Banco: The Further Adventures of Papillon

‘Forget all that, hombre. As quick as you can forget everything you suffered in the French prisons and here in El Dorado. Forget it, because if you think about it too much you’ll be forced to feel ill-will towards other men and maybe even hate them. Only forgetting will let you love them again and live among them. Marry as soon as ever you can. The women in this country are hot-blooded, and the love of the woman you choose will give you happiness and children, and help you forget whatever you have suffered in the past.’

The truck arrived. I thanked these kind, good people and went out, holding Picolino by the arm. There were about ten passengers sitting on benches in the back of the truck. In their kindness these humble people left us the best seats, next to the driver.

As we lurched wildly along the bumpy, pot-holed track, I thought about this strange Venezuelan nation. Neither the fishermen of the Gulf of Paria, nor the ordinary soldiers of El Dorado, nor the humble working-man who talked to me in that thatched mud hut had had any education. They could hardly read and write. So how did they come to have that sense of Christian charity and nobility of heart that forgives men who have done wrong? How did they manage to find just the right encouraging words, helping the ex-convict with their advice and what little they possessed? How did it come about that the heads of the penal settlement of El Dorado, both the officers and the governor – educated men, those – had the same ideas as the simple people, the idea of giving the man who is down his chance, whoever he is and however bad the thing he’s done? Those were not qualities that could ever come from Europeans: so the Venezuelans must have got them from the Indians.

Here we are in El Callao. A big square: music. Of course: it is 5th July, the national holiday. People dressed in their best clothes, the motley crowd of tropical countries where all sorts of colours are mixed – black, yellow, white, and the copper of the Indians, whose race always comes out in the slightly slanting eyes and the lighter skin. Picolino and I got out, as well as some passengers from the back of the truck. One of them, a girl, came up to me and said, ‘Don’t pay: that has been looked after.’ The driver wished us good luck and the truck set off again. With my little bundle in one hand and Picolino holding the other with the three fingers he had left, I stood there wondering what to do. I had some English pounds from the West Indies and a few hundred bolivars (one bolivar is worth about ten new pence) given me by my mathematical pupils at the penal settlement. And a few raw diamonds found among the tomatoes in the kitchen-garden I had made.

The girl who had told us not to pay asked me where we were going and I told her my idea was to find a little boarding-house.

‘Come to my place first: then you can look around.’

We crossed the square with her and in a couple of hundred yards we reached an unpaved street lined with low houses; they were all made of baked clay, and their roofs were thatch or corrugated iron. At one of them we stopped.

‘Walk in. This house is yours,’ said the girl. She must have been about eighteen.

She made us go in first. A clean room with a floor of pounded earth; a round table; a few chairs; a man of about forty, medium height, smooth black hair, the same colour as his daughter’s; Indian eyes. And three girls of about fourteen, fifteen and sixteen.

‘My father and my sisters,’ she said, ‘here are some strangers I have brought home. They’ve come from the El Dorado prison and they don’t know where to go. I ask you to take them in.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said the father. And he repeated the ritual words, ‘This house is yours. Sit down here, round the table. Are you hungry? Would you like coffee or rum?’

I didn’t want to offend him by refusing so I said I’d like some coffee. The house was clean, but I could see from the simple furniture that they were poor.

‘My daughter Maria, who brought you here, is the eldest. She takes the place of her mother, who left us five years ago with a gold-prospector. I’d sooner tell you that myself, before you hear it from someone else.’

Maria poured coffee for us. Now I could look at her more closely, seeing she had come to sit down next to her father, right opposite me. The three sisters stood behind her. They looked closely at me, too. Maria was a girl of the tropics, with big black almond-shaped eyes. Her jet-black curling hair, parted in the middle, came down to her shoulders. She had fine features, and although you could make out the drop of Indian blood from the colour of her skin, there was nothing Mongolian about her face. She had a sensuous mouth: splendid teeth. Every now and then she showed the tip of a very pink tongue. She was wearing a white, flowered, wide-open blouse that showed her shoulders and the beginning of her breasts, hidden by a brassière that could be seen under the blouse. This blouse, a little black skirt and flat-heeled shoes were what she had put on for the holiday – her best. Her lips were bright red, and two pencilled lines at the corners of her huge eyes made them seem even larger.

‘This is Esmeralda [Emerald],’ she said, introducing her youngest sister. ‘We call her that because of her green eyes. This is Conchita; and the other is Rosita, because she looks like a rose. She is much lighter coloured than the rest of us and she blushes at the least thing. Now you know the whole family. My father’s name is José. The five of us are the same as one, because our hearts beat all together. And what’s your name?’

‘Enrique.’ [Henri: in Spanish they say Enrique.]

‘Were you in prison long?’

‘Thirteen years.’

‘Poor thing. How you must have suffered.’

‘Yes: a great deal.’

‘Papa, what do you think Enrique can do here?’

‘I don’t know. Do you have a trade?’

‘No.’

‘Well then, go to the gold-mine. They’ll give you a job.’

‘And what about you, José? What do you do?’

‘Me? Nothing. I don’t work – they pay you very little.’

Well, well, well. They were poor, sure enough; yet they were quite well dressed. Still, I couldn’t very well ask him what he used for money – whether he stole instead of working. Wait and see, I said to myself.

‘Enrique, you’ll sleep here tonight.’ said Maria. ‘There’s a room where my father’s brother used to sleep. He’s gone, so you can have his place. We’ll look after the sick man while you go to work. Don’t thank us; we’re giving you nothing – the room’s empty in any case.’

I didn’t know what to say. I let them take my little bundle. Maria got up and the other girls followed her. She had been lying: the room was in use, because they brought out women’s things and put them somewhere else. I pretended not to notice anything. No bed, but something better, something you see most of the time in the tropics – two fine wool hammocks. A big window with just shutters – no glass – opening on to a garden full of banana palms.

As I swung there in the hammock I could hardly believe what had happened to me. How easy this first day of freedom had been! Too easy. I had a free room and four sweet girls to look after Picolino. Why was I letting myself be led by the hand like a child? I was at the world’s end, to be sure; but I think the real reason why I let myself be managed was because I had been a prisoner so long that obeying was the only thing I understood. Yet now I was free and I ought to make my own decisions; but still I was letting myself be led. Just like a bird when you open the door of its cage and it doesn’t know how to fly any more. It has to learn all over again.

I went to sleep without thinking about the past, exactly as the humble man of El Dorado had advised me. Just one thought before I dropped off: these people’s hospitality was something staggering and wonderful.

I had just breakfasted off two fried eggs, two fried bananas covered with margarine and black bread. Maria was in the bedroom, washing Picolino. A man appeared in the doorway: a machête in his belt.

‘Gentes de paz,’ said he. Men of peace, which is their way of saying I’m a friend.

‘What do you want?’ asked José, who had had breakfast with me.

‘The chief of police wants to see the men from Cayenne.’

‘You don’t want to call them that. Call them by their names.’

‘OK, José. What are their names?’

‘Enrique and Picolino.’

‘Señor Enrique, come with me. I am a policeman, sent by the chief.’

‘What do they want with him?’ asked Maria, coming out of the bedroom. ‘I’ll come too. Wait while I dress.’

In a few minutes she was ready. As soon as we were in the street she took my arm. I looked at her, surprised, and she smiled at me. We soon reached the little administrative building. More police, all in plain clothes apart from two in uniform with machêtes hanging from their belts. In a room full of rifles, a black man with a gold-braided cap. He said to me, ‘You’re the Frenchman?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where’s the other?’

‘He’s sick,’ said Maria.

‘I command the police. I’m here to be useful and to help you if you need it. My name’s Alfonso.’ And he held out his hand.

‘Thanks. Mine’s Enrique.’

‘Enrique, the chief administrator wants to see you. You can’t go in, Maria,’ he added, seeing she was about to follow me. I went into the next room.

‘Good morning, Frenchman. I am the chief administrator. Sit down. Since you’re in compulsory residence here in El Callao I sent for you so that I could get to know you: because I’m responsible for you.’ He asked me what I was going to do – where I wanted to work. We talked a while and then he said to me, ‘If there’s anything at all, come and see me. I’ll help you work out as good a life as we can manage.’

Thank you very much.’

‘Oh, there’s one thing. I must warn you that you’re living with very good, honest girls; but their father, José – he’s a pirate. Be seeing you.’