clearing’s been done. There’s just construction work, no wood chopping. And that’s what kills you. The chopping.’
They stand chatting uncertainly for a few more minutes, about the camps and the Colony, but not any more about the past. Edouard’s conversation is punctuated by various expressions and convict jargon that Sabir only half-grasps. Still so much to learn: a whole new language, a whole new mythology. When Edouard smiles, which he does only once, his face is rigid like a mask. At one point, he abruptly asks: ‘What about money? Got any money?’
‘Few francs, that’s all.’
Edouard quickly changes the subject. He doesn’t elaborate on the purpose of his question. Eventually, he says: ‘Well, I’ll be off now. You’ve got another couple of hours before you reach Renée. When you get there, go and see Carpette. He’s the keeper of one of the barracks. Tell him you’re a friend of mine. Tell him I asked him to do whatever he can for you.’
‘I’ll do that. Thanks.’
‘Camp Renée … you struck lucky … there are worse places … well, be seeing you.’
Edouard disappears back down the trail towards Camp Saigon. And Sabir continues his journey through the forest, at first thinking about Edouard, about his glass eye, and then about Edouard’s friend in Camp Renée who might be able to help him. Such recommendations don’t mean a lot out here, though. Sabir thinks back to his own foolish promise to help the country boy Gaspard. It weighs on him, although no doubt he’ll never see the boy again. Not unless he, too, is sent to this Camp Renée. A camp with a woman’s name, odd that. He wonders at Edouard’s last words: ‘Be seeing you.’ What was the likelihood of that?
At some point in the afternoon the rain comes crashing out of the sky, but Sabir barely notices, lost in self-absorption. In any case, it means that it’s four o’clock and he has only a couple of hours till nightfall. The path winds by the river: the other shore seems to be melting under the lashing rain, collapsing like a flimsy stage set. It hits you hard, this rain, and yet brings no great relief from the heat. That’s what makes it feel so foreign.
The path ends abruptly. Coming out of the forest is like coming out of a dream. Ahead, lined with palm trees, an avenue – vertiginously wide after the confines of the forest. Swathes of jungle have been cleared, perhaps a couple of hundred hectares in all. A number of small buildings have been erected there. At the bottom, six whitewashed barracks with thatched roofs, three on either side of the avenue. The effect is almost pretty. A few convicts wander about, but otherwise the place is almost deserted.
Sabir reports to the bookkeeper as he’s been told to do; after his name and number have been registered, he’s taken to his barracks. It’s set out in the same way as the one in Saint-Laurent, with long planks of wood by the walls that serve as communal beds. Unlike in Saint-Laurent, though, this barracks has a wretched lived-in feel. Threadbare rags and battered tin bowls lie at the base of the bed plank, along with little statuettes and other objects half-carved out of the heavy tropical wood. They’re to be sold to the guards, probably, who’ll then sell them on as souvenirs in Saint-Laurent or Cayenne. On the walls, pictures of glamorous women torn from ancient copies of La Vie Parisienne. And family photos, warped in the heat and damp, of wives, mothers, daughters, sisters, mistresses.
Sabir is told to dump his cloth sack in the far corner and report immediately to the camp commandant. The bookkeeper points out the path he’s to take, to the left of the grand avenue. After a ten-minute walk through the jungle, he comes to a clearing by the river. Here, there are convicts at work, levelling the ground, erecting a wall, building a large house. Sabir can hear a gramophone. Classical music – crisp piano notes and a male voice singing in German. In itself, it’s jolting, since German will always remind Sabir of the front, and those odd fragments of conversation that used to drift across the Flemish mud when the wind was right. Sabir knows nothing about classical music, but the frozen, precise tones seem starkly out of place as they echo across the trees and water, here in the suffocating humidity of the equatorial forest.
Inside, the ground floor of the house appears to be more or less complete and habitable; beyond a short corridor there’s a sitting room. The gramophone in one corner. A table in the middle, and a man sitting by it, his head in his hands – as if in pain or in prayer. He looks up. ‘Ah, the gardener!’ He gets to his feet and extends his hand. Sabir takes a moment to extend his own: it’s a long time since anyone offered to shake hands with him. It feels like reaching into another world.
‘I don’t know where to start. I’ve got some rough plans drawn up here. Or we could go and see the terrain now; perhaps that would be best. If you’ll follow me out here, the back way …’
Sabir keeps right behind the commandant. They’re looking out over land that’s been cleared, some of it levelled as well. ‘There’ll be a series of steps here once I get the stone,’ the commandant continues, ‘and then to the right there’ll be a fountain. That has nothing to do with you, of course; I’ve got a stonemason working on that. Over here, in front, I want a lawn, if I can get the turf, with the flower beds to the side away from the river, and beyond a jardin anglais. You’re going to have to write up some specifications for plant species. I’ve got seeds from France and I have a shipment of seedlings coming from Florida.’
Bewildered, Sabir says nothing throughout, but the commandant, carried away by his own enthusiasm, doesn’t notice. They stroll about the terrain, while the commandant continues to spill out a jumble of horticultural plans that Sabir can barely take in: a hedge to cut the river from the lawn; a fishpond in the jardin anglais, in front of the folly he’s having built. But the fish are a problem since none of the river species would survive. Sabir nods, watches the commandant. He towers over Sabir and is noticeably thin – like a convict rather than an Administration official, most of whom run to fat. He has a carefully trimmed black moustache. His hair is dark, what’s left of it: at the front most of it has gone and he’s cut the rest extremely short. This too, coupled with his tanned face, reinforces the convict look. It’s difficult to say how old he might be. Thirty-five? Forty-five? There’s a certain Teutonic stiffness about him – Sabir wonders whether he’s from one of the ‘German’ départements, Alsace or Lorraine.
Now they’re back in the sitting room, poring over plans. ‘A lot of this I want done within the next four weeks, before my wife arrives. All the basic landscaping at the very least must be done by then. I can give you half a dozen men; it should be sufficient if you’re well organised.’ The commandant has lit a cigarette, a proper French one, not the sawdust-cut rubbish the convicts smoke. Ignored, the cigarette consumes itself in the ashtray: it’s torture to watch. Out of the blue, the commandant shoots Sabir a question: ‘So what’s your experience? Who did you work for?’
‘I was head gardener for the Comtesse d’Entremeuse, sir. I looked after the gardens at the Château Ben Ali.’
‘Really? How interesting …’
Within seconds, Sabir has a whole story worked out in his head, with all sorts of baroque details. But already the commandant has lost interest and has started talking about his garden again.
Nightfall, after the evening meal. Stretched out on the hard board bunk, hands behind his head, Sabir watches the to and fro of the barracks. There’s a night-light between the two bed boards but many of the men have their own little lamps as well, fashioned out of empty tins. There’s not much conversation. A few of the convicts have quizzed Sabir about Saint-Laurent, but once they realise that he’s got no interesting news and no money, they drift off to their own corners. One man is mending his butterfly net, another is carving something out of a wood block, yet another
