Papillon (45 page)

“No, not yet. I was waiting for your answer.”

“Well, you’ve got it. It’s yes.”

“Thanks, Bourset—I don’t really know how to thank you. Here, take this five hundred francs.”

He looked me straight in the eye and said, “No, you keep the money. If you make it to Grande Terre, you’ll need it to set up your next
cavale
. Starting today, I’m not playing cards until you’re gone. With the things I make here, I’ll still have enough for cigarettes and steaks.”

“Why won’t you take it?”

“Because I wouldn’t do this for ten thousand francs. For all the precautions we’ve taken, the risks are too great. I can do it only for free. You helped me, you were the only person who ever gave me a hand. It scares me, but I’m glad to do it.”

As I copied the design, I began to feel very guilty. It had never even crossed Bourset’s innocent mind that I’d helped him to gain my own ends. I had to keep telling myself—to make me look better in my own eyes—that escape justified everything, even the dishonorable way I’d behaved.

During the night I talked to Narric, who was to pass the word to his brother-in-law.

Right away he said, “You can count on me to carry the pieces out of the shop. Just don’t be in too much of a hurry. We’ll only be able to move them when there’s big stuff going out for a masonry job. We won’t miss a chance, though, I promise you that.”

So far so good. Now I had only to talk to Matthieu Carbonieri, for he was the one I wanted to go with me on the
cavale
. He was for it 100 percent.

“Matthieu, I’ve found someone to make the raft and I’ve found someone to carry the pieces out of the shop. Now it’s up to you to find a place in your garden where we can bury the raft.”

“No, the garden’s no good. The guards come at night to steal vegetables and they’re likely to notice something. I’ll fix up a hiding place in the retaining wall by taking out a big stone and digging out a space behind it. That way, when I get a piece, I’ll only have to remove the rock and then put it back after I’ve stowed the piece inside.”

“Should they carry the pieces straight to your garden?”

“No, that’s too dangerous. The brothers don’t have any good reason for going there. The best thing would be to have them leave the piece in a new place each time.”

“Right.”

Everything seemed to be working. The only thing lacking was the coconuts. I must try to figure out how to collect enough of them without attracting attention.

I felt myself coming back to life. The only thing left was to talk to Galgani and Grandet. I had no right to keep silent, for they might be accused of complicity at some point. To avoid this, I decided to leave our
gourbi
and live alone, but when I told them my plans they really bawled me out. “Get going on your
cavale
as soon as you can! We’ll make out. But while you’re waiting, stay with us. We’ve been through
cavales
before.”

The
cavale
had now been in preparation for over a month. I had already received seven pieces, two of them quite big. I went to have a look at the retaining wall where Matthieu had dug his hiding place. He had taken the precaution of sticking moss around it so the rock didn’t look as if it had ever been moved. The place was perfect, but the cavity looked too small to hold the whole raft. Still, there was room enough for the moment.

Having a
cavale
in the works was wonderful for my morale. I ate better than ever and the fishing kept me in good physical shape. In addition, I spent over two hours every morning doing exercises among the rocks. I concentrated on my legs, for the fishing took care of my arms. I discovered a good trick for the legs. If I fished further out where the waves broke against my thighs, the struggle to keep my balance was very good for the muscles.

Juliette, the warden’s wife, was still very nice to me, but she noticed that I came in only when her husband was there. She said so right out, and to put me at ease, she explained that she had been joking the day she was having her hair done. And the young woman who had done her hair stopped me often on the way up from fishing to ask how I was, etc. So everything was all right in that department.

Bourset never wasted a moment. It was now two and a half
months since
we’d begun and, as I’d foreseen, the hiding place was full. We lacked only two pieces, but these were the longest—six and a half feet long and five feet. They would never fit into the hole in the retaining wall.

Looking around in the cemetery, I noticed a freshly dug grave with an ugly bouquet of faded flowers on it. It was probably the grave of the guard’s wife who had died the week before. The cemetery guard, an ancient, half-blind con nicknamed Papa, usually spent the whole day sitting in the shade of a coconut palm on the far side; from there he couldn’t see the grave or anyone coming near it. What if I used the grave for the raft after it was assembled, and to store as many coconuts as possible? But it would hold only about thirty-five—far fewer than I’d be needing. So I scattered over fifty in various other places—there were a dozen in Juliette’s garden alone. The houseboy thought I’d left them there to make oil out of someday.

When I learned that the dead woman’s husband had left for Grande Terre, I decided to dig the earth away from the grave.

Matthieu sat on the wall and acted as lookout. On his head he wore a white handkerchief, knotted at the four corners. Next to him he kept a red handkerchief, also knotted at the corners. He wore the white as long as there was no danger. If anyone came into view, he put on the red.

This risky work took me one whole afternoon and night. I didn’t remove the earth as far down as the coffin because I had to enlarge the hole to make it big enough for the raft—another four feet plus a little room for maneuvering. The hours seemed endless, and the red handkerchief on Matthieu’s head forced me to stop several times. Finally it was morning and I was finished. The hole was covered with woven palm leaves which made a fairly firm platform. On top of that I put a layer of earth with a small border. You could barely see it. By the time I was through, my nerves were on the point of snapping.

The preparations for the
cavale
had now been going on for three months. The labeled pieces had been taken out of their hiding place and laid above the poor woman’s coffin, hidden by the earth that covered the matting. In the wall cavity we stored three bags of flour, a seven-foot rope for the sail, a bottleful of matches, a tinder box and a dozen cans of milk.

Bourset was getting more and more excited. You’d have thought it was his own
cavale
. Now Narric was sorry he hadn’t said yes in the beginning. We could have made a raft for three people instead of two.

The rainy season began. It rained every day, which made it easier for me to visit the grave. Now only two side pieces for the frame were missing. Little by little I’d brought the coconuts nearer the garden, where they could be stored without danger in the buffaloes’ open stable. My friends never questioned me. From time to time they simply asked, “How’s it going?” “O.K.” “It’s taking a long time, isn’t it?” “You can’t do it faster without running a big risk.” That was all.

Then one day Juliette saw me as I was moving the coconuts I’d stored in her yard. “Tell me, Papillon, when are you getting to work on your coconut oil? I don’t see why you don’t make it here in the yard. You’ve got a sledgehammer to open them with, and I can lend you a big pot for the pulp.”

“I’d rather do it in the camp.”

“That’s funny. The camp isn’t very convenient.” She paused and then said, “Want me to tell you what I think? I don’t think you’re making coconut oil at all.” I froze. She went on, “Why would you want it when I can give you all the olive oil you can use? The coconuts are for something else, aren’t they?” Large drops of sweat rolled down my face. I was waiting to hear the word
escape
. I could hardly breathe.

“Madame, it was to be a secret, but your curiosity forces me to tell you. However, all I’m going to say is that I picked them out for their shells. I was going to make something as a present for you. That’s all there is to it.”

It worked. She said, “Papillon, you shouldn’t go to all that trouble for me. I forbid you to spend your time and money making me something extravagant. I thank you sincerely, but you mustn’t do it.”

“That’s for me to decide.” Whew! I asked her for a pastis—something I’d never done before. Luckily she didn’t notice my unease. God was on my side.

It rained hardest during the afternoon and evening. I was afraid the water would seep down through the thin layer of earth and lay bare the matting. Matthieu was forever having to replace the earth. I was certain it was flooded underneath, so we pulled back the matting and found that the water had almost reached the top of the coffin. It was a critical moment. Not far away was the grave of two children, dead for many years. We lifted off the tombstone; I crawled in and hacked away at the cement with a miner’s pick on the side nearest my raft’s grave. I had no sooner cracked the cement and prodded the earth with the pick than a great gush of water streamed in. It was the water from my flooded grave. I climbed out as it was reaching my knees. We replaced the stone and made it fast with some white mastic that Narric had found. With this operation we had got rid of half the water in our tomb.

That evening Carbonieri said, “We seem to have nothing but trouble with this
cavale
.”

“Come on, we’re almost there.”

“Let’s hope so.” We were getting very nervous.

The next morning, as a cover-up, I went down to the quay and asked Chapar to buy me five pounds of fish. I told him I’d pick it up at noon. Then I walked over to Carbonieri’s garden. As I came near, I saw three white caps. What were three guards doing in his garden? This was most unusual. Were they making a search? I’d never seen three guards around Carbonieri before. I waited almost an hour. Then I had to find out what was going on. Casually I walked down the path that led to the garden. The guards watched me come. When I was about forty yards away, Matthieu put the white handkerchief on his head. I breathed again and just had time to pull myself together before I reached them.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Good morning, Matthieu. I’m here for the papaya you promised me.”

“I’m sorry, Papillon, but somebody stole it this morning while I was getting the poles for my beans. I’ll have some more ripe ones in four or five days; they’re already turning yellow. Gentlemen, don’t you want some lettuce, or tomatoes, maybe some radishes for your wives?”

“Your garden is very well tended, Carbonieri. My congratulations,” one of them said.

They accepted the lettuce, tomatoes and radishes and left. I made sure to leave before them, taking two heads of lettuce with me.

I passed by the cemetery. The rain had washed away the earth, leaving the tomb half uncovered. I could see the matting ten steps away. Only the good Lord had kept us from being caught this time. The wind blew like mad every night, roaring over the plateau and sometimes bringing gusts of rain. It was ideal weather for a
cavale
.

The six-foot piece of wood—the most important one and damnably cumbersome—joined its brothers. I slid it into place and it fitted like an angel. Bourset ran back to camp to find out if I’d received it. He was so relieved to know all had gone well, it seemed as if he’d been worried it might not arrive.

“Is something wrong?” I asked him. “Do you think somebody’s onto us? Have you told anybody about this?”

“No, certainly not.”

“But something’s eating you. What is it?”

“A guy named Bébert Celier seems to be taking a little too much interest in us. I think he saw Narric put a piece of our wood under his workbench, then transfer it to a barrel of lime and carry it off. His eyes followed Narric to the door of the shop. That’s why I’m worried.”

So I said to Grandet, “Bébert Celier is in our
case
. He can’t possibly be a stoolie, can he?”

“He’s one of the boys in the Public Works Service. You know the kind: African battalion,
camisard
, one of those bullheaded soldiers who’s been in every military prison in Morocco and Algeria. He’s a fighter, dangerous with a knife, a passionate lover of young boys and a gambler. He’s never been a civilian. Conclusion: he’s a loser and a dangerous one. The
bagne
is his life. If you have any real doubts, take the bull by the horns and kill him tonight. Don’t give him time to squeal.”

“We’ve got no proof he’s a stoolie.”

“True,” Grandet said. “But we’ve go no proof he isn’t. His kind of
bagnard
don’t like
cavales
. They don’t like anything messing up their well-ordered lives. They might not be stool pigeons about anything else, but about
cavales
, who knows?”

I consulted Matthieu. His advice was to kill Celier that night. In fact, he volunteered to do it himself. I made the mistake of saying no. The idea of killing someone, or allowing someone to be killed, on the basis of appearances alone revolted me. What if Bourset was imagining things? Fear might make him invent heaven knows what.

I asked Narric, “Have you noticed anything funny about Bébert Celier?”

“Me? No. I carried the barrel out on my shoulder so the turnkey at the door couldn’t see inside. We figured that if I stood just in front of him until my brother-in-law arrived, the Arab would see I wasn’t in a hurry and he’d trust me enough not to look inside the barrel. But later on my brother-in-law did tell me he thought Bébert Celier was watching us pretty closely.”