The Guillotine Choice

by Michael J Malone

  ‘You like tafia? Make you very happy.’ Chin followed his gaze and extolled the benefits of the local rum.

  Mohand shook his head and continued his mental inventory. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling. On a small counter at the back of the hut, a small bowl sat with smoke rising from it.

  ‘Helps with mosquito,’ Chin said. ‘You want help with mosquito?’

  As he had walked to the shop, Mohand’s mind had been filled with his purpose. He knew his idea was crazy. He knew it would never happen, but he also knew he had to prepare for it, just in case.

  Twenty years had to come to an end. Then he would be faced with doublage. He had seen the libérés around the town. He didn’t want to end up like them, starving and desperate.

  ‘I want to save my money,’ he told Chin.

  Chin looked around him as if faces would appear from the wood panels of his hut. ‘You want escape?’

  ‘I want to save,’ Mohand answered.

  Chin looked him over with care. As he did so, a more calculating expression filled his face. Gone was the genial shopkeeper and in its place was a cannier creature.

  ‘You very young. What you do to come here so young?’

  This was a question Mohand was faced with every day. It depended on the questioner which answer he gave. He knew that the other convicts respected strength. He gave them the answer they were looking for. He killed a Frenchman in cold blood. For money. He added that the money, every last sous, had been recovered by the authorities. He kept his story brief and stuck to ‘fact’. He knew that embellishments would only have the other cons laughing behind his back and judging everything he said as lies. So, he gave them a little and he gave them lies as close to the truth as he could make it.

  With this little man in front of him, he knew that only the truth would do. So he told him.

  Chin placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I can work with you. You good man.’

  Feeling that he had passed some form of an audition, Mohand allowed himself to be guided towards a small stool at the side of the counter. Once seated, Chin poured him a small tumbler of tafia.

  He threw it back and coughed as the liquid scored a trail down his throat and into his stomach.

  Chin chuckled. ‘Horrible stuff, eh?’

  Mohand wiped tears from his eyes and smiled. And nodded. When he recovered, he outlined his plan and held out the two hundred francs he had been given by Roger.

  ‘Money no good,’ said Chin.

  Mohand crossed his arms, ‘My money is no good.’

  ‘Gold better,’ said Chin. ‘I take your money. Turn to gold.’ Here he chuckled. ‘Like magic, eh?’

  Mohand was confused. ‘Money no good?’ he asked and then mentally ticked himself off for mimicking the man’s speech.

  ‘Money burn. Gold stays forever.’ Chin leaned forward, his eyes shining. ‘Better you save in gold.’ He nodded once as if he had just delivered incalculable wisdom. ‘Money take space.’ He motioned with his hands by his sides as if his pockets were bulging. ‘Gold tiny. Can be hidden.’ At this, he stuck the fingers of his left hand into his mouth and tugged. He held out his hand and in it was a small pebble of solid gold. ‘See?’

  Mohand understood. He handed him the notes. ‘Every time I have some money, I will bring it to you and you can work your magic.’ Both men grinned. ‘I have twenty years to prepare.’

  Mohand grew solemn. ‘I need your help.’

  Chin bowed as if grateful for Mohand’s trust. ‘I charge you for this help. We both help each other.’ He moved to the back of the counter and pulled out a book. He looked at the tattoo on Mohand’s forearm. He made some scribbles in the book. And nodded at Mohand.

  Mohand had no idea how much gold his notes might be worth, but he felt in his gut that this man was absolutely trustworthy. He looked around the shop.

  ‘I need some fruit and some cigarettes.’ These were for Ali. He judged that some fruit could be eaten immediately, but if he bought too much, it would only rot. Whereas cigarettes could be stored under Ali’s bed and then traded for fruit when his supply ran out.

  The men bartered and Chin held out the items Mohand had bought. Then Chin scribbled some more in his ledger.

  ‘You young man,’ Chin chuckled and rubbed his thighs. The trader was gone and the amiable shopkeeper was back. He made a fist and held it before his stomach. ‘You got horn. You need woman. I got plenty daughter. Clean daughter.’

  His meaning was clear and Mohand had to admit that, now he was getting some sleep and some better food, he did indeed have ‘horn’. However, he was not quite ready to go and lie with a woman who might have lain with another twenty convicts that day.

  He stood up and shook his head. ‘Another day,’ he said.

  Chin followed him out of the shop and at the door, he bowed. Mohand bowed back.

  Chin nodded. ‘I have good feeling about you, young fella. You be back plenty time.’

  Mohand bowed again. ‘I hope so, Monsieur Chin.’

  * * *

  That evening, after another day of working in the gardens of St Laurent, Mohand made his way to the infirmary. His face was familiar to the turnkey at the infirmary door and, for the payment of six cigarettes, he was allowed access.

  Ali had rallied from his harsh cough, only to pick up another disease from the other patients in the ward. His immune system was so low, the doctor had told Mohand, that a condition which other men might recover from was proving difficult for Ali to shift.

  ‘The fruit helps,’ the doctor had smiled, and placed a hand on Mohand’s shoulder. Kindness was a rare commodity in this place and he appreciated it greatly whenever it came.

  Mohand sought out the doctor again before he went to sit by Ali’s bed. His name was Raymond Vignon. He was from Marseille. He had joined the army to see the world and to cure the sick. He had seen enough of the world, he told Mohand with a smile, and his ambition to cure the sick had waned. Now, if he could make them die with less pain, that would make him happy.

  He found the doctor taking a break at the far end of the infirmary. He was leaning against a doorway that led out into a small courtyard. He had a cigarette in his hand and squinted through the smoke to see Mohand.

  ‘You bring gifts, I see,’ he said.

  ‘For Ali. He needs to build up his strength.’

  Mohand studied the doctor as he stood in the doorway. Rays from the dying sun gave his skin a healthy tint, which was an improvement on the exhausted grey he normally sported. He was a good man and Mohand was grateful for every effort he made on the patients’ behalf. With his silence he hoped that this message might get across. He knew that he, a convict, had no place to utter such words.

  The doctor said nothing, accepted the appraisal and stared back at Mohand as if he was struggling with a decision. He chewed his lip.

  ‘You know we have a difficult job here in St Laurent. The system never gives us enough equipment. We never have enough staff. The jungle breeds nothing but wild vegetation and disease. The convicts do nothing but harm each other and steal. Even the guards…’ He shook his head. ‘I want to help… with such limited resources we have to make difficult decisions. Who should be given medicine and who should be…’ He bit off whatever he was going to say next.

  ‘You didn’t come here to listen to man who has privileges you can only dream of while you have nothing… but a box of perishable fruit.’ He offered a sad smile of apology and placed a hand on Mohand’s shoulder. ‘Go see your cousin.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to ask you about, doctor. Ali. Will he recover?’ Mohand’s face was flushed with concern.

  ‘Go see your cousin.’ Vignon repeated.

  * * *

  Mohand would never quite get used to the smell in the hospital. A mixture of excrement and creosote. The men were each given a tin at the end of the bed to use as a toilet. Many men suffered from dysentery and the tins were wholly inadequate for the task this presented. In an effort to keep the place clean, the floor
was sprinkled with creosote once a week.

  Holding his breath, Mohand made his way down the centre of the room to Ali’s bed. The ward was full. Beds lined the walls, with enough space between them to allow the nursing staff to move.

  The men in these beds suffered from varying degrees of illness and from various wounds. The first man on his right cut his foot out in the jungle. Infection was swiftly followed by gangrene and the only way the doctors could save his life was to cut his leg off just below the knee.

  Another man lay shivering while malaria worked in his system. Beside him, a man lay dying from the effects of ankylostomiasis. On an earlier visit, curiosity about this man’s condition had led Mohand to ask the doctor what had happened.

  ‘You men are sent out into the jungle with no clothes and no shoes. What do you expect?’ Vignon snorted. ‘Ankylostomiasis comes from a parasite. It enters the body by drilling a small hole through the skin. And guess what? No shoes make the feet a great entry point for these little bastards. Once inside, the parasite makes its way to the gut where it matures to a point where it can live off the blood of its host. Your skin breaks out. Horrible, disfiguring lesions. And anaemia causes an exhaustion like you would never believe. Pray to whatever god you have, young man, that these little fuckers leave you alone.’

  Ali held a hand up from his bed when he saw Mohand approach. This was the nearest he could offer as a wave. Mohand leaned over the bed and gave him a hug.

  ‘Arab. Is he coming?’ Ali whispered.

  ‘No. He’s been moved to another camp.’ This was the greeting the two men went through each time Mohand visited. ‘I brought you some fruit and some cigarettes.’

  ‘Can I have a smoke?’ Ali asked and then coughed. Mohand looked at the shape his cousin’s body made under the thin sheet. Under the threadbare covering, he was like a line of sticks placed in the shape of a human skeleton. His once healthy cousin had withered to a pile of bones.

  ‘You must eat, Ali,’ Mohand begged. ‘Please. Have a banana.’

  Breath rattled in Ali’s lungs. His mouth opened. Nothing came out. He tried again.

  ‘Cigarette.’

  Ali’s face had shrunk so much that he appeared to be nothing but a huge pair of eyes, above the bristle of a nose and a mouth slashed across his tight skin. These eyes never left Mohand’s. He struggled to hold their gaze. What did he read there? He was scared to admit it and looked away.

  ‘I brought you some gifts,’ he said and piled his offerings at the side of the bed next to Ali’s belongings: a battered mess tin, torn trousers and a tunic, the wooden soled shoes all convicts were given, some fruit and a packet of cigarettes. This was all his cousin’s life had come down to, thought Mohand, and he brought his eyes up to Ali’s.

  Still he was staring at him, and Mohand faced the truth of that gaze. His cousin had nothing left in him. He was dying. Mohand chewed on a sob. He swallowed. He would not let Ali see how he was feeling.

  Ali’s mouth opened slowly as if he was peeling each lip back from the other.

  ‘Cigarette,’ he repeated.

  Mohand reached down. Picked one out, lit it and placed it in his cousin’s mouth. It stuck there, unmoving. Ali didn’t have the strength to inhale. The cigarette tumbled from his mouth and came to rest on the sheet at the side of his chin. Mohand plucked it away before it burned the thin cotton.

  ‘Oh, Ali,’ Mohand said, gripping his cousin’s hand. He felt the coolness of a tear slide down the side of his nose. ‘How can I make you better?’

  Ali moved his head. From one side to the other.

  ‘Can’t.’ His lips made a small smacking sound as he parted them to speak. ‘Can’t.’

  Just then an attendant walked past. He was one of the convicts who was at the end of a long sentence and now in a position of trust. They were chosen for their ability to care for the sick and their willingness to deal with the dead.

  ‘That one’ll be feeding the sharks in the morning,’ he said to no one in particular.

  Mohand was on his feet and in the man’s face. ‘Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. How can you say such a thing? He can hear you, you bastard.’ His shoulders fell to a slump. His anger passed as quickly as it arrived. This fellow had to face death every hour of every day. He was just dealing with it the best way he knew how.

  He turned back to face Ali. His eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. His mouth slack.

  While he had been arguing, his cousin had died.

  He leaned over and pulled down the eyelids, before falling to his knees at the side of the bed. Holding Ali’s hand, he allowed grief to take over.

  He had no idea how long he was folded over the bed in that position. He only knew that his knees were protesting against the wooden floor, and the sheet was soaked with his tears.

  He felt a hand at his shoulder. He looked up. Two attendants were standing there, ready to take the body to the morgue. Mohand stood up. There was nothing more he could do. Ali was no longer here. This was just a pile of skin and bones. They could do what they wanted with it.

  One of the attendants motioned towards the meagre pile of Ali’s worldly possessions. Mohand wondered what he meant.

  Then it struck him that every man in this prison sought every advantage he could. It was the only way to survive. And in the quest for survival the rules of polite society were nothing but torn scraps of paper being used to clean the convicts’ collective arse. One of the reasons an attendant in the hospital might be able to bear the suffering he witnessed every day was that he might get first pick at the possessions of a dead man, before the other hospital inmates began to loot the corpse.

  This man had no need to ask his permission. This was his right.

  * * *

  Mohand stumbled from the infirmary, tears pouring from his eyes. He fell to his knees in the courtyard and gave full vent to his emotions. His gentle cousin was dead. Ali had been totally innocent of any wrongdoing and he, Mohand could have, should have spoken up. If he had, Ali would still be alive. He’d be on a hill outside the village, on the lower slopes of the Djurdjura, a rifle by his side and his eyes roaming his herd, making sure they were safe.

  Instead, he was already cooling, being sown into a sack, waiting for the tide and a frenzy of hungry sharks.

  If only he had spoken up. He was every bit as guilty as Arab in contributing to Ali’s death and that guilt lodged on his shoulders, in his gut and wove its way through his system like a dark plaque.

  * * *

  The next day, he turned up for work as usual. He hadn’t slept and was weary to the bone. He joined the line of men that would be escorted from the barracks and out into the town and waited for the march to another day’s work. One of the guards called him over.

  ‘Can’t see that we’ll get much use out of you today, Saoudi,’ he said.

  Mohand simply stood at attention under his gaze.

  ‘My advice. Go find a bar. Get mad drunk. Fuck a prostitute and tomorrow is another day.’

  Mohand’s head was full of fog. He couldn’t understand what the guard was trying to say.

  ‘We know that your cousin died,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘You have the day off, you stupid piece of shit. Go and enjoy yourself.’

  He looked round about him to see what the joke was. This was certainly a more relaxed attitude from any guard he had met so far.

  ‘We have different standards in this detail,’ the guard explained. ‘The men working in this group have it very easy and we know you don’t want to fuck that up. The price is too high. So… where are you going to go?’ asked the guard.

  He made straight for Chin’s shop, asked for some money then marched into town, sat himself at the table of the nastiest café and worked hard at developing a taste for the local rum.

  The café was a little shack at the side of the road on the way out of St Laurent. There were two tables outside the door, under the shade of a ragged tarpaulin that had been strung from the roof.

  ‘Some rum,’
Mohand ordered with a slap of his hand on a table.

  ‘Are you old enough to drink?’ A man leaned against the window ledge that acted as his bar counter. The tone of his voice suggested that he was having a little fun.

  ‘I’m certainly old enough to kill,’ Mohand answered. ‘To drink? I don’t know, but let’s give it a damn good try, eh?’

  ‘You look like a man who has had some bad news.’

  ‘Is there any other kind, monsieur?’

  The man barked a laugh. ‘Michel Lacroix at your service. And it has been a very long time since anyone called me “monsieur”.’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to establish a better kind of customer, Michel.’

  ‘Perhaps I should move to Paris on the next boat, set up shop on the Champs Élysées and serve free champagne and oysters to everyone who passes by?’

  Mohand felt himself hang a smile on his face for the first time that day. ‘Well, before you do, set me up with some tafia.’

  The rum was fiery and tasteless. He demanded some more.

  Six glasses later he still felt sober. Where was the release that alcohol was supposed to offer?

  ‘More,’ he ordered.

  ‘Much as I am happy to take your money, young man, it doesn’t appear that the rum is having the desired affect.’

  ‘What would you recommend?’

  ‘Sleep? Time?’

  Mohand jumped to his feet. Staggered to the side and slumped to the ground.

  ‘Or then again…’ said Lacroix as he picked him up and carried him through to the back of the bar.

  * * *

  Some hours later, Mohand was nursing a mug of hot, black coffee and a headache that made it difficult to move.

  ‘You have yourself a good little situation here, Lacroix,’ said Mohand. ‘How come you have this…?’ He waved a hand in the air, but stopped when he realised it made his head worse. ‘Most libérés barely have a pot to piss in.’

  ‘An honest service. Men know they can trust me,’ he said. While he was talking he reached under the table and pulled out a machete, which he dropped with a clang on to the table. ‘And they know that I won’t take any shit.’