Papillon

‘No. A week.’

‘What did you come for?’

‘To take over the casino, with a contract between us and the president himself.’

‘Brother, I’d love you to spend the rest of your life here with me in this bleeding wilderness; but if it’s the president you’re in touch with, don’t you fix any sort of deal at all. He’ll have you killed the minute he sees your joint is making a go of it.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’

‘Hey there, Snowball! Get ready for your not-for-tourists voodoo dance. The one and only genuine article for my friend.’ Another time I’ll tell you about this terrific not-for-tourists voodoo dance.

So Julot escaped, and here were we, Dega, Fernandez and me, still hanging about. Now and then, without seeming to, I looked at the bars over the windows. They were lengths of genuine railway line and there was nothing to be done about them. The only possibility was the door. It was guarded night and day by three armed warders. Since Julot’s escape the watch had been much sharper. The patrols came round at shorter intervals and the doctor was not so friendly. Chatal only came into the ward twice a day, to give the injections and to take the temperatures. A second week went by and once more I paid two hundred francs. Dega talked about everything except escape. Yesterday he saw my scalpel and he said, ‘You’ve still got that? What for?’

Angrily I replied, ‘To look after myself, and you too if necessary.’

Fernandez was not a Spaniard: he was an Argentine. He was a fine sort of a man, a genuine high-flier; but old Carora’s crap had left its mark on him too. One day I heard him say to Dega. ‘It seems the islands are very healthy, not like here: and it’s not hot over there. You can catch dysentery in this ward just going to the lavatory, because you may pick up germs.’ In this ward of seventy men, one or two died of dysentery every day. It was an odd thing, but they all died at low tide in the afternoon or the evening. No sick man ever died in the morning. Why? One of nature’s mysteries.

Tonight I had an argument with Dega. I told him that sometimes the Arab turnkey was stupid enough to come in at night and pull the sheet off the faces of the very sick men who had covered themselves up. We could knock him out and put on his clothes (we wore shirt and sandals – that was all). Once dressed I’d go out, suddenly snatch a rifle from one of the screws, cover them, make them go into a cell and close the door. Then we’d jump the hospital wall on the Maroni side, drop into the water and let ourselves go with the current. After that we’d make up our minds what to do next. Since we had money, we could buy a boat and provisions to get away by sea. Both of them turned my plan down flat, and they even criticized it. I felt they’d quite lost their guts: I was bitterly disappointed: and the days dropped by.

Now it was three weeks all but two days we had been here. There were ten left to try making a dash for it, or fifteen at the most. Today, 21 November 1933, a day not to be forgotten, Joanes Clousiot came into the ward – the man they had tried to murder at Saint-Martin, in the barber’s. His eyes were closed and almost sightless: they were full of pus. As soon as Chatal had gone I went over to him. Quickly he told me that the other men for internment had gone off to the islands more than a fortnight ago, but he had been overlooked. Three days back a clerk had given him the word. He had put a castor-oil seed in each eye, and all this pus had got him into hospital. He was dead keen to escape. He told me he was ready for anything, even killing if need be: he would get out, come what may. He had three thousand francs. When his eyes were washed with warm water he could see properly right away. I told him my plan for a break: he liked it, but he said that to catch the warders by surprise two of us would have to go out, or if possible three. We could undo the legs of the beds, and with an iron bed-leg apiece, we could knock them cold. According to him they wouldn’t believe you would fire even if you had a gun in your hands, and they might call the other screws on guard in the building Julot escaped from, not twenty yards away.

Third Exercise-Book First Break (#ulink_4d795db3-4f13-5b74-bd08-8eabccf997fa)

Escape from the Hospital

That evening I put it to Dega straight, and then to Fernandez. Dega told me he did not believe in the plan and that he was thinking of paying a large sum of money, if necessary, to have his internment label changed. He asked me to write to Sierra, telling him this had been suggested, and asking whether it was on the cards. Chatal carried the note that same day, and brought back the answer. ‘Don’t pay anyone anything for having your internment changed. It’s decided in France, and no one, even the governor, can touch it. If things are hopeless in the hospital, you can try to get out the day after the Mana, the boat for the islands, has left.’

We should stay a week in the cellular block before going across to the islands where it might be easier to escape than from the hospital ward we had landed up in. In the same note Sierra told me that if I liked he’d send a freed convict to talk about getting me a boat ready behind the hospital. He was a character from Toulon called Jesus: the one who prepared Dr. Bougrat’s escape two years before. To see him I should have to go and be X-rayed in the special wing. It was inside the hospital walls, but the freed men could get in on a forged pass for an X-ray examination. He told me to take out my charger before I was looked at, or the doctor might look lower than my lungs and catch sight of it. I wrote to Sierra telling him to get Jesus to the X-ray and to fix things with Chatal so that I should be sent too. That very evening Sierra let me know that it was for nine o’clock the day after next.

The next day Dega asked permission to leave hospital, and so did Fernandez. The Mana had left that morning. They hoped to escape from the cells in the camp: I wished them good luck, but as for me I did not change my plan.

I saw Jesus. He was an old time-expired convict, as dry as a smoked haddock, and his sunburnt face was scarred with two hideous wounds. One of his eyes wept all the time when he looked at you. A wrong ’un’s face: a wrong ’un’s eye. I didn’t have much confidence in him and as things turned out I was dead right. We talked fast. ‘I can get a boat ready for you: it’ll hold four – five at the outside. A barrel of water, victuals, coffee, tobacco; three paddles, empty flour sacks and a needle and thread for you to make the mainsail and jib yourself; a compass, an axe, a knife, five bottles of tafia [the local rum]. Two thousand five hundred francs the lot. It’s the dark of the moon in three days. If it’s a deal, in four days time I’ll be there in the boat on the river every night for a week from eleven till three in the morning. After the first quarter I shan’t wait any longer. The boat will be exactly opposite the lower corner of the hospital wall. Guide yourself by the wall, because until you’re right on top of the boat you won’t be able to see it, not even at two yards.’ I didn’t trust him, but even so I said yes.

‘And the cash?’ said Jesus.

‘I’ll send it you by Sierra.’ We parted without shaking hands. Not so hot.

At three o’clock Chatal went off to the camp, taking the money to Sierra: two thousand five hundred francs. I thought: ‘I can afford this bet thanks to Galgani; but it’s an outside chance, all right. I hope to God he doesn’t drink the whole bleeding lot in tafia.’

Clousiot was overjoyed: he was full of confidence in himself, in me and in the plan. There was only one thing that worried him: although the Arab turnkey did come very often it was not every night that he came into the ward itself; and when he did it was rare that he came in very late. Another question: who could we have as a third? There was a Corsican belonging to the Nice underworld, a man called Biaggi. He had been in penal since 1929 and he was in this high-security ward because he had recently killed a guy – he was being held while that charge was investigated. Clousiot and I wondered whether we ought to put it up to him, and if so, when. While we were talking about this in an undertone an eighteen-year-old fairy came towards us, as pretty as a girl. Maturette was his name, and he had been condemned to death but reprieved because of his youth – seventeen when he murdered this taxi-driver. There were these two kids of sixteen and seventeen in the dock at the assizes, and instead of the one laying the blame on the other, each claimed that he had killed the man. But the taxi-driver had only one bullet in him. The kids’ attitude at the time of the trial had won them the convicts’ esteem.

Very much the young lady, Maturette came up to us and speaking in a girlish voice he asked us for a light. We gave him one; and more than that, I made him a present of four cigarettes and a box of matches. He thanked me with a languishing, come-on smile and we let him go. All at once Clousiot said, ‘Papi, we’re saved. The Arab’s going to come in as often as we like and when we like. It’s in the bag.’

‘How come?’

‘It’s simple. We’ll tell this little Maturette to make the Arab fall for him. Arabs love boys – everyone knows that. Once that’s done, there’s no great difficulty in getting him to come by night to have a swig at the boy. All the kid has to do is to go coy and say he’s afraid of being seen, for the Arab to come just when it suits us.’

‘Leave it to me.’

I went over to Maturette, who welcomed me with a winning smile. He thought he had aroused me with his first simper. Straight away I said, ‘You’ve got it wrong. Go to the lavatory.’ He went, and when we were there I said, ‘If you repeat a word of what I’m going to say. I’ll kill you. Listen: will you do so-and-so and so-and-so and so-and-so for money? How much? As a paid job for us, or do you want to go with us?’

‘I’d like to go with you. OK?’ Done. We shook hands.

He went to bed, and after a few words with Clousiot I went too. At eight o’clock that evening Maturette went and sat at the window. He didn’t have to call the Arab: he came all by himself, and they fell into a murmured conversation. At ten Maturette went to bed. We had been lying down, one eye open, since nine. The Arab came in, went his rounds and found a dead man. He knocked on the door and a little while later two stretcher-bearers came and took the corpse away. This dead man was going to be useful to us, because he would make the Arab’s inspections at any time of the night seem quite reasonable. The next day, advised by us, Maturette fixed to see the Arab at eleven. When the time came round the turnkey appeared, passed in front of the kid’s bed, pulled his foot to wake him up, and went off towards the lavatory. Maturette followed him. A quarter of an hour later the turnkey came out, went straight to the door and out through it. Just after that Maturette returned to his bed without speaking to us. To cut it short, the next day was the same, only at midnight. Everything was set up: the Arab would come exactly when the kid said.

On 27 November 1933 there were two bed-legs ready to be removed and used as clubs, and at four o’clock in the afternoon I was waiting for a note from Sierra. Chatal, the attendant, appeared: he had nothing in writing: he just said to me, ‘Francois Sierra told me to say Jesus is waiting for you at the place you know. Good luck.’

At eight that night Maturette said to the Arab, ‘Come after midnight, because that way we can stay longer together.’

The Arab said he’d come after midnight. Dead on midnight we were ready. The Arab came in at about a quarter past twelve; he went straight to Maturette’s bed, tweaked his foot and went on to the lavatory. Maturette went in after him. I wrenched the leg off my bed: it made a little noise as it lurched over. No sound from Clousiot’s. I was to stand behind the lavatory door and Clousiot was to walk towards it to attract the Arab’s attention. There was a twenty-minutes’ wait and then everything moved very fast. The Arab came out of the lavatory and, surprised at seeing Clousiot, said, ‘What are you doing here in the middle of the ward at this time of night? Get back to bed.’

At that moment I hit him on the back of the neck and he dropped without a sound. Quickly I put on his clothes and shoes: we dragged him under a bed, and before shoving him completely out of sight I gave him another crack on the nape. That put paid to him.

Not a single one of the eighty men in the ward had stirred. I went quickly towards the door, followed by Clousiot and Maturette, both of them in their shirts. I knocked. The warder opened. I brought my iron down on his head. The other, opposite him, dropped his rifle: he’d certainly been asleep. Before he could move I knocked him out. My two never uttered: Clousiot’s went ‘Ah!’ before he dropped. My two stayed there in their chairs, stunned. The third was stretched out on the floor. We held our breath. It seemed to us that everybody must have heard that ‘Ah!’ It had indeed been pretty loud; and yet nobody moved.

We didn’t heave them into the ward: we went straight off with the three rifles. Clousiot first, then the kid, then me: down the stairs, half-lit by a lantern. Clousiot had dropped his iron; I still had mine in my left hand, and in my right the rifle. At the bottom of the stairs, nothing. Ink-black night all round us. We had to look hard to make out the wall over on the river side. We hurried towards it. Once we were there, I bent down. Clousiot climbed up, straddled the top, hauled Maturette up and then me. We let ourselves drop into the darkness on the far side. Clousiot fell badly into a hole, twisting his foot. Maturette and I landed properly. We two got up: we had left the rifles before we went over. Clousiot tried to get to his feet but couldn’t: he said his leg was broken. I left Maturette with Clousiot and ran towards the corner of the wall, feeling it all the way with my hand. It was so dark that when I got to the end of the wall I didn’t know it, and with my hand reaching out into emptiness I fell flat on my face. Over on the river side I heard a voice saying, ‘Is that you?’

‘Yes. That Jesus?’

‘Yes.’ He flicked a match for half a second. I fixed his position, plunged in and swam to him. There were two of them in the boat.

‘You in first. Which are you?’

‘Papillon.’

‘Good.’

‘Jesus, we must pull upstream. My friend’s broken his leg jumping off the wall.’

‘Take this paddle, then, and shove.’

The three paddles dug into the water and the light boat shot across the hundred yards between us and the place where I supposed the others were – you could see nothing. I called, ‘Clousiot!’

‘For Christ’s sake shut up! Fatgut, flick your lighter.’ Sparks flashed: they saw it. Clousiot whistled between his teeth the way they do in Lyons; it’s a whistle that makes no noise at all but that you hear very clearly. You’d say it was a snake hissing. He kept up this whistling all the time, and it led us to him. Fatgut got out, took Clousiot in his arms and put him into the boat. Then Maturette got in and then Fatgut. There were five of us and the water came to within two inches of the gunwale.

‘Don’t anyone move without saying,’ said Jesus. ‘Papillon, stop paddling. Put the paddle across your knees. Fatgut, shove!’ And quickly, helped by the current, the boat plunged into the night.

Half a mile lower down, when we passed the prison, ill-lit by the current from a third-rate dynamo, we were in the middle of the river and the tide was tearing us along at an unbelievable rate. Fatgut had stopped paddling. Only Jesus had his out, with its handle tight against his thigh, just to keep the boat steady. He was not rowing at all, only steering.

Jesus said, ‘Now we can talk and have a smoke. I think we’ve brought it off. Are you certain you didn’t kill anyone?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Christ, Jesus, you’ve double-crossed me!’ said Fatgut. ‘You told me it was a harmless little break and no fuss, and now it turns out to be an internees’ break, from what I can gather.’

‘Yes, they’re internees. I didn’t feel like telling you, Fatgut, or you wouldn’t have helped me: and I needed someone. But why should you worry? If we’re shopped I’ll take it all on myself.’

‘That’s the right way of looking at it, Jesus. I don’t want to risk my head for the hundred francs you’ve paid me; nor a lifer if there’s anyone wounded.’