into the ordinary army. They handed him the few francs he had earned and farewell, adieu! The trouble was that this boy had a heart. Maybe it had hardened, but it still had some sensitive corners. At the station he saw a train destined for Paris. It was as if a switch had been triggered inside him. He jumped in double quick, and there he was in Paris. It was raining when he walked out of the station. He stood under a shelter, figuring out how he would get to La Villette. Under this same shelter there was a girl who was also keeping out of the rain. She gave him a pleasant sort of look. All he knew about women was the chief warden’s fat wife at Esse and what the bigger boys at the reformatory had told him--more or less true. No one had ever looked at him like this girl. They began to talk.
“‘Where do you come from?’
“‘The country.’
“‘I like you, boy. Why don’t we go to a hotel? I’ll be nice to you and we’ll be warm.’
“Jojo was all stirred up. To him this chick seemed something wonderful--and what’s more her gentle hand touched his. Discovering love was a fantastic, shattering experience for him. The girl was young and very amorous. When they had made love until they could no more, they sat on the bed to smoke, and the chick said to him, ‘Is this the first time you’ve been to bed with a girl?’
“‘Yes,’ he confessed.
“‘Why did you wait so long?’
“‘I was in a reformatory.’
“‘A long time?’
“‘Very long.’
“‘I was in one too. I escaped.’
“‘How old are you?’ Jojo asked.
“‘Sixteen.’
“‘Where are you from?’
“‘La Villette.’
“‘What Street?’
“‘Rue de Rouen.’
“So was Jojo. He was afraid to understand. ‘What’s your name?’ he cried.
“‘Ginette Dubois.’
“It was his sister. They were completely overwhelmed and they both began to cry with shame and wretchedness. Then each described the road they had traveled. Ginette and her other sisters had had the same kind of life as Jojo--homes and reformatories. Their mother had just come out of a sanatorium. The eldest sister was working in a brothel for North Africans in La Villette--hard labor. They decided to go and see her.
“They had scarcely left the hotel before a pig in uniform called out to the chick, ‘Now you little tart, didn’t I tell you not to come soliciting on my beat?’ And he came toward them. ‘This time I’ll run you in, you dirty little whore.’
“It was too much for Jojo. After everything that had just happened, he no longer really knew what he was doing. He brought out a switchblade he had bought for the army and shoved it into the pig’s chest. He was arrested, and twelve ‘qualified’ jurymen condemned him to death. He was reprieved by the President of the Republic and sent to the penal settlement.
“Well now, Papillon, he escaped and at present he’s living at Cumaná, a fair-sized port. He’s a shoemaker, he’s married, and he has nine children, all well cared for and all going to school. Indeed, one of the eider children has been at the university this last year. Every time I’m in Cumaná I go and see them. That’s a pretty good example, eh? Yet believe you me, he, too, had a long bill to present to society. You’re no exception, Papilion. Plenty of us have reasons for revenge. But as far as I know, not one of us has left this country to take it. I trust you, Papilion. Since you like the idea of Caracas, go there; but I hope you’ll have the sense to live the city life without falling into any of its traps.”
Bougrat left very late that afternoon. My ideas were in a turmoil afterward. Why had he made such an impression on me? Easy to see why. During these first days of freedom I had met convicts who were happy and readjusted but leading lives that weren’t the least bit extraordinary. It was a prudent, very modest kind of life. Their position was lowly--they were workmen or peasants. Bougrat was different. For the first time I had seen an ex-con who was now a monsieur, a gentleman. That was what had made my heart thump. Would I be a monsieur, too? Could I become one? For him, as a doctor, it had been comparatively easy. It would be harder for me, maybe; but even if I didn’t yet know how to set about it, I was sure that one day I was going to be a monsieur, too.
Sitting on my bench at the bottom of the second gallery the next day, I watched my pumps; they had run without a hitch. The thoughts ran pell-mell through my head. “Papillon, I trust you.” But could I put up with living like my companions? I didn’t think so. After all, there were plenty of other ways of getting enough money honestly. I wasn’t forced to accept a life that was too small for me. I could carry on as an adventurer--I could p
rospect for gold or diamonds, vanish into the bush and come out some day with enough to set me up in the kind of position I was after.
At eight o’clock the hoist brought me up to the surface. I took the long way around so as not to go by the storehouse. The less I saw of it, the better. I passed quickly through the village, greeting people and saying sorry to the ones who wanted me to stop-- I was in a hurry, and I climbed fast to the house. Conchita was waiting for me, as black and cheerful as ever.
“Well, Papillon, and how are you doing? Charlot told me to pour you out a stiff anisette before dinner. He said you looked as though you had problems. What’s wrong, Papi? You can tell me, your friend’s wife, Would you like me to fetch Graciela for you, or maybe Mercedes if you like her better? Don’t you think that would be a good idea?”
“Conchita, you’re my little black pearl of El Callao, you’re wonderful, and I see why Charlot worships you. Maybe you’re right: maybe to set me up I need a girl beside me.”
“That’s for sure. Unless it’s Charlot who was right.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I was saying what you needed was to love and be loved. And he told me to hold on before I put a girl in your bed--perhaps it was something else.”
“How do you mean, something else?”
She hesitated for a moment and then blurted, “I don’t care if you do tell Charlot; but he’ll box my ears.”
“I won’t tell him anything. I promise.”
“Well, Charlot says you aren’t built for the same kind of life as he and the other Frenchmen here.”
“What else? Come on, Conchita, tell me the lot.”
“And he said you must be thinking that there’s too much useless gold lying about at the mine and that you’d find something better to do with it. There! And he went on that you aren’t the sort that can live without spending a lot; and that you had a revenge you couldn’t give up and for that you wanted a great deal of money.”
I looked her straight in the eye. “Well, Conchita, your Charlot got it wrong, wrong, wrong. You’re the one who was right. As for my future--no problem at all. You guessed it: what I want is a woman to love. I didn’t like to say so, on account of I’m rather shy.”
“That I don’t believe, Papillon.”
“Okay. Go and fetch the blonde, and just you see if I’m not happy when I have a girl of my own.”
“I’m on my way,” she said, going into the bedroom to change her dress. “Oh, that Mercedes, how happy she will be!” she called. Before she had time to come back there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Conchita said. The door opened and there was Maria, looking a trifle confused.
“You, Maria, at this time of night? What a marvelous surprise! Conchita, this is Maria, the girl who took me in when Picolino and I first landed up in El Callao.”
“Let me kiss you,” Conchita said. “You’re as pretty as Papillon said you were.”
“Who’s Papillon?”
“That’s me. Enrique or Papillon, it’s all one. Sit down by me on the divan and tell me everything.”
Conchita gave a knowing laugh. “I don’t think it’s worth my while going out now,” she said.
Maria stayed all night. As a lover she was shy, but she reacted to the slightest caress. I was her first man. Now she was sleeping. The two candles I had lit instead of the raw electric light were guttering. Their faint glow showed the beauty of her young body even better, and her breasts still marked by our embrace. Gently I got up to make myself some coffee and to see what time it was. Four o’clock. I knocked over a saucepan and woke Conchita. She came out of her room, wearing a dressing gown.
“You want some coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Only for you, I’m sure. Because she must be sleeping with those angels you’ve introduced her to.”
“You know all about it, Conchita.”
“My people have fire in their veins. You must have noticed it tonight. Maria has one touch of Negro, two touches of Indian and the rest Spanish. If you’re not happy with a mixture like that, go hang yourself,” she said, laughing.
The splendid sun was high in the sky when it saw Maria wake up. I brought her coffee in bed. There was a question already on my lips. “Aren’t they going to worry, not finding you at home?”
“My sisters knew I was coming here, so my father must have known an hour later. You aren’t going to send me away today?”
“No, dear. I told you I didn’t want to set up house, but sending you away is something else again. If you can stay without any trouble, stay as long as you like.”
It was close to twelve and I had to leave for the mine. Maria decided to hitch a lift home in a truck and come back in the evening.
“Hey there,” Charlot said. He was standing in the door of his room, wearing pajamas; and he spoke to me in French. “So you’ve found the chick you needed all by yourself. A luscious one, too: I congratulate you.” He added that, as the next day was Sunday, we might drink to the occasion.
“Maria, tell your father and sisters to come and spend Sunday with us to celebrate this. And you come back whenever you like-- the house is yours. Have a good day, Papi; watch out for the number three pump. And when you quit work, you don’t have to drop in on Simon. If you don’t see the stuff he is looking after so badly, you’ll feel it less.”
“You dirty old crook. No, I won’t go see Simon. Don’t worry, man. Ciao.”
Maria and I walked through the village arm in arm, close together, to show the girls she was my woman.
The pumps ran sweetly, even number three. But neither the hot, wet air nor the beat of the motor kept me from thinking about Charlot. He had grasped why I was so thoughtful, all right. It hadn’t taken long for him, an old crook, to see that the heap of gold was at the bottom of it all. Nor for Simon either; and Simon must certainly have told him about our conversation. Those were the sort of friends a man should have--real friends, aglow with joy because I’d got myself a woman. They were hoping that this black-haired godsend would make me forget the blazing heap of loot.
I turned all this over and over in my head, and in time I began to see the position more clearly. These good guys were now as straight as so many rulers; they were leading blameless lives. But in spite of living like squares they had kept the underworld outlook and they were utterly incapable of tipping off the police about anyone whatsoever, even if they guessed what he was up to and knew for sure it would mean bad trouble for them. The two who would be taken in right away if the thing came off were Simon and Alexandre, the men who guarded the treasure. Charlot would come in for his share of the hornets’ nest, too, because every single one of the ex-convicts would be trundled off to jail. And then farewell peace and quiet, farewell house, vegetable garden, wife, kids, hens, goats and pigs. So I began to see how these former crooks must have quaked not for themselves but for their homes, when they thought how my caper was going to ruin everything. “How I hope he doesn’t go and screw it all,” they must have said. I could see them holding a council of war.
I had made up my mind. I’d go and see Simon that evening and ask him and his family to the party tomorrow, and I’d tell him to invite Alexandre, too, if he could come. I must make them all think that having a girl like Maria was all I could ever want.
The hoist brought me up to the open air. I met Charlot on his way down, and I asked, “The party still on?”
“Of course it is, Papillon. More than ever.”
“I’m going to ask Simon and his family. And Alexandre, too, if he can come.”
Old Charlot was a deep one. He looked me straight in the eye and then in a rather flip tone he said, “Why, that’s a sweet idea, my friend.” Without another word he stepped into the hoist, and it took him down to where I had just come from. I went around by the store and found Simon.
The party was a marvelous success. José congratulated us on loving one another, and Maria’s sister whispered questions in her ear--full of curiosity. Simon and his fin
e family were there, and Aiexandre, too, since he had found someone to fill in for him guarding the treasure. He had a charming wife, and a well-dressed little boy and girl came with them. The rabbits were delicious, and the huge cake, shaped like a heart, lasted no time at all. We even danced to the radio and the Victrola, and an old convict played the accordion.
After a good many liqueurs I laid into my old crooks, in French. “Well, and what have you guys been thinking? Did you really believe I was going to pull something off?”
“Yes, friend,” said Charlot. “We wouldn’t have said a word if you hadn’t brought it up yourself. But it’s dead certain you had the notion of knocking off that ton of gold, right? Give the straight answer, Papillon.”
“You know I’ve been chewing over my revenge these fourteen years. Multiply fourteen years by three hundred and sixty.five days and then by twenty-four hours and each hour by sixty minutes and you still won’t have the number of times I’ve sworn to make them pay for what I went through. So when I saw that heap of gold in such a place, why true enough, I did think of working out a job.”
“What then?” said Simon.
“Then I looked at the position from every side and I was ashamed. I was running the risk of destroying the happiness of you all. I came to see that this happiness of yours--a happiness I hope to have myself one day--was worth much more than being rich. So the temptation of knocking off the gold quite disappeared. You can take my word for it: I won’t do anything here.”
“There you are, then,” said Charlot, grinning from ear to ear. “So now we can all sleep easy. Long live Papillon! Long live Maria! Long live love and freedom! And long live decency! Hard guys we were, hard guys we are still, but only toward the pigs. Now we’re all of the same mind, including Papilion.”
Six months I’d been here. Charlot was right. On the day of the party I had won the first battle against my longing to pull something off. I had been drifting away from the “road down the drain” ever since I had escaped. Now thanks to my friends’ example I had gained an important victory over myself: I had given up the idea of grabbing that million dollars. One thing was sure: it would not be easy for any other job to tempt me, now that I’d given up a fortune like that. Yet I wasn’t entirely at peace with myself. I had to make my money some other way than stealing it, fair enough; but still I had to get enough to go to Paris and hand in my bill. And that was going to cost me a pretty penny.
Banco: The Further Adventures of Papillon Page 4