Papillon (6 page)

“I can’t carry my
plan
any more. I’ve got dysentery. I don’t know who to trust and I’m scared someone will steal it or the guards will find it. Please, Papillon, carry it for me for a few days.” And he showed me a
plan
much bigger than mine. I was afraid it was a trap, that he was asking me this to find out if I had one. If I told him I wasn’t sure I could carry two, he’d know. So I asked him coldly, “How much is in it?”

“Twenty-five thousand francs.”

Without another word I took his
plan
. Very clean it was, too, and right there in front of him I pushed it up my anus, wondering if it was possible for a man to carry two. I had no idea. I stood up, put my pants back on.... It was all right. It didn’t bother me.

“My name is Ignace Galgani,” he said before leaving. “Thanks, Papillon.”

I went back to Dega and told him the story.

“It’s not too heavy?”

“No.”

“O.K. then.”

We tried to get in touch with the men who had escaped before, if possible with Julot or Le Guittou. We were hungry for information: what it was like over there, how they treated you, how to keep your
plan
, etc. As luck would have it, we fell in with a very unusual character. He was a Corsican who had been born in the
bagne
. His father was a guard and lived with his wife on the Iles du Salut. He had been born on the Ile Royale, one of the three islands, the others being Saint-Joseph and Diable (Devil’s Island), and—oh destiny!—he was going back not as a guard’s son but as a convict.

He had been given twelve years at hard labor for burglary with forced entry. He was nineteen, open-faced, with clear bright eyes. We could tell right away that he was a victim of circumstance. He knew very little about the underworld, but he would be useful in giving us information on what lay ahead. He told us about life on the islands where he had lived for fourteen years. We learned, for example, that his nurse on the islands had been a convict, a famous gangster who got his on the Butte in a duel with knives over the beautiful eyes of Casque d’Or.

He gave us some invaluable advice: we must plan our escape from Grande Terre; from the islands it would be impossible. Then, we mustn’t get listed as dangerous, for with this label we’d no sooner land at Saint-Laurent-du-Maroni, our destination, than we’d be interned for years or for life, depending on how dangerous they thought we were. In general, fewer than 5 percent were interned on the islands. The others stayed on Grande Terre. The islands were healthy, but Grande Terre—as Dega had already told us—was a real bitch of a place: all sorts of diseases gradually drained a con, or he met with various forms of sudden death.

We hoped we wouldn’t be interned on the islands. But I felt a knot in my throat: what if I had already been labeled dangerous? With my life sentence, the business with Tribouillard and the director, I was not in good shape.

Saint-Martin-de-Ré was bursting at the seams with prisoners. There were two categories: between eight hundred and a thousand convicts, and nine hundred
relégués
. To be a convict, you had to have done something serious or, at least, been accused of having done something serious. The sentences ranged from seven years of hard labor to life. A convict granted a reprieve from the death penalty automatically got life. With the
relégués
it was different. A man became a
relégué
after three to five convictions. It’s true they were incorrigible thieves and you could understand why society had to protect itself. On the other hand, it was shameful for a civilized people to employ this extra form of punishment. The
relégués
were small-time thieves—and clumsy ones, since they were caught so often—and being a
relégué
in my time came to the same thing as a life sentence. No nation has the right to revenge itself or rush to eliminate people just because they cause society anxiety. They should be healed instead of given such inhuman punishment.

We had now been on Saint-Martin-de-Ré seventeen days. We knew that the name of the ship taking us to the
bagne
was
La Martinière
. It was to carry eighteen hundred convicts. Eight or nine hundred of us were gathered in the courtyard of the fortress. We had been standing in rows of ten for about an hour, filling the courtyard. A door opened and out came a group of men dressed very differently from the guards we had known. They wore sky-blue suits of a military cut and looked well dressed. They weren’t police and they weren’t soldiers. They all wore wide belts with holsters hanging from them; we could see the handles of their guns. There were about eighty of them. Some wore stripes on their sleeves. All were sunburned and looked to be between thirty-five and fifty. The older men seemed sympathetic; the young ones stuck out their chests with an air of importance. The commanding officer of the group was accompanied by the director of Saint-Martin-de-Ré, a police colonel, three or four army doctors in colonial dress and two priests in white cassocks. The police colonel put a loudspeaker to his mouth. We expected an “Attention!” but not at all.

“Listen carefully,” the colonel said. “From here on you are under the jurisdiction of the officials of the Ministry of Justice representing the Penal Administration of French Guiana, whose administrative center is the city of Cayenne. Warden Barrot, I transfer to you the eight hundred prisoners present and listed here. Will you certify that they are all present.”

The roll call began: “So and so, present; so and so, present, etc.” It took two hours; everything was in order. Then we watched the exchange of signatures by the two administrations on a small table provided for the occasion.

Warden Barrot (he had as many stripes as the colonel, though his were colored instead of silver) took his turn at the loudspeaker. “Transportees, from here on that’s what you’ll be called—Transportee so and so, or Transportee such and such a number, whichever you are given. From this moment on you are under the special laws of the
bagne
, its regulations, its internal tribunals which, when called upon, will make the decisions they think necessary. These autonomous tribunals can punish you, depending on the offense you commit in the
bagne
, with anything from a simple prison sentence to the death penalty. These disciplinary sentences, whether for prison or solitary confinement, may be carried out in any one of the places that belong to the Administration. The police you see before you are called wardens. When you address them, you must call them ‘Mister Warden.’ After supper each of you will receive a navy pack with your clothing for the
bagne
. Everything has been anticipated; these are all you’ll need. Tomorrow you will board
La Martinière
. We will make the trip together. Don’t feel sorry to leave; you’ll be better off at the
bagne
than in a penitentiary in France. You can talk, play cards, sing, smoke. Don’t worry about being mistreated so long as you behave. I ask that you wait until you’re in the
bagne
to settle any personal differences you may have. Discipline during the trip must be very severe and I trust you understand why. If there are any of you who don’t feel well enough to undertake the trip, go to the infirmary, where you’ll be examined by the medical captains who are accompanying the convoy. I wish you ‘bon voyage.’” The ceremony was over.

“So, Dega, what do you think?”

“Papillon, old man, I see I was right when I told you the biggest danger was the other cons. That thing he said about ‘wait until you’re in the
bagne
to settle any personal differences’ spoke volumes. There must be a lot of killings!”

“Don’t worry about it. Just trust me.”

I sought out François la Passe and asked, “Is your brother still an orderly?”

“Yes, he’s a
relégué
.”

“Go see him as soon as you can and ask him to give you a lancet. If he wants money, tell me how much and I’ll pay him.”

Two hours later I was the owner of a lancet with a very strong steel handle. Its only drawback was that it was a little too long, but it was a fearsome weapon.

I sat down near the toilets in the middle of the courtyard and sent for Galgani so that I could give him back his
plan
, but it must have been hard to find him in the shifting mob of eight hundred men filling the enormous yard. We hadn’t seen Julot, Le Guittou or Santini since we’d arrived.

The advantage of communal life was that we lived, talked and belonged to a new society, if you could call it a society. There was so much to say, to listen to, to do that there was no time to think. When I realized how much the past had blurred and been relegated to second place in relation to my present life, I figured that once you arrived at the
bagne
, you probably forgot who you were and why you were there because you concentrated on only one thing—escape. But I was wrong. By far the most absorbing thing was to stay alive. Where were the cops, the jury, the court, the judges, my wife, my father, my friends? They were back there, very much alive, and each one had a place in my heart, but because of the excitement of departure, the great leap into the unknown, the new friends and acquaintances, they didn’t have the same importance as before. But it only seemed that way. Once I willed it, when my brain was ready to open the drawer where each of them belonged, they’d all be there again.

They were leading Galgani to me, for even with his thick glasses he could barely see. He seemed in better health. He came up and without speaking squeezed my hand.

“I want to give you back your
plan
,” I said. “Now that you’re well, you can carry it yourself. It’s too much responsibility for me during the trip, and who knows if we’ll be anywhere near each other or even if we’ll see each other at the
bagne
. So it’s better if you take it.”

Galgani looked unhappy.

“Come on. Come to the toilets and let me give you your
plan
.”

“No, I don’t want it. You keep it. I give it to you as a present. It’s all yours.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t want to be killed for my
plan
. I’d rather live without money than be killed because of it. I give it to you because, after all, there’s no sense in you risking your life to keep my money. This way, if you risk your life, it’s for your own benefit.”

“You’re scared, Galgani. Have you been threatened?”

“Yes. Three Arabs are on my tail all the time. I haven’t come to see you because I don’t want them to suspect we’re in this together. Every time I go to the toilet, day or night, one of those spooks comes and stands near me. I’ve tried to make it clear I don’t have a
plan
—without making a big deal of it—but they keep watching me. I’m sure they think somebody else has it. They don’t know who, but they follow me around to see if I get it back.”

I looked at Galgani and realized that he was terrified. I asked, “What part of the yard do they hang around?”

“Near the kitchen and laundry.”

“All right. You stay here and I’ll go over.... No, you come with me.” I took the lancet out of my cap and held the blade up my right sleeve, the handle in my hand. We spotted them right away. There were four of them, three Arabs and a Corsican named Girando. I understood right away: the Corsican had been snubbed by the underworld guys and had spilled to the Arabs. He must have known that Galgani was Pascal Matra’s brother-in-law and therefore had to have a
plan
.

“How are things, Mokrane?”

“O.K., Papillon. How are things with you?”

“Not so good. I came over to tell you that Galgani is my friend. If anything happens to him, the first one to get it is you, Girando. The rest will follow. Take it any way you like.”

Mokrane stood up. He was as tall as I—about six feet—and just as broad. He was ready for a fight, but then I pulled out the lancet, all shiny and new. I held it in the palm of my hand and said, “If you move, I’ll kill you like a dog.”

Clearly bewildered because I had a weapon, for we were constantly searched, and impressed by my air of assurance, not to mention the length of the lancet, he said, “I was only getting up to talk, not to fight.”

I knew this wasn’t true, but since it was in my interest to help him save face in front of his friends, I offered him an easy exit.

“O.K., since you were only getting up to talk …”

“I didn’t know Galgani was your friend. I thought he was an amateur. You know how it is, Papillon, everybody steals from you here and you have to have money for the
cavale
.”

“O.K., fair enough. You have every right to fight for your life, Mokrane. Only remember, this is forbidden territory. Look somewhere else.”

He held out his hand and I shook it. Jesus, that was a close one. If I had actually killed the guy, I sure wouldn’t have sailed the next day.

Galgani walked back with me. I said to him, “Don’t tell anyone about this. I don’t want to get in dutch with Papa Dega.” I tried to persuade Galgani to take back his
plan
and he said, “Tomorrow, before we leave.” But the next day he hid himself so well I had to set off for the
bagne
with both
plans
.

That night in our cell no one spoke. We were all thinking that it was our last day on French soil. Each of us felt at least a little nostalgic about leaving France forever, for an unknown land and an unknown way of life.

Ten of the eleven men in our cell were from the underworld, all but the little Corsican who had been born in the
bagne
. All these men were in a state of suspension, reduced to silence by the gravity and importance of the moment. The cigarette smoke billowed out of the cell into the corridor, and you had to sit below the clouds of smoke to keep your eyes from smarting.