Читать книгу Banco: The Further Adventures of Papillon - Анри Шарьер, Henri Charriere - Страница 8

A WEEK later, thanks to the letter that Prospéri, the Corsican grocer, wrote for me, I was taken on at the Mocupia mine. Here I was, looking after the working of the pumps that sucked up the water from the shafts.

The mine looked like a coal-pit: the same underground galleries. There were no veins of gold and very few nuggets. The gold was found in very hard rock: they blasted this rock with dynamite and then broke the oversized lumps with a sledge-hammer. The pieces were put into trucks, and the trucks came to the surface in lifts; then crushers reduced the rock to a powder finer than sand. This was mixed with water, making a liquid mud that was pumped up into huge tanks as big as the reservoirs in an oil-refinery: these tanks had cyanide in them. The gold dissolved into a liquid heavier than the rest and sank to the bottom. Under heat, the cyanide evaporated, carrying off the particles of gold; they solidified and were caught by filters very like combs as they went past. Then the gold was collected, melted into bars, carefully checked for 24-carat purity and put into a strictly guarded store. But who did the guarding? I still can’t get over it. Simon, no less, the hard guy who had made his break from penal with Big Chariot.

When my work was over, I went to gaze at the sight: I went to the store and stared at the huge pile of gold ingots neatly lined up by Simon, the ex-convict. Not even a strong-room: just a concrete store-house with walls no thicker than usual and a wooden door.

‘OK, Simon?’

‘OK. And what about you, Papi? Happy at Chariot’s?’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘I never knew you were in El Dorado. Otherwise I’d have come to get you out.’

‘That’s civil. Are you happy here?’

‘Well, you know, I have a house: it’s not as big as Charlot’s, but it’s made of bricks and mortar. I built it myself. And I’ve got a young wife, very sweet. And two little girls. Come and see me whenever you like – my house is yours. Chariot tells me your friend is sick: now my wife knows how to give injections, so if you need her don’t hesitate.’

We talked. He too was thoroughly happy. He too never spoke of France or Montmartre, though he had lived there. Just like Chariot. The past no longer existed; the only thing that mattered was the present – wife, children, the house. He told me he earned twenty bolivars a day. Fortunately their hens gave them eggs for their omelettes and the chickens were on the house; otherwise they wouldn’t have gone far on twenty bolivars, Simon and his brood.

I gazed at that mass of gold lying there, so carelessly stored behind a wooden door and these four walls only a foot thick. A door that two heaves on a jemmy would open without a sound. This heap of gold, at three bolivars fifty the gramme or thirty-five dollars the ounce, would easily tot up to three million five hundred thousand bolivars or a million dollars. And this unbelievable great fortune was within hand’s reach! Knocking it off would be almost child’s play.

‘Elegant, my neat pile of ingots? Eh, Papillon?’

‘It’d be more elegant still well salted away. Christ, what a fortune!’

‘Maybe: but it’s not ours. It’s holy, on account of they’ve entrusted it to me.’

‘Entrusted it to you, sure; but not to me. You must admit it’s tempting to see something like that just lying about.’

‘It’s not just lying about, because I’m looking after it.’

‘Maybe. But you aren’t here twenty-four hours out of the twenty-four.’

‘No. Only from six at night to six in the morning. But during the day there’s another guard: maybe you know him – Alexandre, of the forged postal orders.’

‘Oh yes, I know him. Well, be seeing you, Simon. Say hello to your family for me.’

‘You’ll come and see us?’

‘Sure. I’d like to. Ciao.’

I left quickly, as quickly as I could to get away from this scene of temptation. It was unbelievable! Anyone would say they were yearning to be robbed, the guys in charge of this mine. A store that could hardly hold itself upright and two one-time high-ranking crooks taking care of all that treasure! In all my life on the loose I’d never seen anything like it!

Slowly I walked up the winding path to the village. I had to go right through it to reach the headland with Chariot’s château on it. J dawdled; the eight-hour day had been tough. In the second gallery down there was precious little air, and even that was hot and wet, in spite of the ventilators. My pumps had stopped sucking three or four times and I had had to set them right away. It was half past eight now and I had gone down the mine at noon. I’d earned eighteen bolivars. If I had had a working-man’s mind, that wouldn’t have been so bad. Meat was 2-50 bolivars the kilo; sugar 0-70; coffee 2. Vegetables were not dear either: 0-50 for a kilo of rice and the same for dried beans. You could live cheaply, that was true. But did I have the sense to put up with that kind of life?

In spite of myself, as I climbed up the stony path, walking easily in the heavy nailed boots they had given me at the mine – in spite of myself, and although I did my best not to think about it, I kept seeing that million dollars in gold bars just calling out for some enterprising hand to grab it. At night, there wouldn’t be any difficulty in jumping on Simon and chloroforming him without being recognized. And then the whole thing was in the bag, because they carried their fecklessness to the point of leaving him the key of the store so he could take shelter if it rained. Criminal irresponsibility! All that would be left to do then was carry the two hundred ingots out of the mine and load them into something – a truck or a cart. I’d have to prepare several caches in the forest, all along the road, to salt the ingots away in little packets of a hundred kilos each. If it was a truck, then once it was unloaded I’d have to carry right on as far as possible, pick the deepest place in the river and toss it in. A cart? There were plenty in the village square. The horse? That would be harder to find, but not impossible. A night of very heavy rain between eight and six in the morning would give me all the time I needed for the job and it might even let me get back to the house and go to bed meek as a monk.

By the time I reached the lights of the village square, in my mind I had already brought it off, and was slipping into the sheets of Big Chariot’s bed.

‘Buenos noches, Francès,’ called a group of men sitting at the village bar.

‘Hello there, one and all. Good night, hombres.’

‘Come and join us for a while. Have an iced beer: we’d like you to.’

It would have been rude to refuse so I accepted. And here I was sitting among these good souls, most of them miners. They wanted to know whether I was all right, whether I’d found a woman, whether Conchita was looking after Picolino properly, and whether I needed money for medicine or anything else. These generous, spontaneous offers brought me back to earth. A gold-prospector said that if I didn’t care for the mine and if I only wanted to work when I felt like it I could go off with him. ‘It’s tough going, but you make more. And then there’s always the possibility you’ll be rich in a single day.’ I thanked them all and offered to stand a round.

‘No, Frenchman, you’re our guest. Another time, when you’re rich. God be with you.’

I went on towards the château. Yes, it would be easy enough to turn into a humble, honest man among all these people who lived on so little, who were happy with almost nothing, and who adopted a man without worrying where he came from or what he had been.

Conchita welcomed me back. She was alone. Chariot was at the mine – when I left for work so he came back. Conchita was full of fun and kindness: she gave me a pair of slippers to rest my feet after the heavy boots.

‘Your friend’s asleep. He ate well and I have sent off a letter asking for him to be taken into the hospital at Tumereno, a little town not far off, bigger than this.’

I thanked her and ate the hot meal that was waiting for me. This welcome, so homely, simple and happy, made me relax; it gave me the peace of mind I needed after the temptation of that ton of gold. The door opened.

‘Good evening, everybody.’ Two girls came into the room, just as if they were at home.

‘Good evening,’ said Conchita. ‘Here are two friends of mine, Papillon.’

One was dark, tall and slim; she was called Graciela, and was very much the gypsy type, her father being a Spaniard. The other girl’s name was Mercedes. Her grandfather was a German, which explained her fair skin and very fine blonde hair. Graciela had black Andalusian eyes with a touch of tropical fire; Mercedes’ were green and all at once I remembered Lali, the Goajira Indian. Lali…Lali and her sister Zoraïma: what had become of them? Might I not try to find them again, now I was back in Venezuela? It was 1945 now, and twelve years had gone by. That was a long, long time, but in spite of all those years I felt a pain in my heart when I remembered those two lovely creatures. Since those days they must have made themselves a fresh life with a man of their own race. No, honestly I had no right to disturb their new existence.

‘Your friends are terrific, Conchita! Thank you very much for introducing me to them.’

I gathered they were both free and neither had a fiancé. In such good company the evening went by in a flash. Conchita and I walked them back to the edge of the village, and it seemed to me they leant very heavily on my arms. On the way back Conchita told me both the girls liked me, the one as much as the other. ‘Which do you like best?’ she asked.

‘They are both charming, Conchita; but I don’t want any complications.’

‘You call making love “complications”? Love, it’s the same as eating and drinking. You think you can live without eating and drinking? When I don’t make love I feel really ill, although I’m already twenty-two. They are only sixteen and seventeen, so just think what it must be for them. If they don’t take pleasure in their bodies, they’ll die.’

‘And what about their parents?’

She told me, just as José had done, that here the girls of the ordinary people loved just to be loved. They gave themselves to the man they liked spontaneously, wholly, without asking anything in exchange apart from the thrill.

‘I understand you, poppet. I’m as willing as the next man to make love for love’s sake. Only you tell your friends that an affair with me doesn’t bind me in any way at all. Once warned, it’s another matter.’

Dear Lord above! It wasn’t going to be easy to get away from an atmosphere like this. Chariot, Simon, Alexandre and no doubt a good many others had been positively bewitched. I saw why they were so thoroughly happy among these cheerful people, so different from ours. I went to bed.

‘Get up, Papi! It’s ten o’clock. And there’s someone to see you.’

‘Good morning, Monsieur.’ A greying man of about fifty; no hat; candid eyes; bushy eyebrows. He held out his hand. ‘I’m Dr Bougrat.^* I came because they told me one of you is sick. I’ve had a look at your friend. Nothing to be done unless he goes into hospital at Caracas. And it’ll be a tough job to cure him.’

‘You’ll take pot-luck with us, Doctor?’ said Chariot.

‘I’d like to. Thanks.’

Pastis was poured out, and as he drank Bougrat said to me, ‘Well, Papillon, and how are you getting along?’

‘Why, Doctor, I’m taking my first steps in life. I feel as if I’d just been born. Or rather as if I’d lost my way like a boy. I can’t make out the road I ought to follow.’

‘The road’s clear enough. Look around and you’ll see. Apart from one or two exceptions all our old companions have gone straight. I’ve been in Venezuela since 1928. Not one of the convicts I’ve known has committed a crime since being in this country. They are almost all married, with children, and they live honestly, accepted by the community. They’ve forgotten the past so completely that some of them couldn’t tell you the details of the job that sent them down. It’s all very vague, far away, buried in a misty past that doesn’t matter.’

‘Maybe it’s different for me, Doctor. I have a pretty long bill to present to the people who sent me down against all justice – thirteen years of struggle and suffering. To see the bill is paid, I have to go back to France; and for that I need a lot of money. It’s not by working as a labourer that I’m going to save up enough for the voyage out and back – if there is any return – quite apart from what my plan will cost. And then the thought of ending my days in one of these God-forsaken holes…I like the idea of Caracas.’

‘And do you think you’re the only one of us with an account to settle? Just you listen to the story of a boy I know. Georges Dubois is his name. A kid from the slums of La Villette – alcoholic father, often inside with delirium tremens, the mother with six children: she was so poor she went around the North African bars looking for customers. Jojo, they called him; and he’d been going from one reformatory to the next since he was eight. He started with the crime of knocking off fruit outside shops – did it several times. First a few terms in the Abbé Rollet’s homes, then, when he was twelve, a tough stretch in a really hard reformatory. I don’t have to tell you that the fourteen-year-old Jojo, surrounded by young fellows of eighteen, had to look out for his arse. He was a weakly kid, so there was only one way of defending himself – a knife. One of these perverted little thugs got a stab in the belly, and the authorities sent Jojo to Esse – the toughest reformatory of the lot, the one for hopeless cases – until the age of twenty-one. Then they gave him his marching orders for the African disciplinary battalions, because with a past like his, he was not allowed into the ordinary army. They handed him the few francs he had earned and farewell, adieu! The trouble was that this boy had a heart. Maybe it hardened, but it still had some sensitive corners. At the station he saw a train destined for Paris. It was as if a spring had been triggered off inside him. He jumped in double quick, and there he was in Paris. It was raining when he walked out of the station. He stood under a shelter, working out how he would get to La Villette. Under this same shelter there was a girl; she too was keeping out of the rain. She gave him a pleasant sort of a look. All he knew about women was the chief warder’s fat wife at Esse and what the bigger boys at the reformatory had told him – more or less true. No one had ever looked at him like this girl: they began to talk.

‘“Where do you come from?”'

‘“The country.”'

‘“I like you, boy. Why don’t we go to a hotel? I’ll be nice to you and we’ll be in the warm.”'

‘Jojo was all stirred up. To him this chick seemed something wonderful – and what’s more her gentle hand touched his. Discovering love was a fantastic, shattering experience for him. The girl was young and very amorous. When they had made love until they could no more, they sat on the bed to smoke, and the chick said to him, “Is this the first time you’ve been to bed with a girl?”

‘“Yes,” he confessed.

‘“Why did you wait so long?”

‘“I was in a reformatory.”

‘“A long time?”

‘“Very long.”

‘“I was in one too. I escaped.”

‘“How old are you?” asked Jojo.

‘“Sixteen.”

‘“Where are you from?”

‘“La Villette.”

‘“What street?”

‘“Rue de Rouen.”

‘So was Jojo. He was afraid to understand. “What’s your name?” he cried.

‘“Ginette Dubois.”

‘It was his sister. They were completely overwhelmed and they both began to cry with shame and wretchedness. Then each told the road they had travelled. Ginette and her other sisters had had the same kind of life as Jojo – homes and reformatories. Their mother had just come out of a sanatorium. The eldest sister was working in a brothel for North Africans in La Villette – sweated labour. They decided to go and see her.

‘They had scarcely left the hotel before a pig in uniform called out to the chick. “Now you little tart, didn’t I tell you not to come soliciting on my beat?” And he came towards them. “This time I’ll run you in, you dirty little whore.”

‘It was too much for Jojo. After everything that had just happened, he no longer really knew what he was doing. He brought out a many-bladed pocket-knife he had bought for the army and shoved it into the pig’s chest. He was arrested and twelve “qualified” jurymen condemned him to death: he was reprieved by the President of the Republic and sent to the penal settlement.

‘Well now, Papillon, he escaped and at present he’s living at Cumana, a fair-sized port. He’s a shoemaker, he’s married, and he has nine children, all well cared for and all going to school. Indeed, one of the elder children has been at the university this last year. Every time I’m in Cumana I go and see them. That’s a pretty good example, eh? Yet believe you me, he too had a long bill to present to society. You’re no exception, Papillon, you see. Plenty of us have reasons for revenge. But as far as I know, not one of us has left this country to take it. I trust you, Papillon. Since you like the idea of Caracas, go there: but I hope you’ll have the sense to live the city life without falling into any of its traps.’

Bougrat left very late that afternoon. My ideas were in a turmoil by having seen him. Why had he made such an impression on me? Easy to see why. During these first days of freedom I had met convicts who were happy and readjusted; but even so, there was nothing extraordinary about the lives they led. It was more a prudent, very small-time kind of living. Their position was way down – workmen or peasants. Bougrat was different. For the first time I had seen an ex-con who was now a monsieur, a gentleman. That was what had made my heart thump. Would I be a monsieur too? Could I become one? For him, as a doctor, it had been comparatively easy. It would be harder for me, maybe; but even if I didn’t yet know how to set about it, I was sure that one day I was going to be a monsieur too.

Sitting on my bench at the bottom of the second gallery I watched my pumps: today they had run without a hitch. Keeping time with the engine I repeated Bougrat’s words, ‘I trust you, Papillon! Watch out for the pitfalls of the city.’ There must be some, for sure; and it wouldn’t be so easy to change my outlook either. I had had proof of that: only yesterday the sight of the gold store-house had knocked me absolutely flat. I had been out only a fortnight, and already, as I climbed up the path, dazzled by that fortune within hand’s reach, I was working out the details of how to get hold of it. And I’d certainly not yet completely made up my mind to leave those ingots lying there in peace.

The thoughts ran pell-mell through my head. ‘Papillon, I trust you.’ But could I put up with living like my companions? I didn’t think so. After all, there were plenty of other ways of getting enough money honestly. I was not forced to accept a life that was too small for me. I could carry on as an adventurer – I could prospect for gold or diamonds, vanish into the bush and come out some day with enough to set me up in the kind of position I was after.

It wouldn’t be easy to give up running risks and taking chances. But I thought, in spite of the temptation of that heap of gold, you mustn’t do it; you can’t do it; you haven’t the right to do it. A million dollars…You get that, Papi? Especially, since the job’s already in the bag. You don’t even have to work it out – it can’t miss. Tempting, by God, tempting. Lord above, they had no right to shove a mountain of gold right under a crook’s nose and then say to him ‘You mustn’t touch.’ The tenth part of that gold would be enough for me to carry out everything, revenge included – to carry out everything I’d dreamt of during those thousands of hours when I was buried alive.

At eight o’clock the hoist brought me up to the surface. I took the long way round so as not to go by the store-house. The less I saw of it, the better. I passed quickly through the village, greeting people and saying sorry to the ones who wanted me to stop – I was in a hurry; and I climbed fast to the house. Conchita was waiting for me, as black and cheerful as ever.

‘Well, Papillon, and how are you doing? Chariot told me to pour you out a stiff pastis before dinner. He said you looked as though you had problems. What’s wrong, Papi? You can tell me, your friend’s wife. Would you like me to fetch Graciela for you, or maybe Mercedes if you like her better? Don’t you think that would be a good idea?’

‘Conchita, you’re my little black pearl of El Callao, you’re wonderful, and I see why Chariot worships you. Maybe you’re right: maybe to set me up I need a girl beside me.’

‘That’s for sure. Unless it’s Chariot who was right.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, there was me saying that what you needed was to love and be loved. And he told me to hold on before I put a girl in your bed – perhaps it was something else.’

‘How do you mean, something else?’

She hesitated for a moment and then all at once she said, ‘I don’t care if you do tell Chariot; but he’ll box my ears.’

‘I shan’t tell him anything. I promise.’

‘Well, Chariot says you aren’t built for the same kind of life as he and the other Frenchmen here.’

‘What else? Come on, Conchita; tell me the lot.’

‘And he said you must be thinking that there’s too much useless gold lying about at the mine and that you’d find something better to do with it. There! And he went on that you aren’t a type that can live without spending a lot; and that you had a revenge you couldn’t give up and for that you wanted a great deal of money.’

I looked her straight in the eye. ‘Well, Conchita, your Char-lot got it wrong, wrong, wrong. You’re the one who was right. As for my future – no problem at all. You guessed it: what I want is a woman to love. I didn’t like to say so, on account of I’m rather shy.’

‘That I don’t believe, Papillon.’

‘OK. Go and fetch the blonde, and just you see if I’m not happy when I have a girl of my own.’

‘I’m on my way,’ she said, going into the bedroom to change her dress. ‘Oh that Mercedes, how happy she will be!’ she called. Before she had time to come back there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ said Conchita. The door opened and there was Maria, looking a trifle confused.

‘You, Maria, at this time of night? What a marvellous surprise ! Conchita, this is Maria, the girl who took me in when Picolino and I first landed up in El Callao.’

‘Let me kiss you,’ said Conchita. ‘You’re as pretty as Papillon said you were.’

‘Who’s Papillon?’

‘That’s me. Enrique or Papillon, it’s all one. Sit down by me on the divan and tell me everything.’

Conchita gave a knowing laugh. ‘I don’t think it’s worth my while going out now,’ she said.

Maria stayed all night. As a lover she was shy, but she reacted to the slightest caress. I was her first man. Now she was sleeping. The two candles I had lit instead of the raw electric light were guttering. Their faint glow showed the beauty of her young body even better, and her breasts still marked by our embrace. Gently I got up to make myself some coffee and to see what time it was. Four o’clock. I knocked over a saucepan and woke Conchita. She came out of her room wearing a dressing-gown.

‘You want some coffee?’

‘Yes.’

‘Only for you, I’m sure. Because she must be sleeping with those angels you’ve introduced her to.’

‘You know all about it, Conchita.’

‘My people have fire in their veins. You must have noticed it tonight. Maria has one touch of Negro, two touches of Indian and the rest Spanish. If you’re not happy with a mixture like that, go and hang yourself,’ she said, laughing.

The splendid sun was high in the sky when it saw Maria wake up. I brought her coffee in bed. There was a question already on my lips. ‘Aren’t they going to worry, not finding you at home?’

‘My sisters knew I was coming here, so my father must have known an hour later. You aren’t going to send me away today?’

‘No, sweetie. I told you I didn’t want to set up house, but between that and sending you away is a long chalk, if you can stay without any trouble. Stay as long as you like.’

It was close on twelve and I had to leave for the mine. Maria decided to go home, hitching a lift in a truck, and to come back in the evening.

Hey there,’ said Chariot. He was standing in the door of his room, wearing pyjamas; and he spoke to me in French. ‘So you’ve found the chick you needed all by yourself. A luscious piece, too: I congratulate you, cock.’ He added that as it was Sunday tomorrow we might drink to the marriage.

‘Maria, tell your father and sisters to come and spend Sunday with us to celebrate this. And you come back whenever you like – the house is yours. Have a good day, Papi; watch out for the number three pump. And when you quit work, you don’t have to drop in on Simon. If you don’t see the stuff he is looking after so badly, you’ll feel it less.’

‘You dirty old crook No, I shan’t go and see Simon. Don’t you worry, mate. Ciao.’

Maria and I walked through the village arm in arm, tight together, to show the girls she was my woman.

The pumps ran sweetly, even number three. But neither the hot, wet air nor the beat of the motor stopped me thinking about Chariot. He had grasped why I was so thoughtful, all right. It hadn’t taken long for him, an old crook, to see that the heap of gold was at the bottom of it all. Nor for Simon either: and Simon must certainly have told him about our conversation. Those were the sort of friends a man should have – real friends, aglow with joy because I’d got myself a woman. They were hoping that this black-haired godsend would make me forget the blazing heap of loot.

I turned all this over and over in my head, and in time I began to see the position more clearly. These good guys were now as straight as so many rulers; they were leading blameless lives. But in spite of living like squares they had not lost the underworld outlook and they were utterly incapable of tipping off the police about anyone whatsoever, even if they guessed what he was up to and they knew for sure it would mean bad trouble for them. The two who would be taken in straight away if the thing came off were Simon and Alexandre, the men who guarded the treasure. Chariot would come in for his share of the wasps’ nest too, because every single one of the ex-convicts would be trundled off to jail. And then farewell peace and quiet, farewell house, kitchen-garden, wife, kids, hens, goats and pigs. So I began to see how these former crooks must have quaked not for themselves but for their homes, when they thought how my caper was going to ruin everything. ‘How I hope he doesn’t go and bugger it all,’ they must have said. I could see them holding a council of war.

I had made up my mind. I’d go and see Simon that evening and ask him and his family to the party tomorrow, and I’d tell him to invite Alexandre too if he could come. I must make them all think that for me having a girl like Maria was the finest thing in the world.

The hoist brought me up to the open air. I met Chariot on his way down and I said to him, ‘The party’s still on, mate?’

‘Of course it is, Papillon. More than ever.’

‘I’m going to ask Simon and his family. And Alexandre too, if he can come.’

Old Chariot was a deep one. He looked me straight in the eye and then in a rather flip tone he said, ‘Why, that’s a sweet idea, my friend.’ Without another word he stepped into the hoist, and it took him down to where I had just come from. I went round by the store and found Simon.

‘OK, Simon?’

‘Fine.’

‘I’ve dropped in to say hello, in the first place, and then to ask you to lunch with us on Sunday. Bring your family, of course.’

‘That’ll be great. What’s the party for? Your being let out?’

‘No, my marriage. I’ve found a girl. Maria from El Callao, José’s daughter.’

‘Congratulations, with all my heart. I truly hope you’ll be happy, mate, upon my oath I do.’ He shook my hand good and hard and I left him. Halfway down the path I found Maria coming to meet me and, arms round each other’s waists, we went up to the château. Her father and sisters would be there around ten tomorrow morning to help get the food ready.

‘So much the better, because there are going to be more of us than we had reckoned on. And what did your father say?’

‘He said, “Be happy, daughter, but don’t you kid yourself about the future. I only have to look at a man to know what he’s like. The man you’ve chosen is a good one, but he won’t stay here. He’s not the sort to put up with a simple life like ours.”’

‘What did you say to that?’

‘I said I’d do everything to keep you as long as ever I could.’

‘Come and let me kiss you: you’ve got a lovely heart, Maria. Let’s live in the present: the future can look after itself.’

Having eaten something we went to bed; we should have to be up early the next day to help Conchita kill the rabbits, make the big cake, fetch the wine, etc. This night was even more splendid and passionate and enchanting than the first. Maria really had fire in her veins. Straight away she learnt to call up and increase the pleasure she had been taught. We made love long and hard until we fell fast asleep wrapped tight together.

The next day was Sunday, and the party was a marvellous success. José congratulated us on loving one another and Maria’s sisters whispered questions in her ear – full of curiosity. Simon and his fine family were there. And Alexandre too, since he had been able to find someone to fill in for him guarding the treasure. He had a charming wife, and a well-dressed little boy and girl came with them. The rabbits were delicious, and the huge cake, shaped like a heart, lasted no time at all. We even danced to the radio and the gramophone, and an old convict played the accordion.

After a good many liqueurs I set about my old crooks in French. ‘Well, and what have you guys been thinking? Did you really believe I was going to pull something off?’

‘Yes, mate,’ said Chariot. ‘We shouldn’t have said a word if you hadn’t brought it up yourself. But it’s dead certain you had the notion of knocking off that ton of gold, right? Give the straight answer, Papillon.’

‘You know I’ve been chewing over my revenge these thirteen years. Multiply thirteen years by three hundred and sixty-five days and then by twenty-four hours and each hour by sixty minutes and you still won’t have the number of times I’ve sworn to make them pay for what I went through. So when I saw that heap of gold in such a place, why true enough, I did think of working out a job.’

‘What then?’ said Simon.

‘Then I looked at the position from every side and I was ashamed. I was running the risk of destroying the happiness of you all. I came to see that this happiness of yours – a happiness I hope to have myself one day – was worth much more than being rich. So the temptation of knocking off the gold quite disappeared. You can take it for a certainty, and I give you my word: I shan’t do anything here.’

‘There you are, then,’ said Chariot, grinning all over his face. ‘So now we can sleep easy. It’s not one of our crooks that would ever give way to temptation. Long live Papillon! Long live Maria! Long live love and freedom! And long live decency ! Hard guys we were, hard guys we are still, but only towards the pigs. Now we’re all of the same mind, including Papillon.’

Six months I’d been here. Chariot was right. On the day of the party I had won the first battle against my longing to pull something off. I had been drifting away from the ‘road down the drain’ ever since I had escaped. Now thanks to my friends’ example I had gained an important victory over myself: I had given up the idea of grabbing that million dollars. One thing was sure: for the future it would not be easy for any job to tempt me. Once I’d given up a fortune like that, it would be very hard for anything else to make me change my ideas. Yet I wasn’t entirely at peace with myself. I had to make my money some other way than stealing it, fair enough; but still I had to get enough together to be able to go to Paris and hand in my bill. And that was going to cost me a packet.

Boom-bom, boom-bom, boom-bom: all the time my pumps sucked up the water that flowed into the galleries. It was hotter than ever. Every day I spent eight hours down there in the bowels of the mine. At this time I was on duty from four in the morning until noon. When I knocked off I’d have to go to Maria’s house in El Callao. Picolino had been there this last month, because in El Callao the doctor could see him every day. He was being given a course of treatment and Maria and her sisters looked after him wonderfully. So I was going to see him and to make love to Maria: it was a week since I’d seen her, and I wanted her, physically and mentally.

I found a lorry that gave me a lift. The rain was pouring down when I opened the door at about one o’clock. They were all sitting round the table, apart from Maria, who seemed to be waiting near the door. “Why didn’t you come before? A week’s a long, long time. You’re all wet. Come and change right away.’

She pulled me into the bedroom, took my clothes off and dried me with a big towel. ‘Lie down on the bed,’ she said. And there we made love, not minding about the others who were waiting for us the other side of the door, nor about their impatience. We dropped off to sleep, and it was Esmeralda, the green-eyed sister, who gently woke us up late that afternoon, when night was already coming on.

When we had all had dinner together, José the Pirate suggested going for a stroll.

“Enrique, you wrote to the chief administrator asking him to get Caracas to put an end to your confinamiento [compulsory residence]: is that right?’

‘Yes, José.’

‘He’s had the reply from Caracas.’

‘Good or bad?’

‘Good. Your confinamiento is over.’

‘Does Maria know?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did she say?’

‘That you’d always said you wouldn’t stay in El Callao.’ After a short pause he asked me, ‘When do you think you’ll leave?’

Although I was bowled over by this news, I thought and then answered straight away, ‘Tomorrow. The truck-driver who brought me said he was going on to Ciudad Bolivar tomorrow.’ José bowed his head. ‘Amigo mio, are you sore at me?’

‘No, Enrique. You’ve always said you’d never stay. But it’s sad for Maria – and for me, too.’

‘I’ll go and talk to the driver if I can find him.’

I did find him: we were to leave tomorrow at nine. As he already had one passenger, Picolino would travel in the cab and myself on the empty iron barrels behind. I hurried to the chief administrator; he handed over my papers and, like the good man he was, he gave me some advice: and he wished me good luck. Then I went round seeing everybody who had given me their friendship and their help.

First to Caratal, where I picked up the few things I possessed. Chariot and I embraced one another, deeply moved. His black girl wept. I thanked them both for their wonderful hospitality.

‘It’s nothing, mate. You would have done the same for me. Good luck. And if you go to Paris, say hello to Montmartre from me.’

‘I’ll write.’

Then the ex-cons, Simon, Alexandre, Marcel, André. I hurried back to El Callao and there I said good-bye to all the miners and the gold- and diamond-prospectors and my workmates. All of them, men and women, said something from the heart to wish me good luck. It touched me a great deal and I saw even more clearly that if I had set up with Maria I should have been like Chariot and the others – I should never have been able to tear myself away from this paradise.

The hardest of all my farewells was to Maria. Our last night, a mixture of love and tears, was more violent than anything we had ever known. Even our caresses broke our hearts. The horrible thing was that I had to make her understand there would be no hope of my coming back. Who could tell what my fate would be when I carried out my plans?

A shaft of sunlight woke me. My watch said eight o’clock already. I hadn’t the heart to stay in the big room, not even the few moments for a cup of coffee. Picolino was sitting in a chair, tears running down his face. Esmeralda had washed and dressed him. I looked for Maria’s sisters, but I couldn’t find them. They’d hidden so as not to see me go. There was only José standing there in the doorway. He grasped me in the Venezuelan abrazo (one hand holds yours and the other is round your shoulders), as moved as I was myself. I couldn’t speak, and he said only this one thing: ‘Don’t forget us; we’ll never, never forget you. Goodbye: God go with you.’

With all his clean things carefully made up into a bundle, Picolino wept bitterly, and his movements and the hoarse sounds he uttered conveyed his wretchedness at not being able to bring out the millions of thanks he had in his heart. I led him away.

Carrying our baggage, we reached the driver’s place. A splendid exit from the town, all right: his truck had broken down; no leaving today. We had to wait for a new carburettor. There was no way out of it – I returned to Maria’s with Picolino. You can imagine the shrieks when they saw us coming back.

‘God was kind to have broken the truck, Enrique! Leave Picolino here and walk around the village while I get the meal ready. It’s an odd thing,’ Maria added, ‘but it could be you’re not fated to go to Caracas.’

While I was strolling about I thought over this remark of Maria’s. It worried me. I did not know Caracas, a big city, but people had talked about it and I could imagine what it was like. The idea certainly attracted me; but once I was there, what should I do, and how could I do it?

I walked slowly across the square of El Callao with my hands behind my back. The sun was blazing down. I went over to an almendron, a huge, very leafy tree, to shelter from the furious heat. Under the shade there stood two mules, and a little old man was loading them. I noticed the diamond-prospector’s sieve and the gold-prospector’s trough, a kind of Chinese hat they use to wash the gold-bearing mud in. As I gazed at these things – they were still new to me – I went on pondering. In front of me there was this biblical picture of a quiet, peaceful life with no sounds apart from those of nature and the patriarchal way of living; and I thought of what it must be like at that very moment in Caracas, the busy, teeming capital that drew me on. All the descriptions I had heard turned into exact images. After all, it was fourteen years since I had seen a big town! Since I could now do as I liked, there was no doubt about it – I was going to get there, and as quick as I could.