A pair of men shuffled over to stand beside Mohand, who looked up to see who had joined him.
‘Are you not going to say hello to an old friend?’
‘Simone.’ Mohand’s face creased into a wide smile. He stepped forward and hugged his friend. As he held him he could feel the other man’s bones.
‘What happened to you?’ Mohand asked, looking his old friend up and down. Never a heavy man, he was clearly a good deal lighter than when Mohand last saw him.
Simone didn’t answer immediately. He then held his arm to the side, indicating the man who was standing beside him.
‘This is Hassan,’ Simone said, looking at the ground for a moment as if making a decision. ‘He is my friend.’ His emphasis on the word friend gave it a special meaning that was not lost on Mohand.
He looked at the younger man at Simone’s side and recognised him immediately. This was the man that Zaydane had preyed on after he had turned him down.
To a Berber, homosexuality was distasteful, but his time in the bagne was teaching Mohand that life was not quite so simple. There were very few women about and, if you were so inclined, the only real comfort available to you that did not come in a bottle or with the tag of prostitute, was from a fellow prisoner.
It was not a step that Mohand would ever willingly take, but he could see that Simone was content with his position and besides, who was he to judge?
Hassan was looking at Mohand with undisguised hostility. As if he would like nothing more than to tear out his heart with his bare hands. Mohand opened his mouth to speak; to challenge the young man’s obvious dislike. After all, what had he ever done to harm him?
A guard arrived before he could say anything. Alongside the guard, a convict pushed a wheelbarrow containing several small leather sacs, with a length of pipe protruding from each of them.
‘Each of these leather bags is filled with an insecticide. Your job is to spray this chemical on all plants in and around the camp.’ He stopped for a moment and looked around the men, making sure he had everyone’s attention. ‘Do not touch this chemical with your bare hands; you need to have gloves on all the time.’
Mohand’s immediate feeling was one of surprise. The authorities had done their very best to try and kill him and the men around him. Were they really now so solicitous of their health?
All of the men realised that a reaction was required so they all nodded their heads to show understanding. Then the guard continued. ‘This chemical is to treat all plants against pests and diseases. Keep your skin away from the spray and you have an easy job ahead of you. Any questions?’
He looked around to see if anyone had anything to say. No one spoke. The guard then picked up one of the leather sacs.
‘Let me show you how you use it,’ he said while placing the sac under his right arm and holding the thin pipe out towards a small bush. He then lifted a smaller length of pipe, which Mohand hadn’t noticed was attached, and blew into it. Then he pressed on the sac with the inside of his elbow and liquid spurted out from the sprayer.
While watching the demonstration Mohand immediately thought of the musical instruments used during parties back home in Algeria. He couldn’t help himself. He clapped his hands and laughed.
‘This is wonderful. I’ve never worked as a bagpipe player before.’ He then said the same words in Arabic and Berber for the benefit of them all.
Everyone laughed.
When the guard heard him speak in perfect, unaccented French, he turned to face Mohand.
‘How come you speak such good French?’ He was obviously expecting a group of North African convicts to have only a limited grasp of the language.
‘Of course I speak French,’ Mohand answered with confidence.
‘Do you mind if I test you?’
‘Please, be my guest.’
The guard began with some basic questions about the colony, the vegetation and the tools they might use.
While wondering to himself how these questions constituted a test, Mohand answered easily.
The guard studied Mohand as he spoke.
‘I think we could make better use of you than spraying plants.’ He chewed on his bottom lip. ‘Tomorrow, we will go along to the main offices and test you some more.’ He then turned to the rest of the men. ‘Right, convicts. You know what to do. Get on with it.’
As the men began their work, they all smiled at the picture they must have made, with instruments under their arm and a nozzle aimed at the vegetation. Simone and Hassan were working near Mohand so they managed to chat while they leisurely walked alongside the plants.
‘That guard seems to have taken a shine to you, Saoudi,’ said Simone. His smile showed that he was pleased for his friend.
‘What happened to you… after I was sent away?’ Mohand asked.
‘They knew that you and I were friends,’ Simone shrugged. ‘So they took me for questioning.’ Mohand recalled what his own ‘questioning’ consisted of and felt a pang of regret that this gentle little man should be treated in such a way because of his friendship with him.
‘I’m sorry, Simone.’
‘It’s done, Mohand,’ Simone answered. ‘And forgotten. They were desperate to get to any truth other than the actual truth. They couldn’t let it be known what actually happened. How would that be viewed back in France? Better that a convict rapes the wife and shoots the guard.’ He offered Mohand a wicked smile. ‘Besides, I knew nothing and couldn’t give them what they wanted.’ He paused and gave a small shiver as if the memory of a jungle illness was re-infecting him. ‘So they sent me out to one of the camps… and that’s where I met Hassan.’ He looked across at the younger man, tenderness softening his features. ‘He saved my life.’
‘No…’
‘You did, Hassan. I would not be standing here if you hadn’t fed me through those long weeks of illness. Without you, I would have died in a ditch…’ He broke off, his voice thick with emotion.
Mohand looked at Hassan with fresh eyes. There was more to him that he’d first thought. Although, he wasn’t quite as thin as any of the other men, and this fact made Mohand wonder how Hassan himself had survived on half-portions.
‘I hate to think of the sacrifices you made to get me food,’ Simone found his voice again. ‘Those guards…’ he shuddered.
‘These plants are done,’ Hassan said and gestured further along the plant border with his ‘bagpipe’ nozzle. ‘Let’s move along there.’
Clearly he wasn’t comfortable with the turn of the conversation and wanted to change the topic. Mohand was well aware of the currency of the jungle camps. When you had no money and no assets, there was only a limited way that you could earn food or money. Only a couple of the camps had access to butterflies to sell, which left your fists or other parts of your body in which to find favour with the other convicts or the guards.
Shaking his head, Mohand wondered again at the depths this place made men fall into. He looked up just as Hassan was reading his reaction. The other man’s eyes narrowed with irritation.
‘Listen,’ said Mohand and held out a hand, ‘your courage, I admire…’ He paused, feeling that he wasn’t explaining himself very well. ‘Thank you. Simone is one of the few friends I have in this place. Without you, by all accounts he would be dead… so again, thank you.’
* * *
The next morning after breakfast, the guard who had tested Mohand took him to one side after giving the other convicts their instructions for the day.
‘Come with me,’ he said and ushered Mohand over to some admin offices. They entered a small room with six desks along the walls, clearly positioned in such a way that the men working there might catch a breeze from the open window.
The desks each had a chair and they were all occupied by three convicts and three guards.
‘This one can speak fluent French as well as Arabic and Berber,’ the guard said to the man at the first desk. ‘I thought he could be of more use to the prison here, rather than spraying
plants with poison.’
The man he spoke to stood up. He was tall, with a long face and a slight paunch that hung over his belt like an afterthought. In contrast, his limbs were stick-thin under his uniform.
This man unhooked a pair of spectacles from his ears and studied Mohand.
‘You look rather young to be here,’ he said.
‘So everyone tells me.’
‘Where did you learn to speak French?’
‘I studied at school and gained le certificat d’études.’
The man pursed his lips. ‘Did you work anywhere before you were sent here?’
‘Yes, I was an assistant to the main accountant in our town in Algeria for a couple of years.’
‘Ah… then you must be good with numbers, too?’ A smile.
‘Yes, I love working with numbers.’
‘You speak excellent French.’ He scratched at his jaw. ‘You say you are good with numbers… young… fit. We could use you in our main depot where we stock all the prisons’ merchandise.’
As he spoke, Mohand fought hard to contain his excitement. No more jungle. No more starvation portions. No more being worked into an early grave. He felt his legs tremble at the importance of what was happening here. He held his hands behind his back to hide them. He was sure they were shaking and he didn’t want anyone to notice.
‘I am here to serve my sentence.’ He cleared his throat when he heard his voice tremble. ‘I will do whatever the prison authorities want me to do, sir.’
‘Excellent. In that case, from today you are assigned to work in the depot as an assistant.’ He turned to the guard. ‘Well done, Patrick. I’ll prepare the way today. Take this fellow back to his work and then in the morning bring him over to the depot and get him started.’
Outside, the guard shook his hand and smiled. ‘Well done, young man. You’ve just bought yourself a ticket to an easy sentence.’
For the first time, Mohand really looked at the guard who had worked this wonderful favour for him. So far he had been caught up in his world and hadn’t bothered to properly acknowledge him. He was an older man, in his forties. He wore a thick moustache touched with grey and had a mellow cast to his eyes.
Mohand felt emotion build in his chest and clog up his throat. ‘Thank you for… doing this. What… why?’ He struggled to articulate what was going through his mind.
‘I see all kinds of men in here, Saoudi,’ the guard answered. ‘Some of them undoubtedly deserve to be here. Some even deserved to be shot before they were led on to the boat, but some…’ He put a hand on Mohand’s shoulder. ‘Some I can see straightaway have been sent here by mistake. You deserve to be in prison as much as I do.’ He smiled. ‘C’mon, let’s get back to the bagpipes.’
* * *
The next morning, despite his lack of sleep, Mohand got up feeling great to be alive. He had hope in his life for the first time since this nightmare began. He could barely eat his breakfast of a baguette and coffee and waited impatiently for the guard to guide him to his new workstation.
He waited two minutes past the designated time. Five minutes. Ten minutes. He began to worry. Where was this guard? Maybe everything had changed. Maybe another guard had brought across another man who was better qualified than he was. Maybe the authorities didn’t want any more convicts working in the offices. Maybe they wanted to send them all back out to the jungles to die.
He almost collapsed with relief when he saw the guard walking slowly towards him. A smile was hooked under his large moustache.
‘Are you ready for your big day?’
Mohand nodded eagerly. ‘I keep expecting someone to laugh and tell me this has all been a cruel joke.’
At the depot, Mohand was introduced to his new workstation. With a quiet ‘thank you’ to the guard called Patrick, he took his position in his new office. At the end of a working day that simply flew past, the three other convicts that worked there introduced themselves. For most of the day they had concentrated on their work while occasionally throwing glances his way. Now they had no option but to say something directly to Mohand.
A tall Arab called Jamil was the first to step forward. He nodded and offered his hand. His handshake was fleeting as if the touch of skin on skin was more than he could bear. The next man Mohand instantly recognised as being a Berber. From this man he expected at least a smile, but he simply went through the same actions as Jamil, mumbled that his name was Ahmed and stepped out of the way for the other man to introduce himself.
‘Cesar,’ he said with undisguised contempt on his face. ‘Don’t think you can come in here, little boy, and undo all the hard work we’ve done over the months and months we’ve been here.’ He had blonde hair, an overly large nose and a face that was as lined as his prison uniform.
‘Don’t worry, Cesar,’ Mohand said, offering a smile of friendship that he hoped included all three men. ‘I have no intentions of putting anything at risk.’ He could understand their uncertainty. Convicts in the prison guarded every advantage they managed to muster with their lives. Men in the blockhaus would quite literally kill for a position like this. Mohand was keen to allay their fears that he would tread on their toes. ‘All I want is to stay out of the jungle and work hard.’
‘That’s exactly what we’re worried about, cretin,’ Jamil spat.
‘Yes,’ Ahmed decided he should add in his comment. ‘We do enough to keep the guards happy. No more. Do you understand?’
Mohand understood perfectly.
‘There’s plenty of work? Yes? So what have you got to worry about?’ With a smile he walked away from the men and returned to his barracks.
* * *
Very quickly, Mohand realised the importance of his office to the colony. From this depot the accounts were kept for all the prisons in the colony as well as the military bases. He and his fellow workers supplied all the furnishing, the equipment, the material, the laundry and sundry other requirements for prisons, military bases, railway stations, naval construction, field services and building construction for the whole of the French Guiana territory.
To the evident displeasure of his colleagues, Mohand picked up the work quickly and excelled. His quick mind could see all of the various elements of the organisation that was required, and he carried out his duties to a standard that delighted the officers and posed questions of the men who had been working there until now. Mohand repeated that he had no desire to put anyone’s nose out of joint, but he had a standard of work he expected from himself, and pride in his ability to do a good job dictated that he should meet his own standards, not fall to those of his colleagues.
After a couple of weeks, he approached his boss with a request that took the older man by surprise.
‘You want to work longer hours?’ As ever when he was talking to the men under him, Xavier Deschamps unhooked his spectacles from his ears before speaking, giving the impression of great sobriety and contemplation. ‘I don’t think I have ever had a man ask me that.’
‘I would rather carry on working here, sir, than go back to the barracks with all those foul, smelly men.’ Mohand shrugged. It made perfect sense to him.
Outside the office, he was immediately set upon by Jamil, Ahmed and Cesar.
‘What the fuck are you playing at, Saoudi?’ demanded Cesar.
‘Yes, why are you sucking up to the colon?’ asked Ahmed, playing on the Berber connection.
He turned away from them and strode across a patch of baked earth towards his barracks.
‘Talk to us, Saoudi,’ Jamil ordered as the three men kept pace with him.
‘Yes, talk to us,’ Cesar pushed him.
This took Mohand by surprise and he stumbled. Righting himself, he turned on the Frenchman, no longer caring if anyone heard him.
‘Don’t push me, you lazy bastard.’ He stepped in to Cesar’s face. ‘I work hard to forget this place. If my mind is on the number of uniforms that need to be sent to Cayenne then it’s nowhere near the fact that I will never see my fa
mily again. If you don’t get that then you are even more stupid than you look.’
The three men stared at him, a new respect shadowing their expressions. Mohand realised this and groaned inwardly. He should have known that despite the fact they were working in more humane conditions, the only thing that the other men understood was violence or the threat of violence. If that was what it took to get these guys off his case then that was what he would give them.
He allowed his anger to surface. ‘And if you ever lay another finger on me, Cesar, I will break it like a twig.’
‘Everything okay, gentlemen?’
The four men turned to face Deschamps, who was peering at them from behind his glasses.
‘Everything is fine now, Monsieur Deschamps,’ answered Mohand.
‘See that it is, Saoudi. I will not countenance any fighting or bad feeling in my offices.’ He moved his glare to take in the other three men. ‘Is that understood?’
They all nodded. Each painfully aware of what was at risk.
* * *
Mohand dived into his work. Any spare moment he had, he would be found at his desk pouring over ledgers and accounts. Lunch hours, he found, were an unnecessary distraction and if he worked on until 9pm, he found that sleep came more easily and the days passed without his mind being pulled to his family and from there to feelings of hopelessness.
As a measure of his gratitude, Deschamps gave Mohand five centimes per month, which meant he was never short of cigarettes. Among his new tasks, he was given the responsibility for all ships that arrived at the quayside. These ships would hold cargo sent over from France to ensure the smooth running of the colony. The ship captains required a quick turnaround as they had several ports to call in on during their voyage. The less time they spent at the quay, the more profit they would make. Mohand saw an opportunity here and, as he had access to the ship timetables, he made sure he was one of the first people to welcome the crew. Before he walked over to the quay he also made sure he had a number of convicts to call on in order to unload the cargo. Each captain was more than happy to reward Mohand for his organisational abilities and he in turn passed on a share of this to the convicts who helped him.
The Guillotine Choice Page 24
