Papillon. Анри Шарьер

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      Like a couple of moths drawn by the light, Maturette and I went blundering along from bar to bar. It was as we were coming out into a little brightly-lit square that I noticed the time on a church clock. Two. It was two o’clock in the morning! Quick, quick, we must hurry back. We had been behaving badly. The Salvation Army captain would have a pretty low opinion of us. We must get back at once. I hailed a taxi, which took us there. Two dollars. I paid and we walked into the hostel, very much ashamed of ourselves. A really young blonde woman-soldier of the Salvation Army, twenty-five or thirty years old, welcomed us pleasantly in the hall. She seemed neither astonished nor vexed at our coming home so late. After a few words in English – we felt they were good-natured and kind – she gave us the key of our room and said good night. We went to bed. In the suitcase I found a pair of pyjamas. As we were putting out the light, Maturette said, ‘Still, I think we might say thank you to God for having given us so much so quickly. What do you think, Papi?’

      ‘You thank Him for me – he’s a great guy, your God. And you’re dead right. He’s been really generous with us. Good night.’ And I turned the light out.

      This rising from the dead, this breaking out from the graveyard in which I had been buried, these emotions all crowding one upon another, this night of bathing in humanity, reintegrating myself with life and mankind – all these things had been so exciting that I could not get off to sleep. I closed my eyes, and in a kind of kaleidoscope all sorts of pictures, things and feelings appeared, but in no order at all; they were sharp and clear, but they came without any regard for time – the assizes, the Conciergerie, then the lepers, then Saint-Martin-de-Ré, Tribouillard, Jesus, the storm … It was as though everything I had lived through for the past year was trying to appear at the same moment before the eye of memory in a wild, nightmarish dance. I tried to brush these pictures aside, but it was no good. And the strangest part of it was that they were all mixed up with the noise of the pigs, the shrieks of the hocco, the howling of the wind and the crash of waves, the whole wrapped in the sound of the one-stringed fiddles the Indians had been playing just a little while ago in the various bars we had visited.

      Finally, at dawn, I dropped off. Towards ten o’clock there was a knock on the door. Mr. Bowen came in, smiling. ‘Good morning, friends. Still in bed? You must have come home late. Did you have a good time?’

      ‘Good morning. Yes, we came in late. We’re sorry.’

      ‘Come, come: not at all. It’s natural enough, after all you’ve been through. You certainly had to make the most of your first night as free men. I’ve come so as to go to the police-station with you. You have to appear before them to make an official declaration of having entered the country illegally. When that formality’s over we’ll go and see your friend. They X-rayed him very early this morning. They will know the results later on.’

      We washed quickly and went down to the room below, where Bowen was waiting for us with the captain.

      ‘Good morning, my friends,’ said the captain in bad French.

      ‘Good morning, everybody.’

      A woman officer of the Salvation Army said, ‘Did you like Port of Spain?’

      ‘Oh yes, Madame! It was quite a treat for us.’

      After a quick cup of coffee we went to the police-station. We walked – it was only about two hundred yards. All the policemen greeted us; they looked at us without any particular curiosity. Having passed two ebony sentries in khaki uniform we went into an impressive, sparsely-furnished office. An officer of about fifty stood up: he wore shorts, a khaki shirt and tie, and he was covered with badges and medals. Speaking French he said, ‘Good morning. Sit down. I should like to talk to you for a while before officially taking your statement. How old are you?’

      ‘Twenty-six and nineteen.’

      ‘What were you sentenced for?’

      ‘Manslaughter.’

      ‘What was your sentence?’

      ‘Transportation and hard labour for life.’

      ‘Then it was for murder, not manslaughter?’

      ‘No, Monsieur, in my case it was manslaughter.’

      ‘It was murder in mine,’ said Maturette. ‘I was seventeen.’

      ‘At seventeen you know what you’re doing,’ said the officer. ‘In England, if it had been proved, you would have been hanged. Right. The British authorities are not here to judge the French penal system. But there’s one thing we don’t agree with, and that’s the sending of criminals to French Guiana. We know it’s an inhuman punishment and one quite unworthy of a civilized nation like France. But unfortunately you can’t stay in Trinidad, nor on any other British island. It’s impossible. So I ask you to play it straight and not try to find any excuse – sickness or anything like that – to delay your departure. You may stay here quite freely in Port of Spain for from fifteen to eighteen days. It seems that your boat is a good one. I’ll have it brought round to the harbour for you. If there are any repairs needed the Royal Navy shipwrights will carry them out for you. On leaving you will be given the necessary stores, a good compass and a chart. I hope the South American countries will take you in. Don’t go to Venezuela, because there you’ll be arrested and forced to work on the roads until finally they hand you back to the French authorities. Now a man is not necessarily lost for ever because he has gone very badly wrong on one occasion. You are young and healthy and you look decent fellows, so I hope that after what you’ve been through you will not let yourselves be defeated for good. The fact of your having come as far as here is proof enough that that’s not the case. I’m glad to be one of the factors that will help you to become sound, responsible men. Good luck. If you have any difficulties, call this number. We’ll answer in French.’ He rang a bell and a civilian came for us. Our statement was taken in a large room where several policemen and civilians were working at their typewriters.

      ‘Why did you come to Trinidad?’

      ‘To recover our strength.’

      ‘Where did you come from?’

      ‘French Guiana.’

      ‘In your escape, did you commit any crime? Did you kill anyone or cause grievous bodily harm?’

      ‘We didn’t hurt anyone seriously.’

      ‘How do you know?’

      ‘We were told before we left.’

      ‘Your age, legal position with regard to France …’ And so on. ‘Gentlemen, you have fifteen to eighteen days in which to rest here. During that time you are entirely free to do what you like. If you change your hotel, let us know. I am Sergeant Willy. There are two telephone numbers on my card: this one is the official police number and the other my home. If anything happens and you want my help, call me at once. We know our trust in you is well placed. I’m sure you will behave well.’

      A few moments later Mr. Bowen took us to the nursing-home. Clousiot was very glad to see us. We told him nothing about our night on the town. We only said they had left us free to go wherever we liked. He was so astonished that he said, ‘Without even an escort?’

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