Colony
Page 31
In a nearby tree, wild bananas are growing in the higher branches. He shins up the trunk, then climbs from branch to branch. His agility astonishes him. In seconds, it seems, he’s reached the bananas. He breaks one off, peels it, smells it, tastes a little. Despite his hunger, something tells him not to eat it. He tosses it to the ground, but pauses a moment before climbing down again. This high up, a vista has opened up to him. He looks down at the river, blinking in the sun. A silver sinew, pushing its way towards the absolute of the sea. Still no sign of activity on it. No settlements to be seen on the other side, either. It feels as if he’s a thousand kilometres from anyone, in total solitude, with nothing and no one to measure his impressions against.
Back down on the ground, he starts walking along the ridge. His terrible hunger is the only thing bothering him. It has become a physical pain inside him. At one point he comes across a dead urubu, a scavenging bird, and he contemplates building a fire to cook it. But the bird’s legs come apart from the body as he tries to pick it up. It gives off an unholy stink of rotting flesh, and he sees that it’s been eaten away by maggots. He continues on. He’s not thirsty, although he forgot to drink any water before climbing up to the ridge. No, it’s the gnawing desperation to put something solid in his stomach.
A little way along, he comes to what looks like a path. Or it could be an animal run. But he thinks not, judging from the way the ground is impacted and stripped of undergrowth. If he’s right, it’s the first sign of human presence he’s seen since waking up. The path branches away from the river. It’s on a gentle incline, and he follows it up. As he walks, he’s mostly glancing about to the left and right, on the lookout for anything to eat. But at one point he stares upwards. The sky has turned from deep blue to a crystal grey.
Somewhere off to the left, there’s a large gap in the trees. Through it he glimpses a stone construction. There’s no path directly there, and he clambers off through the undergrowth to reach it. What he finds is a section of wall – the remains of a farmhouse, probably – with a lean-to built against it. Beyond that, further fragments of wall that seem to enclose a garden. It’s been cleared, and there are rows of different plants, but the garden looks as though it’s recently been abandoned. Some of the plants are flourishing, some are half-eaten by insects or animals, others are already dead. In the borders, the forest has begun to invade, to reclaim ownership.
He crouches down to enter the lean-to. It’s oppressive and dark inside. Such a contrast to the harsh light outside, that at first he can’t see anything at all. Gradually things come into focus. A scene of chaos: plates, clothes, gardening tools, cooking utensils, all jumbled up together, lying haphazardly on the dirt floor. There’s an acrid, fetid smell of sweat and bodily waste. In one corner, what looks like a mess of bedclothes. Only when he looks closer does he realise that there’s someone there.
‘You’ve come back. Have you? You’ve come back.’
It’s a woman’s voice, croaking, whispering, in pain. He peers through the gloom. She’s lying there amidst the blankets, dark-skinned, naked, breathing laboriously. He kneels down beside her. She’s glistening, shaking, her eyes closed.
‘Yes. I’ve come back.’
‘Thirsty. Very thirsty.’
‘I’ll get you water. I’ll go down to the river.’
She nods, closes her eyes. She’s weak, in a fever. She could be almost dead, or she could be only an hour away from recovery. Impossible to tell with these fevers.
As he’s about to leave, she whispers: ‘Come closer.’
He’s beside her, he can’t see how he can get any closer, but he moves his head above hers, so she can see his face, if she opens her eyes.
‘Closer, closer.’
He notices her swollen belly. He lowers his head further. Their lips are almost touching. Her eyes are still closed. She reaches out and touches him on the cheek. ‘You’re there, aren’t you? You’ve come back?’
‘I’ve come back.’
Her hand flops down, as if it was an enormous effort to move it.
‘I see things. I can’t tell what’s real, what’s not.’
‘I’ll be back shortly. I’ll get water for you.’
‘No, don’t go. Don’t leave me again.’
‘I’ll be back very soon. Don’t worry.’
‘Edouard …’
Outside, he takes great gulps of fresh air to shake the dizziness brought on by the close, humid atmosphere of the lean-to. In moments, he feels himself again, light on his feet, coiled with energy. He looks around. Remnants of a previous life are scattered over the clearing. A rusted wheel. A hoe. An old water pail. He picks it up. It’ll do, he’ll take it down to the river with him. He calculates that it’ll take him forty minutes to get down there, an hour to get back up. He looks up at the sun. It’s mid-afternoon. There should be time enough.
On his way down, he catches sight of a large iguana sunning itself a couple of metres up a tree. He freezes, then slowly reaches down and finds a heavy stone. In a short, brutal movement he hurls it at the tree. The iguana drops to the ground with a thud. He runs up to where it fell, another stone in hand, in case he has to beat it to death. No need: he crushed the skull with his first throw. Dark red blood wells up, glints in the sunshine. He slings the dead iguana across his shoulder, continues down the river. He’ll cook it once he gets back up to the ruins where the woman is lying. He’ll fill his belly, and try to get her to eat a little of it as well.
Now he’s back at the river’s edge. He has the impression that it’s the same place where he woke up, but of course it can’t be. That would be a couple of kilometres downstream. For the first time that day he feels tired, febrile with the hunger. He sits down by the water for a moment to regain his strength for the steep climb back up, now laden with the pail of water and the iguana.
Still nobody to be seen. Not a single boat or canoe. Mesmerised by the water shimmering in the heat, he lets his mind wander. And now the riverscape fills out. A vision of bridges crossing from one bank to the other, some straight, some arched, others descending at oblique angles. A few of these bridges are covered in hovels. Cords cross each other and disappear, ropes rise from the shore. The dome of St Paul hides somewhere behind that of the Beaux Arts. Further back, the minarets of Al-Finar.
He looks away from the river. Within the cocoon of his body, he can already feel the transformation – two lives compressed with such extreme violence that they breach each other and fuse. He prepares to make his way back to where the woman lies in the lean-to, by the falling-down wall. In his mind he rights the wall, fills in its gaps, builds around and on top of it, until once again he can see it whole. A dark farmhouse, silhouetted against the twilight. His imagination is torn to pieces, scattered to the winds. Inside him lies a vast, empty landscape. It has always been there. Trackless plains stretch out endlessly towards the horizon. And then beyond, to unknown lands, waiting to be colonised.
Acknowledgements
I have adapted episodes and/or the occasional sentence from a number of works, principally Dry Guillotine by René Belbenoit (Berkley, 1975); Au bagne, by Albert Londres (Serpent à plumes, 2001); Bagnards: la terre de la grande punition by Michel Pierre (Autrement, 2000); Damned And Damned Again by William Willis (Dell, 1974); Devil’s Island by J.J. Maloney (www.crimemagazine.com); and Journey Without Maps by Graham Greene (Vintage, 2002). I have also used some lyric fragments from Tilt by Scott Walker (Mercury, 1995). For specific references, please contact me at hugowilcken@hotmail.com.
Thanks to my family, particularly Patrick Wilcken for his critical reading of the text. Thanks also to Lisa Darnell; to Catherine Heaney at Fourth Estate; to Ian Peisch for providing me with work space in Paris; to Helen and Paul Godard for their hospitality in Nîmes; and to everyone else who helped in the writing of the work.
And a very special thank you to Julie, for her all-round support and valuable editorial input.
About the Author
HUGO WILCKEN wa
s born in Sydney in 1964. He was educated there and in London, and now lives in Paris. His first novel, The Execution, was published to critical acclaim in 2001.
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Also by Hugo Wilcken
The Execution
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First published in Great Britain by Harper Perennial 2007
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