Papillon

by Henri Charrière

  Night was about to fall, so I went into the bush to find a place to lie down. I found one not thirty yards off the path, well protected by a thick cover of shiny leaves like those of a banana tree. I cut some down and made a kind of bed. This time I would be really dry—there was a good chance it wouldn’t rain. I smoked two cigarettes.

  I was less tired tonight and the coconut pulp had eased my hunger. If only my mouth weren’t so dry! I had almost no saliva.

  The second stage of my cavale was under way and I was starting my third night on Grande Terre without unpleasant incident. If only Sylvain were here! Well, mec, he isn’t, and there’s not much you can do about it. Since when have you ever needed advice or support, anyway? What are you, a general or a private? Don’t be a fool, Papillon. It’s fine to grieve for your friend, but you’re no worse off in the bush for being alone. It’s five days since you left the islands. They must have alerted Kourou by now—first the guards in the forest camp, then the blacks in the village. There may be a police station there as well. Is it wise to be heading for this village?

  I knew nothing about the surrounding country, only that the camp was wedged in between the village and the river.

  On Diable I had planned to hold up the first man I came across and force him to lead me to the edge of Camp Inini, the Chinese camp where I was going to look up Cuic-Cuic, Chang’s brother. Why change the plan now? If Diable was convinced I had drowned, there’d be no trouble. But if they suspected a cavale, Kourou would be dangerous. Since it was a forest camp, there’d be a lot of Arabs and therefore plenty of people available for a manhunt. Watch out for them, Papillon! No mistakes now. Don’t be caught in a vise. Make sure you see them before they see you. So I came to the conclusion that I’d better not walk on the path but stay parallel to it in the bush. It was damn stupid to go galloping down that trail armed only with a machete; worse than stupid, insane. From now on I’d keep to the bush.

  I woke up early to the cries of the beasts and birds greeting the morning, and shook myself to the sounds of the waking bush: another day was starting for me too. I carefully chewed a handful of coconut, spread some on my face and started out.

  I kept very close to the path but well hidden in the bush. It was difficult walking because, even though the liana and branches were not very thick, they still had to be separated to make a passage. For all these difficulties, however, I had done well to leave the path, for I suddenly heard someone whistling. I peered out; fifty yards of path stretched before me. Nobody. Ah yes, there he was! A Negro black as coal carrying a pack on his shoulder and a gun in his right hand. He was wearing a khaki shirt and shorts and was barefoot. He didn’t take his eyes off the path and his back was bent under the weight of his heavy burden.

  I hid behind a thick tree by the edge of the path and waited for him, my knife open in my hand. As he passed by the tree, I leapt on him. My right hand grabbed his rifle in midair and I twisted his arm until he dropped it. “Don’t kill me! For the love of God, have pity on me!” Holding the point of my knife against his neck, I bent down and picked up the gun—an ancient single-barreled shotgun undoubtedly loaded to the muzzle with powder and lead.

  I raised the hammer of the gun, stepped back a couple of yards and ordered, “Drop your pack. You try to run away, I’ll kill you like a dog.”

  Terrified, the poor black did as he was told. Then he looked at me. “You escaped from the bagne?”

  “Yes.”

  “What you want? You can have everything I got. But, please, don’t kill me. I got five kids. Let me live.”

  “Oh, stop that crap. What’s your name?”

  “Jean.”

  “Where you going?”

  “I’m carrying food and medicine to my two brothers. They’re cutting wood in the bush.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Kourou.”

  “You live in the village?”

  “I was born there.”

  “Do you know Inini?”

  “Yes. I sometimes do business with the Chinese in the prison camp.”

  “See this?”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a five-hundred-franc note. You’ve got two choices. If you do what I tell you, the five hundred francs is yours and you get your gun back. If you don’t, or if you rat on me, I’ll kill you. Which do you choose?”

  “What you want me to do? I’ll do anything you ask, even for free.”

  “I want you to take me to the edge of Camp Inini. When I make contact with a certain Chinese, you can go on your way. O.K.?”

  “O.K.”

  “But rat on me and you’re a dead man.”

  “I won’t. I swear I won’t.”

  He had some condensed milk with him. He took out six cans and gave them to me, along with a two-pound loaf of bread and some smoked ham.

  “Hide your pack in the bush—you can pick it up later. I’ll make a mark on this tree with my machete so you’ll know where it is.”

  I drank a can of milk. He also gave me a brand-new pair of blue work pants. I put them on, never letting go of the rifle.

  “O.K., Jean, let’s go. Be careful no one sees us. If we’re caught it’ll be your fault and your tough luck.”

  Jean walked better in the bush than I did; he was so nimble at ducking liana and branches that I had trouble following him. In fact, the bugger walked with the greatest ease.

  He said, “Did you know Kourou has been warned that two bagnards escaped from the islands? I must be honest with you: it’s very dangerous around Kourou and we have to go near there.”

  “You seem like an honest man, Jean. I hope you’re being square with me. What’s your advice as to how we get to Inini? Remember, your life depends on my safety. If I’m caught, I’ll have to kill you.”

  “What do I call you?”

  “Papillon.”

  “O.K., Monsieur Papillon. We must go deep into the bush and make a big detour around Kourou. I can guarantee I’ll get you to Inini if we go through the bush.”

  “I’m in your hands. Pick the path you think safest.”

  It was slower going in the bush, but since we’d left the vicinity of the path, the black had seemed more relaxed. He wasn’t sweating so much and his face was less tense. It was as if he’d taken a tranquilizer.

  “Jean, you don’t seem so scared any more.”

  “I’m not, Monsieur Papillon. Being so near the path was very dangerous for you—and for me too.”

  We made good headway. The black was smart; he never let us get more than twelve feet apart.

  “Wait a minute. I want to roll a cigarette.”

  “Look, I’ve got a pack of Gauloises.”

  “Thanks, Jean. You’re a good man.”

  “It’s true. I am a good man. You see, I’m a Catholic. It hurts me to see how the white guards treat the bagnards.”

  “You’ve seen a lot of them? Where?”

  “At the forest camp in Kourou. It breaks your heart to see them dying a slow death from cutting that wood, or from yellow fever or dysentery. You’re much better off on the islands. You’re the first really healthy convict I’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s true. It is better on the islands.”

  We sat down for a bit on a big branch. I offered him one of his cans of milk, but he refused it, preferring to chew on a coconut.

  “How old is your wife?”

  “She’s thirty-two. I’m forty. We’ve got five children—three girls and two boys.”

  “Do you make a good living?”

  “We don’t do so badly with the rosewood, and my wife does washing and ironing for the guards’ wives. That helps a little. We’re very poor, but we always have enough to eat and the children all go to school. And they all have shoes to wear.”

  The poor devil! He thought everything was O.K. because his children had shoes. He was almost as tall as I and his black face was not unsympathetic. To the contrary, his eyes said clearly that here was a man who was full of the right sen
timents, a strong worker, good family man, good husband, good Christian.

  “What about you, Papillon?”

  “Jean, I’m going to start a new life. I’ve been buried alive for ten years and I keep on trying to escape so that someday I can be like you, a free man with a wife and kids, without harming anyone, even in my thoughts. You said it yourself: the bagne is rotten, and any man with a shred of self-respect has to try to escape.”

  “I’ll do my best to help you. Let’s get going.”

  With never a second’s hesitation and with an extraordinary sense of direction, Jean guided me straight to the Chinese camp. We arrived about two hours after dusk. We could hear some banging in the distance but saw no lights. Jean explained that to get near the camp we would have to skirt a couple of sentry posts. We decided to stop and spend the night where we were.

  I was dead tired but afraid to fall asleep. What if I were wrong about the black? What if he were putting on an act and took the gun while I was sleeping and killed me? It would be a double victory for him—he’d be shed of the danger I represented, and he’d win a bonus for killing an escaped con.

  Yes, he was smart all right. Without a word he lay right down and went to sleep. I still had the chain with the bolt. I thought of binding him with it, but there was no point in that; he could undo it as easily as I could. So I would have to try to stay awake. I had Jean’s pack of Gauloises. I’d do everything I could think of not to fall asleep. I couldn’t trust Jean; after all, being an honest man, he must classify me as a criminal.

  The night was very dark. Jean was lying only six feet away, but all I could see of him was the white of his bare soles. I listened to the night sounds of the bush and the constant chattering of the large-goitered monkeys with their powerful, raucous cry that you could hear miles away. This was very important, for as long as the cries were regular, the troop was eating and sleeping in peace. Therefore, we too were safe from man and beast.

  Stretched out rigid, I held my own against the temptation to sleep without too much effort, aided by an occasional cigarette burn, but even more by a swarm of mosquitoes determined to drain me of my last ounce of blood. I could protect myself with a lotion of saliva mixed with nicotine, but without them buzzing around me I was sure to fall asleep. All I hoped was they weren’t carrying malaria or yellow fever.

  I passed the time in reflection. Here I was, provisionally at least, off the road of the condemned. When I started down that path, it was 1931 and I was twenty-five. It was now 1941. Ten years had passed. In 1932 that fiendish prosecutor, Pradel, had thrown me, a young man at the height of his powers, into the sinkhole that was the French penal system, there slowly to dissolve in the slime until I had disappeared altogether. I had brought off the first part of the cavale. I had climbed out of the hole and was clinging to the edge. Now I must commit all my energy and intelligence to success in the second part.

  The night was long, but it was drawing to a close. I had stayed awake and was pleased with myself for successfully guarding my liberty against the threat of fatigue. It was a victory of spirit over matter and I was full of self-congratulations when I heard the first cries of the birds announce the coming of morning. Their awakening was soon followed by another: the black stretched, sat up and rubbed his feet.

  “Good morning. You didn’t sleep?”

  “No.”

  “That was foolish. You got no reason to be afraid of me. I decided straight off I wanted to help you.”

  “Thanks, Jean. How long do we have to wait for daylight to reach us here?”

  “Another hour at the very least. Only the animals know when daylight’s coming. We’ll be able to see about an hour from now. Lend me your knife, Papillon?”

  I gave it to him without hesitation.

  He cut a branch off a thick plant, handed me a piece and kept another for himself. “Drink the liquid inside, then spread some on your face.”

  I drank, then washed. Jean gave me back my knife. Day came. We each smoked a cigarette and set off. We arrived on the outskirts of Inini about midday, after an uneventful morning except for the huge mud puddles we had to wade through.

  We ventured near the main access road to the camp. A narrow-gauge railway track ran along the side of a wide, cleared space. Jean told me it was used for wagons pulled by the Chinese and that they made such a racket you could hear them from far away. We watched one go by. Two guards sat on a bench, and behind them two Chinese braked the wagon with long poles. The wheels threw off sparks. Jean explained that the poles had steel points and that they were used for both pushing and braking.

  It was a well-used path. Chinese passed by carrying rolls of liana on their shoulders; one carried a wild pig, others bundles of palm leaves. Everybody was heading toward the camp. Jean described the variety of things the men did in the bush: hunting wild game, cutting liana for cabinetwork, cutting palm leaves to weave into matting to protect the vegetable gardens from the heat of the sun. Some hunted butterflies, others flies or snakes, etc. They were allowed to go into the bush after they had finished the work assigned them by the Administration. Everybody had to be back at camp by five in the evening.

  “Jean, here’s the five hundred francs and your gun.” I had unloaded it earlier. “I’ve got my knife and machete. You can go now. Thanks for everything. I hope God repays you better than I can for helping a man back to life, that when you tell your kids about this, you’ll say, ‘That bagnard was a good man. I’m not sorry I helped him.’”

  “Monsieur Papillon, it’s late. I can’t get very far before night. You keep the shotgun, and I’ll stay with you till morning. If you like, I’ll stop one of the Chinese and tell him to pass the word to Cuic-Cuic. He’d be less afraid of me than a white man on cavale. Let me go out on the road. Even if a guard comes along, he won’t think anything of me being there. I’ll tell him I’m looking for rose-wood for the Symphorien lumberyard in Cayenne. Trust me.”

  “O.K., but take your gun. They’d think it pretty funny for a man to go into the bush unarmed.”

  “You’re right.”

  Jean planted himself in the middle of the road. I was to give a low whistle when I saw a Chinese I liked the looks of.

  “Hello, Mouché,” said a little old Chinese carrying a banana trunk on his shoulder—probably for its delicious palmetto. I whistled, for this polite old man looked okay to me.

  “Hello, Chink. Stop a minute. I want to ask you something.”

  “What you want, Mouché?”

  They talked for almost five minutes. I couldn’t hear a thing. Two Chinese went by carrying a big doe on a pole. It hung by its feet and its head scraped along in the dirt. They didn’t speak to the black, but said a few words to the Chinese, who answered briefly, all of it in Chinese.

  Jean led the old man to where I was in the bush. As he came up to me, he held out his hand.

  “You froufrou [escaped]?”

  “Yes.”

  “From where?”

  “Diable.”

  “Good.” He laughed and looked at me hard through his slanted eyes. “That good. Your name?”

  “Papillon.”

  “Never heard of you.”

  “I’m a friend of Chang, Chang Vauquien, Cuic-Cuic’s brother.”

  “Ah! Good.” He shook my hand again. “What you want?”

  “I want you to tell Cuic-Cuic I want to see him here.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Why?”

  “Cuic-Cuic stole sixty ducks from chief of camp. Chief wanted to kill Cuic-Cuic. Cuic-Cuic froufrou.”

  “Since when?”

  “Two months.”

  “Did he go out to sea?”

  “Don’t know. I go to camp talk to Chinese very good friend of Cuic-Cuic. He tell me. You don’t move. I come back tonight.”

  “What time?”

  “Don’t know. But I bring food, cigarettes. No make fire here. I whistle ‘La Madelon.’ When you hear, you come out on road. Understand?”

 
; “Understand.” And he went. “Jean, what do you think?”

  “You haven’t lost a thing. If you want, we can still go back to Kourou. I’ll get you a dugout there, food and a sail.”

  “Jean, I’m going very far away. I can’t do it alone. But thanks for your offer. If worse comes to worst, I may have to take you up on it.”

  We ate a big piece of the palmetto the Chinese had given us. It was wonderfully cool, with a definite nutty flavor. Jean said he’d take the watch. I trusted him. I spread tobacco juice over my face and hands, for the onslaught had already begun.

  Jean woke me up. “Papillon, someone’s whistling ‘La Madelon.’”

  “What time is it?”

  “Not very late. Nine o’clock maybe.”

  We went out onto the road. The night was still very dark. Whoever was whistling was coming nearer. I answered back. He was still nearer now, though I couldn’t see him yet. Taking turns whistling, we finally met. There were three of them. Each in turn touched my hand.

  “Let’s sit here by the side of the road,” one of them said in perfect French. “Nobody can see us here in the shadows.” Jean came and joined us.

  “Eat first, then we’ll talk.” This was from the educated member of the group. Jean and I lapped up a piping-hot vegetable soup. It warmed us so well we decided to leave the rest of the food for later. We drank a delicious hot, sweet tea with a mint flavor.

  “You’re a friend of Chang?”

  “Yes. He told me to come here and find Cuic-Cuic so we could escape together. I’ve already done one long cavale, all the way to Colombia. I’m a good sailor. That’s why Chang wanted me to take his brother along. He trusts me.”

  “Maybe. Describe Chang’s tattoos.”

  “He’s got a dragon on his chest and three dots on his left hand. He told me the dots meant he had been one of the leaders of the revolt at Poulo Condor in Indochina. His best friend is another leader of the revolt, named Van Hue. He’s got only one arm.”

  “That’s me,” the educated one said. “You’ve proved you’re Chang’s friend, therefore you’re our friend. Now listen carefully. Cuic-Cuic hasn’t gone out to sea yet because he doesn’t know how to sail a boat. He’s alone in the bush, about seven miles from here. He makes charcoal. Friends sell it for him and give him the money. When he’s earned enough, he’s going to buy a boat and find somebody to escape with him. Where he is now, he’s safe. Nobody can get to his island because it’s surrounded by moving quicksand. Anyone who tries to cross is sucked down into the muck. I’ll come for you at sunrise and take you to him. You come with us now.”