Eighteen months, he thought. Eighteen months in this festering heat. The guards complimented him. Most men didn’t last a year before disease, malnutrition or the wildlife killed them. To last as long as he had must mean he was blessed, they said.
Not blessed, he replied. Cursed.
He tramped along, making his own path through the thick undergrowth, hacking at the vines and branches before him with every step. Fatigue was an ever-present and he hoped that the tiredness he was feeling would be compensated for by making a few sous with his captured butterflies. This money could then be used to buy extra food to add to the poor provisions he was given from the authorities.
A bird flew over head: a burst of red, blue, green and yellow. Mohand wondered what might have startled it. The forest was bulging with life, but thankfully the larger predators, like jaguars and snakes, tended to stay away from humans.
Before him, a wall of vegetation continued to make his progress difficult; lianas, vines and the many colours of fluted flowers behaved as if nature was bursting to show off its fecundity. The air was filled with the perfume of fruit and rotting vegetation. A sensory example of the life cycle, thought Mohand.
A flash of blue and his target was on a branch before him. The morpho.
One of the longer-serving prisoners had taught Mohand all he needed to know about this beautiful insect. Henri Laforge was an industrialist from Montpelier, sent to French Guiana for fraud and totally unprepared for the fact that the real love of his life owned a pair of iridescent blue wings. He passed much of his knowledge of the morpho butterfly on to Mohand before a combination of starvation, dehydration, blood poisoning and malaria had taken its inevitable toll.
‘The juices of fermenting fruit can be used to trap them,’ he told Mohand, standing in that curious arms-crossed posture of his. ‘Of course, it is rare that any fruit gets to that stage in these parts, given the fact we are all insanely hungry.’
Mohand readied his net and prepared to pounce. He held his breath, stepped forward. And the creature promptly disappeared. He was ready for this. Laforge had warned him that the butterfly had a clever defence. The underside of its wing was coloured a dull brown. Perfect camouflage in the jungle. Any animal hunting for it would be on the lookout for the brightness of its wings. To hide, the butterfly simply closed its wings… and disappeared.
Trying to remember where he saw it last, Mohand launched his net.
He came up with nothing.
Something moved in the underbrush at his feet. He stepped back. Might be nothing. Might be a viper. There were times that a quick death was a welcome thought, but he’d much prefer it not to be from the venom of a snake. And there was so much of his flesh on display that any snake would have plenty of skin to target.
He looked down past the bumps of his ribcage, to the hollow of his stomach and the frayed rope that was holding up what was left of his trousers. Some of the other men had written to their families for money so that they could buy clothes. He had resisted until now, but with every passing day this was becoming an imperative. Others were resigned to working, living and sleeping in the jungle totally naked, but he was completely averse to that idea. Common decency and the last scrap of humanity he owned demanded that he wear something. He was not a savage.
You must think of me as being dead, he had told his father the last time they spoke. There had been letters from his family since he arrived, almost three years ago, but he had read none of them. Save that first one, which arrived just after Ali’s death. Simply holding the paper that contained his father’s words and thoughts was enough to fray any last thread of sanity he found himself clinging to, so each letter he received from then on had been set alight immediately. If he stored them somewhere, their presence would nag at him like an open sore that he would pick at and pick at, never moving on, never allowing him the mental space to cope.
That one letter was in French and written by Caid Mezaine. His father asked what he should do with Saada, his wife. Should they allow her to go back to her family or should she marry one of his brothers and remain a Saoudi?
Mohand’s reply had been succinct.
‘Do what you want with my wife,’ he wrote. ‘I am dead.’
* * *
Mohand searched the canopy of trees above him and noted how weak the light was down here on the ground, so he moved through the tangle of roots and vines, towards the sound of water. If there was a creek, perhaps there might be a clearing allowing the sun’s rays to reach the ground and provide somewhere for the butterflies to heat their wings. Again something sounded near him, but he ignored it. Most animals were spooked by humans. Only mosquitoes and ants would come and feast.
Minutes later, he was kneeling at the side of a creek. His reflection startled him. His face had shrunk, his skin was lined. He looked like a man in his middle years.
He plunged his hands into the water to disperse the disturbing image. Cupping them, he pulled fresh water up to his mouth. It was cool and delicious and revived his energies a little. He also sluiced water over his head and neck, hoping this would cool him.
Something caught his attention on the far bank. He lifted his head in time to see the long snout, sharp teeth and long body of a black caiman. These were the largest predators in the region and thought to be the cause of many a prisoner’s disappearance. The animal stared at him as if measuring him as a mouthful. With both eyes on the beast, Mohand bent forward to scoop up some more. He judged that the animal would only come at him if he moved into the water.
As Mohand looked down again at the surface of the water, he caught sight of a shadow behind him reflected there. It was moving towards him at speed. By reflex, he threw himself to the side, rolled over and sprang to his feet.
A man tumbled into the water and was spluttering and splashing his way out.
Mohand recognised him as the man who had been sharing his hut for the last eighteen months. The same man who had threatened him on voyage across the Atlantic.
‘So, Zaydane… you thought you would sneak up on me and try to finish the job you started on Le Martinière?’
Zaydane clambered up the bank of the creek, his face bright with fury. His chest heaved as he faced Mohand. He was completely naked, his dirty skin streaked with blood where branches cut him and insects bit him. His legs were so thin that his knees were the thickest part of them, and his hips jutted out like shelving. It was a wonder he was able to stand, thought Mohand, while realising that he must have presented a similar picture.
‘I knew it was you from the moment you entered the camp,’ Zaydane spat. ‘But you are never on your own, always in the thick of the other men. This is the first time…’
‘The first time you could sneak up on me. Only a coward attacks like that, Zaydane.’
The two men faced each other, both holding an axe, both realising that this time only one of them would walk away.
‘What happened between us was a long time ago, Zaydane. I have no quarrel with you,’ Mohand said, pretending to relax and allowing his axe to drop to the ground at his side. As he spoke, he looked over Zaydane’s shoulder to see the long tail of the caiman slip under the water.
Zaydane stretched his lips in a snarl, displaying the stumps of his blackened teeth. ‘You’re the man who broke my nose and bit off half my ear. And you say we have no quarrel?’ He jumped forward. Mohand moved back and the axe flashed past his face.
Mohand moved on to his toes and, avoiding the bulging root of a tree, he moved further out of range. ‘We are not each other’s enemy, Zaydane. If one of us kills the other, we are simply doing the Frenchman’s job for him.’
‘A job I would relish.’ Zaydane jumped forward again, but landed badly on the same root Mohand had just avoided. He cursed as he stumbled back onto his feet.
‘Why have you waited so long?’ Mohand asked. ‘We’ve been working here for years. I thought…’ He moved slowly, circling back to where his axe was resting in the long grass.
‘T
he right opportunity.’ Zaydane moved into his next attack and Mohand raised his axe to block it. The blades sparked off each other. Their movements were slow and calculated. Neither of them had the speed, strength or energy they would have had the last time they fought. And after the initial surge of energy, both men were tiring. Mohand prayed that his energy resources would outlast those of his opponent.
Zaydane leaned down, picked up some loam and leaves, and threw them at Mohand’s face. Under this cover, he slashed his weapon down. Mohand defended himself just in time. His axe met that of Zaydane’s but the force of this strike broke the blade from its housing in the shaft. He stepped out of range and used his forearm to wipe the dirt from his face. He looked around himself; they had both turned full circle and once again he had his back to the creek. Except this time he was defenceless. He looked at the useless pieces of his axe at his feet and thought about picking up the blade. But without the handle it was unworkable. He had nothing left to fight with but his wits.
Zaydane noticed the weapon on the ground and smiled. His face was partly in shade. Sunlight touched his eyebrows and the long blade of his nose. His eyes and mouth looked like black holes. Mohand shuddered at the vision in front of him.
‘We could be out here all night,’ Mohand jeered, thinking he needed to make Zaydane even angrier. ‘Just tell me where you aim to swing your axe the next time and I’ll make sure I’m standing under it.’
‘Bastard,’ was Zaydane’s concise answer before he lunged again.
Mohand moved just enough and Zaydane missed.
‘Where’s Hassan, your little Moroccan mome? Abandoned you for some man with half a brain and a bigger cock?’ shouted Mohand. He took another step back towards the riverbank.
‘Leave Hassan out of this, you bastard,’ Zaydane swore. Both men’s breathing was ragged now. Adrenalin and a severe lack of nourishment was not a good mix. Mohand’s legs were trembling and barely able to hold him upright. He knew he did not have many chances left. Another step back. He allowed his fatigue to show and then exaggerated it, bending forward and placing a hand on each thigh.
Zaydane stepped closer, judged his moment and lunged. Mohand stepped forward inside the other man’s reach and caught the handle of the axe on its way down to his head. He pushed up with every ounce of strength he possessed. The other man’s breath was hot on his face and smelled of sickness. They would be locked in this embrace until someone weakened. Zaydane tried to aim a kick at Mohand’s groin. He twisted his torso, lifted his knee and took the blow on his thigh.
As Zaydane fought to regain his footing, Mohand fell on to his back. As he fell, he pulled Zaydane on top of him, but just before the other man could land on top of him, he kicked up. The momentum of his movement was enough to send Zaydane sailing over his head. He rolled nearer the river’s edge but managed to stop himself before he fell in the water. With a grin, he clambered to his feet.
‘Clever move, young man. Very clever. But I still have the upper hand.’ He hefted the axe in his right hand and laughed.
Then disappeared from view.
Fierce splashing and a scream filled the air. A sound that would haunt Mohand’s dreams for life. Despite himself, he edged forward and was rewarded with a sight he hoped never to see again. The huge caiman had its teeth round Zaydane’s waist and was working on its death roll. Round and round the huge beast rolled, just under the surface of the water. Zaydane’s legs and arms were flung about like they belonged to a lifeless puppet.
* * *
Mohand woke the next morning on the plank in his barracks, frayed with guilt and haunted by a dream. In this dream he was kissing Saada. She smiled with an expression of love and forgiveness and then her skin lightened, her hair lengthened, and her face changed into the features of Marie-Louise. Her eyes were sparkling with tears, yet there was an acceptance there. A feeling of deserving whatever outcome might happen. Was yet to happen. Marie-Louise ran out of her bedroom door into a dark forest. The soles of her feet were as pale as silkworms against the deep green of the trees. She was pulled into the woods by Ali and Samson. Mohand chased them, lungs bursting, legs with the strength of paper, moving forward as if he was pulling a great weight. He reached a creek. He almost expected Zaydane to rear from its depths, but the pool was still. The surface as clear as a child’s conscience. He leaned forward and in his reflection examined a face harassed with its own thoughts. Guilt stretched his skin, loosened his teeth until they dropped one by one into the water like blood-stained pebbles.
TEN
Word from Home
At the first opportunity, Mohand sent a letter through the director at St Laurent requesting that money be sent from his family. The letter was polite but distant, with no mention of life for Mohand in French Guiana. Approval was given and his family sent him two hundred francs, which he used to buy underwear and shoes that were better suited for the jungle. Along with the money came a letter that he couldn’t bring himself to read.
My beloved son,
I send you news from home, by the hand of Caid Mezaine, whom you respect and love. I send you this news suspecting you will never read it. The last thing you said to me was that I should consider you as dead, and I can understand that this is the only way you can bear the pain of being apart from everyone you love. I also understand you will forgive a father who wants to reach out to his son one more time.
I miss you more than I can say, my son. I know this is not news you will want to hear, but nonetheless it is the truth. In my old age your name is seldom far from my lips. I am constantly being teased by the family – ‘I am not Kaci,’ someone will say, ‘I am Dahmane,’ or ‘I am Amar.’ Or worse, ‘I am Saada.’
Saada has grown into a lovely young woman and a kind stepdaughter. Her own father wanted her back. He had many suitors for her hand in marriage, but I preferred to keep her in the family. I wrote you a letter just after the ship sailed, asking for your permission to marry Saada to one of your brothers. The old ways are there for a reason and we should honour them. Your brothers did not find this so easy. It took strong words from Caid Mezaine to make them see that this was the only way. Dahmane would have surprised you. We persuaded him that this was the honourable thing to do and decided he should be the one to marry Saada, in order that we can keep your wife in the family as a reminder of you. This was not an easy decision for Dahmane. He loved his first wife.
As you can imagine there were complications after the marriage; after all, women can be difficult creatures, no? Messaouda left and went back to her brothers, leaving her daughters with Dahmane. This one was upset and kept riding his horse between the two homes. Eventually I bribed her family with a horse and its foal and Messaouda returned.
The house became more settled for a while, with always an undercurrent of tension. This did not last long, but not for happy reasons, for Messaouda became ill and died. Saada was a great comfort to Dahmane and he realised what a gift she was to the family.
Kaci, I grow tired now and Caid Mezaine has other duties he must attend to. I pray to Allah the money is of some help to you and I pray every day that you stay strong and true.
Your loving father.
* * *
Mohand never could quite get used to death and the many ways it came. Diseases too many to mention. Violence, random and as sudden as a caiman rearing from the water. A single bite from an insect or a bat became a swelling that turned flesh rotten.
In a part of the world that was plush with life, death skipped just behind, holding its tail, playing the great guessing game.
He forced himself to ignore the dead and the dying and to concentrate on filling his lungs one breath at a time. To help in this quest to feel he was still a man, not an unappreciated beast of burden, he accepted the money he received from Algeria. The word ‘home’ hung in his mind as unpronounceable as the meaningless syllables that littered his ears when Monsieur Chin spoke.
* * *
The man in the next bunk was dying. His eyes
were large in his thin face, and were dry with hopelessness. He stared straight ahead, barely registering Mohand’s presence, but he knew if he moved, the fellow would panic at the thought of dying on his own.
‘What is your name, friend?’ Mohand asked. It was suddenly important that he should give witness to this man’s passing.
‘I have no name,’ the man’s voice grated with effort. ‘I’ll be just… another set of bones that will settle… into the earth in this godforsaken jungle.’
‘You should sleep, friend,’ Mohand sought to reassure him. ‘The morning might bring…’
‘Health?’ The man managed a laugh that turned into a chest-rattling cough on the third note. ‘Gold, frankincense and myrrh?’ His head slipped to the side and for a moment Mohand thought he was dead, but he could see a slight movement in his chest. The man slept for around half an hour and just as Mohand was about to move back to his own bunk, he roused again as if given a charge of energy.
‘Would you hear my confession, boy?’ the man asked. Mohand had spent enough time around Christians to understand what he meant and he nodded while taking a hold of the man’s hand.
‘I had a choice once.’ His eyes were focused somewhere in his past. ‘Choice. It all comes down to choice, doesn’t it? Have you ever made the wrong choice?’ He didn’t wait for Mohand to answer but continued speaking. ‘I had to have her. She consumed me night and day. Except, she was married. I could have chosen to walk away. Instead I started a fight. Hoped this would show the woman what a hopeless case she’d married. The husband died and I ended up here.’ He fell silent for so long that Mohand thought he had fallen asleep again. ‘Do the right thing,’ he said, gripping Mohand’s hand with a force that took him by surprise. ‘You always have a choice.’
‘I had a choice too, you know,’ Mohand said. As he spoke, he felt his face move into the shape of an ironic smile. ‘A choice that brought me here. The right choice, and knowing that helps me deal…’
The Guillotine Choice Page 22
