‘Thank you.’
He and Arab walked back to their barracks, each deep in thought.
‘He’ll be alright, won’t he?’ Arab asked. He stopped walking and turned back to face the infirmary. His voice was thick with emotion. ‘He’ll be…’
Mohand could only stand there and shrug. ‘It doesn’t look…’
Arab looked deep into Mohand’s eyes. ‘I don’t know how you can stand to be with me. I don’t know if I could ever forgive you if you…’ He slumped forward.
‘We are each of us victims, Arab,’ Mohand said and placed his hand on his cousin’s shoulders. ‘You acted the role you were given by the French.’ He exhaled, worried by the change in his cousin. He, Mohand, had come to rely on Arab’s strength. The older man’s ability just to get on with things had helped him when he felt he couldn’t put one more foot in front of the other. This life was not one for men of a weak mental state.
‘I have no…’ Arab shook his head from side to side. ‘How can I make this better? If Ali dies…’ He bit his lip, closed his eyes and turned away.
Mohand moved closer and took Arab into his arms.
‘Cousin, we are all we have. We are family.’ The compassion he felt for Arab threatened to overwhelm him. He had to be strong. He had to endure this moment for the sake of them both. He searched his heart and mind for any feelings of resentment, any thoughts of revenge for the selfishness his cousin had displayed back in Algeria. With relief, he realised he had none, and he was able to speak truly.
‘Arab,’ he said into the other man’s shoulder, as they continued to hold each other up, ‘I forgive you.’
Arab sobbed and almost collapsed to his knees. Mohand felt him lurch and steadied him. Arab took a few deep breaths and fought to control his emotions. ‘I don’t know what to say, cousin. You make your father proud.’ ‘Now, you must make me proud and face whatever the French throw at you with courage and heart. We will endure.’
Eyes sparkling with emotion, his mouth shaped in a smile, Arab placed one hand on the curve of Mohand’s cheek. ‘What a man you have become.’
Pleased and embarrassed, Mohand brushed Arab’s hand away. ‘Right, let’s stop standing here like a couple of old women. We need to go back to the barracks and spend the next couple of hours bitching about the French.’
Arab laughed loudly and shoulder to shoulder the two men walked off together.
* * *
That evening, they presented themselves to the guards at the infirmary and were given thirty minutes to spend with Ali. They sat beside his bed and talked of life back in Algeria. How, in the summers of their childhood, they would go swimming in the river outside the village. How stubborn Hadj Yahia could be when he reached an opinion. How much they each loved to go hunting in the mountains.
Ali was weak, but able to join in the conversation occasionally, and he managed a laugh when Arab relayed an incident involving his father, Hamadache. The subject then turned to the Great War and the experience Ali had there. At one point, Ali suddenly exclaimed, ‘I should have just given Hadj Yahia that damned pension. Why didn’t I give him the pension?’
Arab was taken aback. ‘Brother, you…’
Mohand placed a hand on Ali’s arm. ‘It is over, Ali. There is no past. There is no future. There is only now. We must live with that in mind or we will never survive this.’
‘Wise words, cousin,’ said Ali. ‘But revenge squats deep in the past and hunts in the future. That is where I must send my thoughts.’
Mohand shook his head. ‘That is the path to madness, cousin.’
‘Then madness here I come.’ Exhausted with the effort of speaking, he slumped back down on to his pillow. He managed a smile before saying, ‘It will just have to wait until I’ve had some sleep.’
* * *
Back at the barracks that night, after they were fed a thin soup and a chunk of bread, Arab and Mohand discussed the coming days. While Mohand was due to start working on the deforestation programme in St Laurent, Arab would be at Kourou, where the colony’s main road-building project was based. His job would be to clear the route of trees and rocks or whatever the geography of the country required.
Neither man’s challenge was an enviable one.
‘I hear there are men who work here in town,’ said Mohand. ‘St Laurent has clean streets and smart gardens all worked on by the convicts.’
‘Hey, another man told me that the better behaved cons get to work as houseboys for the guards and their wives. That would be an easy job, eh? Keep the house tidy, cook the meals, fuck the wife when the husband is away at work.’ Arab grinned at the thought.
A fellow nearby overheard their conversation. ‘You want to be careful with that.’ His face was as long as a horse’s when he spoke. ‘A friend of mine did just that. Until the husband comes back from work, caught them at it, the wife shouts rape and the houseboy gets a bullet in his brain.’ Mohand recognised the man from speaking to him earlier. He wanted nothing to do with this fellow, so he turned away.
‘Hey, at least he died happy,’ said Arab. ‘How do I get myself a nice little job like that?’
‘A couple of hundred francs,’ the man said. ‘Larousse. Bertrand Larousse.’ He held a hand out for Arab to shake.
‘And you can arrange this for me?’
‘No, but I know a man who can. You have the money?’
Arab looked at Larousse, his face suddenly grim. ‘If I had that amount of money and I admitted it now, I’d be found floating in the shit in the morning with my throat cut.’ He caught the other man by the throat.
‘What is your game, friend?’
‘Hey, Arab. Relax,’ said Mohand. This sudden turn to violence was more than he could take tonight. He’d had his fill of blood for the day.
Larousse was a picture of innocence. With Arab’s hands still at his throat, he held his own out to the side. ‘You’re very suspicious, my friend. It was a simple question.’
‘Nothing is ever simple in here, friend.’ The emphasis Arab placed on this last word suggested that Larousse was anything but. ‘If it was, where would a man find a couple of hundred francs?’ He released Larousse, whose face was frozen with the same innocent look he’d been wearing since the conversation started.
‘I know a man desperate to be relieved of such a large sum. He’s definitely loaded and unable to rest for fear that it might be lost. It would be a kindness to help this man out, would it not? And if a certain fellow was willing to enter this enterprise with me, I’d be happy to split the proceeds… say, half and half?’
‘You’re full of shit, Larousse,’ said Arab and turned away from the man.
* * *
Mohand slept relatively well that night. Again he dreamed of home, and again his dreams had given him time with Saada. He was finding that the more time he was spending with all these naked men during the day, the more he sought female company in his dreams.
His dream recalled a rare day in his marriage. Given the duties that they had, they rarely got any time away to get on with the business of being children. For although they were married, that was really what they were. One day towards the end of harvest season they had judged that most of the work had been done and Mohand suggested that, if they were to sneak away, no one would complain.
With Finette, his dog, at his heel and Saada holding his hand, he walked into the woods at the far side of Maillot. There was a little stream he knew well. It ran through a copse of pine trees and a series of rocks ran alongside it like the footpath of a giant. The air was sweet and the wind like a silk caress on the skin.
They’d chased each other across the steps and over the stream. A feast of tickling was the prize for the loser. Then they’d simply lay on the ground, each of them chewing on a stem of grass, savouring the fact that they’d nothing to do and a few hours to do it in.
Mohand grew guilty first. He wanted to go back to the house. Saada made a face at him. Why didn’t they stay a little longer? He made to move of
f. She jumped on his back, like a cowboy might saddle a wild horse. He’d laughed, gently dislodged her and insisted they return in case they were needed.
When he woke the next morning, this dream lingered before his eyes like cobwebs. How he regretted not spending more time with Saada that day. Her little face, cheeks bunched in a grin. Expressing delight at the smallest thing.
Sighing deeply, he turned to the side to speak to Arab. The space where he normally slept was empty. Surely he hadn’t been taken to Kourou already?
He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned. It was Arab. His expression was unreadable.
‘Wha…?’
‘Breakfast, cousin.’ He handed Mohand a tin mug full of coffee, sat down beside him and then offered him a chunk of bread. Suddenly realising how hungry he was, Mohand shoved a large piece of the bread in his mouth and chewed. A man slipped into place behind Arab. Larousse. He was also bearing coffee and bread.
‘Thanks, Arab,’ Mohand said and swallowed. ‘Needed that. Now I need to go and take a piss.’
Chains rattled at the door. A turnkey entered.
‘Prisoner 51240,’ he shouted the length of the room. No one stirred.
‘Prisoner 51240?’
All heads in the room searched for movement. Arab nudged Mohand.
‘Is that not you?’ he asked.
They both looked at the tattoo on his forearm. 51240.
What would the turnkey want with him? He stood up. Arab also climbed to his feet. He pulled his cousin into a hug and whispered in his ear.
‘Go with Allah.’
Mohand stepped back from Arab, his mind struggling to articulate what has happening. There was a puzzle here and he just didn’t have all the pieces.
Arab pushed him. ‘Go.’ He looked at Larousse, who nodded.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Mohand, looking from one man to the other. ‘I’m not leaving you, cousin.’
‘For a clever man, you can be very stupid, Kaci.’
This use of his childhood name momentarily confused Mohand. He looked around himself as if seeing the blockhaus for the first time.
‘Larousse robbed some poor Parisian. I caught him in the act and told him I’d let everyone know he was responsible.’ Arab spoke in a rushed whisper and, as he spoke, he pushed Mohand towards the door. ‘The bribe he paid me I gave to the guards.’
Mohand stopped walking and looked at his cousin. He opened his mouth to speak.
The guard shouted again. His voice sharp with irritation. ‘Prisoner 512…’
‘He’s here,’ shouted Arab. He faced Mohand. ‘Now go.’
Mohand walked towards the turnkey, his thoughts careering from one place to another. At the door, he turned back to look at Arab. He was sitting in a crouch, bent over another chunk of bread. He waved Mohand away with irritation. Mohand was struck with the thought that he would never see him again.
Shaking his head, Mohand followed the turnkey to one of the administration offices. A man sat at a desk, his attention on a file before him. He pushed it to the side and picked up a scrap of paper.
‘51240?’ He looked round.
‘Roger Hirault?’ Mohand exclaimed.
‘Mohand Saoudi,’ he answered with a smile. ‘If I’d known number 51240 was you, I wouldn’t have asked for so much.’ He stood up, the feet of his chair screeching against the wooden floor.
‘Sorry?’ Mohand felt as if he was out of step with the world this morning.
‘A change of plan. You’re being sent to the town garden detail. The jungle will just have to be cleared by someone else.’ He smiled broadly. Another guard entered the room. ‘Go with this man. He’ll take you to your new quarters.’
Mohand turned to walk from the room. He heard the rustle of paper and felt something being slipped into the pocket of his tunic.
‘If I’d known it was you…’ Roger said quietly. ‘You can have a little back.’
SIX
Little Paris
‘Welcome to Little Paris,’ the chief guard said to the line of men in front of him. ‘St-Laurent-du-Maroni is nothing like Paris. Nonetheless, the charming colonial buildings you see around you have attracted this name.’
‘Every time,’ a fellow prisoner mumbled in Mohand’s ear, ‘every time we get a new man on this detail, Villiers goes through this little lecture.’
‘You are all lucky men. Very lucky. Work hard on the jobs we give you and you have an easy life. Shirk away and do nothing and you will be sent back to the logging camps.’ He looked along the lines of men, who were all wearing the traditional red and white stripes of the bagnard, with wide-brimmed straw hats to protect them from the sun.
‘Saoudi. You will work with Simone for the day. He is a lazy good-for-nothing but at least he won’t fill your ears full of crap. Go to it, men. And remember, when you hear the horn, get your skinny arses back here and we will escort you back to the bagne.’
With a nod of his head, he turned and walked away.
At this signal, all of the men dispersed and made off in separate directions. Some were accompanied by guards. Others simply walked away on their own.
‘Don’t hang about with your mouth wide open like that,’ Simone said to Mohand. ‘The insects are big in these parts.’
‘What is going on?’ Mohand asked. He was astonished. Used to violence, sickness and maltreatment of every kind imaginable, he’d walked a couple of hundred yards outside of the penitentiary and entered a different world.
‘This is a good number for everyone, guards and convicts alike,’ Simone said. ‘The guards can afford to be a lot more relaxed.’
Mohand looked around himself. The streets were long and wide. The buildings were immaculate, with small, white fences edging carefully manicured lawns. He looked at a building across the road. It had a row of large windows along the wall and all were open, with delicate looking cloth hanging inside them, waving in the breeze. The building had a narrow extension running its full length, with tables and chairs dotted here and there. At one, a man sat reading a newspaper. Another man approached him, carrying a tray and wearing a convict uniform. The convict poured the other man a drink from a pot on the tray, turned and went back inside.
‘This is… who is that man sitting there?’ he asked.
‘That is one of the guards. He is on the porch of a boarding house. The fellow who served him is a houseboy.’
‘This is…’
‘Where you want to stay, young man. Keep your nose clean and your dick in your pants, and you’ll do just fine.’
For the first time, Mohand looked at his new work companion. Simone had a touch of grey showing at the temples, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and the air of the professor about him.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘There is a little park at the end of this street. We are to trim the grass and clear the weeds.’ He smiled. ‘And we have all day to do it.’
‘Where have all the guards gone?’ Mohand asked. He was yet to move from the spot he was standing in when Villiers had addressed him.
‘A café? Fishing down by the river? To spend the afternoon with their creole mistresses? Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘And we just…’
‘We paint the houses, we tend the gardens and we trim the trees. We do all of this at a pace that can be described as leisurely. We do all this so that the authorities can pretend they have the perfect little colonial town, while ignoring the fact that they are working most of our fellow bagnards to death.’
Mohand slowly spun on the spot, taking in the vision as presented to him by Simone.
‘I’m not joking about the insects, by the way.’ Simone leaned forward and gently pushed Mohand’s jaw shut. ‘Let’s go. We have an illusion to maintain.’
The two men walked together to the park at the top of the hill. This was an area about the size of a football field. A path ran through it, and another around it. The grass was neat. The borders held bushes of different sizes and with different colours of flowers. T
he whole place was very pleasing. Mohand could imagine the people who lived nearby coming here in an evening for a stroll, while the sun sank below the distant shores.
It was the first time he had seen a well-kept garden since his days of working at the town hall in Maillot.
Simone walked towards a tall bush, rummaged behind it and come out with a couple of sacks.
‘You know what a weed is?’ he asked, handing Mohand a sack.
‘Any plant that has set its roots in a spot where it doesn’t belong,’ Mohand answered.
‘Clever little bastard, aren’t you?’ He grinned. ‘I think you and I are going to get along.’
* * *
The shop was nothing but a hut on the edge of St Laurent. Before he walked in the door, Mohand was able to judge that it was solidly built. This offered him some reassurance. If he was going to trade with this man, then he had to know his money was safe.
He need not have worried. The Chinese had built their reputation on hard work and honesty. They provided most, if not all, of the commerce along the length and breadth of the colony. If one of them should prove to be unworthy of trust, the entire race would be judged to be similarly tainted.
The man’s name was Chin. He was very polite. He bowed a lot.
‘Come in, come in,’ Chin said, ushering him in the door. ‘No stand outside. What we do is private.’ Chin was a small man with a fat face and skin that was smooth and ageless.
Mohand’s mind was full of questions. He wanted to know how these people had come to this place. How did they set themselves up as shopkeepers and traders? Did they make a profit from all of this misery and suffering, or were they as much a victim of the French oppression as he was?
Nothing of this reached his mouth. He simply stepped into the shop and stared around its walls. Goods were piled high around the room. There were no shelves, everything sat on the floor. There were boxes of fruit, cartons of cigarettes, bottles of some kind of alcohol.
The Guillotine Choice Page 18
