We followed the edge of the road, for the moon was up and it was bright enough to see fifty yards ahead. We came to a wooden bridge and Van Hue said, “Go down under the bridge. Sleep there, and I’ll come for you in the morning.”
We shook hands and parted. They walked out into the road. If they were caught, they were going to say they had gone to check some traps they’d set in the bush.
Jean said, “Papillon, don’t you sleep there. You sleep in the bush, I sleep there. When they come, I’ll call you.”
“Fine.” I went into the bush, smoked a few cigarettes, and fell asleep happy and my stomach warm from the good soup.
Van Hue turned up before daybreak. To gain time, we would walk on the road until the sun rose. We walked fast for forty minutes. Suddenly it was daylight and we could hear in the distance the sound of a wagon coming along the tracks. We hid in the bush.
“Good-by, Jean. Thanks and good luck. God bless you and your family.” I insisted he take the five hundred francs. In parting, he explained how, if the Cuic-Cuic business didn’t work out, I could locate his village, make a detour around it and find myself on the path where I’d first met him. He used it twice a week, so we’d be bound to meet. I shook hands with my black friend and he hurried off down the road.
Van Hue said, “Let’s go.” We pushed into the bush. He picked out the direction immediately and we moved with good speed. The bush was not very thick; he was able to separate the branches and liana without having to cut them with his machete.
CUIC-CUIC
In less than three hours we found ourselves facing a mud pond. There were water lilies in bloom and large green leaves stuck to the mud. We followed along the edge of the bank.
“Be careful you don’t slip. You’ll never be able to climb out,” Van Hue warned me, having just seen me stumble.
“You go ahead. I’ll follow you and be more careful.”
A tiny island sat in the sea of mud about a hundred and fifty yards from shore. Smoke was rising from the middle of it. It must be the charcoal pits. I spotted a crocodile in the quicksand—sub-merged except for its eyes. What on earth could it find to eat in that goo?
We had walked about three-quarters of a mile around the edge of the pond when Van Hue stopped and started to sing at the top of his lungs in Chinese. A man came to the edge of the island. He was small and wearing only shorts. The two Chinese talked at great length, and I was beginning to get impatient when Van Hue said, “Come this way.”
I followed him and we retraced our steps.
“It’s all right. That was a friend of Cuic-Cuic. Cuic-Cuic’s gone hunting, but he should be back soon. We’ll wait for him here.”
We sat down. Cuic-Cuic arrived in less than an hour. He was a dried-up little guy with the yellow skin of an Annamite, shiny, almost black teeth and frank, knowing eyes.
“You a friend of my brother Chang?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You can go, Van Hue.”
“Thanks,” Van Hue said.
“Here, take this hen partridge.”
“Thank you, no.” He shook my hand and left.
Cuic-Cuic drew me to where a pig was waiting. We both followed the pig, literally in his footsteps.
“Very careful, Papillon. One false step and you’re sucked in. In case of accident, we can’t help each other for then we both die. The path is never the same because the quicksand moves. But the pig always finds a way. Once I had to wait two whole days before we could cross.”
The black pig sniffed around and was soon off across the quicksand. Cuic-Cuic talked to it in Chinese. I was mystified by this small animal that obeyed him like a dog. My eyes bugged out as the pig crossed to the other side without ever sinking more than an inch or two.
Cuic-Cuic set off after him, saying, “Place your feet in my steps. We have to be quick because the pig’s traces disappear almost immediately.” We crossed without difficulty. The quicksand never reached above my ankles, and then only at the very end.
The pig made two big detours which made the walk two hundred yards. I was pouring sweat. I wasn’t just scared; I was terrified.
During the first part of the crossing I wondered if it was going to be my fate to die like Sylvain. I saw the poor bastard again at that last moment, but although the body was his, his face seemed to have my features. That walk was purgatory. I won’t forget it soon.
“Give me your hand.” And the little guy, all skin and bones, helped me up the bank.
“Well, my friend, I don’t think any manhunt’s going to use that path.”
“No, we don’t have to worry about that.”
We walked toward the middle of the little island. The smell of carbon gas grabbed me by the throat. I coughed. It was the smoke from two burning charcoal pits. No problem with mosquitoes here. A little woodman’s hut made of leaves stood protected from the wind and veiled in smoke. Standing in front of the door was the little Indochinese we had seen before we met Cuic-Cuic.
“Hi, Mouché.”
“Talk French to him. He’s a friend of my brother.”
The tiny Chinese looked me over from head to foot. Satisfied with what he saw, he held out his hand and gave me a toothless smile.
“Come in. Sit down.”
The hut was clean and entirely kitchen. Something was cooking on the fire in a great big pot. There was a single bed made of branches standing over three feet above the ground.
“Help me make something for him to sleep on tonight.”
“All right, Cuic-Cuic.”
In less than a half hour my bed was made. The two men set the table and we had a marvelous soup, then some meat and onions with white rice.
Cuic-Cuic’s friend was the one who sold his charcoal. He didn’t live on the island, so by the time night fell, Cuic-Cuic and I were alone.
“It’s true I stole the camp chief’s ducks. That’s why I’m on cavale.”
We were sitting opposite each other, and from time to time the flames from the little fire lit up our faces. We were feeling each other out, each trying to get to know and understand the other.
Cuic-Cuic’s face was barely yellow at all and most of that was sunburn. His brilliant black, slanted eyes looked right through me as we talked. He smoked long cigars he made himself from leaves of black tobacco.
I smoked cigarettes I rolled with the rice paper he provided.
“I left on cavale because the chief who owned the ducks wanted to kill me. That was three months ago. What’s too bad is that I gambled away all the money I made selling the ducks, plus what I’ve earned from the charcoal.”
“Where do you play?”
“In the bush. There’s a game every night with the Chinese from Inini and the liberated prisoners from Cascade.”
“You’ve decided you want to go by sea?”
“It’s all I think about. When I sell my next lot of charcoal, I’m going to buy a boat and find a mec who knows how to sail it and wants to go with me. I’ll have enough charcoal to sell in three weeks. Maybe you and I could buy the boat and leave together, since you say you know how to sail.”
“I have money, Cuic-Cuic. We don’t need to wait for you to sell the charcoal.”
“That’s fine. There’s a good launch for sale for fifteen hundred francs. The man who wants to sell it is a black who cuts wood here.”
“Good. Have you seen it?”
“Yes.”
“Can I get a look at it?”
“I’ll go see Chocolat—that’s what I call him—tomorrow. Tell me about your cavale, Papillon. I thought no one could escape from Diable. Why didn’t my brother Chang leave with you?”
I described the cavale, the wave Lisette and Sylvain’s death.
“I can see why Chang didn’t want to go with you. You took a big chance. You were damn lucky to get here alive. I’m glad you made it.”
We talked a little longer, but since Cuic-Cuic wanted to see Chocolat at daybreak, we went to sleep early, leaving a big branch on th
e fire to keep it going through the night. The smoke made me cough and choke, but there was one advantage: not a single mosquito.
Stretched out on my pallet under the warm blanket, I closed my eyes. But I couldn’t sleep. I was too excited. The cavale was working! If the boat was any good, we’d be off to sea in eight days. Cuic-Cuic was a dried-up little guy, but he was obviously strong and tough. He seemed loyal and direct with his friends, although he was probably cruel toward his enemies. Asiatic faces are hard to read: they tell you nothing. But his eyes spoke well for him.
I finally fell asleep and dreamed of a sundrenched sea, my boat joyfully taking the waves toward freedom.
“You want coffee or tea?”
“What do you drink?”
“Tea.”
“Then I’ll have tea.”
The day had barely begun; the fire was still going, and water was boiling in the pot. Somewhere a rooster crowed. No birds here. The smoke must drive them away. The black pig lay on Cuic-Cuic’s bed. He was still asleep, the lazy beast. Cakes made of rice flour were browning over the coals. My new pal gave me some sweetened tea, then cut a rice cake in half, spread it with margarine and handed it to me. We ate well. I got away with three rice cakes.
“I’m off now. You come with me as far as the pond. If you hear anyone call or whistle, don’t answer. You’re in no danger; nobody can get here. But if you show yourself on the edge of the island, you can be shot.”
The pig responded to its master’s orders and got up. He had something to eat and drink, then we all went outside. The pig made straight for the quicksand. He went down the bank a good distance from where we’d been yesterday, went in about ten yards, then turned around and came back. He didn’t care for that spot. It took him three more tries before he found one he liked. Cuic-Cuic followed immediately.
Cuic-Cuic wouldn’t be back until evening. I ate the soup he had left on the fire, then collected eight eggs in the henhouse and, using three, made an omelet with some of the margarine. The wind had changed direction and the smoke from the two pits was blowing away. In the afternoon it rained and, well protected, I lay down on my bed of branches.
During the morning I had made a tour of the island. There was quite a large clearing almost in the center. From the felled trees and the sawed wood, I gathered this was where Cuic-Cuic got the wood for his charcoal. There was also a big hole in the white clay, which must be what he used to cover the wood so it burned without making a flame. The chickens pecked around in the clearing. A big rat scurried under my feet and, a few yards farther on, I came across a dead snake at least six feet long. It must have just been killed by the rat.
My day alone on the little island produced a series of discoveries. I found a family of anteaters—a mother and three babies. They had reduced an ant hill to a state of panic. A dozen tiny monkeys jumped from tree to tree in the clearing. At the sight of me a group of marmosets screamed loud enough to wake the dead.
Cuic-Cuic returned. “I couldn’t find Chocolat or the boat. He must have gone to Cascade for supplies. That’s where his house is. Did you eat well?”
“Yes.”
“Still hungry?”
“No.”
“I brought you two packages of cheap soldiers’ tobacco. It was all there was.”
“Thanks. They’re all the same to me. When Chocolat goes, how long does he stay in the village?”
“Two or three days. But I’ll check tomorrow and every day after that. I have no idea when he left.”
It poured rain the next day, but that didn’t discourage Cuic-Cuic. He left stark naked, his clothes wrapped in oilcloth under his arm. I didn’t go with him. “No use your getting wet,” he said.
Finally the rain stopped. The sun came out, and I figured from its position it must be between ten and eleven. One of the two charcoal pits had caved in under the weight of the rain. I went over to examine the disaster. The fire wasn’t completely out: smoke still rose from the damp heap. Suddenly I rubbed my eyes at the unexpected sight before me: five shoes were sticking out of the pit. Each shoe was connected to a leg. Conclusion: there were three men slowly cooking in the charcoal pit. Do I need to describe my first reaction? A shiver ran down my spine. Bending over, I pushed a bit of the charcoal aside and discovered the sixth foot.
Cuic-Cuic was a thorough mec, all right. He had bumped them off, then laid them in a row and turned them to ashes. I was so shaken that I backed away and headed for the clearing and some sun. I needed warmth. Even in the suffocating heat, I was suddenly shivering and desperate for the good sun of the tropics.
You may think that sweat would have been more natural after such a discovery, but an hour passed before the beads of perspiration started to roll down my forehead. The more I thought about it, the more I realized it was a miracle I was still alive. After all, I had told him I had a good deal of money in my plan. Was he waiting to stuff me into a third pit?
I remembered how Chang had told me that Cuic-Cuic had been condemned for piracy and murder aboard a junk. When his group pillaged a boat, they killed everybody, for “political” reasons, they said. So these mecs had been killed, one after the other. And I was a prisoner here. A difficult position to be in.
To be blunt about it, I could kill Cuic-Cuic and give him his turn in the pit and no one would ever know. But the pig wouldn’t obey me; that hunk of tame pork didn’t even speak French. So I’d have no way of getting off the island. The Chinese might obey me if I pulled a gun on him, but once he got me off the island, I’d have to kill him. I could throw him into the quicksand and he’d disappear. But why hadn’t he done that to the mecs in the pit? After all, the quicksand would have been much simpler. I didn’t give a damn for the guards, but if his Chinese friends found out, there’d be a manhunt, and with their knowledge of the bush it would be no picnic to have them on my heels.
Cuic-Cuic had only a single-barreled shotgun that had to be loaded from the muzzle. He kept it with him all the time, even when he was cooking. He slept with it and even carried it with him when he went outdoors to do his business. I must keep my knife open all the time, but I had to get some sleep somehow. Christ! Some partner I’d chosen for my cavale!
I couldn’t eat the whole day. I still hadn’t made up my mind what to do when I heard singing. It was Cuic-Cuic on his way home. I watched him from behind a tree. He was balancing a bundle on top of his head, and I showed myself only when he’d almost reached the bank. Smiling, he handed me the package wrapped in a flour bag, clambered up the bank to my side and headed for the hut. I followed.
“Good news, Papillon. Chocolat is back. He still has the boat. He says it can carry over a thousand pounds without sinking. What you have there are the flour bags for making the sail and jib. That’s the first installment. We’ll bring the rest tomorrow, when you go to see if you approve of the boat.”
Cuic-Cuic told me all this without looking back. We were walking single file—the pig first, then him, then me. It crossed my mind that he wasn’t ready to stuff me into the pit if he was suggesting I look at the boat and he was already starting to collect supplies for the cavale. He’d even bought the flour sacks …
“Look at that, will you! The pit’s collapsed. It must have been the rain. With that downpour I’m not surprised.”
He didn’t go over to the pit but went straight into the hut. I couldn’t think what to say or do. To pretend I hadn’t noticed anything would be ridiculous. It would be damned funny if I’d spent the whole day on the island and hadn’t once gone to look at the pit. It wasn’t more than twenty-five yards from the hut.
“You let the fire go out?”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention.”
“You didn’t eat anything?”
“No, I wasn’t hungry.”
“You feel sick?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you have any of the soup?”
“Cuic-Cuic, sit down. I want to talk to you.”
“Let me light the f
ire first.”
“No. I want to talk to you right away, while there’s still light.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Well, it’s the charcoal pit. When it caved in, it uncovered three men you were cooking in it. I want an explanation.”
“So that’s why you’ve been acting so strange!” He looked me straight in the eye without a hint of embarrassment. “It upset you? I understand. It’s only natural. I suppose I’m lucky you didn’t knife me in the back. Papillon, those three guys were part of a manhunt. About ten days ago I sold a load of charcoal to Chocolat. The Chinese you saw the first day helped me get the bags off the island. It’s a complicated business: you take a rope over two hundred yards long and pull the row of bags over the quicksand. Well, between here and the small stream where Chocolat keeps his boat we’d left a number of footprints. Also some of the bags were torn and dropped pieces of charcoal along the way. That’s when the first man hunter started sniffing around. I could tell someone was in the bush from the cries of the animals. I saw him without him seeing me. I crossed on the side opposite, made a big semicircle and came up behind him. It was all very easy. He was dead without ever seeing who’d done it. I had noticed before that corpses rise to the surface of the quicksand after a few days, so I carried him and put him in the pit.”
“What about the others?”
“That happened three days before you came. It was a very dark and quiet night, which is very unusual in the bush. Those two had been on the edge of the pond since nightfall. The wind blew the smoke their way and one of them broke into a fit of coughing. That’s how I knew they were there. Before daybreak I crossed the quicksand on the side opposite from where I’d heard the cough. I cut the first man’s throat. He didn’t have time to make a sound. The other one was armed with a hunting rifle, but he was so busy watching my island he didn’t hear a thing. I got him with a single shot but it didn’t kill him so I had to finish him off with my knife. Papillon, those are the three mecs you saw in the pit. Two of them were Arabs and the other a Frenchman. It was no cinch carrying them across the quicksand, I can tell you. I had to make two trips.”