‘Enough, Mohand, please,’ Simone begged him.
‘It’s never enough, Simone. This man will not be happy until I am dead. It’s either him or me.’
‘It doesn’t have to be that way, Mohand. You’re better than that. You came here an innocent man. You must leave the same way. If you don’t, the system has won.’
Gasping for breath, Mohand allowed Simone to pull him off. His friend’s words reached him through his anger. Simone was right. He was better than that. He had struggled all these years to retain his sense of self. He could not give in to the de-humanising process now. He stood up and leaning forward with his hands just above his knees, he fought to control his breath. As he did so he was able to see his handiwork.
Even in the moonlight he could see that Hassan’s face was a mass of bruising and blood.
‘You’re lucky, Hassan. If I kill you, I’m just as bad as every man who has abused you. Worse in fact.’ As he spoke, Mohand felt a strong surge of pity for the man. Perhaps he was right. If he hadn’t fought off Zaydane, perhaps Hassan’s lot would have turned out differently.
He dismissed this thought as he remembered the row of fort-à-bras on the boat and how they surveyed the younger, weaker men as nothing but prey. If Zaydane hadn’t got his hands on him, someone else would have. Hassan had ‘victim’ stamped on his forehead the second the authorities tattooed his convict number on his forearm.
‘We could have been friends, Hassan.’ He looked down at the younger man.
Hassan cleared his mouth of blood and spat his response on to the earth. ‘Spare me your pity.’
‘C’mon. Let’s go,’ said Simone, pulling at Mohand’s shirt. ‘The fight is over. Hassan has learned his lesson.’
With a last look at his prostrate enemy, Mohand allowed himself to be guided back down the path in the direction of his accommodation. He hoped that this was the last he had heard of Hassan, but he somehow doubted it. The man was intent on making him suffer and he doubted that he would ever stop.
As he trudged along the path, Mohand thought about how he could put Hassan out of reach. He still had friends in high places. He could surely use them. All he had to do was find out where Hassan had stolen the gun from and make it known to the right people. Such a crime could not go unpunished and Hassan would be sent to a more secure situation, where he would no longer pose a threat.
So deep in thought and so dim with fatigue was he that Mohand was slow to react to what happened next.
There was the sound of running feet from behind. Simone turned, shouted something and then stepped towards the danger, his arm extended.
‘No,’ Simone shouted.
A gun fired. Simone collapsed on the ground.
‘No,’ screamed Hassan.
Mohand fell to his knees and gathered Simone in his arms.
Simone coughed a ribbon of blood from his mouth down his chin. Mohand pulled his friend to him. Rocked with him in his arms. ‘Hang on, Simone. We’ll get help.’ He looked up at Hassan, who was standing above them, his mouth open in a tortured, silent scream.
Hassan forced a breath into his lungs and gave a low moan. ‘No, no, no.’ The gun tumbled from his fingers and with one last groan, he turned and fled into the darkness.
‘Hang on, Simone. Hang on. We’ll patch you up, my friend. You’ll soon be as good as new,’ said Mohand as he rocked back and forth. While the words tumbled from his mind, he recoiled at the horror of it all.
Another country. Another gunshot. Another friend dying in his arms.
Not again. This couldn’t be happening again.
‘It’s too late, my friend. He got me good.’ Simone mumbled and coughed again. Blood burst from his mouth.
‘Please don’t die, Simone. Please don’t die,’ begged Mohand. It was happening again. Another Frenchman was dying in his arms.
‘I told you, didn’t I?’
An image of Simone at the bar. His eyes heavy. His words… I believe I will die in this place.
He coughed once more. The light in his eyes dimmed and his head slumped to the side.
It was over.
FOURTEEN
An Offer and a Refusal
The report from the gun had brought people running. Lacroix was first on the scene, followed by Armand. While Armand wept, Lacroix took charge.
The first thing he did was to slap Armand across the face. Hard. Stunned, the other man could only hold his face and stare at Lacroix.
‘I need you to be calm, Armand. Nod if you are feeling calm.’
Armand nodded.
‘Bien. Now, take Mohand back to the bar. He’s still a prisoner. He can’t afford to be involved in the death of another man when a gun has been used. Understand?’
Armand was still holding his cheek and nodding.
‘Armand,’ Lacroix placed a large paw on his shoulder, ‘you need to help your friend here. Do you understand me?’
‘I understand you,’ Armand croaked. His expression showed that he did indeed understand. The murder of a convict was neither here nor there. It was part of life in the bagne, but it would not go unpunished. A few months in solitary. However, on this occasion, a gun had been used. Nothing worried the authorities more than a bagnard with a gun. A murder like this would receive the full weight of their displeasure and a short trip up the stairs of the guillotine.
‘Mohand, tell me who did this,’ Lacroix said, peering down into his face. Mohand simply stared into Lacroix’s eyes.
‘He shot him. He tried to kill me. He missed me and Simone…’
‘Who did it, Saoudi? Tell me who it was.’
‘His aim was crap. He got Simone. It was me that was meant…’
Lacroix shook Mohand. ‘Saoudi. Tell me. Quick.’ He looked up and looked into the distance. He could hear the sound of many running feet. The guards were on their way.
‘He knew,’ Mohand said to no one in particular. ‘He knew he would die here.’
‘I have a good idea who did it, anyway,’ Lacroix said with a grim certainty. ‘Armand, take Mohand. In the back room I have a clean pair of trousers. Get him changed and let him sleep on my bed. Do not leave him.’ He raised his eyebrows in warning. ‘Do not put your thieving hands on any of my rum. Now go. Go.’
Mohand allowed Armand to guide him back to the bar, where Armand did as Lacroix ordered.
Meanwhile, Lacroix waited over the body for the guards to arrive. Mohand worried that the big man might be in trouble, but Lacroix was well known and trusted by the guards. He had saved them a lot of trouble over the years and his word was good.
* * *
The authorities had no trouble in piecing together the course of events. The hapless guard who had been Hassan’s lover was forced to admit his part in the killing. Explaining away the fact of a missing gun was not an easy task. He was given twenty lashes for his stupidity and the call went out that Hassan should be brought to justice.
He was never found.
Like many others before him, he simply disappeared into the jungle. Mohand tried to harden his heart to Hassan. The man had meant him harm from almost the first moment they met. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to hate him. If Allah had given Hassan more courage and Mohand less, the situation could have well been switched.
Hassan had been a victim every bit as much as he had and he couldn’t allow himself to sit in judgement of the other man’s actions. Would he have behaved as Hassan did if he had been given the same experience? Being used as a slave to satisfy another man’s sexual depravity was not something Mohand could ever have dealt with. He would rather have died. He couldn’t know how that sort of treatment could have changed him.
Time and time again, Mohand was brought back to that night. The fight. The gun. Simone dying in his arms. Was there something he could have done differently? Could he have averted the tragedy if he had behaved in a different way? Should he have killed Hassan while he had his fingers round his throat?
That scene played itself in his mind over
and over. Each time, Mohand tried to ignore Simone’s words. He was not better than that. He should have killed the bastard when he had the chance. But each time the memory played itself in his mind, he could not bring himself to tighten his grip. He simply did not have it in him to end another man’s life.
The bagne would not brutalise him.
Another part of the night repeated in his mind. Hassan had mentioned several times that he was a free man. He, Mohand. He had not once said anything to Simone. What did that mean? Hassan had proven himself resourceful over the years at finding out information and yet, on this occasion, he had got it all wrong. Or had he?
Did Hassan know something?
Mohand gave himself a shake. He was a prisoner. It was not his lot to be freed just yet. He couldn’t allow himself to think otherwise.
Until the afternoon of 25th September, 1945, when he encountered a florid-faced and excited David Faber. The young guard and he had become friendly over the years, never passing the opportunity to chat.
‘Did you hear the news?’ David asked while crossing the street.
‘What news is this?’ Mohand asked, his heart pounding. From the other man’s expression, this news was big and it concerned him.
‘No. Don’t tell me you don’t know?’ David’s smile was huge.
‘David, if you don’t tell me now, I swear, guard or not, I will punch you.’
‘You are a free man, I just heard it an hour ago.’
Mohand’s legs weakened. He would have fallen had Faber not held out a hand to steady him.
‘It’s true. I just heard at the office. They’ve given you some time off your sentence for good behaviour. Mohand, you’re free.’
‘I’m…’ Mohand could hardly issue the word. ‘How…?’ He wanted to believe David. But why was he finding out in such a way? ‘Shouldn’t I be called in to the director’s…?’
‘Come with me, Saoudi.’ Faber placed an arm across his shoulder. ‘This is clearly a shock.’
The two men walked to the small cottage where Faber and his wife lived. As he walked in the door, he shouted for her.
‘Mohand has been freed, Claire. But he doesn’t believe me.’
Claire was a small woman, with long dark hair. She and Mohand had met perhaps once or twice, but nevertheless she was caught up in her husband’s excitement and she drew Mohand into a quick hug.
‘Congratulations, Mohand.’
Mohand simply stood there. Hands by his sides. Face drained of colour.
‘Please, Claire, fetch the man a strong drink. We need to bring the tan back to his cheeks.’
She brought him a small glass full of rum.
Mohand poured it down his throat without pausing for breath. It warmed his belly and clarified his thoughts. He turned to David.
‘Swear on the life of your children that what you tell me is true.’
‘Mohand, I swear on the lives of my sons, Jacques and Jean-Paul, that I heard this morning that you are a free man.’
‘I’m free.’ Mohand could feel the sting of tears. ‘I’m really free?’
David nodded. Claire dabbed at her eyes.
‘Mohand, you are a free man.’
Mohand let out a roar. ‘I’m free.’
Then the emotion swamped him. He fell to his knees, his shoulders heaving, his lungs unable to take in enough oxygen.
The noise brought the two boys running.
‘Maman, why is the man crying?’ one of them asked.
Mohand smiled through the tears and stood up. ‘Young man, your father has just given me the best news of my life.’ He turned and embraced David. Then his wife. Now everyone was laughing. The boys joined in, not sure why they were doing so, simply caught up in the moment.
* * *
The next morning, Mohand woke up to a beautiful day with bright sunshine. He jumped to his feet the moment he was awake. He felt as giddy and excited as a child on his birthday. In fact, he thought to himself, he would celebrate every day from this one as if it was his birthday.
The events of his life played over and over in his mind. His thoughts were like a monkey swinging this way and that among the trees. An image of Zaydane would be replaced with an image of a bright and happy future. A memory of Arab’s sunken face would switch to the smiles of his brothers on his return to Algeria.
Algeria.
Maillot.
Would his family have forgotten him? Would they want to see him? He slumped down on to his bed. So many years had passed. Would they still care? Surely he would be nothing but a stranger? Why disturb them from the pattern they would have worked into their lives?
Bending over his little sink, he showered using a small cup to pour the water over his body. He shaved and then prepared his usual breakfast of coffee and a piece of well-buttered bread. He savoured every mouthful. His first breakfast as a free man. He then smoked a couple of cigarettes.
This is my day, he thought, and I will make sure I remember it.
The clothes he had prepared for this moment all those weeks ago were pulled from the box under his bed. He cleaned his shoes and pulled on a pair of new socks.
Once dressed, he appraised himself on the small piece of broken mirror that hung over his sink. Yes, he looked handsome, if a little worn, but not at all like a convict, and what’s more he was still young enough to enjoy the freedom and the rest of his life.
He lit another cigarette, put on a new hat that he had set aside with his clothes for just such an occasion and walked out to the street.
For the first time in almost twenty years he did not look like a convict. To the contrary, he felt that he could be mistaken for a wealthy businessman. He headed towards the town with his head high, proud to have made it. Pride was not normally an attitude he would allow himself to foster, but he could not help feeling proud of himself on that day. He had taken everything the system could throw at him and he had survived intact. He was still the same man who had been thrown into that jail cell all those years ago. The brutality, the deprivation and the despair had not taken a hold of him.
He was an honourable man.
He was Kaci Mohand Saoudi.
* * *
He reached the bar at around 11am. Even at this early hour, it was full. Apparently a few others had found out about their freedom the same day as he, and they had gathered to celebrate.
Lacroix spotted him as soon as he walked in the room. He walked towards him, arms wide.
‘If I am not mistaken, this is a certain Monsieur Saoudi. A free man?’ He boomed.
‘How did you…?’
Lacroix tapped his hat with a fat finger. ‘You don’t normally dress like this, Mohand.’ He grinned. ‘So, have I guessed correctly?’
Mohand nodded, feeling his eyes smarting with tears.
Lacroix gathered him into a hug, his big arms squeezing the air from his lungs.
‘My god, Lacroix,’ Mohand stretched to tap the giant on the side of the head, ‘if you don’t let me go in the next five seconds, I won’t live long enough to enjoy my freedom,’ he grunted.
‘Ah, quit grumbling, Saoudi. You Berbers are all the same.’ He smiled and released his friend. ‘I assume a jug of my finest would be in order?’
Mohand bowed. ‘You would assume correctly, my good man.’
The next few hours passed in a blur of handshakes, gossip and rum. Smoke filled the small room as if everyone was trying to get through as many cigarettes as they could before they ran out.
Gripped by the bonhomie in the room, Mohand was surfing along on the feeling of good humour until a thought sobered him: what if this was only a hoax? After all, he still had not received official notification.
He stood up, the feet of his chair squealing against the rough planks of the floor, and without a word he left the bar and headed towards the camp.
When he reached the office, one of the few remaining convicts looked up from his paperwork. Judging from his dolorous expression, he was yet to hear the good news.
/> ‘Mon dieu,’ he remarked, ‘Saoudi takes the morning off. Is there something wrong? Have you some strange illness?’
‘Very funny, Pascal,’ Mohand replied. He looked around the office. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘Suffering from whatever ailed you until moments ago.’ Pascal shrugged and went back to his papers. ‘Oh, almost forgot. The director wants to see you in his office.’
‘The director?’ asked Mohand. He sat down. This was it. He was about to be given his official release. He tried to stand. His legs wouldn’t obey his command.
‘You’re looking very smart today.’ Pascal scratched at his cheek with his pen. ‘Is it your birthday?’
Mohand grunted. His mind was in the office with the director. This must be it. His stomach turned over on itself. He wiped sweaty palms on his trousers.
‘Are you going to see the director or not?’ Pascal asked.
‘He can wait,’ Mohand answered. ‘I am little bit busy at the moment.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, my friend, you are acting somewhat strange this morning.’ Pascal looked over. He nibbled at the end of his pen.
‘I need a cigarette,’ Mohand answered and left the room. In the corridor, he lit up and inhaled deeply. I should go, he thought. I should go now.
‘Saoudi.’ Pascal stuck his head out of the door. ‘Is everything okay?’
Mohand stretched forward, brought the other man’s head closer to his and kissed him on the forehead.
‘What the…?’ Pascal complained.
Mohand grinned. ‘Everything is fine. Couldn’t be better.’ He handed Pascal his cigarette and turned in the direction of the main man’s office.
When he got there, he paused for a couple of beats in front of the door. If this is only a dream, wake up now, Saoudi, he told himself.
He knocked on the door.
‘Entrez,’ sounded from the inside.
Mohand opened the door and slid inside the room, eyes downcast and feeling as nervous as a novice thief. The director’s attention was firmly on the papers in front of him. He continued to write while Mohand stood fidgeting before him.
The Guillotine Choice Page 34
