Banco: The Further Adventures of Papillon

‘The Brazilians.’

‘Well done! That’s how you can tell a man – the way he spots the ones who may turn lethal from one second to another.’

When we had locked the door (three huge bolts) we threw ourselves into our hammocks, and I dropped off right away, before Jojo could start his snoring.

The next day, a splendid sun arose fit to roast you – not a cloud nor the least hint of a breeze. I wandered about this curious village. Everyone was welcoming. Disturbing faces on the men, sure enough, but they had a way of saying things (in whatever language they spoke) so there was a warm human contact right away. I found the enormous Corsican redhead again. His name was Miguel. He spoke fluent Venezuelan with English or Brazilian words dropping into it every now and then, as if they’d come down by parachute. It was only when he spoke French, which he did with difficulty, that his Corsican accent came out. We drank coffee that a young brown girl had strained through a sock. As we were talking he said to me, ‘Where do you come from, brother?’

‘After what you said yesterday, I can’t lie to you. I come from penal.’

‘Ah? You escaped? I’m glad you told me.’

‘And what about you?’

He drew himself up, six foot and more, and his redhead’s face took on an extremely noble expression. ‘I escaped too, but not from Guiana. I left Corsica before they could arrest me. I’m a bandit of honour – an honourable bandit.’

His face, all lit up with the pride of being an honest man, impressed me. He was really magnificent to see, this honourable bandit. He went on, ‘Corsica is the paradise of the world, the only country where men will give their lives for honour. You don’t believe it?’

‘I don’t know whether it’s the only country, but I do believe you’ll find more men in the maquis who are there on account of their honour than just plain bandits.’

‘I don’t care for town-bandits,’ he said thoughtfully.

In a couple of words I told him how things were with me; and I said I meant to go back to Paris to present my bill.

‘You’re right; but revenge is a dish you want to eat cold. Go about it as carefully as ever you can; it would be terrible if they picked you up before you had had your satisfaction. You’re with old Jojo?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s straight. Some people say he’s too clever with the dice, but I don’t believe he’s a wrong ‘un. You’ve known him long?’

‘Not very; but that doesn’t matter.’

‘Why, Papi, the more you gamble the more you know about other men – that’s nature; but there’s one thing that worries me for you.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Two or three times his partner’s been murdered. That’s why I said what I did yesterday evening. Take care: and when you don’t feel safe, you come here. You can trust me.’

“Thanks, Miguel.’

Yes, a curious village all right, a curious mixture of men lost in the bush, living a rough life in the middle of an explosive landscape. Each one had his story. It was wonderful to see them, wonderful to listen to them. Their shacks were sometimes no more than a roof of palm-fronds or bits of corrugated iron, and God knows how they got there. The walls were strips of cardboard or wood or sometimes even cloth. No beds; only hammocks. They slept, ate, washed and made love almost in the street. And yet nobody would lift a corner of the canvas or peer between the planks to see what was going on inside. Everybody had the utmost respect for others’ privacy. If you wanted to go and see anyone, you never went nearer than a couple of yards before calling out, by way of ringing the bell, ‘Is there anyone at home?’ If there was and he didn’t know you, you said, ‘Gentes de paz,’ the same as saying I’m a friend. Then someone would appear and say politely, ‘Adelante. Esta casa es suya.’ Come in; this house is yours.

A table in front of a solid hut made of well-fitting logs. On the table, necklaces of real pearls from Margarita Island, some nuggets of virgin gold, a few watches, leather or expanding metal watch-straps, and a good many alarm-clocks. Mustafa’s jewellery shop.

Behind the table, there was an old Arab with a pleasant face. We talked a while: he was a Moroccan and he’d seen I was French. It was five in the afternoon, and he said to me, ‘Have you eaten?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Nor have I. I was just going to. If you’d like to share my meal…?’

‘That would be fine.’

Mustafa was a kind, cheerful guy. I spent a very pleasant hour with him. He was not inquisitive and he didn’t ask me where I came from.

‘It’s odd,’ he said, ‘in my own country I hated the French, and here I like them. Have you known any Arabs?’

‘Plenty. Some were very good and others were very bad.’

‘It’s the same with all nations. I class myself among the good ones. I’m sixty, and I might be your father. I had a son of thirty: he was killed two years ago – shot. He was good-looking; he was kind.’ His eyes brimmed with tears.

I put my hand on his shoulder: this unhappy father so moved by the memory of his son reminded me of my own – he too, retired in his little house in the Ardèche must have his eyes filled with tears when he thought of me. Poor old Papa. Who could tell where he was, or what he was doing? I was sure he was still alive – I could feel it. Let’s hope the war had not knocked him about too much.

Mustafa told me to come to his place whenever I felt like it – for a meal or if ever I needed anything: I’d be doing a kindness if I asked him a favour.

Evening was coming on: I said thank you for everything and set off for our shack. The game would soon be beginning.

I was not at all on edge about my first game. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ Jojo had said, and he was quite right. If I wanted to deliver my trunk filled with dynamite at 36, quai des Orfèvres and to deal with the others I needed dough, plenty of dough. I’d be getting my hands on it precious soon: and that was a certainty.

As it was a Saturday, and as the miners religiously took their Sundays off, the game was not to begin before nine, because it would last until sunrise. The men came crowding to the shack, too many of them to get inside. It was impossible to find room for them all, so Jojo sorted out the ones who could play high. There were twenty-four of them: the rest would play outside. I went to Mustafa’s, and he very kindly lent me a big carpet and a carbide lamp. As the big-time gamblers dropped out, so they could be replaced from outside.

Banco, and banco again! On and on: every time Jojo rolled the dice so I kept covering the stakes. “Two to one he won’t shoot six with double threes…ten with double fives…’ The men’s eyes were ablaze. Every time one of them lifted his cup an eleven-year-old boy filled it with rum. I’d asked Jojo to let Miguel supply the rum and the cigars.

Very soon the game heated up to boiling-point. Without asking his permission, I changed Jojo’s tactics. I laid not only on him but also on the others, and that made him look sour. Lighting a cigar, he muttered angrily, ‘Stuff it, man. Don’t scatter the gumbo.’ By about four in the morning I had a pile of bolivars, cruzeiros, American and West Indian dollars, diamonds and even some little gold nuggets in front of me.

Jojo took the dice. He staked five hundred bolivars. I went in with a thousand.

And he threw the seven!

I left the lot, making two thousand bolivars. Jojo took out the five hundred he had won. And threw the seven again! Once more he pulled out his stake. And seven again!

‘What are you going to do, Enrique?’ asked Chino.

‘I leave the four thousand.’

‘Banco alone!’ I looked at the guy who had just spoken. A little thickset man, as black as boot-polish, his eyes bloodshot with drink. A Brazilian for sure.

‘Put down your four thousand bolos.’

‘This stone’s worth more.’ And he dropped a diamond on the blanket, just in front of him. He squatted there in his pink shorts, bare to the waist. The Chinese picked up the diamond, put it on his scales and said, ‘It’s only worth three and a half.’

‘OK for three and a half,’ said the Brazilian.

‘Shoot, Jojo.’

Jojo shot the dice, but the Brazilian grabbed them as they rolled. I wondered what was going to happen: he scarcely looked at the dice but spat on them and tossed them back to Jojo. ‘Shoot them like that, all wet,’ he said.

‘OK, Enrique?’ asked Jojo, looking at me.

‘If that’s the way you want it, hombre.’