by Hugo Wilcken
The duck arrived. It was dry and chewy, but edible enough. For minutes at a time, an excruciating silence reigned. Small talk was a virtual impossibility now, although near the end of dinner, Manne and the commandant’s wife managed some sort of discussion, mainly about Manne’s travels in South America. The commandant sat there limply like a child’s cloth animal, occasionally sipping at his rum, taking no part in the conversation. Finally, the butler cleared the plates away.
The commandant rose from the table. ‘Can I offer you a digestif, Monsieur Hartfeld? A cigar, perhaps?’
‘Thank you, but no. I’m very tired after the journey up. I think I’ll retire, if you don’t mind.’
‘Very well.’
Manne bade them good night and made his way up to his room. He flung himself onto the bed, physically exhausted from the trip, mentally exhausted from the dinner. Too tired even to sleep. He wondered whether the commandant was physically violent with his wife. His guess was no, despite the dinner scene, despite Leblanc’s story of her flight. He didn’t know exactly why he thought that, only that the look of surprise on the woman’s face at dinner had seemed genuine enough. He found himself visualising her face, her body, wondering what she would look like naked.
In the hope of some air, he got up to open the windows. In this climate, a man sweated day and night; sweated so much liquid away while sleeping that he’d wake up thirsty. Manne lay back down under the mosquito net and drifted off into a state somewhere between dozing and heat delirium. At some point, he could hear the sounds of a Bach cello suite wafting into his room like a cool breeze. He couldn’t tell whether it was real or he was dreaming it.
Morning: the sun streamed into the room. He stood at the window looking out at the river and the shards of light that bounced off its ripples. As he washed at the basin in the corner of the bedroom, Manne found his thoughts turning to Edouard again. No obligation, no obligation, Edouard had written in his letter. Manne could walk out of the commandant’s house, pay a Boni to take him across the river, out of France, out of the penal colony for ever. It was a temptation. The question was where he’d go next. Because the years of criss-crossing the continent were over, Manne realised. If those years had taught him anything, it was that when pushed to its extreme, travel turned into a type of immobility.
Downstairs, the commandant sprang up to greet Manne at the breakfast table, showing no outward signs of his heavy drinking of the evening before. ‘Morning. I trust you slept well?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘I’ll have Charles bring you some coffee and tartine. Unless you’d prefer tea?’
‘Coffee will be fine.’
‘Good, good … I … Let me apologise once again for my behaviour last night. Really quite inexcusable.’
‘Please, let’s speak no more of it.’
‘Very gracious of you … I put your servant in Charles’s room. He’s in the kitchen now, I think, helping Charles out, but any time you need him, just ask Charles to fetch him.’
As Manne ate his breakfast, the commandant continued talking at him: ‘I do hope you’ll find time to come and see some of the building works at the settlement. I’d be most obliged to have your opinion…My wife, to be honest, my wife hasn’t been well and that’s why I try to avoid morbid subjects with her. I know it’s difficult for her out here, but she needs to cultivate an interest … Do you know how to use a pistol? If you’re going north from here, I’d advise you take one of mine, there are évadés up that way, or so they tell me, in any case …’
Later, Manne found Guépard weeding the small vegetable garden outside the kitchen. ‘Leave that for a moment. Come up to my room. I want to talk to you.’
Guépard trailed behind him as he climbed the stairs. Opening the door to his room, Manne noticed that an unmarked envelope had been pushed under it. Inside was a single sheet of paper covered with an uneven scrawl. He shoved it into his pocket.
‘Sit down, sit down.’ Manne tidied some clothes off a chair and guided the boy to it. ‘Now listen. I’m going to do what I can to help you here. I can’t work miracles, do you hear? I can’t get you a release. But I can write to Algiers and get a lawyer to look over your case again. See if there are grounds for appeal. And I can write to the governor commending your service to me. Recommend you for domestic duty. Do you understand me?’
The boy wrung his hands nervously, refused to look Manne in the eyes. ‘Oui, m’sieur, merci, m’sieur, you are a good man, m’sieur, very good man.’
‘In return, you can do something for me. I understand there are convicts who come down here to work. Or I might send you on an errand up to the main camp. What I want you to do is ask around for some information on an évadé. I’m told he’s hiding out near the camp. His name is Edouard Holmes.’ He pronounced the surname OL-MESS, the way he’d heard Edouard himself say it. ‘A tall man with dark hair. And a glass eye. Or perhaps an eyepatch. He used to work at the botanical gardens. You say he’s your friend. You tell the other convicts that you’re looking for a friend, a man named Edouard. Do you understand me?’
‘Oui, m’sieur.’
Manne repeated the essentials in his rudimentary Arabic: ‘Tall man, dark hair, called Edouard. You say he’s your friend.’
Guépard looked at him, wide-eyed in astonishment. ‘Yes. I understand,’ he replied in Arabic, and then rattled off something else that Manne didn’t catch. He nodded, nonetheless – best let the boy think his Arabic is better than it is. He’d picked some up in the Lebanon years ago, but Guépard was from Algeria: different dialect, different accent. Guépard continued to stare at him in frightened surprise, as though by speaking some Arabic, Manne could see right through him.
After he’d dispatched Guépard, Manne sat musing for some time. He was aware of something scraping against his thigh. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out the stiff fold of paper he’d stuffed into it. He’d forgotten about the note that had been slipped under his door. Now he unfolded and read it:
I should like to talk to you in private. Please follow the path at the far side of the garden, through the trees. You’ll find a hut at the end of the path. If you can, meet me there this morning at eleven.
It was signed with an illegible squiggle, in a female hand. Perplexed, Manne crumpled it up and tossed it into the bin by the desk. Then he thought better of it, fishing the note out and putting it back into his pocket. Someone snooping about might find it; he’d get rid of it later on. Across the landing was the woman’s bedroom. He thought to go and knock on the door, then decided against it. Instead he gazed out of the window, across the garden that stretched along the river. He couldn’t make out any path at the end, but no doubt it was there.
Manne sat back down by the desk, opened his journal and flipped his way through from start to finish. Read this way, it was clear how the smooth chronology of the first few pages slowly gave way to the disjointed abstractions of the latter part. He could feel his mind nonetheless trying to glue the fragments into some kind of narrative thread, only they refused to cohere. He picked up his pen, deliberately continuing with a theme he’d already touched on:
I look at E.’s drawings, again I try to work out what fascinates me about them. It strikes me now that the precision of their style signals not a beginning that could ever lead anywhere. They’re a culmination, an end.
That was all that would come for the moment. He lay down on his bed, closed his eyes and conjured up the face of the commandant’s wife, with her black-blue eyes. Leblanc had implied that the woman was mentally unbalanced. So had her husband, in a more roundabout way. And yet Manne hadn’t particularly gained that impression. She’d seemed to him simply unhappy, very unhappy. Of course, madness might be a transformed version of unhappiness. If so, it was a transformation that had always eluded Manne.
Later, he thought to see the commandant, to discuss plans for an expedition down the river as part of his ‘mission’. The office door was ajar. Manne knocked, but there was no
answer and he went in. There again was the vast, intricate model spread out over the two tables. At the end of the avenue, where the arch was positioned, was a gigantic rond-point that spiralled out into further avenues, not yet built into the model but lightly pencilled in. The effect was like a map of the western arrondissements of Paris. Everywhere, the commandant had scribbled in various specifications, remarks. And yet the architects Manne had known had worked from plans, detailed blueprints, and not models, which were used simply to give the client a general idea of the finished project.
Books lined one of the walls – Manne skimmed over the titles. Manuals on hydroelectricity, construction, medicine, botany, agriculture, cattle farming – a promiscuous selection of ‘how to’ books. The library of an autodidact. A man who thinks he can do everything. There was a whole row of dictionaries and grammars, of English, Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, half a dozen other languages. Manne pulled out a manual for Taki, the lingua franca spoken by the Bonis and Indians up and down the Maroni. He flicked through it; written by a missionary, it dated from the mid-nineteenth century and included swathes of translated gospel. Manne put it aside. He’d take it up to his room to study; it might turn out to be useful. Manne picked up languages easily. In Latin America, he was often mistaken for a native Spanish or Portuguese speaker. By contrast, the French and English often assumed he’d been brought up elsewhere – some distant colony perhaps.
Underneath one of the bookshelves was a cupboard, with a key in the door. He was just bending down to investigate when he heard a discreet rustling behind him.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Manne straightened up. ‘I was looking for the commandant.’
‘He’s gone up to the main camp, sir.’
‘When will he be back?’
‘He’ll be back for lunch, sir. At half past twelve.’
‘I see,’ said Manne, leaving with the book he’d pulled out. As he climbed back upstairs he could hear the butler closing the door to the commandant’s office. The man rubbed him up the wrong way.
He spent an hour skimming through the book on Taki, then read a few pages of Arthur Gordon Pym. Sweaty and itchy, he squirmed about in his chair – it was hard to get comfortable in the heat and humidity, to relax enough to concentrate. And yet the tropical climate was something he’d never had a problem with before. In fact, he’d always prided himself on coping better than most Europeans. It was age – he simply couldn’t take it as easily now that he’d hit his forties. And all the time, as he tried to read, at the back of his mind he was wondering whether he’d make the rendezvous with the woman or not. Then at ten-thirty, without really having decided, he found himself getting up from his chair and putting his shoes back on in readiness to leave. He was going to meet her after all.
Downstairs all was quiet. He went down a dark corridor, then through a side door that led out into the garden. By the river he could see a couple of white men, convicts probably, stripped to the waist, lounging about, seemingly not doing anything. He wandered across the lawn, slowly, as if out for a stroll. The vast, dead turf, burnt brown by the sun, looked alien. Up away from the river he could see long flower beds too, filled with weeds and dead plants. Huge expense must have gone into the landscaping of the garden. It was as if, just at the moment of its completion, it had been abruptly abandoned.
The sun was pounding at the back of his neck and, under the intensity of the light, his vision seemed to have gone dark. Feeling dizzy and weak, Manne made his way to one side of the garden where a mangy hedge gave some shade. He passed a hand through his hair; it was soaking with perspiration, as if he had a fever. Poor timing, if that were the case. At the very least, he should get himself a hat.
As he sat there recovering from the dizzy spell, an idea struck Manne. He was a plant collector, and had necessarily learnt a great deal about botany, about horticulture, above all about tropical plants and climates. For instance, the type of turf that had been laid down here was quite wrong for the location; whoever had been responsible had been poorly advised. Manne could have a word with the commandant. He could draw up some specifications, and instruct Guépard on what to do. If he could get Guépard a position here, as a gardener, he’d feel that, whatever else, he might have at least achieved one thing. He got up again, still feeling vague and dizzy.
The entrance to the path was obscured by ferns, perhaps deliberately, because behind them the route, though narrow, was well cleared. Manne walked on, relieved to be shaded from the punishing sun. In a few minutes he found himself in a circular clearing. In the middle stood a small, equally circular stone hut with a palm roof. It seemed newly constructed.
There was a door, closed. He knocked and it immediately opened. She looked smaller and more vulnerable than before. Her dark hair was tightly pulled back; she wore no make-up. Tiny lines circled the corners of her mouth.
‘Thank you for coming.’ They stood staring at each other wordlessly. ‘We don’t have long. My husband is up at the camp. Charles is buying meat at the native village. They’ll both be back shortly.’
Manne took in her face, hips, the shape of her breasts. She didn’t look away, but at one point stepped back slightly, as if to protect herself from the ferocity of his gaze.
‘You’re probably wondering why I asked you here.’
‘Indeed I am.’
‘I want to ask for your help.’
‘What kind of help?’
She took a breath. ‘I have to get away from here. I need someone’s help to do it.’
Behind her, on the wooden floor, lay a lamp, a blanket, a few personal effects. Through the slats of the shuttered window, Manne could see tall palms rustling in the trade wind.
‘Here? What do you mean by here?’
‘The camp, the Colony …’ She made a sweeping gesture with her hands that seemed to encompass the entirety of things.
‘Why would you need my help for that?’
‘I don’t have any money, for a start. I don’t have any means of leaving.’
‘Why don’t you ask your husband?’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘You want to leave him, is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, can’t your family send you money?’
She shook her head again. ‘My father’s not about to help me leave my husband, I can assure you. Besides, he has no money. He lost it all in the war.’
‘Why do you want to leave your husband?’
‘That’s my business, don’t you think?’
‘If you’re asking me to help you, perhaps it is my business. I’m here as your husband’s guest, after all.’
She didn’t reply. After a pause, Manne continued: ‘Is he violent? Is that it? In which case, why don’t you report it to the authorities?’
‘My husband is the authority. But I don’t wish to discuss my marriage with you. As I said before, it’s none of your business.’
Her tone was dismissive. They continued staring at each other, neither flinching.
‘What exactly do you want me to do?’
‘There are various possibilities. One is to organise a boat across the river. Then accompany me up to Paramaribo. And lend me enough money for a passage out. When I get work, I’ll be able to pay you back.’
‘That’s a pretty tall order. Do you have any idea of what you’re asking?’
‘I fully understand what I’m asking.’
‘Even if I did help you get to Paramaribo, where would you go then?’
‘I have a good friend in Buenos Aires. If I can make it to Argentina, she’ll put me up. Help me get a job. I’m an excellent seamstress; I’ve always made my own clothes.’
‘Do you know how far Buenos Aires is from here? Thousands of kilometres. You’re living in a dreamworld.’
‘I know exactly what my choices are. I know what I’m doing. You’ll just have to accept my word for it.’
‘Why don’t you write to your friend in Buenos
Aires? Why ask me? I don’t know you. It will put me in a difficult … in an impossible situation.’
‘I can’t receive letters without my husband finding out.’ She gazed past him. ‘I’m not particularly expecting your help. But there’s no one else to ask. You’re the first civilian to stay at the house. So I’m asking you. It’s as simple as that.’
‘What’s to stop me reporting all this to your husband?’
‘Nothing at all.’
She seemed too contained, too coldly in control of herself. Fleetingly, Manne had a vision of something else – a scene where she would break down crying. Beg him, flatter him. I’m asking you to do it out of the goodness of your heart, because I can sense that you’re a kind man …
‘You won’t help me?’
He shook his head.
‘There’s nothing I can do to persuade you?’
Through the shutter, a shaft of sunlight caught Manne in the eye, momentarily blinding him, confusing him. He wanted to put his arm up to protect his eyes from it, but he couldn’t seem to move. The dizziness again, overpowering him.
‘Take off your dress.’
Her blank expression remained. A long pause, an almost imperceptible shrug. Pushing her dress down, she wriggled a little until it fell to the ground. Memories of other women, performing exactly the same action, mostly prostitutes, shimmying then stepping out of their clothes. Her arms rested now at her side, exactly mirroring his, rigid, every muscle taut.
‘Take off your brassiere.’
Twisting her arms up behind her back, at one point she turned away from him, presenting her shoulders to him as if she wanted his help in undoing a strap. He didn’t respond. He stood blocking the doorway, making it impossible for her to leave. She didn’t cross her arms over her breasts to hide her nakedness. Her vulnerability was like a weapon against him. The sweat from Manne’s sodden hair trickled into his eyes.
