Papillon (68 page)

I seemed to remember this from the nautical maps I’d studied some time ago. If it was Trinidad on the right and Venezuela on the left, which should we choose? Our fate hung on this decision. With a good fresh wind in our sail, it wouldn’t be too difficult to make the coast. For the moment we were heading between the two. Trinidad would mean the same “roast-beefs,” the same government as British Guiana.

“They’re sure to treat us well,” said Guittou.

“Maybe, but what will they do to us for leaving British territory in time of war without proper authorization?”

“What about Venezuela?”

“There’s no way of knowing,” said Deplanque. “When President Gomez was in power, they made the cons work in road gangs under terrible conditions, then turned them over to France.”

“The war may have changed all that.”

“But from what I heard in Georgetown, they’re neutral.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Then it’s dangerous for us.”

We could make out lights on both sides. Then we heard a foghorn—three blasts in a row. Signal lights showed on the right. The moon came out directly in front of our bow. Immediately ahead were two enormous pointed rocks, rising very black out of the sea. They must be the reason for the foghorn.

“Look, floating buoys! There’s a whole line of them. Why don’t we tie up to one and wait here for daylight? Let down the sail, Chapar.”

He dropped the remnants of pants and shirts I had dignified with the name of “sail” and, braking with the paddle, I turned toward one of the “buoys.” Luckily a length of rope hanging from the bow had escaped the typhoon’s fury. There—we were tied up. Not exactly to the buoy itself, for the strange contraption had nothing you could tie anything to, but to the chain that connected it with the next buoy. It seemed to be a cable marking the channel. We closed our ears to the persistent foghorn and lay down in the bottom of the boat, covered by the sail to protect us from the wind. I felt a gentle warmth creep through my body and fell into a deep sleep.

I awoke to a clear day. The sun was just rising, the sea was fairly heavy, and its blue-green color indicated that the bottom was coral.

“What we going to do? Are we going to land? I’m famished and dying of thirst.”

It was the first complaint in all these days of forced fasting—today being the seventh.

“We’re so near we might as well land.” It was Chapar talking.

From my bench I could clearly see the broken coastline behind the two big rocks. It must be Trinidad to the right and Venezuela to the left. There was no doubt about it: we were in the Gulf of Paria, and the only reason the water wasn’t yellow with the silt from the Orinoco was that we were in the middle of the channel to the sea.

“O.K. What do we do? You guys are going to have to decide. It’s too big a decision for one man. On the right, we’ve got the British island of Trinidad; on the left, Venezuela. One thing is certain—given the condition of our boat and our physical condition, we should get to shore as soon as possible. Two of you are liberated cons: Guittou and Corbière. The rest of us—Chapar, Deplanque and I—are in real danger. So actually the three of us should decide. What do you say?”

“It would make more sense to go to Trinidad. Venezuela’s an unknown quantity.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to make a decision. It looks like that launch is going to make it for us,” Deplanque said.

Sure enough, a launch was heading straight at us. It stopped fifty yards off and a man picked up a megaphone. I could see that the flag wasn’t British: lots of stars, very beautiful. I’d never seen it before in my life. It had to be Venezuelan. (Later that flag was to be “my flag,” the flag of my new country—to me, the most moving symbol because there, wrapped up in a piece of cloth, were all the noblest qualities of a great people, my people.)

“Who are you?” the man with the megaphone shouted in Spanish.

“We’re French.”

“Axe you crazy?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because you’re tied up to a string of mines!”

“Is that why you don’t come closer?”

“Yes. Get out of there fast.”

It took Chapar just three seconds to untie the knot. Unbelievable! We had tied ourselves to a chain of floating mines! It was a miracle we hadn’t been blown to bits. The launch took us in tow and the crew passed us some coffee, hot sweetened milk and cigarettes.

“Go to Venezuela. You’ll be treated well. We can’t tow you all the way because we just got an S O S to pick up someone who’s been badly hurt at the Barimas lighthouse. Don’t go to Trinidad. Nine chances out of ten you’ll strike a mine and then …”

After a “Good-by, good luck,” the launch moved off, leaving us two quarts of milk. We hoisted sail. At ten o’clock, my stomach almost back in shape from the infusion of coffee and milk, a cigarette between my lips, heedless of all danger, I beached the boat on a stretch of fine sand. At least fifty people were standing waiting to see what on earth could be arriving in this strange vessel with its broken mast and a sail made of shirts and pants.

V
ENEZUELA

I
DISCOVERED A WORLD, A
people, a civilization totally unknown to me. Those first minutes on Venezuelan soil were so moving, it would take a talent far greater than mine to describe the warm welcome we received from these generous people. The men were both blacks and whites, though most of them were the tan of a white man who’s been in the sun a few days. Almost all wore their pants rolled up to the knees.

“You poor people! You really are in sad shape …!” one of the men said.

The fishing village where we had landed was called Irapa—it was located in the state of Sucre. The young women were all pretty, on the small side but very gracious and hospitable; the middle-aged and old women immediately turned into nurses and substitute mothers for us.

They hung five woolen hammocks in a shed next to one of the houses, furnished it with a table and chairs, then coated us with cocoa butter from head to foot, not missing an inch of raw flesh. These good people of the coast knew we needed sleep and that we should be fed only in very small amounts.

Almost asleep in our comfortable hammocks, we were fed tidbits by our volunteer nurses—like young birds being fed by their mother. I was so exhausted that what little strength I had gave way completely the moment I hit the hammock. With the layers of cocoa butter coating my raw sores, I literally melted away. I slept, ate, drank, without being fully aware of what was going on.

My empty stomach rejected the first spoonfuls of tapioca. And I wasn’t the only one. All of us vomited most of the food the women tried to spoon into our mouths.

The people of Irapa were very poor, but there wasn’t one who didn’t try to help. Thanks to their care and our youth, we were almost back to normal in three days. We spent long hours talking to the people as we sat in the pleasant shade of our palm-leaved shed. They couldn’t afford to clothe us all at once, so they formed little groups: one took care of Guittou, another of Deplanque, and so on. About ten people took care of me.

For the first few days we wore anything and everything, but whatever it was, it was always spotlessly clean. Later, whenever they could manage it, they bought us a new shirt, or pants, a belt, or a pair of slippers. Among the women who took care of me were two very young girls—Indians mixed with Spanish or Portuguese blood. One was called Tibisay, the other Nenita. They bought me a shirt, pants and a pair of slippers they called
aspargate
. They had leather soles and the part that covered the foot was made of cloth. The toes were left bare and the material looped around the heel.

“We don’t need to ask where you come from. We know from your tattoos you’re prisoners escaped from the French
bagne
.”

That was amazing. They knew we were convicts, they knew about the prisons we’d been in from newspapers and magazines, yet these people thought it perfectly natural to come to our rescue and help us. To clothe someone when you’re well off, or to feed a hungry stranger when it doesn’t deprive you or your family of anything, is already something. But to cut a corn or tapioca cake in two and share with a stranger a meal that is already too meager for your own people—not only a stranger but a fugitive from justice—that is truly admirable.

Then, one morning, all the villagers were silent. They seemed upset and worried. What was going on? Tibisay and Nenita watched me as I shaved for the first time in two weeks. In the eight days we had been with these warm-hearted people, a thin skin had begun to form over my burns and I thought I could risk it. Because of my beard, the girls had had no idea how old I was. When they saw me clean shaven, they were thrilled and told me in their naïve way that they found me young. Although I was thirty-five, I still managed to look twenty-eight or thirty. But something was bothering them. I could feel it in my bones.

“What’s going on? Tell me, Tibisay, what is it?”

“We’re expecting the authorities from Güiria any minute. We don’t have any police here, but somehow their police found out about you. They’re on their way.”

A tall handsome black woman came over to me, along with a young man with the beautifully proportioned body of an athlete. The woman was called La Negrita, the affectionate name for colored women used all over Venezuela, where there is absolutely no discrimination, either racial or religious. She said to me, “Señor Enrique, the police are on their way. I don’t know whether they mean good or ill. Why don’t you hide in the mountains for a while? My brother can show you the way to a small house where no one can possibly find you. Between Tibisay, Nenita and me, we can bring you the news and something to eat every day.”

I was so touched that I reached for her hand to kiss it, but she pulled it back and, in the purest way, kissed me on the cheek.

Then a group of horsemen came thundering in like an express train. Each had a machete hanging from his left side like a sword, a belt full of ammunition and an enormous revolver in a holster hanging from the right hip. They leapt to the ground, and a big, bronze skinned man with the Mongol features and hooded eyes of an Indian came up to us. He was about forty years old and wore an enormous straw hat.

“Good day. I’m the chief of police.”

“Good day, sir.”

“Why didn’t you tell us you had five escaped prisoners from French Guiana? I hear they’ve been here eight days.”

“We were waiting till they were well enough to walk and their burns were healed.”

“Well, we’re taking them back to Güiria. A truck is coming for them.”

“Would you care for some coffee?”

“Yes, thanks.”

We sat down in a circle and everybody had some coffee. I looked at the chief of police and the rest of his men. They didn’t look mean. They gave the impression of obeying orders they didn’t necessarily go along with.

“You escaped from Diable?”

“No, we came from Georgetown in British Guiana.”

“Why didn’t you stay there?”

“It’s too hard earning a living there.”

He said with a smile, “You thought it would be better here than with the English?”

“Yes. Besides, we’re Latins like you.”

A group of seven or eight men came up to our circle. At their head was a man of about fifty, white-haired, almost six feet tall, with a light chocolate-colored skin. His huge black eyes betokened a rare intelligence and spirit. His right hand was resting on the handle of his machete. “Chief, what are you going to do with these men?”

“I’m taking them to the prison in Güiria.”

“Why can’t you let them live with us? Each family will take one.”

“Can’t. I have orders from the governor.”

“But they’ve done nothing wrong in Venezuela.”

“I know. But they’re dangerous men or they wouldn’t have been condemned to the French
bagne
. They must have committed some serious crimes. Besides, they escaped with no identification and their own police will certainly claim them when they learn they’re in Venezuela.”

“We would like to keep them with us.”

“Impossible. Governor’s orders.”