Papillon (7 page)

The movie of my life unwound before me: my childhood in a family full of love—educated, mannerly, noble; the flowers in the fields, the murmuring of the streams, the taste of the nuts, peaches and plums that our garden produced in quantity; the perfume of the mimosa which bloomed by our front door each spring; the outside of our house, and the inside, filled with my family’s special movements—all of it filed through my mind. It was a sound movie: I heard the voice of my poor mother who loved me so much, and then my father’s—always tender and caressing; Clara’s barking (she was my father’s pointer) calling me from the garden to come out and play; the girls and boys I played with during the happiest days of my life. I had not asked to see this movie. It was the projection of a magic lantern brought to life by my subconscious, filling with emotion this night of waiting for the leap into the great unknown.

It was time to take stock. I was twenty-six years old, in good health, and in my gut I had five thousand six hundred francs of my own and twenty-five thousand francs belonging to Galgani. Dega, next to me, had ten thousand. I figured I could count on forty thousand francs, for if Galgani wasn’t able to defend his money here, it would be even more difficult on the boat and in Guiana. And he knew it, which is why he hadn’t come to claim his
plan
. So I could count on this money, granted it meant taking Galgani with me. It was his money; he must reap the benefit. I’d use it for his good, although indirectly I’d benefit too. Forty thousand francs was a lot; it would make it easy to buy accomplices—cons, escaped prisoners, guards.

As soon as I arrived, then, I would escape with Dega and Galgani. I would concentrate on that and that alone. I touched the lancet, pleased to feel the cold steel. To have such a formidable weapon gave me a feeling of confidence. I had already proved its usefulness in the incident with the Arabs.

About three in the morning, eleven bulging navy packs were lined up outside our cell, each with a large label. One of them read: “C—, Pierre, thirty years old, five feet nine, size forty-two, shoe size eight, identification number X …” That Pierre C—was Pierrot le Fou, the man from Bordeaux convicted for murder in Paris with a sentence of twenty years at hard labor. He was a good guy, a straight and dependable member of the underworld whom I knew well.

I tried deliberately to make my brain conjure up a picture of the courtroom, the jury, the prosecutor and all the rest. It refused outright; all I got were vague outlines. I understood then that if I were to relive those scenes in the Conciergerie and Beaulieu as intensely as I had felt them when they occurred, I would have to be alone, completely alone. It was a relief to know this, and I realized that the communal life that lay in store would produce new needs, new responses, new projects.

Pierrot le Fou came up to the grill and asked, “How goes it, Papi?”

“How about you?”

“You know, I always dreamed of going to America, but being a gambler, I never managed to save enough money for the trip. The pigs decided to offer me the trip free of charge. No question, it’s a good thing, eh, Papi?” He was talking naturally, not putting it on, seeming very sure of himself. “This free trip to America has definite advantages. I’d rather go to the
bagne
than spend fifteen years in solitary in France.”

“I suppose we should wait until the returns are in, but I think I agree with you. Look, Pierrot, that’s your tag.”

He bent down to read it and said, “I can’t wait to put that outfit on. How about those red stripes? I’d like to open the pack and do it right now. Nobody’ll say anything. After all, they’re mine.”

“Don’t. Wait until we’re told. This is no time to make trouble, Pierre. I need peace.” He understood and moved away.

Dega looked at me and said, “Young feller, it’s our last night. Tomorrow we leave our beautiful country.”

“Our beautiful country doesn’t have a beautiful sense of justice, Dega. Maybe we’ll get to know other countries, not so beautiful, perhaps, but with a more humane way of treating offenders.”

I didn’t know how close to the truth I was. The future would teach me.

At six o’clock, reveille. Some cons brought us coffee, then four guards came. Today they wore white, their revolvers still on their hips. Their gilt buttons glistened. One of them had three gold stripes in a V on his left sleeve, though nothing on the shoulders.

“Transportees, go into the corridor by twos. Each of you, find your pack—your name is on the label. Take your pack, stand against the wall and face the corridor with the pack in front of you.”

When we had done this, he said, “Strip, make a bundle of your clothes, put it in your jacket and tie it by the sleeves.... Good. You there, pick up the bundles and put them in the cell … Now, put your new clothes on: underpants, undershirts, your striped pants, the shirt, shoes and socks.... Everybody ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Keep your sweaters out of the pack in case it rains or gets cold. Packs on your left shoulders! … Line up in twos and follow me.”

With the man with the stripes in front, a guard on either side and the fourth bringing up the rear, our little column marched into the yard. In less than two hours they had eight hundred cons lined up. Then they called out forty men, among them me, Dega and the three who had escaped: Julot, Le Guittou and Santini. We stood in rows of ten; each row had a guard at its side. No chains, no handcuffs. Three yards in front of us were ten policemen. They faced us, rifles in hand, and walked backward all the way, each one guided by another policeman pulling him by the belt.

The great gates of the Citadel opened and the column slowly moved forward. As we emerged from the fortress, policemen—submachine guns in hand—came alongside the convoy and accompanied it to its destination. They held back the curious who had gathered to watch our departure. About halfway I heard a soft whistle. I looked up and there was my wife Nénette and Antoine D—, an old friend, leaning out of a window. Paula, Dega’s wife, and his friend, Antoine Giletti, were at another window of the house. Dega spotted them too, and we walked with our eyes riveted to the windows as long as we could. I never saw my wife again, nor my friend Antoine, who died later in the bombing of Marseilles. No one spoke; the silence was complete. Neither prisoners, guards, police, nor public broke in on this poignant moment; everyone understood that these eight hundred men were leaving normal life behind forever.

We went aboard. We, the first forty, were led to the bottom of the hold into a cage made of thick bars. A sign hung from one of them: “Room No. 1, 40 men in special category. Constant surveillance.” We each received a rolled-up hammock. There were lots of rings to hang them on.

Suddenly somebody grabbed me. It was Julot. He knew the ropes; he had made the same trip ten years ago. “Quick, come here,” he said. “Hang your pack on the hook where you’re going to put your hammock. Here we’re near two portholes. They’re closed now, but when we’re out to sea they’ll be opened. We’ll have more fresh air than anywhere else in the cage.”

I introduced him to Dega. We were talking when a man came over to us. Julot put out his arm to stop him. “You better stay away from here if you want to reach the
bagne
alive. Understand?” The other man said, “Yes.” “You know why?” “Yes.” “O.K. Beat it.” The guy moved off. Dega was delighted with this demonstration of power. “With you two, I’ll be able to sleep.” Julot replied, “With us, you’re safer than by an open window in a villa overlooking the sea.”

The trip lasted eighteen days, with only one incident worth mentioning. One night a piercing scream woke us. A man was found dead, a knife deep between his shoulders. The knife, a fearsome weapon more than eight inches long, had penetrated up through his hammock.

Immediately twenty-five or thirty guards aimed their guns at us and shouted, “Everybody strip, and make it fast!”

We all undressed. I assumed we were going to be searched. I put my lancet under my bare right foot and bore my weight on my left. The steel cut into me, but the weapon was well hidden. Four guards came into the cage and began to search our shoes and clothing. Before entering, they had left their weapons outside, and the door of the cage closed behind them. However, outside the cage the rest of the guards kept their guns trained on us. “The first man who moves is dead,” said the chief warden.

The search turned up three knives, two sharpened nails, a corkscrew and a gold
plan
. Six men, still naked, were called out on the deck. The head of the convoy, Warden Barrot, arrived with two doctors and the ship’s captain. When the guards left the cage, everybody dressed again without waiting for orders. I retrieved my lancet.

The guards withdrew to the rear of the deck. Barrot stood in the middle, the others near the stairs. Facing them in a straight line, the six naked men stood at attention.

“This one belongs to him,” said a guard who had made the search. He took one of the knives and pointed to its owner.

“That’s right. It’s mine.”

“Fine,” Barrot said. “He’ll finish the trip in the cell over the engines.”

The owners of the weapons—nails, corkscrew and knives—were identified and each admitted his ownership. Still naked, each of them climbed the stairs accompanied by two guards. Two things remained—a knife and the gold
plan
, but only one man. He was a young man, about twenty-four, well built, at least six feet tall, with blue eyes and an athlete’s body.

“This is yours, isn’t it?” said the guard, indicating the gold
plan
.

“Yes, it’s mine.”

“How much is in it?” asked Warden Barrot as he picked it up off the floor.

“Three hundred English pounds, two hundred dollars and two five-carat diamonds.”

“O.K. Let’s have a look.” He opened it. We couldn’t see anything, but we heard him say, “That’s correct. Your name?”

“Salvidia, Roméo.”

“You’re Italian?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You won’t be punished for the
plan
, but for the knife, yes.”

“Excuse me, sir, but the knife isn’t mine.”

“Don’t give me that. Look, I found it in your shoes,” the guard said.

“I repeat. The knife is not mine.”

“So I’m a liar?”

“No, you’re mistaken.”

“Well, then, whose knife is it?” Warden Barrot asked. “If it isn’t yours, whose is it?”

“It isn’t mine, that’s all I know.”

“If you don’t want to cook over the boilers, tell us who the knife belongs to.”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t try to bullshit me. We find a knife in your shoes and you don’t know who it belongs to? You think I’m stupid? Either it’s yours or you know who put it there. Which?”

“It’s not mine, and it’s not for me to say whose it is. I’m no stoolie. Do I look like one of your bunch?”

“Guard, put him in handcuffs. You’re going to pay for your insolence.”

The two officers exchanged words. The ship’s captain gave an order to a petty officer who then left. A few moments later a Breton sailor appeared, a giant with a wooden bucket full of sea water and a heavy rope as thick as your wrist. Roméo was tied kneeling to the lowest step. The sailor soaked the rope in the bucket and then, with all his strength, he slowly struck the poor bastard across the buttocks and back. Not a sound came from his lips, but the blood began to run from his buttocks and his sides. In the tomb-like silence a single cry of protest rose from our cage:

“You bastards!”

That was all we needed to set us off. “Murderers! Sons of bitches! Assholes!” The more they threatened us, the more we yelled.

Then suddenly the warden shouted: “Turn on the steam!”

Wheels were turned and bursts of steam gushed against our chests with such force we were thrown to the floor. We panicked. The men who were scalded didn’t dare to cry out. It lasted less than a minute, but everyone was terrified.

“I hope you troublemakers got the point. Anything happens and I turn on the steam. Is that clear? Now get up!”

Three men, seriously burned, were taken to the infirmary. The boy they had whipped was returned to our cell. He was to die six years later, in a
cavale
with me.

During the eighteen days we had plenty of time to pick up information about the
bagne
. Nothing turned out as Julot predicted, but he did his best.

He explained, for example, that Saint-Laurent-du-Maroni was a village about seventy-five miles from the sea on a river called the Maroni. “The penitentiary is in this village. It’s the headquarters of the
bagne
. That’s where they divide us up by categories. The
relégués
go directly to a penitentiary ninety-five miles from there called Saint-Jean. The rest are classified in three groups. The most dangerous will be called up as soon as we arrive and put in cells in the disciplinary section while they wait to be transferred to the Iles du Salut. They’re interned there for the duration of their sentences. The islands are three hundred miles from Saint-Laurent and sixty miles from Cayenne. Cons hardly ever go to Diable. Those who go there are political prisoners.

“The second group of dangerous prisoners stay at Saint-Laurent and are put to work in the gardens and fields. If necessary, they’re sent on to the toughest camps: Forestier, Charvin, Cascade, Crique Rouge and Forty Kilometers—which is called the death camp.