by Hugo Wilcken
Sabir struggles up, takes the money. Apart from the state of his feet, Bonifacio seems better than he was last night. The food and sleep must have done him some good.
‘Second, my friend, you’re going to do some business for me. You’re going to hire yourself a canoe and go down to the nearest Boni village. Find someone to sell you a boat and sail. I’ll give you the dough for the down payment. Then you go up to the main camp. Buy supplies from one of the barracks keepers. Then find someone who knows all about sailing boats. Tell him you have a boat ready. Tell him the good news: it won’t cost him a sou. And whether he likes it or not, he’s the damn skipper. You’re going to do all this today, my friend. I have no more time to waste in this shithole.’
This last sentence he spits out with venom. Still befuddled by sleep, Sabir says nothing. All this time, Bonifacio hasn’t stopped staring at him. It’s a gaze that’s like a drawn knife. Sabir looks away, and in that instant realises that he’s played it all wrong, he’s lost. If he’d immediately said yes, I’ll do all that, or if he’d immediately said no, it’s impossible, he might have got away with it.
‘You’re hiding something from me,’ says Bonifacio. ‘Aren’t you?’
Still Sabir doesn’t reply, tries to keep his face as blank as possible.
‘Know what I think, my friend? I think you already know about buying boats and finding sailor boys.’
Sabir tries one last time to meet Bonifacio’s gaze. ‘I’ve got to get up to the camp for the roll call.’
‘Sure,’ says Bonifacio. He’s barring the way, though. They’re both smallish men, but Bonifacio’s bigger and bulkier, his body flexed and taut like a single muscle. ‘First, why don’t you tell me about this sailing trip? When are you skipping out?’
‘I …’ Sabir’s thinking furiously. Can he lie and get away with it? Put on the spot like that, he goes for the safer option. ‘Friday, dawn.’
‘How many men?’
‘Me and three others.’
‘Where’s the boat?’
‘Don’t know. One of the other men has the details.’
‘How big is it?’
‘Big enough for four men, that’s all I know.’
‘If it’s big enough for four, it’s big enough for five.’
‘I’ll have to ask the others.’
‘You won’t ask the others. You won’t say anything to them. This’ll be our secret. But you’ll find out where the boat’s hidden.’
Sabir’s walking up the path to the main camp as the sun flickers over the horizon. It’s a terrible relief to be away from Bonifacio: he can breathe again. Everything becomes blazingly clear. He’s been edging towards it for the past few days, but it’s taken the trauma of Bonifacio for him to realise. All those things, the good things that might have happened if he stayed here, employed as a gardener, under the benevolent patronage of the commandant. Who knows, he might even have got a pardon: such things are rare but not unknown. He could have set up business as a gardener to functionaries in Saint-Laurent or Cayenne. He could have learnt all about the exotic plants here and exported them back to Europe. He might even have made his fortune that way. The door of another future opens, just enough for him to peer inside, before it slams firmly in his face.
He should have told Carpette that he’s changed his mind. That he no longer wants to escape. That he’s happy to write off the money he’s already supplied for it. Because why exchange this present for the uncertainties of the high seas and, if he’s lucky, a country about which he knows nothing? His position here is the best he can hope for, for the moment at least. And there’s the commandant’s wife. He thinks of the photographs of her. The frozen face. The vacant expression caught in the lens, forever attached with an importance that it was never meant to bear. The ache is almost physical. Too late, too late.
And yet who knows, he tries to persuade himself. After all, he’s a convict, dependent on the goodwill of one man, the commandant. Sabir can’t help feeling that sooner or later, the Colony will consume the commandant too, just as it’s consumed so many of his charges. He has a vision of how things will collapse here. No matter how much money the commandant has, nothing will work if everyone, guard and convict alike, is stealing all the time, as is the case. The commandant’s projects are condemned to failure; he’ll become disillusioned. Paris and France may have ceased to exist for Sabir, but they’re still very much alive for the commandant. No doubt he still has his apartment in the 16th arrondissement, his family home in the Savoie, that he can return to at a moment of his choosing. The commandant’s escape, at least, is a certainty.
No, Sabir’s fantasy of a new life as a gardener is surely no more or less a flimsy construct than the boat awaiting him in a nearby creek. This colony is not his home. Paris wasn’t his home. But perhaps it’s still there to be found, in Colombia. Or Panama. Or Brazil, or the wastes of Patagonia. For a second, he pictures a life of endless roaming.
Without even realising it, he’s come to the end of the trail, has made his way up the main avenue and arrived at his old barracks. He tries to snap out of this torment of thought and fantasy that’s leading nowhere. Barracks roll call. The names are rapped out. He almost forgets to answer to his own. Say-Say is there, looking ragged and ill. He’s evidently been kicked out of the hospital. And yet he told Sabir that he couldn’t come back to barracks, that Pierrot had threatened him. He could have hidden in the folly, as Sabir had offered.
Out of the corner of his eye he spots Carpette. He seems to be in a state of uncharacteristic anxiety, hopping nervously from one foot to the other. And as the roll call continues, Sabir notices Carpette furtively glancing towards him. Now it’s over. The men wander off to work or back into the barracks.
Carpette approaches. ‘It’s off, it’s all off.’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ hisses Sabir. ‘There are people around!’ He guides Carpette through the barracks and into the privy. ‘What the hell’s the matter?’
‘Edouard’s disappeared.’
‘How do you mean, disappeared?’
‘He wasn’t at roll call yesterday. Not the morning one or the evening one. He’s gone.’
‘Maybe he’s just hiding out in the forest. Waiting for Friday.’
‘No. We’ve got this hiding spot where we meet up. A shack I built for us. He hasn’t been there. Anyway, if he was going to do that, he’d have told me.’ Carpette gives an involuntary shrug and a strained giggle. His hair is unparted, his shirt stained. ‘We don’t have any secrets, Edouard and me. He’d have told me, that’s all. Just like he told me about you.’
‘Let’s wait and see what happens,’ replies Sabir, baffled by Carpette’s last remark. ‘It’s only Wednesday. Let’s wait and see if he turns up. We can always put everything off to next week.’
‘We can’t do anything. Not until I know what’s happened to him.’
Sabir spends the rest of the day working in a state of coiled tension. His mind involuntarily grinding its way through thought after thought, consuming them, discarding them, one after the other. It’s the first time he’s seen Carpette lose his composure; it’s disturbing. He’s never exactly trusted Carpette, but has nevertheless relied on him as the one who has the answers. Now there’s the question of what to tell Bonifacio. Carpette knows where the boat’s hidden, but he’s not about to tell Sabir, not until he finds Edouard.
Edouard and his glass eye. Sabir recalls how, straight after the war, he caught the train to the town in the Ardennes where Edouard had told him his family was from. He did it partly out of a genuine desire to know whether his friend was alive or dead, partly because Edouard was from a wealthy family who might help him get a job. And yet after three days in Charleville, sleeping out in fields at night, he found no trace of Edouard’s family. As if it didn’t exist at all, and never had. He remembers Carpette telling him that Edouard had worked in the botanical gardens in Saint-Laurent. And he remembers the whisper he overheard on his first day in the Colony, only now m
aking the connection: ‘I’m working in the botanical gardens. It’s a good job. We’re one man short. When they ask what you do, say you’re a gardener.’
All day, the idea of killing Bonifacio plays at the corner of his thoughts. At lunch, he went back to the folly with food for Bonifacio, but he wasn’t there. Nonetheless, Sabir knows he’ll be back in the evening. He remembers what Bonifacio said just before Sabir had left for camp: ‘Don’t do anything stupid. I’ve been keeping an eye on you for the past few days. I know your habits.’ Bonifacio’s around somewhere nearby, in the forest no doubt, keeping tabs on Sabir, forever watching him. There’s no escape.
IX
Night is falling. The commandant is sharing the last of a bottle of rum. Usually Sabir restricts himself to a single glass; this evening he’s had three. A clump of bread and some salted beef lie in his bag, for Bonifacio. The gramophone scratches out the sound of a German song that refuses to resolve into any easy melody. As the commandant speaks, Sabir can feel the rum rising to his head, like noonday heat.
‘These gramophone records are warping with the humidity. Soon they’ll be unplayable. How stupid I was to bring them out here. But I thought my wife would like some music.’
‘Sounds all right to me, sir.’
‘The speed varies horribly; can’t you hear it? Curiously, I quite like it this way, though. I don’t know why.’
Sabir’s only half-listening; the other half of his mind has already crossed the lawn, is already in the folly, wondering what he’ll find there. And hoping unreasonably that there’ll be no Bonifacio.
‘Do you know this music? Do you like it?’
‘I’ve heard you play it before, sir. Very nice, sir.’
‘Well, I don’t think it’s very nice. I think it’s rather bleak. It’s from Winterreise. One of my wife’s favourites.’
As he says this, the commandant seems overcome by some obscure emotion. He puts his hand to his eye, as if to wipe away a tear, although there’s nothing there. The moment passes.
‘As you know, I’ll be going to Saint-Laurent tomorrow, to collect my wife, of course, and also for some administrative duties. But I have something I wish to talk to you about before I go.’
He gets up, fishes about in his pocket for a set of keys, then crouches down beside the cupboard. He’s unlocking it, Sabir realises with horror. Sabir remains clamped to his seat. The commandant’s fumbling about in the cupboard – he’s taking an eternity about it. He gets back up, turns towards Sabir. There’s a fifty-franc note in his hand. He’s smiling.
‘I’d like you to have this.’
‘I … I’m not sure what to say, sir.’
‘I wanted to give you some token of appreciation for the hard work you’ve done, for me, for my wife, on the garden. Of course, I’m counting on you to keep this strictly between ourselves. I know prisoners aren’t allowed money. I also know you can’t easily survive without it. In any case, that’s all going to change. Soon enough, I’ll put the men here to doing useful work – growing crops, raising livestock – and I’ll make sure they’re properly paid for their work.’
‘Well, thank you very much, sir,’ Sabir replies as he pushes the note to the bottom of his pocket.
‘You know, with a few more men of your calibre, we can make a go of things out here. I’m convinced there’s real potential. We could make a good team. I just want you to know I appreciate what you’ve done here and … well, you’ve good reason to hope that your position will improve. That’s all I’ll say for now.’ The commandant drains the last of the rum. ‘I’ll be leaving in the morning at five, so I probably won’t see you until my return. I imagine we’ll be back by Thursday evening.’
Sabir darts across the lawn, through the jardin anglais to the folly as fast as he can, not giving himself any more time to contemplate what’s awaiting him there. The folly is dark, but Sabir can already feel there’s someone in it. In some indefinable way it’s not the same as it was when he left it at lunchtime.
‘Took your fucking time.’
Bonifacio’s standing, smoking. He’s looking so much better than twenty-four hours ago; it’s remarkable how quickly he’s recovered. He’s shirtless – biceps oiled with sweat like a boxer’s. Sabir notices the shoes Bonifacio’s wearing, Sabir’s own, while he himself goes barefoot. He didn’t have the time to buy new ones. On Bonifacio, his old shoes seem to be a good fit. He opens his bag, hands over the food.
Bonifacio eats in silence, more slowly and deliberately than last night, when he tore at the meat ravenously. Sabir sits down on the floor. As he watches Bonifacio eating, the image of the commandant briefly comes to mind. Whatever happens, Sabir’s not likely ever to see the man again. You’ve good reason to hope that your position will improve, he said. Recalling these words, Sabir feels an emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He puts his hand to his pocket where the fifty-franc note is. The commandant hadn’t even noticed the missing money. All that cleverness and learning of his, combined with this monumental lack of nous, that Sabir has found so often typifies the officer class.
‘That girl of yours,’ says Bonifacio now, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘the one in all those photos of yours. What’s she like?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You know. What’s she like in bed? Is she a good fuck?’
Bonifacio utters this last word with studied violence. Sabir says nothing, refuses to meet Bonifacio’s gaze.
‘Well? Does she take it like a whore? Or do you have to slap it out of her?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Frigid, is she? Stuck-up type? Looks it. Or did you never bed her? Is that it? Never had the balls for it? She wore the trousers, is that it?’
‘I said, I don’t want to talk about it.’
Bonifacio chuckles to himself. ‘Have it your own way, then.’ He’s lying down on his back now, hands behind his head. ‘See your friend up at the camp?’
‘Yes.’
‘He tell you where the boat is?’
‘No.’
‘You even ask him?’
‘No.’
‘Thought I told you to ask him. Thought I asked you to find out where the fucking thing is.’
Sabir says nothing. He’s trembling again, and it feels weird not to be able to control one’s own body. As though his quivering hands are in fact someone else’s.
Bonifacio has sat up. His face is dark and taut; for a moment it seems as if he’s going to explode into violence. Suddenly he relaxes. His face creases into an ugly smile, he chuckles again. ‘Take it easy, my friend. But next time, do what I tell you … Here, get me another smoke.’ Sabir tosses the packet to him and Bonifacio lies down again. ‘What’s the plan, then?’
‘Meeting at dusk the day after tomorrow, then we’ll go down to the creek.’
‘You don’t even know which creek?’
‘No.’
‘How much dough did you give this friend of yours?’
‘Two hundred.’
‘Shouldn’t have cost that much. You’re one trusting guy. How do you know he hasn’t pocketed the dough? How do you know he’s not skipping out without you? Find out which creek tomorrow. Don’t mess it up this time.’
Once again, Bonifacio is snoring within minutes – the sound sleep of a man with no doubts. It’s this very cocksureness that makes it so difficult to contemplate murdering him. Sabir imagines himself raising the dagger over the prone Bonifacio, ready to plunge it into the back of his neck, and yet at the same time Bonifacio whips round to disarm him and pin him to the floor … The longer he thinks about doing it, the more impossible it becomes. He pictures Pierrot after he and Antillais killed Masque: the casual way in which Pierrot strolled up to the water urn afterwards, to wash the murder away.
The commandant’s wife is now beside him, for the first time in days. Her appearance is unexpected, fatally diminished by Bonifacio’s presence. Bonifacio, who’s lying there exactly where she and Sabir have
so often lain down together, naked and trembling. Her hair brushes the back of his neck. She’s whispering in his ear: ‘You have to. Go on, do it now. It’s the only hope, our only way out.’ She’s behind him now, clasping her arms around his waist. ‘I’ve found you again.’
Sabir turns away from Bonifacio to face her. Impossible to speak, though, impotent as he is in the face of her expectations. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, sadly. ‘I understand. Don’t worry.’ She kisses him on the lips, not as a prelude to sex but more as a farewell. Does he detect a moue of distaste on her face? She’s moved away from him now. She’s walking out of the door, back across the garden to the house. He should be running after her, and yet Bonifacio’s magnetic control draws him back, keeps him here in his folly.
Sabir blinks himself awake. He has the feeling that he’s been asleep for minutes only, but that can’t be true – the grimy shadow cast by the half-open shutter means that dawn isn’t far off. Bonifacio has already disappeared; he can feel his absence even before he sees it.
The sense of being trapped at the centre, and therefore unable to see the whole clearly … On his way back up to camp, Sabir turns his thoughts to Carpette, and whether Carpette might be taking him for a ride. What, after all, is this business about Edouard disappearing, just before the escape? The instant he starts musing on any one possibility, he can’t help believing in it completely, even if only for a moment. He’s filled with a terror that Carpette’s vanished in the night, leaving him at the mercy of Bonifacio.
At roll call, Sabir spots Say-Say. He looks in a pitiful state; he’s been roughed up. Pierrot is there, too, lounging about over on the other side of the barracks, chatting and laughing with one of the other convicts. Say-Say claims that Pierrot has threatened to kill him. Pierrot’s certainly a killer, but would he go that far, Sabir now wonders. The Masque murder was quite a different affair.
