What Became of the White Savage (32 page)

I trust that you will now appreciate further what an opportunity has been so foolishly lost. If the Review had published an honest report in good faith, how many other readers might have taken up their pens? How many proposals and fertile hypotheses might have resulted from this! How much might the cause of science have been advanced!

At a bend in the dried up riverbed stand some tall trees vaguely reminiscent of oaks. Here in a rocky outcrop in the shade a few pools of water still remain; footprints in the sand mark the passage of animals that come to drink there.

As the tribe comes within sight of this small grove of trees, the only ones in the vast plain, Narcisse realises there is a group camping there already: a large family or maybe a small tribe. They look different, not so stocky, their skin colour a bit lighter perhaps. None of the savages seem to be in the least bit surprised, almost as if they have agreed to meet up. Five children come over to take a look at the white man and Waiakh gives them a good telling off. Narcisse can still make no sense at all of what is being said, but amidst the jumble of sounds he hears him say “Amglo” several times.

The two groups slowly began to mingle. The women sit down all together in a big circle under the trees talking animatedly leaving the children to run around all over the place.

Narcisse has known since the old man’s visit that his forty-seven hosts are not alone in the immensity of Australia and he is not surprised to encounter another group. He wanders around aimlessly, searches for a spot where the muddy water seems relatively clear, and has a drink.

He is just about to settle down on the grass for a nap beneath a low branch, when the old woman signals to him and a group of children and leads them behind a pile of boulders. There in the vague shade of the rocks are a few stalks of a sickly yellowing plant that looks a bit like sorrel. They set about pulling up the fleshiest stalks, the ones with leaves that are already wilted, and sink their teeth into them. A warm slightly sweet syrup runs down Narcisse’s throat. For the first time in his days as a castaway, he tastes sugar; he feels a jolt of pleasure, so powerful it brings tears to his eyes.

A well-built man of about thirty walks past him carrying a spear; he pays no attention to Narcisse. He has a determined look about him, and unlike the others who have their hair cut short, he has long hair. He wears it in a plait, tied with a piece of fine woven vine, and something else. Intrigued, Narcisse stands up and moves towards him to take a closer look, keeping a careful distance. And yes, there, wound into his hair is a thin band of checked cotton fabric that must once have been pink but now is grey and faded.

It is the first time in all his days here that he has set eyes on anything manufactured. He has no way of knowing how this piece of cloth left the white world to become an ornament in this man’s hair: he’ll never know how long it had travelled for, how many stages there were in that voyage, how many friendly exchanges were involved, if it was lost or plundered in an act of violence. All of a sudden, Narcisse is seized by the desire to make that journey back himself. Without stopping to think, he stands in front of the man and barks a few words at him, pointing to the scrap of material, making exaggerated gestures. Of course, no one understands a word, but maybe the man will see the link between the bauble in his hair and this white man, both of them visitors from another world. Perhaps he’ll guess. Who knows, he might want to return the white man to his people in the hope of earning some more tokens to decorate himself with?

Narcisse cannot stop himself from making a move towards this scrap of cloth, almost as if to stroke it, not to make a grab for it exactly, just to make his meaning clear. Suddenly, the piece of faded cloth seems to contain all his hopes. If only he could touch it, imploringly, make it his talisman, his guide for the way back…

The man takes a step back, more surprised than frightened by this white hand reaching for the back of his neck. Has he forgotten that he has fixed this bit of rag to his plait. Will he be willing to part with it?

As if by magic the old woman suddenly appears and plants herself between the two men, as though they were about to fight, ready to separate them. She launches into a long speech, turning first to one and then the other, addressing them with short threatening commands. Then she takes Narcisse by the elbow and leads him away.

She has never treated him like this before. He follows her without putting up any resistance. For the moment, he will have to be satisfied with the proof of contact provided by this scrap of material. Like a prisoner receiving a message in the depths of his dungeon, he is overwhelmed by the importance of this discovery, although he cannot imagine yet how it will help him.

He goes back to sit under the tree, his heart pounding. The man with the plait has gone off to hunt and will soon be out of sight in the bushes. The other members of his family have mingled with the tribe, or else they are sleeping. Maybe they have something too? He has to find out. Narcisse gets up, strolls about in the middle of the groups to pick out the new faces, take a look at their hair, their wrists, their weapons, their baskets. Nothing, no glass, no metal, no cloth, nothing that could have come from the white man’s world.

The hope engendered by the scrap of coloured rag wells up again. But why? What’s the point? What difference would a second clue make? The piece of fabric in the hair is enough.

Is it? Enough for what? He doesn’t know what to hope for any more, it’s all too complicated. His trains of thought are all so fragile, but how can he stop himself from thinking? If he is to get out of this alive, as he’s promised himself, he must leave no avenue unexplored.

If the man with the plait has been in contact, however indirectly, with people who possess cloth, some day surely he will cross their path again. Should Narcisse not then stay with him rather than with the tribe? But the tribe goes to the beaches, where his rescuers will come for him. How is he supposed to know? What should he do?

Later, after the afternoon siesta, the man with the plait is sitting with Kermarec, deep in conversation. Narcisse walks up to him, keeping his distance to make sure the old woman doesn’t get involved, and says insistently to him three times:

“I am Narcisse Pelletier from the schooner
Saint-Paul
.”

His fair skin, his height, the sound of this language so completely different, his appearance on the beach one day, the others must have told him about it… doesn’t he understand? How can he not understand? Narcisse rubs his hand slowly over the back of his own neck, to suggest some sort of association between him and the scrap of material. Kermarec and the man with the plait watch him intently. They show no reaction, and when Narcisse eventually gives up and walks away, they go back to their conversation.

In the late afternoon the twenty or so youngsters from the two groups have all gathered. They are passing stones around from hand to hand, in a pattern that Narcisse can see is complicated, with strict rules, humming a little refrain. Every once in a while, they stop, and anyone left holding a pebble looks disappointed, as if they’ve lost. Narcisse doesn’t even try to imagine what the rules of the game could be, if it is actually a game. He would have liked to join in. At last, some form of distraction. And just then, he becomes aware of the terrible boredom that afflicts him, a boredom he is condemned to by his inability to understand their language. He could sit down among them, take a stone and pass it on to his neighbour, imitating what he sees them do, like a monkey, without understanding what he’s doing, with no strategy in mind, no conversation, no pleasure to be derived… but what would be the point?

Wanderer comes back over to the group of young people and talks to one of the girls in a solemn and commanding tone, very loudly so that all can hear. After his announcement, or maybe it was a warning, all the children gradually leave the game and move away silently, dragging their heels, leaving Wanderer alone with the girl. She wants to go too, and as she moves backwards without taking her eyes off him, he grabs her roughly by the wrist and forces her to turn to face him. It’s all too clear what he wants.

Narcisse has often seen the teenagers flirting, ducking and running away, but never such obvious, rough gestures. The girl says something and Wanderer hits her in the face and knocks her down onto the sand. She tries to get up, he jumps on her, forces her down on her back. She tries to stop him and he slaps her again. She manages to get away by rolling onto her side, he grabs her again and crushes her into the ground with his full weight and hits her again. With his right hand, he holds both her hands over her head. She doesn’t cry out, utters no protest, all the while struggling to get away from her attacker. With his knee and his other hand Wanderer forces her legs apart, lies down on top of her and rapes her.

Narcisse’s first instinct is to go to the aid of the victim. How could he not react? A crime is being committed before his very eyes, a few steps away? And the thought of having it out with Wanderer once and for all is appealing.

Before jumping in, he looks around him. The women go on talking. The men have stopped what they were doing and are watching the scene without moving, showing no signs of disapproval. One or two of them make a few comments that cause the others to smile. It reminds Narcisse of when he saw a group of peasants commenting on a young bull-calf mounting a heifer. Quartermaster is watching the most intently, smiling and nodding, taking personal pride in what he sees. Is it possible that he approves of the rape? That Wanderer is his son?

Narcisse doesn’t move. Wanderer is soon finished and uttering a few stifled moans, turns over and stretches out on the sand, making no attempt to stop the girl as she makes her escape.

Vallombrun, 13th February 1867

Monsieur le Président,

You do me a great honour in proposing me as a candidate for the vice presidency of the Pacific section of our Society, and I am most sincerely grateful for your generous offer.

I am however, unworthy of such distinction and must decline to stand. I do not say this merely to be polite, but for many reasons quite independent of any claim I might have to the qualities you attribute to me. In the first place, the office would require too many visits to Paris: my health is no longer what it was and travelling tires me. Furthermore, I have no desire to come face to face with either the Reverend Leroy or the gentleman who presided over the Review in 1862, and who did not even acknowledge my letter, let alone respond to my concerns. Finally, I must remind you that my knowledge of geography is meagre and my travels already long past. I cannot deny that the group you generously refer to as the “Academy of the Pacific” gathers regularly around my table. It is true that these dinners do indeed bring together missionaries, officers, scholars and poets, all of whom have recently returned from a voyage across the great oceans, or are about to embark on such a venture. But my role in these proceedings is merely to play the host.

What is more, I have only been a full member of the Society since September 1861, the time of that memorable session, and therefore do not yet have the ten years of full membership required for appointment to the committee. Your position would surely be compromised were I to stand as a candidate under these conditions. And what if the campaign were to result in failure? I would not wish to grant my adversaries the satisfaction that such a failure would surely confer on them.

No, I am by nature better suited to the silence and tranquillity of the mountains.

I surmise that you will respond by sweeping aside all my objections one by one: you will tell me that meetings are infrequent, that Paris is not too far away and that it lies on the route to the Île de Ré, that you have already counted the voices in favour, and that you will support my campaign and assure its success.

I bow in advance to your greater wisdom, but must nevertheless decline the offer. In truth, I am presently engrossed in another, more ambitious project.

You will remember Narcisse Pelletier with whose case I so importuned you a few years ago. If you will allow me to give you news of this fellow, I think you will agree that the vice presidency should be offered to someone more worthy than I. You will understand too where the aforesaid adventure has led me.

Pelletier still occupies the position of storekeeper at the Baleines Lighthouse and makes no further plans for his future. He no longer resides in the lighthouse, having removed to a fisherman’s cottage, where he has set up house with a local woman. Her husband, a butcher from La Rochelle, was said to beat her harshly. I was told that she was not of good repute and that her interest in her new consort could largely be attributed to the salary he receives. It is true that she is neither comely nor agreeable, fair nor dark and that she is of indeterminate age. But, like him, she has been shipwrecked as it were, and in their partnership, I see neither ill-will nor manipulation. She takes care of him, and he is no longer alone. She sells the fish and shellfish that he continues to catch with great success, she keeps their modest house clean, and tends a small vegetable garden, pleasantly embellished with a few flowering shrubs. This companionship has not rendered him any more loquacious. He seems to me to have put on some weight. Much to my surprise, he offered to open a bottle of wine, and then proceeded to do it justice, consuming more than his fair share, and certainly more than his companion, whose capacity proved greater than mine.

I continue to learn nothing new, and my visits to the Île de Ré have become quite infrequent.

Mr. Wilton-Smith accepted my proposal and undertook the searches according to my wishes with his characteristic efficiency and energy. He chose as expedition leader a veteran of the Indian Army, a seasoned adventurer whose exploits ranged from prospecting for gold to trafficking in sandalwood.

The sloop chartered in my name arrived at “Pelletier Beach” on the 1st February 1864, three years after Narcisse was found on the 3rd February 1861. Assuming that the savages move around according to a yearly cycle, it seemed expedient to begin the search here, in the not unreasonable hope that the nomads would be in evidence. There was not a soul in sight.