A different house. Nonetheless, the similarity is striking.
The other bedroom’s clearly occupied. The bed’s unmade, there are clothes on the chair and piles of books on the floor. Downstairs is a similar mess of books, paper, food, clothes, cutlery. It’s what makes it so easy to steal from here: what Sabir takes, the commandant will assume is lost somewhere. Or he simply won’t care. He shows little interest in possessions. It’s occasionally the way with the rich, Sabir has noticed. Those who’ve never had to struggle to own anything.
He picks up one of the books: The Principles of Hydro-Engineering: An Introduction. He flicks through it – it’s full of notes. Most of the other books have some practical slant as well. The man’s a self-starter, a Robinson Crusoe. On top of one of these piles of books, there’s an album crammed with photographs. Some have been stuck in, others just jammed between the pages, so they spill out when Sabir opens the album. He bends down to collect the ones he’s dropped, shuffles through them. There’s one of the commandant as a boy, in a sailor suit. Another of a frowning man in a top hat, beside a matronly woman in a voluminous dress. Several photos of the house – that same house from the picture in the wife’s bedroom. And several more of an attractive, dark-haired woman in her mid to late twenties. The commandant’s wife, Sabir supposes. There’s something odd about her, although Sabir can’t immediately put his finger on it. Her face is completely expressionless in each image – like that of a saint, or of a dead body. There’s just one image of her smiling, at the beach. She’s wearing a swimming costume, revealing the curve of her hips and breasts. Sabir slips this photo into his pocket.
Before lock-up he has another rendezvous with Carpette, down by the edge of the forest. Sabir has some more stolen goods for him. This time, Carpette has specifically asked for paper and ink. Very easy to spirit away from the commandant’s desk: he’s one of those men who’s always firing off a mess of ideas, and that’s what his desk looks like. In general, it’s not the thieving that’s so difficult, it’s hiding the stuff and then getting it up to the main camp. The endless trips he has to make down an indistinct path running parallel to the main one, to avoid the guards …
It seems, though, that he’s managed to allay Carpette’s suspicions of him. And so far, Carpette’s been as good as his word: he’s fenced the things Sabir’s brought him and paid up promptly. No doubt Carpette’s swindling him – the silver spoons he’d stolen are probably worth ten times what Carpette gave him. And yet Sabir couldn’t care less – he’s at least getting some proper money, for the first time since his arrival. That immediately makes him feel better, less vulnerable. The first payment went to buying a plan and a knife. Since then he’s been saving. And buying food to supplement his rations: above all, it’s important to stay in decent health.
The dealings between the two have until now been furtive, brief. But this afternoon there’s more time, and as they exchange goods and money, Carpette asks Sabir if he has any plans.
‘I’m getting out, of course,’ Sabir says, ‘as soon as I’ve got the dough.’
Carpette shakes his head. ‘You’ll need a lot more than that.’
‘I know.’
He offers Carpette one of the cigarettes he’s just stolen from the commandant; together, they smoke in silence. A bloated sun hovers over the green horizon. Never before has it looked so huge, so near. Back in France, Sabir didn’t know what the sun was really like. Out here, it’s the true fire. It penetrates your body like a knife. And burns with an intensity that reduces a whole life to a mere moment.
‘Edouard says I can trust you. So I’ll tell you that we’re getting out, too.’ Carpette says nothing further, and neither does Sabir. It’s such a pleasure to smoke a real cigarette. Carpette exhales languidly; he doesn’t gulp down the smoke like most convicts. The sun nudges the horizon now; it’s sinking into the forest. It’ll be dark very soon. Here, night falls like a stone.
As they walk back to the barracks, Sabir can see the men queuing for their dinner ration. Theoretically, it’s the keeper’s job to collect the rations from the kitchen and dole them out – but no doubt Carpette’s paid someone else to do it. There’s nothing you absolutely have to do in this colony, if you have the money to avoid it.
‘Edouard used to work in the botanical gardens,’ Carpette now continues as they walk. ‘But he has his enemies in Saint-Laurent. That’s why he was sent to the camp. That’s why they won’t transfer him back. And that’s why I bribed my way into this job, out here. It cost me all my savings. Back in Saint-Laurent, I used to run the postal service. It was a damn good job. We were happy in Saint-Laurent!’ He spits out the word happy with a bizarre violence. ‘So now we’ll escape. We’ll need a boat and sail; that’s not a problem. I don’t know why, but Edouard trusts you. If you want in, though, you’ll need two hundred francs up front. A hundred for the boat, fifty for the sails, fifty for the food and water. Then another few hundred for when we get to Colombia, if you want to make a go of it. The problem is finding someone to sail the boat. If there’s anyone in your barracks who’s likely, sound him out. Tell him his expenses’ll be covered.’
Night again. The knife in his hand makes him feel no safer. It just emphasises the fact that in here everyone has knives. They’re locked in behind heavy iron doors, the guards are nowhere near, and there’s no way out in case of trouble. Certainly, everyone’s extremely wary tonight and practically nobody’s asleep. Antillais is stretched out on the bed board, hands behind his head. He’s spent the past half-hour at work on a toy boat he’s building, using the wood from his cat’s manger. Masque is in the corner near the privy, arguing with another fort-à-bras. He looks drawn, tired. The atmosphere is weirdly calm. Sabir forces his mind onto other things.
He thinks back to his conversation with Carpette. something new has happened. For the first time since he’s been here, escape is not just an abstract project, but a real, concrete prospect. Visions of a different world come to mind. Dark-haired men with large moustaches and sombreros. Is that Colombia? Or maybe it’s Mexico he’s thinking of. Sabir knows nothing of any of these countries, except that they all speak Spanish there – a language of which he has no knowledge. He knows nothing of boats either. And yet Carpette’s proposing an epic ocean voyage of, what, hundreds of kilometres? Or thousands? In a way, it’s all the same. His dreams are a blank canvas that he can colour with whatever images he chooses.
What of Carpette and Edouard? He didn’t see it at first, but Sabir now recognises Carpette as one of two ‘types’ who generally manage the best here. The first are the forts-à-bras, who use brute force, intimidation and protection rackets to get what they want. And then there are the hustler types like Carpette, the small-time capitalists who keep a low profile but build up networks of accomplices to create mini-trading empires. The forts-à-bras are to be avoided, but it’s useful to know the hustlers.
Carpette is also a somewhat effeminate man. In a mainland prison, he’d have to hide it, or get regularly beaten up. Not here. The hyper-virility of the bagne craves its opposite. It’s the men in the middle – men like Sabir – who are the invisible ones, who play no part in the sexual economy. Without even really thinking about it, Sabir assumes that Carpette and Edouard are lovers. It’s the only form of solidarity that exists out here, after all. Otherwise, you’re utterly on your own. There’s no such thing as friendship or camaraderie, as there was at the front.
Sabir tries to remember what Edouard was like in those days, when they shared a trench section and much else besides. It’s not easy. In a relationship like theirs, the other person is the mirror you gaze into, and his real nature remains obscure. Edouard now strikes Sabir as something of a mysterious character, although he didn’t feel that at the time. Taciturn, given to acid remarks and black humour. There was that day he let slip that he was
