Papillon

  “Do you remember Marseilles, Titin?”

  “What do you mean, do I remember Marseilles? I remember it very well. The Place de la Bourse, with the pimps and thieves …”

  “Do you remember any of their names? L’Ange? Le Lucre? Le Gravat? Clement?”

  “No, I don’t remember any names. I only remember the fucking cabby that took me to the hospital with my sick friend and told me I was the reason he was sick. That’s all.”

  “Your friends?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Poor Titin. I gave him the butt of my cigar and got up, feeling an immense pity for this poor bastard who was dying like an animal. Yes, it was dangerous to live with lunatics, but what could I do? It was the only way I could see to make a cavale without risking another sentence.

  Salvidia was almost ready. He had two of the keys and needed only the one for my cell. He had also found a stout rope and had made another with strips of hammock which he braided together, five strands thick. That part of our cavale was looking good.

  I was in a hurry to start the action. It was too hard keeping up this game and, to stay in my section of the asylum, I had to put on an occasional performance.

  I brought off one that was such a success the orderlies put me in a hot bath with two injections of bromide. The bath was covered with a very strong canvas to keep me from getting out. Only my head poked through a hole. I’d been in it for about two hours when Ivanhoe came in. The look he gave me was terrifying. I was sure he was going to strangle me, and I had no way of defending myself with my arms inside the canvas.

  He came nearer, his big eyes scrutinizing me as if he were trying to place the head sticking out of the strange contraption. The stink of his breath engulfed me. I wanted to cry for help, but I was afraid that would only enrage him. I closed my eyes and waited, convinced he was about to strangle me with his giant hands. It will be a long time before I forget those few seconds of terror. Finally he moved away toward the faucets. He turned off the cold water and opened wide the hot. I screamed. I was being literally scalded to death. Then Ivanhoe left. The room was full of steam. I was choking and making superhuman efforts to tear my way out of the death-dealing canvas. Finally the guards came to my rescue. They had seen the steam rolling out of the window and came to pull me out of the cauldron. I was seriously burned and suffered like the damned, especially around the genitals, where the skin had been literally boiled away. They basted me with picric acid and put me to bed in the small infirmary in the asylum. The doctor gave me some injections of morphine which got me through the next twenty-four hours. When he asked me what had happened, I said a volcano had erupted in the bathtub. Nobody was able to figure out what had really happened. The infirmary guard accused the man who had prepared the bath of not properly regulating the flow of water.

  Salvidia just left, having smeared me with picric ointment. He was ready, and he remarked that it was a lucky thing I was in the infirmary because, if the cavale was a bust, we could return to this part of the asylum without being seen. He had just made a print of the infirmary key on a piece of soap and he’d have it by tomorrow. It was up to me to let him know when I was sufficiently healed; then we’d take advantage of the first watch by one of the guards who slept through his tour.

  It was to be tonight, during the one-to-five watch. Salvidia was off duty. To save time, he was going to empty the vinegar barrel about eleven. The oil barrel we’d leave full because the sea was very rough and the oil might help calm the water as we put out to sea.

  I had some pants made of flour sacks, a wool sweater and a good knife in my belt. I also carried a waterproof bag around my neck containing cigarettes and a tinderbox. Salvidia had filled a waterproof musette bag with tapioca flour saturated with oil and sugar. He had about six pounds of it.

  It was late. I sat on the bed waiting for my buddy, my heart thumping in my chest. In a few moments the cavale would begin. If only luck and the good Lord would be with us so that I could leave this hell forever!

  As the door opened, in spite of myself, I saw Matthieu looming out of the darkness, held high by the sharks.

  “Papi, let’s go!” I followed. He quickly closed the door and hid the key in the corner of the corridor. “Quick! Get moving!” We reached the storeroom; the door was open. The empty barrel was a cinch. He wrapped the rope around his shoulder and I did the same with the wire. I took the bag of flour and started to roll my barrel through the inky night toward the sea. Salvidia followed with the oil barrel. Luckily he was very strong so he was able to brake the heavy barrel as it rolled down the almost vertical drop.

  “Watch it, watch it. Make sure it doesn’t pick up speed.” I waited in case he had to let go of his barrel so I could stop it with mine. I made the descent backward, me in front, the barrel behind. We got to the bottom without difficulty. There was a narrow access to the sea; the rest was rocks and impossible to get through.

  “Empty the barrel. You’ll never get it over the rocks full.” The wind was howling and the waves were crashing against the rocks. It was done; the barrel was empty. “Push the stopper in hard. Wait, put this metal cap on too.” The holes were made. “Hammer the nails in deep.” The noise of the wind and waves muffled the sound of the hammer.

  Tightly joined, the two barrels were hard to lift over the rocks. Each alone held over fifty gallons. The place my friend had picked for the launching didn’t make things easier. “Push, for Christ’s sake! Lift it up a little. Look out for that wave!” It picked us both up and, together with the barrels, we were pushed back violently against the rocks. “Look out! Look out!” Salvidia yelled.

  “Calm down, pal. Either get out on the water side or come back behind. There, you’re in a good spot now. When I yell, pull toward you. I’ll push at the same time and we’ll be free of the rocks. But we have to hold it for a minute even if a wave hits.”

  As I was shouting orders to Salvidia through the din of the wind and waves, a huge wave covered us completely—the barrels, him and me. Then, with furious energy, I pushed the raft forward, he pulled, and with one heave we were free. He was up on the barrel before me, and at the moment I was hoisting myself up, an enormous wave rolled under us and pitched us like a feather against the rocks. We hit so hard that the barrels cracked open and scattered in fragments. When the wave rolled back, it carried me over thirty yards back into the sea and then, as I started to swim, another wave rolled me back to shore. I landed in a sitting position between two rocks and just had time to grab hold before I was carried off again. Bruised all over, I managed to crawl out, but once on dry land, I realized I’d been carried over a hundred yards from where we’d launched the raft.

  Without thinking I cried out, “Roméo! Salvidia! Where are you?” No answer. I collapsed on the path and took off my pants and sweater, leaving myself naked except for my socks. For Christ’s sake, pal, where are you? And I started again at the top of my lungs: “Where are you?” Only the wind, waves and sea answered. I lay there, I don’t know how long, numb and completely exhausted, physically and emotionally. I broke into tears of rage and tore off the little bag around my neck that held the tobacco and lighter—a brotherly gesture on the part of my friend who didn’t smoke.

  Standing with my face to the wind, facing the monstrous waves that had swept everything to perdition, I shook my fist and cursed God. “You son of a bitch, you swine, stinker, fag, aren’t you ashamed of the way you treat me? You, a good Lord? You’re a bastard, that’s what you are! You’re a damned sadist. Pervert, filthy bastard! I’ll never speak your name again! You don’t deserve it!”

  The wind died down and the comparative calm helped me return to reality.

  I’d go back up and try to get into the asylum. With a little luck I could manage it.

  I climbed back up the bank with but one idea: to get back into my bed, unseen, unheard: I arrived in the infirmary corridor without trouble after jumping over the asylum wall, for I had no idea where Salvidia had put the key to the ma
in door.

  I didn’t have to look long to find the key to the infirmary. I entered and double-locked the door, then went to the window and threw the key as far as I could. It fell on the far side of the wall. Then I got into bed. The only thing that could give me away was my wet socks. I got up and wrung them out in the toilet. Back in bed, I pulled the sheet over my face and gradually warmed up a little. The wind and the sea had congealed me. Had my friend really drowned? Maybe he’d been carried even farther than I and was able to grab hold at the far end of the island. Did I come back too soon? Should I have waited a little longer? I reproached myself for giving up too easily on my friend Roméo.

  There were two sleeping tablets in the drawer of my night table. I swallowed them without water. I had just enough saliva to do the job.

  I was sound asleep when I felt myself being shaken and saw an orderly standing in front of me. The room was filled with sunlight. Three inmates were looking in through the open window.

  “What goes on, Papillon? You’re sleeping like the dead. It’s ten in the morning. You haven’t drunk your coffee! It’s stone cold. Come on, drink up.”

  Even half asleep, I realized that as far as they were concerned, this was nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Why did you wake me up?”

  “Because your burns are healed now and we need your bed. You’re to go back to your cell.”

  “O.K., chief.”

  I followed him. He left me in the yard, and I took advantage of the opportunity to dry my socks in the sun.

  It had been three days since the cavale went on the rocks. I hadn’t heard so much as a word. I shuttled from my cell to the yard, from the yard to my cell. No sign of Salvidia. The poor bastard must be dead, crushed against the rocks. I’d had a narrow squeak; I must have been saved because I was behind instead of in front of the raft. But there was really no way of knowing. I had to get out of the asylum. It was going to be tough to make them think I was well or, at least, that I was better off in the camp. Now I’d have to convince the doctor.

  “Monsieur Rouviot—” he was the head of the infirmary—“I’m cold at night. If I promise not to soil them, will you give me some pants and a shirt?”

  Rouviot was dumbfounded. He looked at me carefully and said, “Papillon, sit down. Tell me, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t understand why I’m here, chief. Isn’t this the asylum? Why am I with the crazies? Did I go off my rocker? Why am I here? Please tell me, chief. I’d be much obliged.”

  “Old man, you were sick, but I can see you do look better. Do you want to work?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “I don’t care.”

  They gave me clothes and put me to work cleaning the cells. My door was left wide open in the evening until nine o’clock when the guard on night duty came and locked it.

  A man from the Auvergne, a bagnard orderly, addressed me for the first time last night. We were alone in the guardhouse. The guard hadn’t turned up yet. I didn’t know the guy, but he said he knew me well.

  “There’s no point in your carrying on any more, mec.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come off it! You think I wasn’t on to your act? I’ve been in the lunatics’ infirmary here for seven years and I knew from the word go you were faking. I’m really sorry your cavale with Salvidia didn’t come off. It cost him his life. It hurts me because he was a good friend, even though he didn’t tell me about it. But I don’t hold that against him. If you need any kind of help, tell me. I’ll be glad to do what I can.”

  The look in his eyes was so honest that I felt he must be O.K. Poor Salvidia! The guy said there’d been quite a fuss when they found he was gone. They had found bits of the barrels thrown back by the sea and they were certain he had been eaten by sharks. The doctor threw a fit over the lost olive oil. He said that, what with the war, it would be a long time before we got any more.

  “What’s your advice?”

  “I’m going to suggest they put you in the gang that goes to the hospital every day for our food. It’ll be a nice walk for you. Be on your good behavior. And out of every ten conversations, see that eight make sense. You mustn’t seem to be getting well too soon.”

  “Thanks. What’s your name?”

  “Dupont.”

  “Thanks, mec. I won’t forget your advice.”

  The botched cavale was a month past. They had found Roméo’s body six days afterward. For some reason the sharks hadn’t eaten him. But other fish had apparently devoured his middle and a part of one leg. Also his skull was bashed in. Because of the state of decomposition, no autopsy was performed.

  I asked Dupont if he could get a letter mailed for me. He should get it to Galgani so that he could slip it into the bag just before it was sealed.

  I wrote the following letter to Salvidia’s mother in Italy:

  Madame, your son died without chains on his legs. He died at sea, bravely, far from prison. He died a free man fighting courageously for his liberty. We promised each other that we would write to the other’s family if anything happened to one of us. I perform this painful duty and kiss your hands,

  Your son’s friend, Papillon.

  With this chore behind me, I decided to stop thinking about the nightmare. That was life. All that remained was to get out of the asylum, get to Diable no matter how, and try another cavale.

  One of the guards put me in charge of his garden. For two months now I’d behaved normally, and the guard thought so highly of me he wouldn’t let me go. Dupont told me that the doctor—when he saw me the last time—wanted to let me out of the asylum and put me back in the camp, on a “trial basis.” But the guard opposed the move, saying his garden had never been better tended.

  So one morning I pulled up all his strawberry plants and threw them into the garbage heap. In place of each plant I set a small cross. So many absent strawberries, so many crosses. The furor was indescribable. The fat guard was so upset he almost popped. He frothed and spluttered in his attempt to talk, but no words came. He sat down in a wheelbarrow and cried real tears. Perhaps I’d gone a bit far, but I had had to do something....

  The doctor took it calmly. He insisted that the patient be put on trial back at the camp so he could adapt himself to normal life. It was being all alone in the garden so much that had given him this strange idea.

  “Tell me, Papillon, why did you pull up the strawberries and put the crosses in their place?”

  “I can’t explain it, Doc, and I asked the guard to forgive me. He loved his strawberries so much that I’m really sorry. I’ll ask God to send him more strawberries.”

  So I found myself back in the camp among my friends. Carbonieri’s place was still empty; I hung my hammock next to the empty space as if he were still there.

  The doctor had “Special Treatment” stitched on my sweater, Only he was to give me orders. I was to rake leaves in front of the hospital from eight to ten every morning. Often I sat and drank coffee and smoked with the doctor and his wife in front of their house. Together they tried to find out about my past. By forcing me to talk about it, they believed they could cure me. I decided to ask the doctor to send me to Diable.

  The thing was done. I was to leave the next day. The doctor and his wife knew why I wanted to go. They had been so good to me I couldn’t deceive them. “Doc,” I had said, “I’ve had it here at the bagne. Get me sent to Diable. Whether I go on cavale or die, I don’t care as long as this comes to an end.”

  “I understand, Papillon. The system here revolts me too. The Administration is rotten to the core. Good-by and good luck!”

  TENTH NOTEBOOK

  DIABLE

  DREYFUS’ BENCH

  DIABLE [DEVIL’S ISLAND] IS THE smallest of the three lies du Salut. It is also the northernmost, and the most exposed to wind and waves. After a flat coastal area it rises rapidly to a high plateau where there was the guardhouse and one lone barracks for the bagnards, who numbered
about ten. Officially Diable was not supposed to receive ordinary criminals, only those condemned and deported for political reasons.

  Each political prisoner had a small house with a tin roof. On Monday he was given his food for the week and, every day, a loaf of bread. There were about thirty of these men. Their orderly was a Dr. Leger who had poisoned his family somewhere near Lyon. The political prisoners had nothing to do with the regular bagnards and sometimes wrote to Cayenne, complaining about this or that bagnard on the island. He was then returned to Royale.

  There was a cable connecting Royale with Diable because often the sea was so rough that the launch from Royale couldn’t dock at the cement pier.

  I was greeted by the head guard at the camp (there were three), who was a big brute with an eight-day beard named Santini.

  “Papillon, I hope you behave on Diable. Don’t give me any trouble and I’ll leave you in peace. Go on up to the camp. I’ll see you later.” There were six cons in my room: two Chinese, two blacks, a man from Bordeaux and another from Lille. One of the Chinese knew me well. He’d been at Saint-Laurent under suspicion of murder. Actually he was from Indochina and a survivor of the revolt in the bagne at Poulo Condor.

  He had been a professional pirate. He used to attack sampans and sometimes murder everybody on board—men, women and children. Although he was very dangerous, he was a good man to live with; something about him inspired sympathy and confidence.

  “How things go, Papillon?”

  “How about you, Chang?”

  “Not bad. It’s okay here. You eat with me. You sleep there, next to me. I do cooking two times a day. You catch fish. Here many fishes.”