Papillon

‘Why won’t you come on to the island with us?’

‘Ma Doué,’ said the Breton, ‘I just set foot on the landing stage one day, the jetty where the official boats come in. Just once. It was in full daylight, but even so, what I saw was quite enough for me. No, Papi: I’ll never set foot on that island again in my life. Anyhow, I’d never be able to hide my disgust at being near them, talking to them, dealing with them. I’d do more harm than good.’

‘When do we go?’

‘At nightfall.’

‘What’s the time now, Breton?’

‘Three o’clock.’

‘OK. I’ll get a little sleep.’

‘No. You’ve got to load everything properly aboard your canoe.’

‘Nothing of the sort. I’ll go with the empty canoe and then come back for Clousiot. He can stay here with the things.’

‘Impossible. You’d never be able to find the place again, even in the middle of the day. And you must never, never be on the river in daylight. The search for you isn’t over, so don’t think that. The river is still very dangerous.’

Evening came. He brought his canoe and we tied it behind ours. Clousiot lay next to the Breton, who took the steering paddle, and then came Maturette, and then me in front. We made our slow way out of the creek and when we came into the river, night was just about to come down. Over towards the sea a huge brownish-red sun lit up the horizon. The countless fireworks of an enormous display fought to be the most brilliant, redder than the red, yellower than the yellow, more fantastically striped where the colours were mixed. Ten miles away, we could distinctly make out the estuary of the splendid river as it ran gleaming pink and silver into the sea.

The Breton said, ‘It’s the last of the ebb. In an hour we should feel the flood-tide: we’ll make use of it to run up the Maroni: the current will take us up without any effort, and we’ll reach the island pretty soon.’ The darkness came down in a single sweep.

‘Give way,’ said the Breton. ‘Paddle hard and get into the middle of the stream. Don’t smoke.’ The paddles dug into the water and we moved quite fast across the current. Shoo, shoo, shoo. The Breton and I kept stroke beautifully; Maturette did his best. The nearer we got to the middle of the river the more we felt the thrust of the tide. We slid on rapidly, and every half hour we felt the difference. The tide grew in strength, pushing us faster and faster. Six hours later we were very close to the island and heading straight for it – a great patch of darkness almost in the middle of the river, slightly to the right. ‘That’s it,’ said the Breton in a low voice. The night was not very dark, but it would have been almost impossible to see us from any distance because of the mist over the face of the water. We came closer. When the outline of the rocks was clearer, the Breton got into his canoe and cast off quickly, just murmuring, ‘Good luck, you guys.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Think nothing of it.’

As the boat no longer had the Breton steering it, we went straight for the island, drifting sideways. I tried to straighten out, turning it right round, but I made a mess of it and the current thrust us deep into the vegetation overhanging the water. We came in with such force, in spite of my braking with my paddle, that if we had hit a rock instead of leaves and branches the canoe would have been smashed and everything lost – stores, food, the lot. Maturette jumped into the water and heaved; we slid under a huge clump of bushes. He pulled and pulled and we tied the boat to a branch. We had a shot of rum and then I climbed the bank alone, leaving my two friends in the boat.

I went along with the compass in my hand, breaking several branches as I went, tying on scraps of flour-sack that I had put aside before we left. I saw a lighter patch in the darkness and then all at once I made out three huts and heard the sound of voices. I went forward, and as I had no idea how to make myself known, I decided to let them find me. I lit a cigarette. The moment the match sparked a little dog rushed out, barking and jumping up to bite my legs. ‘Christ, I hope it’s not a leper,’ I thought. ‘Don’t be a fool: dogs don’t get leprosy.’

‘Who’s there? Who is it? Marcel, is that you?’

‘It’s a guy on the run.’

‘What are you doing here? Trying to knock something off? Do you think we’ve got anything to spare?’

‘No. I want help.’

‘For free or for cash?’

‘You shut your bloody trap, La Chouette.’ Four shadows came out of the hut. ‘Come forward slowly, brother. I’ll bet any money you’re the character with the rifle. If you’ve got it with you, put it down: there’s nothing to be afraid of here.’

‘Yes, that’s me. But the rifle’s not here.’ I walked forward; I was close to them; it was dark and I could not make out their faces. Like a fool I held out my hand: nobody took it. Too late I grasped that this was the wrong move here – they didn’t want to infect me.

‘Let’s go into the hut,’ said La Chouette. It was lit by an oil lamp standing on the table. ‘Sit down.’

I took a straw chair without a back. La Chouette lit three other lamps and set one on the table just in front of me. The wick gave off a sickening reek – the smell of coconut-oil. I sat there: the five others stood. I couldn’t make out their faces. Mine was lit up by the lamp, which was what they had wanted. The voice that had told La Chouette to shut up said, ‘L’Anguille, go to the house and ask if they want us to take him there. Come back with the answer quick, particularly if Toussaint says yes. We can’t give you anything to drink here, mate, unless you’d like a raw egg.’ He pushed a plaited basket full of eggs towards me.

‘No, thanks.’

Very close to me on my right one of them sat down and it was then that I saw my first leper’s face. It was horrible and I made an effort not to turn away or show what I felt. His nose, flesh and bone, was entirely eaten away: a hole right in the middle of his face. I mean a hole, not two. Just one hole, as big as a two-franc piece. On the right-hand side his lower lip was eaten away, and three very long yellow teeth showed in the shrunken gum: you could see them go into the naked bone of the upper jaw. Only one ear. He put his bandaged hand on the table. It was his right hand. In the two fingers that he still had on the other he held a long, fat cigar: he must certainly have rolled it himself from a half-cured leaf, for it was greenish. He had an eyelid only on his left eye: the right had none, and a deep wound ran upwards from the eye into his thick grey hair. In a hoarse voice he said, ‘We’ll help you, mate: you mustn’t stay in Guiana long enough to get the way I am. I don’t want that.’

‘Thanks.’

‘They call me Jean sans Peur: I’m from Paris. I was better looking, healthier and stronger than you when I reached the settlement. Ten years, and now look at me.’

‘Don’t they give you any treatment?’

‘Yes, they do. I’ve been better since I started chaulmoogra oil injections. Look.’ He turned his head and showed me the left side. ‘It’s drying up here.’

I had an overwhelming feeling of pity and to show my friendliness I put my hand up towards his left cheek. He started back and said, ‘Thanks for meaning to touch me. But don’t ever touch a sick man, and don’t eat or drink out of his bowl.’ This was still the only leper’s face I had seen – the only one who had the courage to bear my looking at him.

‘Where’s this character you’re talking about?’ The shadow of a man only just bigger than a dwarf appeared in the doorway. ‘Toussaint and the others want to see him. Bring him over.’

Jean sans Peur stood up and said, ‘Follow me.’ We all went out into the darkness, four or five in front, me next to Jean sans Peur, the rest behind. In three minutes we reached a broad open place, a sort of square, which was lit by a scrap of moon. This was the flat topmost point of the island. A house in the middle. Light coming out of two windows. About twenty men waiting for us in front of the door: we went towards them. As we reached the door they stood aside to let us go through. It was a room some thirty feet long and twelve wide with a log fire burning in a kind of fireplace made of four huge stones all the same height. The place was lit by two big hurricane lamps. An ageless man with a white face sat there on a stool. Five or six others on a bench behind him. He had black eyes and he said to me. ‘I’m Toussaint the Corsican: and you must be Papillon.’

‘Yes.’

‘News travels fast in the settlement; as fast as you move yourself. Where have you put the rifle?’

‘We tossed it into the river.’

‘Where?’

‘Opposite the hospital wall, just where we jumped.’

‘So it could be got at?’

‘I think so; the water’s not deep there.’

‘How do you know?’

‘We had to get in to carry my wounded friend into the boat.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘A broken leg.’

‘What have you done about it?’

‘I’ve split branches down the middle and put a kind of cage round his leg.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Yes.’