Banco: The Further Adventures of Papillon (5 page)

“No, Frenchman, you’re our guest. Another time, when you’re rich. God be with you.”

I went on toward the chateau. Yes, it would be easy enough to turn into a humble, honest man among all these people who lived on so little, who were happy with almost nothing, and who adopted a man without worrying where he came from or what he had been.

Conchita welcomed me back. She was alone. CharIot was at the mine--so when I left for work he’d be coming back. Conchita was full of fun and kindness; she gave me a pair of slippers so I could rest my feet after the heavy boots.

“Your friend’s asleep. He ate well and I’ve sent off a letter asking them to take him into the hospital at Tumereno, a little town not far off, bigger than this.”

I thanked her and ate the hot meal that was waiting for me. This welcome, so homely, simple and happy, made me relax; it gave me the peace of mind I needed after the temptation of that ton of gold. The door opened.

“Good evening, everybody.” Two girls came into the room, just as if they were at home.

“Good evening,” Conchita said. “Here are two friends of mine, Papillon.”

One was dark, tall and slim; she was called Graciela and was very much the gypsy type, her father being a Spaniard. The other girl’s name was Mercedes. Her grandfather was a German, which explained her fair skin and very fine blond hair. Graciela had black Andalusian eyes with a touch of tropical fire; Mercedes’ were green and suddenly reminded me of Lali, the Goajira Indian. Lali... Lali and her sister Zoralma: what had become of them? It was 1946 now, and twelve years had gone by, but in spite of all those years I felt a pain in my heart when I remembered those two lovely creatures. Since those days they must have made themselves a fresh life with men of their own race, and honestly I had no right to disturb their new existence.

“Your friends are terrific, Conchità! Thank you very much for introducing me to them.”

I gathered they were both free and neither had a fiancé. In such good company the evening went by in a flash. Conchita and I walked them back to the edge of the village, and it seemed to me they leaned very heavily on my arms. On the way back Conchita told me both the girls liked me, the one as much as the other, “Which do you like best?” she asked.

“They are both charming, Conchita; but I don’t want any complications.”

“You call making love complications? Love, it’s the same as eating and drinking. You think you can live without eating and drinking? When I don’t make love I feel really ill, although I’m already twenty-two. They are only sixteen and seventeen, so just think what it must be for them. If they don’t take pleasure in their bodies, they’ll die.”

“And what about their parents?”

She told me, just as José had done, that the daughters of the ordinary people loved just to be loved. They gave themselves to the man they liked spontaneously, wholly, without asking anything in exchange except the thrill.

“I understand you, poppet. I’m willing as the next man to make love for love’s sake. Only you tell your friends that an affair doesn’t bind me in any way at all. Once they’re warned, it’s another matter.”

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 prospect 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.”