by Hugo Wilcken
‘Circumstances?’
‘You saw the place. I’ve no drugs. We’re in fever country, the stores have no quinine. I’m forced to buy it on the black market, at my own expense. Take my advice, don’t get ill up here. The only half-decent treatment you’re likely to get is in Saint-Laurent. And that’s a day’s walk away.’
‘Have you brought all this up with the Administration?’
‘You haven’t had many dealings with the Administration, have you?’
‘Not really. I met the governor’s secretary in Saint-Laurent. Captain Leblanc. And I’m staying with the commandant here.’
‘Leblanc’s a fool. Though no greater or lesser one than any of the others. As for the commandant …’
‘What about him?’
‘Strange man.’ The doctor poured them both another glass of rum. ‘When I was first here, I used to go and talk to him in his office. Thought we saw eye to eye. He agreed to refurbish the hospital, create a medicine stock. Then he lost interest. Almost from one day to the next. We had a huge row about it. So I have to avoid him now. All the time we were talking about the hospital, it was right there, not five hundred metres from his office, but he’s never visited it. It’s all abstract for him.’
‘He’s building a new penitentiary. Kilometre east of here. He took me to see it. I imagine he’ll be transferring the hospital over there. That’s probably why he lost interest.’
‘I know. How long will that take? A year? Two years? What’s he going to do about the hospital in the meantime? How many’ll die? It’s a charnel house. That’s what I said to him. Know what he replied? “Sometimes you have to cure the patient at all costs, even if you have to kill him to do it.” What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘Certainly an odd thing to say.’
The doctor shook his head. ‘Everything about him’s a bit odd. From what I heard, he has no permission from the Administration for the new building work. Never asked for it, never got it. The Administration didn’t know what to do. But he’s using his own money, so in the end they did nothing.’
‘Perhaps he’s doing the right thing. Scrapping the whole set-up and starting from scratch may be the only thing to do.’
The doctor shook his head. ‘You can’t improve something that’s fundamentally rotten. That’s what I’ll be writing in my report. I’ve got friends in government, and when I get back to France I’ll be working as hard as I can to get this disgrace of a penal colony shut down. I said all that to the commandant as well.’
‘How did he react?’
‘He laughed!’
Manne wished the doctor well with his crusade against the penal colony; he meant it too. And yet, it occurred to him as he wandered back towards the river, in a way he could see the commandant’s point of view as well. The idea of building a new colony – who wouldn’t be seduced by it? Not for the first time, Manne found that he could consider two opposing notions and then accept both, without fundamentally believing in either.
The images of Edouard were fading, the mystery of his letter diminishing in importance. It was a process that had started the instant the commandant’s wife had touched his cheek with her hand. He visualised her again, with her sweep of black hair. He thought of the story the drunken commandant had told him: the fiancé dead in an accident; the father who’d lost his fortune in the war. Then marriage with the commandant. That had been the first escape, presumably. From family and poverty; from the misfortune of a death. Strange fate, then, to end up in a penal colony. And now, rather than suffocate in a lifeless marriage, she was trying to leave, again, under adverse circumstances. That was courageous, wasn’t it? That was a kind of bravery.
By the time he got back to the house, his head had started throbbing again. He told the butler he wouldn’t be at table for dinner, then went straight to his room. At some point the butler brought up a dinner tray, but the throbbing had intensified and all he could manage was some soup. With his head, with the various other aches and pains he’d accumulated in the past few days, with his increasing discomfort in the heat, he felt not so much ill as old. The feeling was new; it had only hit him since being in the Colony. But it didn’t surprise him much. Age hadn’t crept up unforeseen; he’d been patiently waiting for it.
A barely audible knock. Manne raised himself from his bed. ‘Entrez.’
She opened and closed the door noiselessly. ‘Charles told me you’d been up to the hospital. Whatever our differences, it wasn’t my intention to injure you. Please accept my apologies for my behaviour.’
‘No need to apologise.’ She was staring at his bandaged head. ‘It’s not as bad as it probably looks. Just a cut on the forehead. And a blazing headache.’
‘That’s a relief. All day I’ve been convinced I hit you in the eye.’
‘No. Just above the eye. I’ll be fine tomorrow.’
‘Good.’ The conversation had been flat, neutral in tone. She stood there uncertainly, as if unsure whether she wanted to say something further. ‘Well … good evening, then. If there’s anything I can get Charles to bring you …’
‘No, wait a second.’
Her hand was on the doorknob; now she turned back to face him.
‘I’ve thought about it. I’m prepared to do what I can to help you. Of course, I understand if you simply want me to leave. In which case I’ll go just as soon as I feel well enough to …’
She raised her hand to silence him, and put her head to the door. Manne could hear the faint sound of footsteps. Someone downstairs, or perhaps on the landing, trying not to make much noise. In the concentrated silence, Manne thought he could hear a clock ticking, although he didn’t have one in the room.
The woman snapped out of position, as if coming out of a trance. She turned to him again. ‘I don’t know what to think any more. I don’t trust you. We can’t talk here, though. Come and see me tomorrow, if you feel up to it.’
She opened the door slightly, stared through the crack for a moment, then disappeared. Manne lay there listening to the night noises from the forest and the river. He got up and found the sleeping powder the doctor had given him, dissolved it in some lukewarm water and swallowed it down.
VIII
‘Put it down on the bottom of the bed, thank you.’
The butler was standing over him, a breakfast tray balanced on one arm, ‘Oui, monsieur. Also, the commandant wishes to see you, at your convenience, in his office.’
‘Tell him I’ll be down just as soon as I’m dressed.’
‘Très bien, monsieur.’
The headache had mostly gone. Although refreshed from a proper night’s rest, he felt slightly groggy from the sleeping draught. He climbed out of bed and walked over to the mirror. Blood had glued the bandage to the wound, and he removed it with difficulty. Above his eye, his forehead was now swollen and purple-blue. It looked awful, worse than it felt. He washed, dressed, had his breakfast.
Strains of music wafted out from the commandant’s office. Manne knocked hard on the door: ‘Ah, Hartfeld. Come in, come in.’
The commandant was on his feet, making some annotation on the model that took up most of the room.
‘You wanted to see me about something?’
‘Yes I did.’ The commandant was staring at Hartfeld with detached curiosity. ‘Charles told me of your … misadventure. I trust you’re feeling better now?’
‘It’s nothing serious. Just a cut and a bruise. Rather foolish of me, I’m afraid.’
‘Good. Not that I want to rush you if you’re not feeling well. But I was wondering how much longer you need to stay here.’
‘Not much longer. Another two or three days.’
‘I see. It’s, what, Thursday today. So that means leaving on Sunday at the latest.’
‘I suppose so. I hadn’t thought it out.’
‘Well, let’s say Sunday. Sunday morning.’
‘If that’s what suits you.’
‘It’s not a question of what suits me. I
just like to know what’s going on in my own house.’
The tone of aggression in the commandant’s voice was hard to miss. Now the gramophone record had come to an end, its scratchy inner groove looping over again and again.
‘As you wish. I’ll leave by Sunday morning.’
‘Fine. That’s all I wanted to see you about.’
The commandant had already turned back to his plans.
‘Oh,’ said Manne. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask.’
‘Yes?’
‘You know the boy who came with me. Guépard. I’ve asked Charles to put him to work in the garden. I don’t know if Charles mentioned it to you.’
‘No. He didn’t.’
‘Well, he’s a very reliable boy. But I don’t need a servant, not here or in Saint-Laurent. He told me he has some experience with gardens. If I run up some specifications and explain to the boy what he needs to do, he could probably have your garden looking reasonable within a month or so.’
‘Do you owe this boy something?’
Manne shook his head. ‘He’s very young. And it’d surely be best for him to have a job away from the other convicts. At the same time, it’s a pity to see your garden go to ruin through lack of elementary care.’
‘Well …’ The commandant stared at him coldly. ‘I’ll see to the boy. Don’t you worry about him.’
Back in his room, Manne’s thoughts sped ahead of him. The commandant’s unfriendly tone was perplexing. Then again, it mightn’t signify anything. Alcoholics were prone to mood swings, after all. Manne had seen it himself in the commandant’s fury, that first dinner here.
In any case, whatever the woman said to him today, it was clear now he’d be leaving by Sunday. He thought of his two months in Caracas, of the mistress he’d left there. He remembered a game they used to play. It involved his pretend-asking her to marry him, and her laughing, then pretend-accepting. Perhaps that’s what he should do. Go back to Caracas and find her, then ask her to marry him, only this time for real. The idea briefly flared up in his mind as a way out, a possible escape route. Even as he entertained it, he knew it was another fantasy. Besides, when he tried to visualise his mistress now, what he actually saw was another body. A fuller figure. The grain de beauté on her shoulder blade, a curtain of hair over her face. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? It was just as impossible.
‘I saw your husband this morning. He wants me to leave, by Sunday. His behaviour was odd. I wonder if he knows something.’
The woman stared past him, through the slats of the folly’s small window.
‘About what?’
‘About … us.’
It felt ridiculous to verbalise it in that way. As if they really were lovers.
‘You’d better hope not.’
‘Why? What would he do?’
‘He’s under a lot of pressure. Strange things happen here.’
‘I think I can look after myself.’
A brief pause, then the woman said: ‘Anyway, we’d better act fast. If he wants you out by Sunday.’
For a second or two, Manne didn’t know what she was talking about. She’d already moved on, made her decision, leaving Manne stumbling a few paces behind.
‘You want me to help you – is that it?’
‘You’re still willing?’
‘Of course.’
‘We’d better start organising, then.’ She sat down cross-legged on the floor, signalling for him to do likewise. ‘First, we have to decide when. If my husband’s expecting you to go on Sunday … what, early in the morning?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Then we’ll have to leave on Saturday. Which gives us two clear days to prepare. It should be enough. There’s a native village about a kilometre south down the river. I suggest you go down this afternoon and negotiate a boat to Albina with one of the Boni traders. Can you do that?’
‘Yes … I can do that.’
‘Don’t mention me. Just say you want a boat over for yourself – we don’t want any gossip. Also, pay for a return journey, coming back the next day; that’ll be less suspicious. As for the timing …’
She rushed on ahead. Even as he focused on her words, Manne could feel the tug of someone else, haunting the periphery of his mind. Edouard. A diminished presence, certainly. And yet still there.
‘There’s one big problem,’ she was saying now. ‘My husband has my passport, all my papers. I don’t know where he keeps them. Can we manage without? Could I get new papers in Paramaribo? What do you think?’
‘Makes things very difficult. If you enter Dutch Guiana illegally, your husband might get you detained and deported. You’d be on the run from the word go. Maybe the French consul in Paramaribo would give you a laissez-passer. But you’d be at his mercy. The governor at Saint-Laurent could very well order him to turn you over to the Dutch.’
‘What if I just boarded a ship directly in Paramaribo?’
‘Without papers? Not many boats would take you.’
‘What about false papers?’
‘Possible. I don’t know anyone in Paramaribo, though. Do you?’
‘No.’
‘Well … I could probably arrange it. But it’d take a while. In the meantime, you couldn’t stay at any normal hotel, because they’d ask for your papers. And then remember that afterwards you’re under a false name. Wherever you end up, you’re there illegally. Is that what you want? That kind of strain?’
The woman sat there pensively, gently pulling at her hair. Manne continued: ‘If you’ve no papers, you should forget the idea of escape. You should go to Saint-Laurent and tell the governor that you wish to separate from your husband.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t do that. He’d never let me leave the Colony. He’d write to my father. He’d … no, I can’t do that. We’ll just have to find my papers.’
‘Any idea where they are?’
‘If they’re in his office up at the camp, then I’m stuck. But they’re probably down here, in the house. Either in his bed room or in his study.’
‘We’d better look there, then.’
‘Yes.’ She glanced at her watch, got to her feet. ‘We’ve about half an hour, probably. You can do the study, I’ll do the bedroom.’
‘What, right now?’
‘If you’ve a better idea, tell me.’
There was a second’s pause while they stood facing each other. Fragments of sunlight from the shutter speckled her face. Behind that façade of self-assurance, Manne caught a glimpse of profound uncertainty.
‘You’re right. Let’s do it.’
She nodded. She was still staring at him: ‘How’s your head? It looks …’
She’d lifted her hand as if she were going to put it to his forehead, but stopped herself midmotion.
‘Not as bad as it looks.’
‘Good.’ She turned away. ‘We’d better hurry. You go first. I’ll follow a little later.’
A quick tour of the house – no one about, as far as he could make out. He’d sent Guépard up to the camp, to ask after Edouard. He tried the door to the commandant’s study. Locked. Manne knelt down to examine the lock. Shoddy piece of work – not difficult to dismantle, but he’d have to do it quickly. He worked on it with his penknife. If anyone looked at all carefully, it’d be clear enough that it had been tampered with.
Five minutes later he had the door open. Another few moments to screw the lock back on left him hardly any time to look around. The window blinds were down. The gigantic model of the commandant’s settlement loomed out of the semi-darkness. It reminded Manne of those table-sized battle maps he’d seen the generals use during the war.
There was the cupboard. Not open, no key in the lock, and no time to take the lock off. Manne bent down, eased the small door open with the point of his knife – without doing too much damage to the wooden frame, he thought. Inside, a few neat piles of papers. One of them seemed to be of official documents. He rifled through them. A marriage certificate, some
title deeds, various financial papers. Almost too easily he found the woman’s passport. He flicked through it to check that it was the right one, then pocketed it.
Next to the official-looking documents was another pile, of letters in their envelopes. These, too, Manne cursorily flicked through, looking for something about or from the commandant’s wife. Disappointingly, there was nothing of that sort. But all the while, he was thinking of her. Trying to make sense of how their relationship had changed, under the shadow of their sexual encounter, even though he could barely remember it now – just his eyes roaming her body, moments beforehand.
The handwriting on the envelope on the top of the pile looked familiar enough, but he couldn’t place it immediately – for a second he felt a frisson at the thought that the commandant might know someone he knew. Then it came to him: it was the governor’s secretary, Leblanc. The same schoolboy-ish loops as on the letter of introduction Leblanc had written him. Manne pulled the letter from the envelope. At once his eye homed in on the scrawl of his name, Hartfeld. He quickly scanned the relevant paragraph: ‘In response to your enquiry about Mr Hartfeld, we are still pursuing our investigations. Keep him under surveillance, and under no circumstances permit him to leave Renée.’
The words burned into his head. As he took in their implications, Manne could feel a presence in front of him. He looked up. The butler was staring, almost as if he were studying him. The cupboard door was wide open.
‘Hello, Charles.’
The butler didn’t say anything. He simply stood there by the door, his face unreadable.
‘Listen, Charles,’ Manne found himself saying, ‘I’ve been meaning to have a word with you. I’ll be leaving soon. I wanted to … give you something to thank you for your services while I’ve been staying here.’
The words had tumbled from him without his really knowing what he was going to say, as if it were someone else, Hartfeld, who took control in times of emergency. Manne reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet. The woman’s passport almost spilt out as he did so. He opened his wallet, took out a sheaf of notes. A hundred francs at least, but he didn’t bother to count.
