The next morning the guards woke us by banging on the bars. It seemed like an unnecessarily hostile method for waking someone. A guard demanded we slip our food tray through the opening in the bars.
We were given juice, grapes, cheese, and bread for breakfast. Lunch and dinner consisted of some variation of meat — slices of chicken or beef that often seemed as thin as paper — as well as peas and mashed potatoes. In the afternoons, we hung out in the courtyard. There was considerable diversity among the prisoners: Africans, Caucasians, Spaniards, Sri Lankans, and Arabs. Each tended to fraternize only with their own ethnic group, which gave them some security in case a fight broke out. Unlike the camps for immigrant detainees, this was a regular prison. My fellow inmates included drug smugglers, drug traffickers, murderers, thieves, and rapists.
Rouen Prison (also known as the Bonne-Nouvelle Prison) is located in the town of Rouen in the northwest Seine-Maritime district of France. Many years later, I learned that Rouen had been home to Nicolas Cocaign, the cannibal who killed a fellow prisoner and ate one of his lungs. Thankfully, this happened years after I was there.
Every evening, after our recreation time in the courtyard, we were instructed to go straight to the shower stalls. We would strip naked and put our dirty uniforms in a laundry bin. I knew it was common for prisoners to be molested or raped in the showers, so I would shower in less than sixty seconds. At just eighteen years old, I was the youngest person in the prison and thus a target. I was still haunted by memories of the molestation on the train. After showering, we were given clean uniforms and then ushered back to our cells.
Once a week, we were allowed to watch movies in a common room that could accommodate about one hundred inmates, who sat on long benches arranged in rows. The lights were kept on during the movies to deter the prisoners from fighting or partaking in any illicit behaviour.
I met a few of the other prisoners in the courtyard. One Sri Lankan Tamil prisoner told me that he had been incarcerated for four years for smuggling drugs. I immediately thought about my drug-dealing “friends” back in Paris. I guess I should have felt lucky.
It was depressing in prison, but the worst of it was not actually being incarcerated. What bothered me most was the unbearable waiting — not knowing what was happening from one minute to the next. Every hour seemed like an eternity. It felt like a lifetime ago that I had left Sri Lanka. I thought about Devi, and Nalini, and the kind Muslim woman who had taken me in. I thought about the nice old German lady who had given me a jacket. I thought about my mother and my family. What was happening to them? What did they imagine was happening to me? I doubt any of them pictured this.
I tried to keep to myself and not bring any attention to myself. I missed hearing Tamil, however, so I would talk to the other Tamil prisoner occasionally. He asked me what I had done. When I told him about my false French passport, he nodded. “Six months,” he said authoritatively.
Six months!
“And then you will be sent back to Sri Lanka.” He shook his head. “It is not good for a Tamil who has left Sri Lanka to be sent back by police.”
I was devastated. What he said made sense. The government in Sri Lanka was anxious to get rid of Tamils. The news I had heard about the civil war was disturbing. Nothing was going well for the Tamils. If I was forced to return to Sri Lanka, I would likely be imprisoned — or worse. I felt desperately sick to my stomach.
Our prison cell window overlooked the yard, and I spent as much time as possible looking out, but there was nothing much to see. The prison complex was surrounded by high concrete walls topped by a metal mesh fence with barbed wire bunting. The wall was too high to see over. For all I knew, we could have been in a desert or on the moon. There were guards with rifles at the main entrance and on top of the buildings. I had heard from other prisoners that the prison was located in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing outside the walls and no people to be seen. If anyone tried to escape, I was warned, he would be shot by the guards.
“They wouldn’t try and catch him? Bring him back?” I asked.
“Why? What is the point? Anyway, who would notice?”
No one tried to escape during my time there.
After being at Rouen for two weeks, I fell into a dark and hopeless despair. I would sit on my bed and gaze out the window for hours. I had no way of contacting my family. I had no news from home, no idea what was happening, and no idea what was to become of me. I felt deeply ashamed that I had promised my mother that I would make a better life for her and for our family. What had I accomplished? Nothing. Worse than nothing! Not only had I failed, I had now been branded a criminal.
I thought several times that suicide might be my best option. Now, I wonder if the only reason I didn’t kill myself then was that I had no idea how to do it.
Late one night — it must have been around 9:00 p.m. — a guard appeared in front of my cell and rapped on the bars.
“Get up!” he said.
I had no idea what was going on and I pleaded for him to explain what was happening. But he just rapped the bars again with his baton and shouted at me. “Get up. Let’s move it!”
When the door swung open, he turned me around and placed me in handcuffs. Now I was really scared.
“Follow me. Let’s go.”
He walked me down the hall and through the doors to the stairwell, then down to the first floor. He led me to another small cell. When the door was opened, he unlocked the handcuffs and ordered me inside. The door swung closed and I heard the lock click.
A few minutes later, another guard arrived. The door opened and he stepped in and handed me the plastic bag that contained my belongings. “Change your clothes,” he said. “Put the prison clothes in the bin.”
I still had no clue what was happening. Am I being transferred to another prison? Am I being sent back to Sri Lanka? Why was all this occurring at night? Nothing like this had happened before.
After changing clothes, I waited, wondering what was next. I was very tired, but my nerves were jumpy, itchy, as if electrified. As I waited in the holding cell, I watched as new inmates were brought in to begin a new stage in their miserable lives.
A few minutes later, the guard reappeared at the door. “Let’s go.”
I was led outside the prison to a van and instructed to get inside. We drove off, and about fifteen minutes later the van stopped and I was told to get out. We were at a railway station. I was baffled. The guard handed me a train ticket and said, “Allez-vous-en!” Go away!
I watched him walk away, not believing this could be happening. I waited in the darkness outside the train station as the van pulled away and drove off. It didn’t come back. The night was deathly quiet.
I could not believe it. I was free! I had no idea how or why. What just happened? I wondered. Why was I released?
The station was empty at this hour. A clock on the wall indicated it was about 10:00 p.m. A few minutes later a train bound for Paris pulled into to the station and I climbed aboard. A couple of hours after that, I was back in Paris. It was now around midnight. I was too tired to walk and there was no bus or metro service close by, so I decided to splurge and use all the money I had on a cab. I hailed one, but when the driver told me the fare I realized I would be short. He would have to drop me halfway. I didn’t mind. I was free!
It took about an hour or so to walk to my brother’s apartment, but I was so happy that it seemed like no time at all. I rang the bell, and my brother opened the door.
“Okay. Here you are,” he said matter-of-factly.
I was surprised at how calm he was. I told Lathy what had happened, but he seemed already to know. Suddy’s friend had been waiting for me at the airport in Montreal. When I failed to show up, Lathy contacted an a French criminal lawyer. I am not sure how, but the lawyer managed to get me released. It made no sense to me, but I was too relieved to care. Only later did I realize that it must have cost a fortune.
It was a criminal offence to carry an illeg
al passport, a very serious offence in France. I could have been sent to prison for months or even years. I could not find the words to express the feeling of freedom I experienced. The moment I was released, everything felt so wonderful. Even the air smelled better! I was free from being attacked by fellow prisoners and from being told what to do next. I was able to wear my own clothes, eat whatever I wanted, and go anywhere I wished, whenever I wanted to. I was so grateful to my brother, and I felt ashamed about all the terrible things I had been thinking about him. He had acted like a true elder brother.
Lathy had saved me.
CHAPTER 21
I stayed at the apartment with Lathy, as before. When I asked him if I could work at the printing company with him, he said, “That will not be possible.”
“Why not?” I asked.
He refused to even consider it and became very angry. “You should go to school and study!”
“I’m still struggling to learn French. How can I go to high school or university here?” I shouted back. I was so grateful for all that Lathy had done for me, but I was also angry: Lathy had a good job. If it was good enough for him, why not for me?
Later, I realized I was being unfair. Lathy had his own problems. And I was one of them. Everything I had done so far, starting with my big plan to escape Sri Lanka and make my fortune in Germany, I had done on impulse. And from the outset it had gone wrong. Looking back on it after all these years, I am amazed I made it as far as I did. It had been madness! Where would I have been without people like Devi or Nalini or the kind Muslim woman — or Lathy?
I resolved to spend as little time as possible at the apartment. For one thing, it was obvious that Lathy was even less enthusiastic about my being there than he had been the first time. For another, his roommates were still heavily involved in the drug-trafficking business and I was terrified I would be swept up in a raid and sent back to prison.
I had no real plan. I could not work in Paris — not legally, anyway. Escape to Canada now seemed off the table. And although my visitor visa had been extended, I had no idea what to do.
I had a Sri Lankan friend who was living in a refugee complex. I stayed with him for a few days at a time, avoiding the apartment. I hardly ever saw Lathy. I spent a lot of my time wandering around the city. The more I walked, the more I realized that I was going nowhere.
I knew little of what was happening back in Sri Lanka except for what I learned from my friend at the refugee complex. I never listened to the radio, and I had no access to Sri Lankan television news. Occasionally, I would find Tamil newspapers in my friend’s room and read the headlines. But the civil war was on the other side of the world, and I felt hopeless and ashamed because I could not do anything about it or to help my family. I began to withdraw from news of Sri Lanka and my attachment to my family. If I wrote without sending money, they would be disappointed. so I just stopped writing letters to them altogether.
After two months back in Paris, I was out of my mind with boredom. I had to try to leave France again. Suddy often talked about his friend Kris, who had gone to London, England, on a student visa to study. Apparently, England was the place to be. I decided to give it a try.
“You will be welcomed,” Suddy told me.
“That’s what I heard about Germany,” I blurted out, feeling sorry for myself.
Lathy was insistent. “You cannot stay here and continue to do nothing.”
He was right about that.
“It will be easier to get to England than Canada,” he insisted. “You can learn English. That will be good. It will help you.”
We all agreed: England was the best option.
Lathy spoke with one of our drug-trafficking roommates and arranged to purchase a fake French passport. After my recent arrest, I knew this action was several rungs up the ladder of criminal intent, and I felt very uneasy about it. But I convinced myself that I had no choice. I needed a new name and identity.
My new name would be — comically enough, in hindsight — Anthony François. My place of origin was Pondicherry, India; my nationality: French. In 1684, the French empire had colonized Pondicherry. It was a perfect match for my skin colour and my Indian background.
Since my fingerprints were on file with the French police, I arranged to travel to England via Amsterdam in the Netherlands. A few days later, Lathy, Suddy, and our drug-trafficking roommate drove me to Amsterdam. The drive was beautiful, and it felt more like a lovely holiday than a criminal escape. We stopped in Brussels, Belgium, then stayed in a hotel in Amsterdam for a couple of nights before my flight.
Suddy and I went for a stroll the night we arrived in Amsterdam. When we hit the city’s red-light district, I looked around, my eyes wide with surprise. The narrow alleys were lined with bars and the streets glowed with red neon lights. Half-naked girls were displayed behind glass windows, waiting to be purchased for an hour or a night. The girls were very pretty, and they wore sexy lingerie and danced seductively and irresistibly. “They even take credit cards!” Suddy said with a smile.
I was too shocked and scared to do anything but window- shop.
I’m pretty sure Suddy was joking. I never saw him with these kinds of girls. At that time, I didn’t really know what the girls would do for money, and I was afraid of catching a disease. And even if I had wanted to find out, Suddy wouldn’t have let me. I wanted to have sex only with the girl I was going to marry. I resolved to stay focused on my ultimate goal.
Lathy purchased a plane ticket that would take me from Amsterdam to Dublin, Ireland.
“What is Ireland like?” I asked him.
“It doesn’t matter,” Lathy said. He told me Kris would meet me once I had arrived in Dublin. “That’s all you need to know.”
The next day, I said goodbye to Lathy once again and boarded the plane, this time with no issues. Travelling within Europe was much easier than going to Canada. At the airport, no one questioned me at the check-in counter or at immigration. It was a late flight, and there were no more than ten other passengers on the plane with me.
When the plane landed in Dublin, the officer on duty at the immigration counter was actually asleep. I couldn’t believe it! I walked straight to the exit.
It was late September and the weather was cool and wet. I took a taxi into the city and asked the driver to drop me off at a bed and breakfast. There, an old man showed me to a modest but comfortable room. It had a bed and a small closet but no windows. There was a funny coin-operated heater next to the bed, and I woke up frequently during the night to pop in coins in order to stay warm.
The next day, I called Lathy and gave him my address in Dublin. A very young girl — she must have been the B & B owner’s daughter — prepared breakfast for me: fried eggs, pork sausages, bacon, and toast. I found it unusual but delicious. She kept loading my plate with food.
I enjoyed walking around Dublin. I went to a movie theatre to see A Nightmare on Elm Street for the first time. Unable to understand the dialogue, I had little idea what was happening, but it made no difference. It was a horror movie and I loved it.
About a week after I arrived, I met up with Kris, Suddy’s friend from England. He explained that we would be taking a ferry from Dublin to Liverpool. The next day, we checked out of the B & B and took a taxi to the Dublin port.
“Remember,” Kris said, “do not talk to anyone.”
I said I understood.
It was now early October, cold and damp. The huge body of water we were crossing reminded me a bit of the beaches in Jaffna, how the land just suddenly drops away, and beyond is nothing but water as far as the eye can see. I stood at the rail and gazed out across the water, thinking about my cell in Rouen Prison and the high walls that had surrounded it. Later, I would trace our route with my finger on a map. On the map it did not seem like a long way, but on the ferry, it felt like it took forever.
When we arrived at the terminal in Liverpool, immigration officers were conducting a random check of disembarking passengers. I st
iffened when I saw them checking passports and IDs. I was convinced they were looking for me.
“Relax!” whispered Kris.
As the line inched closer and closer to the officers, my heart pounded harder and harder and my legs began to feel weak. My hands were sweating, even though it was so cold. It was Kris’s turn. He handed the officer his passport. The officer asked him to step aside. They are going to arrest him! I thought.
Fortunately, his student visa was in order and he was waved through with no problem. I tried to remain calm, but my guts were churning. It was my turn. My legs were trembling; they felt as weak as rubber bands. I was convinced I would be asked for my passport. The officer would take one look at it and arrest me on the spot.
Anthony François? Seriously? Who the hell am I kidding?
The officer looked at me and nodded. I nodded back with a smile and walked past him to the exit. I felt as if I’d won a million dollars. I’d made it. I was free once again!
CHAPTER 22
After we got through immigration, Kris and I headed to a train station in Liverpool. We were both ecstatic. Kris admitted he had been flustered when he was pulled aside, even though he knew he had no cause for worry.
“You made it,” he said.
I was so relieved I suddenly felt deflated, like an old balloon. I just had no emotion left. All I could do was smile and nod.
It was a long train ride to London, and I was very tired. But Kris wanted to talk. He asked me about Lathy and Suddy. We talked about my experience when I had been stopped by the police on my way to Canada. He told me he lived in a house in a neighbourhood called Wembley Park in London. The house, he said, was very close to the tube station.
About two and a half hours later, we arrived at the Euston railway station in London, then took the tube to Wembley Park. Kris and his brother rented the second floor of a home from a family who lived on the main floor. The flat was small but had a shared kitchen, a separate bathroom, and a bedroom. Kris used the bedroom, while his brother and I slept in the living room.
The Sadness of Geography Page 14
