The Guillotine Choice

by Michael J Malone

  Jean and Henri both shook their heads and mouthed, ‘Quiet.’

  A row of guards filled the corridor between the rows of cells. Each holding a rifle. The air was suddenly filled with threat and Mohand felt his legs weaken.

  ‘Everybody face the portholes,’ the same voice ordered. ‘Don’t speak. Don’t move. Don’t even turn your heads.’

  Again Mohand looked at Jean and Henri. Again they both shook their heads and then moved over to face the wall that housed the porthole.

  Mohand heard the sound of a key being pushed into a lock and turned. Then the sound of men walking. Another key was turned and more men were ushered from their cell. Feet sounded up the stairs and then silence once again descended.

  Mohand was itching to turn round and see what was happening, but he forced himself to stare at a spot on the wall. An hour in the hot cell sounded like the last thing he might want. This cell was warm enough; he couldn’t imagine one that was so hot it might be used as a form of punishment.

  The next sound he heard was a spray of water. Some of it sprayed over the men beside him. He enjoyed the thought that he soon wouldn’t have to watch where he placed his feet.

  The men in the other cells were turned out and given their bout of fresh air and at last it was his turn. As Mohand walked out of the cell and along the corridor, he looked into the other cells, wondering where Zaydane was. He knew that the issue with this man was far from over and that he would have to be wary of when he might take his revenge. There was no sign of him.

  Fresh air rushed at him as, blinking, he stepped on deck and into the full glare of the Mediterranean sun. He stood facing into the sun and breathed deeply. He stretched out his arms and savoured the feeling. It was only a matter of hours that he’d been below deck, yet how could he miss the air so much? He filled his lungs to bursting, and tasted salt in the air.

  A shoulder jostled him into moving further up the deck.

  ‘Move it, Saoudi,’ a voice grumbled in his ear. He turned to face the bared teeth and unsmiling eyes of Zaydane. He quickly pulled his face into a neutral expression, but not before the older man read his surprise.

  ‘We’re in the same cage, Saoudi,’ he leered. ‘Isn’t that convenient?’

  The first thing that occurred to Mohand was the state of Zaydane’s face. When he had butted him he had left him with the gift of bruising under each eye. The second was wonderment at how he had missed the fact that Zaydane was in the same cage. Why hadn’t he sought revenge already? What game was he playing?

  Then he realised how unsteady the older man was on his feet, how pale he was looking. Seasickness. The man had been too ill to attack him.

  Arab noticed the interaction between the two men and stepped closer to his cousin.

  ‘Know that if you challenge one of us, you challenge all three,’ he said with menace.

  Zaydane worked hard to maintain his tough-man stance, despite the weakness that a night of retching and nausea enforced upon him. ‘You won’t be there to protect him all the time, big man.’

  With a gaiety that he didn’t feel, Mohand placed an arm round the shoulders of his two cousins and guided them towards the side of the boat. ‘This is too nice a day and too short a break to waste it on a walking dungheap.’

  The three men then moved over to the side and sat facing the sea. They each looked into the depths and wondered how quickly would death salt their lungs if they fell into the water.

  * * *

  Such was the pattern of their first week at sea: long, desperate nights and long days broken with short breaks for food and half an hour of unsullied air and sunshine.

  All the time, Mohand was watching and learning. He observed his fellow prisoners and how quickly they formed into their similar groups. Even the Frenchmen had their preferences among themselves. Parisians lumped themselves together, as did the men from Marseille. Arabs and Berbers also formed their own groups as did the men from other French colonies. One group formed their own class. These were the most dangerous men, the fort-à-bras. These men knew the French penal system with an intimacy only available to the long-standing convict. To a man, they were tattooed, carried themselves with a muscle-laden swagger and knew how to get the best contraband. They were the natural leaders in a system where strength was power, and they bullied, stole and murdered without compunction. Within days of being on board they had each picked themselves a younger man as a lover. These young men were at first courted with fruit and tobacco. Then with the offer of protection from other would-be rapists. Then if they still resisted they were forced at knifepoint to comply with the older man’s wishes. This was the life that Zaydane had in mind for Mohand, though he determined he would fight it to his last breath.

  He also observed the guards. They were a new breed of men from what he had experienced so far. Their job might be to enforce discipline, but they appeared to be every bit as reliant on the convicts as they were on them. The convicts needed the guards to improve their position, and the guards needed the convicts to line their pockets.

  Jean explained this to Mohand.

  ‘Many of these guards come from poor parts of France where they don’t have two sous to rub together. They are every bit as capable as you or I of being cruel or kind. The blacks. They have the best reputations. They’re rarely cruel just for the sake of it.’

  Of course, the fort-à-bras were the first to understand the relationship between guard and prisoner, and they could often be found lingering near the cage wall and bartering with one of them.

  * * *

  One morning at the end of the first week, Mohand was taking full advantage of the sun and the breeze on deck. He had managed to get some sleep; Zaydane was still recovering from his seasickness and he was getting on with the business of living.

  Under the watchful eye of a Senegalese man, he was chatting with Jean and Ali, finding something to laugh at in this desperate world they were now part of. Suddenly a young French guard ran up to them, pointing his revolver in their faces and shouting.

  ‘I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you all,’ he was shouting. ‘How dare you mock Petit? He may be black but he’s a better man than any of you.’

  Even the black guard that they now knew to be named Petit appeared astounded at this outburst.

  Before he knew it, Mohand had his nose inches from the Frenchman’s.

  ‘Go on shoot me. Shoot me. Better a bullet between my eyes than a lifetime in the bagne.’

  The Frenchman took a step back. Petit moved closer to him and placed a hand on his arm.

  ‘These men were simply enjoying the sunshine, Roger. There was no mention of my being black.’

  The man called Roger placed his revolver in the holster at his hip and looking around him, struggled to regain his composure.

  Mohand was uncaring of this and furious. ‘You think you defend the black man against insult? You think this makes you more of a human being?’

  Jean placed a warning hand on Mohand’s shoulder, but he was too far gone.

  ‘A Frenchman tries to establish his humanity. What a joke. Look around you, Roger. Your people are responsible for all of this…’

  Before he could say any more Jean and Ali each grabbed an arm and pulled Mohand away. There were still a couple of minutes before their break was over, but they forced him below decks and back into the cage.

  ‘You fucking idiot,’ Jean raged at him.

  ‘Mohand always was the one with the worst temper,’ Ali chuckled.

  ‘One day that temper of yours is going to get you killed, kid,’ warned Jean.

  * * *

  The next morning at break, Mohand watched the guard approach him. He took a deep breath and vowed that whatever the Frenchman said he would face it.

  ‘I apologise for my outburst yesterday,’ he said. ‘I saw you guys laughing… and I assumed…’

  ‘It is forgotten… it never happened,’ answered Mohand, sneaking a glance at Ali, who was standing at his side wearing a bemused ex
pression. This was the last thing either of them expected.

  For the first time Mohand looked at Roger. He was tall and thin; his adam’s apple jutted forward above his collar like a chunk of rock he had failed to swallow. From his unlined skin and almost eager smile Mohand judged that he was probably only a couple of years older than he. And lonely.

  ‘Is this your first time?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Roger replied with a shrug, as if reluctant to admit to his naivety. ‘You?’

  Mohand laughed at the stupidity of this question and Roger quickly joined him, waving a hand in apology, and a friendship was sealed. From that day on Roger Hirault sought Mohand out at every break and the two young men found a commonality among their differences.

  ‘I’m from Paris,’ he told Mohand one day. ‘I trained as a sous chef. Got married. Had two children.’ He looked far into the horizon at this point, his eyes reading the past. He swallowed. ‘There was a fire. I was at work.’ He chewed on his bottom lip. ‘They all died. My son, Andre, was only six months old.’

  They stood in silence for a moment. Mohand wanted to speak, but what could he say?

  ‘So,’ Roger continued his story, ‘I lost myself in a wine barrel for a few months, until one day I met a man in a café. He was the chief of staff on a six-month paid leave. He was recruiting for guards.’ Roger made a face. ‘I was living in a mental hell. Why not really go there and get paid?’

  Life began to get easier for Mohand following his friendship with Roger. The guard loved to swap stories with the young prisoner and grew to respect his quick mind. As often as he could he would increase Mohand’s rations, which of course he would share with Ali and Arab.

  This attention didn’t go unnoticed by the other prisoners, and Zaydane was always willing to say his piece.

  ‘Fucked by a Frenchman once again, Saoudi? He’s after your arse and you’re too stupid to notice.’

  Mohand made an insulting gesture with his hand. ‘Go and do yourself, Zaydane.’

  * * *

  The captain of the boat used prisoners to do all the cleaning and maintenance. He had a bountiful supply of free labour, why not take full advantage? He would pick a few prisoners randomly and give them tasks to do. Roger recommended he enlist Mohand when he heard that he needed someone to work with the food distribution.

  ‘You look too young to be here, my son,’ the captain said when he approached him.

  ‘Life is full of challenges,’ he replied, feigning a convict’s nonchalance.

  ‘So you are a philosopher as well as speaking French, Arabic and Berber?’

  ‘I am a good worker, captain.’

  ‘I need a man like you. From now on you are to manage the food distribution to the prisoners. In return you can help yourself to the coffee in the kitchen.’

  Once again, Mohand considered the advantages that an education had offered an indigène such as him.

  ‘When do I start?’

  TWO

  In Self-Defence

  Mohand’s days were now filled with food quotas and distribution. He ate comparatively well and managed to sneak bigger portions to his cousins. His age was at first a barrier, but with the support of the captain and his own sense of fairness, he came to be respected among his team and among the larger groups of prisoners for his ability to appease the captain’s need for profit while still feeding the men a reasonable amount of food. The men who worked with him were easy to control. They had a cosy number and they knew it. One word from him was enough to send them back to the cages, so he had little trouble.

  The presence of threat never diminished throughout the voyage. It was always there like salt in the air, all it needed was someone to take offence, or someone to steal from the wrong man, a lover to look at another man the wrong way, and violence would erupt. But for the most part this section of the voyage was peaceful.

  Zaydane had forced the affection of another young man, a Moroccan Arab called Hassan. Mohand read Hassan’s haunted expression and was charged with guilt. Could he help? Should he help? It was true to say that the law of the jungle applied here and each man had to help himself. Hassan now had the shuffle and hangdog expression of a victim and even if he did lose the attentions of Zaydane, some other fort-à-bras was bound to step in.

  One morning, as they were leaving their cage for their exercise session, Mohand timed his steps so that they fell in with those of Hassan’s.

  As the Morrocan walked in front of him, Mohand could see a trace of a limp. The poor guy was being badly treated by Zaydane. A surge of guilt stirred in his gut.

  He followed Hassan to a space on the deck.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  Hassan looked at him, searched his eyes for duplicity; found none and then shrugged.

  ‘I’m alive.’ He forced a smile into his answer and Mohand read of the man that this boy might become if given the chance. ‘Just.’

  Mohand wanted to place a friendly hand on his shoulder but worried that it might be mis-read. ‘Zaydane is a bully. And like any bully he can be frightened off.’

  ‘So that was you?’ Hassan swung round and looked at Mohand properly for the first time. The two men stared, each taking the other’s measure. Hassan was even-featured with a strong jawline, large brown eyes and plump lips. Mohand could understand why he had become a target. A pretty-boy like this one wouldn’t last long without the worst kind of attention.

  Hassan looked away first and screwed his eyes shut as if denying entry to a damaging thought. He crossed his arms and chewed the inside of his cheek. He looked away. Then back at Mohand. He seemed to shrink within himself.

  ‘I wish I had your courage,’ he said. His voice almost a whisper.

  ‘It’s not courage. I call it bloody-mindedness. I will be slave to no man. I’d rather be dead.’

  Hassan considered Mohand’s words. His mouth a thin line of regret and self-loathing.

  ‘If I fight, he hurts me harder… I’d rather… live.’ As he spoke, his eyes filled with tears.

  Mohand looked away from Hassan out to the seemingly endless ocean, squinting his eyes against the sharp light of the sun. The boy was stuck and could see no way out other than death. Nothing he could say would reach through this fog of feeling and make a difference.

  ‘If there’s anything I can…’ He stood up as he spoke and felt his words hanging between them like an empty promise. He knew that if Hassan did ask for help, there was nothing he could do. He was certain his own fight with Zaydane was unfinished and a strong part of him was relieved that Hassan was there to take the older man’s attention away from him.

  Acknowledging that harsh truth didn’t stop the feeling of shame that pressed between Mohand’s shoulder blades as he walked over to join his cousins.

  * * *

  Mohand vowed to put Hassan’s troubles far from his mind and concentrate on his own issues. He was now able to let his guard down, but sleep was still a struggle. He flung himself into his work during the day, hoping that if he tired out his brain, sleep would be easier to achieve.

  One evening, his tactic worked, but too soon he was dragged from sleep by a smiling Arab.

  ‘How is everyone at home?’ he asked.

  ‘Eh?’ Mohand rubbed at his eyes. ‘Why did you wake me, you bastard? I was asleep. I was actually asleep.’

  ‘At first you were talking to Hadj Yahia. Then you were having fun with your wife. Would you prefer I let the other men hear you having a wet dream?’ Laughing, Arab stuck him in the ribs with a finger.

  ‘Bastard,’ replied Mohand. He lay back down and sought the release of his dreams. But he was awake now and sleep was as remote from him as the Djurdjura mountains of home. He remembered a fragment from just before Arab woke him. Saada’s face below him, her eyes closed in pleasure. Her soft, hairless skin. Her hands on his back as he thrust.

  Poor Saada. He wondered how she was coping. An Algerian’s life was not easy, and she was far too young to be a widow. That was how she should
think of herself. He was dead to her and his family.

  In the dark, he wept and sought release in pleasant memories.

  His wedding night. A trembling Saada parting her clothing to allow him access. His surprise at how quickly it was all over. Their whispers and giggles at the sounds from the other side of the curtain where Amar and Messaouda were learning the same lesson.

  He felt his mouth shape a smile at the memory. Then the utter waste of it all clutched at his heart with fresh energy. And he wept some more.

  * * *

  The heat in the cages began to intensify. Jean informed Mohand that this was a sign they had entered the tropics. It was so unbearable that many men struggled to breathe. Even their morning break on deck did little to alleviate the discomfort and most of the men took to walking around naked apart from a small towel to preserve their decency.

  Several times a day one of the guards would come down with a large hosepipe in his hands, pointing it towards the cages. Everyone would run towards the bars and the guard would open a jet of cooling water over them. This relief would last only minutes and too soon the cold water would heat on their hot skin and their bodies would be slick with sweat once again.

  These conditions were perfect for disease to catch hold and a few of the older and weaker men were gripped by a fever. Friends would try to revive them with a cooling, wet cloth and by feeding them sips of fresh water.

  One man died in Mohand’s cage and he heard of others who couldn’t cope with the conditions.

  ‘Almost every day,’ Jean said quietly into his ear as they felt the boat slow and heard a telltale splash, ‘another poor bastard is fed to the sharks.’

  The heat and the constant crowding of sweating men were turning many men’s thoughts to freedom. A group of convicts beside Mohand spent every waking moment bent over a torn scrap of a map. Distances were measured, directions assessed and the names of rivers and towns memorised. Place names that at first sounded otherworldly became commonplace on everyone’s lips: Venezuala, Orinoco, Paramaribo. Men were heard bragging that soon after they landed they would take the first chance to escape into the jungle. From there they would make it to Brazil and before you could finish the first verse of Le Marseillaise, they would be in Rio with a drink in one hand and a girl in the other.