Banco: The Further Adventures of Papillon. Henri Charriere

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СКАЧАТЬ The girls’ kindness and their care had won his heart. My staying was chiefly on account of him. Because here I was pretty sure of having an affair before long: and maybe it would not suit me.

      With all that had been going on inside my head these last thirteen years, with all that had stopped me sleeping these thirteen years on end, I was not going to come to a halt as quickly as all this and settle down in a village at the far end of the world just because of a girl’s pretty face. I had a long road in front of me, and my stops must be short. Just long enough to get my wind and then full speed ahead. Because there was a reason why I had been fighting for my liberty these thirteen years and there was a reason why I had won the fight: and that reason was revenge. The prosecuting counsel, the false witness, the cop: I had a score to settle with them. And that was something I was never to forget. Never.

      I wandered out to the village square. I noticed a shop with the name Prospéri over it. He must be a Corsican or an Italian, and indeed the little shop did belong to the descendant of a Corsican. Monsieur Prospéri spoke very good French. He kindly suggested writing a letter for me to the manager of La Mocupia, the French company that worked the Caratal gold-mine. This splendid man even offered to help me with money. I thanked him for everything and went out.

      

      ‘What are you doing here, Papillon? Where the hell have you come from, man? From the moon? Dropped by parachute? Come and let me kiss you!’ A big guy, deeply sunburnt, with a huge straw hat on his head, jumped to his feet. ‘You don’t recognize me?’ And he took off his hat.

      ‘Big Chariot! Stone the crows!’ Big Chariot, the man who knocked off the safe at the Place Clichy Gaumont in Paris, and the one in the Batignolles station! We embraced like two brothers. Tears came into our eyes, we were so moved. We gazed at one another.

      ‘A far cry from the Place Blanche and the penal, mate, eh? But where the hell have you come from? You’re dressed like an English lord: and you’ve aged much less than me.’

      ‘I’m just out of El Dorado.’

      ‘How long were you there?’

      ‘A year and more.’

      ‘Why didn’t you let me know? I’d have got you out straight away, signed a paper saying I was responsible for you. Christ above! I knew there were some hard cases in El Dorado, but I never for a moment imagined you were there, you, a buddy!’

      ‘It’s a bloody miracle we should have met.’

      ‘Don’t you believe it, Papi. The whole of Venezuelan Guiana from Ciudad Bolivar to El Callao is stuffed with right hard guys or detainees making a break. And as this is the first bit of Venezuelan territory you come across when you escape, there’s no miracle in meeting anyone at all between the Gulf of Paria and here – every last son of a bitch comes this way. All those who don’t come apart on the road, I mean. Where are you staying?’

      With a decent type called José. He has four daughters.’

      ‘Yes, I know him. He’s a good chap, a pirate. Let’s go and get your things: you’re staying with me, of course.’

      ‘I’m not alone. I’ve got a paralysed friend and I have to look after him.’

      ‘That doesn’t matter. I’ll fetch an ass for him. It’s a big house and there’s a negrita [a black girl], who’ll look after him like a mother.’

      When we had found the second donkey we went to the girls’ house. Leaving these kind people was very painful. It was only when we promised we should come and see them and said they could come and see us at Caratal that they calmed down a little. I can never say too often how extraordinary it is, the Venezuelan Guianans’ hospitality. I was almost ashamed of myself when I left them.

      Two hours later we were at Chariot’s ‘château’, as he called it. A big, light, roomy house on a headland looking out over the whole of the valley running down from the hamlet of Caratal almost to El Callao. On the right of this terrific virgin forest landscape was the Mocupia gold-mine. Chariot’s house was entirely built of hardwood logs from the bush: three bedrooms, a fine dining-room and a kitchen; two showers inside and one outside, in a perfectly kept kitchen-garden. All the vegetables we had at home were growing there, and growing well. A chicken-run with more than five hundred hens; rabbits, guinea-pigs, two goats and a pig. All this was the fortune and the present happiness of Chariot, the former hard guy and specialist in safes and very delicate operations worked out to the second.

      ‘Well, Papi, how do you like my shack? I’ve been here seven years. As I was saying in El Callao, it’s a far cry from Montmartre and penal! Who’d ever have believed that one day I’d be happy with such a quiet, peaceful life? What do you say, buddy?’

      ‘I don’t know, Chariot. I’m too lately out of stir to have a clear idea. For there’s no doubt about it, we’ve always been on the loose and our young days were uncommonly active! And then…it sets me back a little, seeing you quiet and happy here at the back of beyond. Yet you’ve certainly done it all yourself and I can see it must have meant a solid dose of hard labour, sacrifices of every kind. And as far as I am concerned, you see, I don’t feel myself up to it yet.’

      When we were sitting round the table in the dining-room and drinking Martinique punch, Big Chariot went on, ‘Yes, Papillon, I can see you’re amazed. You caught on right away that I live by my own work. Eighteen bolivars a day means a small-time life, but it’s not without its pleasures. A hen that hatches me a good brood of chicks, a rabbit that brings off a big litter, a kid being born, tomatoes doing well…All these little things we despised for so long add up to something that gives me a lot. Hey, here’s my black girl. Conchita! Here are some friends of mine. He’s sick; you’ll have to look after him. This one’s called Enrique, or Papillon. He’s a friend from France, an old-time friend.’

      ‘Welcome to this house,’ said the black girl. ‘Don’t you worry, Chariot, your friends will be properly looked after. I’ll go and see to their room.’

      Chariot told me about his break – an easy one. When he reached penal in the first place he was kept at Saint-Laurent-du-Maroni, and after six months he escaped from there with another Corsican called Simon and a detainee. ‘We were lucky enough to reach Venezuela a few months after the dictator Gomez died. These open-handed people helped us make a new life for ourselves. I had two years of compulsory residence at El Callao, and I stayed on. Little by little, I took to liking this simple life, you get it? I lost one wife when she was having a baby, and the daughter too. Then this black girl you’ve just seen, Conchita, she managed to comfort me with her real love and understanding, and she’s made me happy. But what about you, Papi? You must have had a cruelly hard time of it: thirteen years is a hell of a stretch. Tell me about it.’

      I talked to this old friend for more than two hours, spilling out everything these last years had left rankling in me. It was a wonderful evening – wonderful for us both to be able to talk about our memories. It was odd, but there was not a single word about Montmartre, not a word about the underworld, no reminders of jobs that were pulled off or that misfired, nothing about crooks still at large. It was as though for us life had begun when we stepped aboard La Martinière, me in 1933, Chariot in 1935.

      Excellent salad, a grilled chicken, goat cheese and a delicious mango, washed down with good Chianti and all put on the table by the cheerful Conchita, meant that Chariot could welcome me properly in his house and that pleased him. He suggested going down to the village for a drink. I said it was so pleasant here I didn’t want to go out.

      ‘Thanks, my friend,’ said my Corsican – СКАЧАТЬ