Papillon (52 page)

“All right, dear. Papillon, Mohamed will take you to the camp and you can pick out the
case
you want to be assigned to.”

“No problem there. I want to be in with the dangerous cons.”

“That isn’t difficult,” the warden said, laughing. He made out a slip and gave it to Mohamed.

I left the house on the quay which doubled as the warden’s house and his office—Lisette’s former home—and walked to the camp with the young Arab.

The man in charge of the guardroom was a violent old Corsican, a well-known killer. His name was Filisarri.

“So, Papillon, you’re back. You know how I am, all good or all bad. Don’t try any escape stuff with me, for if you fail, I’ll kill you like a rabbit. I retire in two years and I don’t want any trouble now.”

“You know that all Corsicans are my friends. I’m not going to tell you that I won’t try to escape, but if I do, I’ll make sure it’s when you’re not on duty.”

“It’s all right, then, Papillon. We won’t be enemies. You understand, the young guards are in a better position to take the flak that follows an escape. For me it’s murder. At my age and just when I’m about to retire.... O.K. You understand. Now go to the building you’ve been assigned to.”

There I was in a building exactly like the one on Royale with room for a hundred to a hundred and twenty cons. Pierrot le Fou was there, and also Hautin, Arnaud and Jean Carbonieri. Logically I should have made
gourbi
with Jean since he was Matthieu’s brother. But Jean wasn’t in the same class with Matthieu and, besides, I didn’t like his friendship with Hautin and Arnaud. So I gave him a wide berth and settled next to Carrier, otherwise known as Pierrot le Fou.

The island of Saint-Joseph was wilder than Royale and, although really smaller, looked bigger because of its length. The camp was halfway to the top of the island, which had two plateaus, one above the other. On the lower level was the camp; on the higher level, the Réclusion.

Every day at noon the Arab who worked for the warden’s family brought me three bowls on an iron platter and took away those he had left the day before. Every day Lisette’s godmother sent me the exact same food she prepared for her own family.

I went to see her on Sunday to thank her. I spent the afternoon talking to her and playing with the little girls. As I stroked those blond heads, I was reminded of how hard it was to know where one’s duty lay. A terrible danger threatened that family if those madmen held to their plan. The guards had put so little trust in Girasolo’s accusation that they hadn’t even bothered to separate Arnaud, Hautin and Carbonieri. If I were even to hint that they should, I’d be confirming the truth about the revolt. What would the guards’ reaction be then? Better keep my mouth shut.

Arnaud and Hautin barely spoke to me. It was best that way: we were polite but not friendly. Jean Carbonieri didn’t speak to me at all. He was angry that I hadn’t made
gourbi
with him. There were four in our
gourbi
: Pierrot le Fou, Marquetti—who twice won the Prix de Rome for violin and often played for hours on end, which depressed me—and Marsori, a Corsican from Sète.

I didn’t speak of it, but I had the impression that no one here knew about the abortive revolt on Royale. Had they changed their plans? Theirs was one of the worst jobs on the island: they had to pull, or rather haul, huge rocks that were being used to make a swimming pool in the sea. Chains were wound around the rocks to which another chain fifteen to twenty yards long was attached. Two cons wearing harnesses around their chests and shoulders stood on either side and inserted a long hook into one of the chain links. Then, like dumb beasts, they hauled the rock to its destination. In the hot sun this was hard work and terribly wearing.

One day we were sitting around when suddenly there was the crack of gunfire—rifles, carbines, revolvers—all going off together down by the quay. Christ! Those madmen were going through with it! What was happening? Who was winning? I sat in the room and didn’t move. Everybody agreed, “It’s a revolt!”

“A revolt? What do you mean?” I made it very clear that I knew nothing.

Jean Carbonieri had not gone to work that morning. He now came up to me, white as death for all that his face was deeply sun-burned. In a low voice he said, “It’s the revolt, Papi.”

I said coldly, “What revolt? I guess I’m not up to date.”

The carbine shots continued.

Pierrot le Fou came running into the room. “It’s a revolt, but I think it fizzled. What a bunch of idiots! Papillon, get your knife ready. We might as well kill as many guards as we can before they finish us off!”

“Right! Let’s kill as many as we can,” Carbonieri agreed. Chissilia pulled out a razor. Everybody armed himself with something.

“Don’t be a bunch of dopes,” I said. “How many of us are there?”

“Nine.”

“Seven of you put away your weapons. I’ll kill the first man who threatens a guard. I’m not about to be shot down like a rabbit. You in on this?”

“No.”

“You?”

“No, me neither.”

“And you?”

“Didn’t know a thing about it.”

“O.K. All of us here are from the underworld. Nobody knew anything about this amateurs’ revolt. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“The minute anybody lets on he knows something, he’s dead. So anyone who’s fool enough to talk gains nothing. Throw your weapons in the pails. The guards’ll be here soon.”

“What if it’s the cons who won?”

“If it’s the cons, let’s wait and see if they use their victory to make a
cavale
. The way I see it, the price is too high. How about you?”

They all agreed, including Jean Carbonieri.

I didn’t let on about what I already knew—that, since the shooting had stopped, the cons must have lost. If they’d won, the massacre would still be going on.

The guards swept past like a bunch of wild beasts, prodding the men who worked in the rock gang with rifle butts, sticks and feet. They herded them into the building next door, and soon guitars, mandolins, chess games, checkers, lamps, benches, bottles of oil, sugar, coffee, white uniforms, everything was trampled on, destroyed and thrown out the door. The guards took it out on everything that wasn’t regulation.

Two revolver shots rang out.

There were eight buildings in the camp. In every one it was the same story. Guards crossed in front of us and entered the building to our right, the seventh
case
. We were the last one. The nine of us were each in our own place. None of the men who had been working outside had come back yet. We stood frozen to the spot. Nobody spoke. My throat was dry. All I could think was, Just so long as some bastard doesn’t take advantage of this to shoot me....

“Here they come,” said Carbonieri, terrified.

They swept in, more than twenty of them, carbines and revolvers at the ready.

Filisarri shouted, “Why aren’t you stripped yet? What are you waiting for, you shitheads? We’re going to shoot the lot of you. Get moving! We don’t want to have to undress you after you’re corpses.”

“Mr. Filisarri …”

“Shut your trap, Papillon! You’ll get no pardon here. The little affair you cooked up this time is too serious. And, naturally, all of you here were in on it.”

His bloodshot eyes bulged out of his head—there was no mistaking their murderous gleam.

Pierrot started to speak.

I decided to go for broke. “I can’t believe that a Corsican like you would kill innocent men. You want to shoot? All right, then, but no more talking. We don’t need it. Shoot, but shoot fast, for Christ’s sake! I thought you were a man, Filisarri, a real Corsican, but I was wrong. Too bad. I don’t even want to look at you when you shoot. I’m turning my back. Everybody turn your backs so they can’t say we were attacking them.”

To a man, they turned their backs. The guards were dumbfounded, all the more so because (as I learned later) Filisarri had killed two poor buggers in one of the other
cases
.

“Got anything else to say, Papillon?”

With my back still turned, I answered, “I don’t believe your story about a revolt. Why should there be a revolt? To kill guards? Then leave on a
cavale
? Where could they go? I’m a
cavale
man; I’ve come back from as far away as Colombia. What country’s going to offer asylum to a bunch of escaped murderers? Tell me its name. Don’t be assholes. What man worthy of the name would get mixed up in a thing like this?”

“You, maybe not, but what about Carbonieri? I’ll bet he was in on it. Arnaud and Hautin were surprised when he reported sick this morning instead of showing up for work.”

“You’re just guessing.” Then I turned around. “But you’ll find out. Carbonieri is my friend. He knows all about what happened to my
cavale
, and he knows perfectly well what would happen to a
cavale
that followed a revolt.”

At that point the warden arrived. He remained outside. Filisarri went out and the warden called in:

“Carbonieri!”

“Present.”

“Take him to the dungeon, but gently now, no rough stuff. Get everybody out. I want only the head guards to stay. Go bring back all the men still working around the island. Nobody’s to be killed. I want everybody back in the camp without exception.”

The warden, his second-in-command and Filisarri came into the room with four guards.

“Papillon, something very serious has happened,” the warden said. “As chief warden of the penitentiary, I have to assume a very heavy responsibility. But before taking the next step, I need some information. I realize that in such a difficult situation you might think it unwise to discuss this with me in private, so I’ve come here. The guard, Duclos, has been murdered. They tried to take the arms from the depot—in my view that makes it a revolt. I have only a few minutes. I trust you. What’s your opinion?”

“If it was a revolt, why weren’t we in on it? Why weren’t we told? How many were implicated? I think I can answer those three questions, but first I have to know how many men went into action after Duclos was killed and his weapon—I assume—taken.”

“Three.”

“Who were they?”

“Arnaud, Hautin and Marceau.”

“All right, then. Whether you like it or not, there was no revolt.”

“That’s a lie, Papillon,” Filisarri interrupted. “This revolt was supposed to take place on Royale. Girasolo squealed, but we didn’t believe him. Now we know everything he said was true. You’re playing us for suckers, Papillon!”

“Look, if there had been a revolt, we’d have been the ones in charge, not those jerks.”

“You trying to tell me nobody else was involved? I don’t believe it.”

“All right, what did the other men do? Did anybody besides those three budge? Did anyone make a move to take over the guardhouse? How many boats are there on Saint-Joseph? One launch. One launch for six hundred men? That would be a little half-assed, wouldn’t it? And killing people to make an escape? Even assuming twenty men got off, they’d be arrested and turned in. Warden, I don’t know how many men your people have killed, but I’m almost certain they were all innocent. And now you want to destroy what little we have left. You may think your anger is justified, but don’t forget that on the day you take away the little that makes our lives bearable, on that day—yes—there may be a real revolt. The revolt of the desperate, a collective suicide. Killing or killed, we’d all die together, guards as well as
bagnards
. Monsieur Dutain, I’ve spoken to you from the heart. I think you deserve it for having come here to find out what we think. Now leave us alone.”

“What about those who were involved?” Filisarri said again.

“It’s up to you to find them. We know nothing; we’re of no use to you. I repeat, this was the folly of amateurs. It’s not our kind of action.”

“Mr. Filisarri, when the men return, keep them in until further notice. I want two guards at the door, no brutality and no touching what belongs to the men. Let’s go.” The warden left with the other guards.

Jesus, that was a close one. As he closed the door, Filisarri said to me, “You’re damned lucky I’m a Corsican.”

In less than an hour almost all the men who belonged in our building were back. Sixteen were missing—the guards were in such a hurry they had locked them up in the wrong buildings. Once everyone was back where he belonged, we learned what had happened, for these men had been in the same work gang. In a hushed voice a thief from Saint-Etienne told me the whole story:

“Here’s the picture, Papi. We were hauling a rock weighing about a ton over a distance of four hundred yards. The path we used was fairly flat, and when we arrived at a well about fifty yards from the warden’s house, we always stopped and rested. It was in the shade of some coconut palms and about halfway to where we were going. So we stopped per usual and pulled up a big bucket of fresh water. Some drank, others just wet the handkerchiefs they wore around their heads. The break usually lasted around ten minutes, so our guard sat down on the edge of the well. He took off his helmet and was wiping his brow and head with a big handkerchief when Arnaud came up behind him. Arnaud was carrying a hoe, but since he hadn’t raised it, nobody thought to warn the guard. In a split second he lifted the hoe and brought the sharp edge down right in the middle of the guard’s skull. The guard’s head split in two, and he fell flat without making a sound. The minute he hit the ground, Hautin—who had taken up an advance position—grabbed his carbine and Marceau took his belt and revolver. With the gun in hand, Marceau turned toward the whole gang and said, “This is a revolt. Everyone who’s with us, come on.’ There wasn’t a sound from the turnkeys, and not one man in the entire gang made a move to follow. Arnaud looked us over and said, ‘You cowards, we’ll show you what real men are!’ He took the carbine from Hautin’s hands and they both ran toward the warden’s house. Marceau drew off to one side. He had the big revolver in his hand and ordered, ‘Don’t move, not a word, not a sound. You Arabs, down on the ground.’ From where I was, I could see everything.