"Banco: the Further Adventures of Papillon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Charrière Henri)

1 First Steps into Freedom

"Good luck, Frenchman! From this moment, you're free. _Adios!_"

The officer of the El Dorado penal settlement waved and turned his back.

And it was no harder than that to get rid of the chains I had been dragging for fourteen years. I held Picolino by the arm, and we took a few steps up the steep path from the riverbank, where the officer had left us, to the village of El Dorado. Now, sitting here in my old Spanish house on the night of August 18, 1971, to be exact, I can see myself on that pebbly track with unbelievable clarity; and not only does the officer's voice now ring in my ears in just the same way, deep and clear, but I make the same movement that I made twenty-six years ago-I turn my head.

It is midnight: outside the night is dark. But for me, for me alone, the sun is shining: it's ten o'clock in the morning, and I stare at the loveliest back I have even seen in my life-the back of my jailer as he moves farther and farther away, symbolizing the end of the watching, the eavesdropping, the prying that I endured every day, night, minute and second for fourteen years.

I turn my head for a last look at the river, a last look, beyond the guard, at the island with its Venezuelan penal settlement, a last look at a hideous past when I was trampled upon, degraded and ground down.

Abruptly, I catch Picolino by the arm, turn my back on the picture and lead him quickly up the path, first giving myself a shake to get rid of the filth of the past for good and all.

Freedom? Yes, but where? At the far end of the world, way back in the plateaus of Venezuelan Guiana, in a little village deep in the most luxuriant virgin forest you can imagine. I was at the southeastern tip of Venezuela, close to Brazilian frontier: an enormous sea of green, broken only here and there by the waterfalls of the rivers and streams that run through it-a green ocean dotted with little communities, each gathered around a chapel. Often these _pueblitos_ are linked to others by only a truck or two, and looking at the trucks, you wonder how they ever got so far. In their isolation these simple, poetic people live just as people did hundreds and hundreds of years ago, free from all the taints of civilization.

When we had climbed up to the edge of the plateau where the village of El Dorado begins, we almost stopped; and then slowly, very slowly, we went on. I heard Picolino draw his breath, and, like him, I breathed in very deeply, forcing the air right down into the bottom of my lungs and letting it out gently, as though I were afraid of living these wonderful minutes too fast, these _first minutes of freedom_.

The broad plateau opened in front of us; to the right and left were houses, all bright and clean and surrounded by flowers. Some children had caught sight of us, and even though they knew where we came from, they approached us, not unfriendly at all; no, they were kind, and they walked beside us without a words They seemed to understand how grave this moment was, and they respected it.

In front of the first house there was a little wooden table where a fat black woman was selling coffee and _are pas_, corn muffins.

"Good morning, lady."

"_Buenas dias, hombres!_"

"Two coffees, please."

"_Si, senores_." And the good fat creature poured us two cups of delicious coffee; we drank standing, there being no chairs.

"What do I owe you?"

"Nothing."

"How come?"

"It's a pleasure for me to give you the first coffee of your freedom."

"Thank you. When's the next bus?"

"Today's a holiday, so there's no bus; but there's a truck at eleven."

"Okay. Thanks."

A black-eyed, light-skinned girl came out of a house. "Come in and sit down," she said with a lovely smile.

We walked in and sat down with a dozen people who were drinking rum.

"Why does your friend loll out his tongue?"

"He's sick."

"Can we do anything for him?"

"No, nothing: he's paralyzed. He's got to go to the hospital."

"Who's going to feed him?"

''Me.''

"Is he your brother?"

"No, my friend."

"You got money, Frenchman?"

"Very little. How did you know I was French?"

"Everything gets known here in no time. We knew you were going to be let out yesterday, and that you escaped from Devil's Island, and that the French police are trying to catch you to put you back there again. But they won't look for you here; they don't give orders in this country. We are the ones who are going to look after you."

"Why?"

"Because…"

"What do you mean?"

"Here, drink a shot of rum and give one to your friend."

Now a woman of about thirty was taking over. She was almost black. She asked me whether I was married. No. If my parents were still alive. Only my father.

"He'll be glad to hear you are in Venezuela."

"That's right."

A tall dried-up white man spoke up-he had big, staring eyes, but they were kind-"My relative didn't know how to tell you why we are going to look after you. Well, I'll tell you. Because unless he's mad-and in that case there's nothing to be done about it-a man can be sorry for what he's done, and he can turn into a good man if he's helped. That's why you'll be looked after in Venezuela. Because we love other men, and, with God's help, we believe in them."

"Why do you think I was a prisoner on Devil's Island?"

"Something very serious, for sure. Maybe for having killed someone, or for a really big theft. What did you get?"

"Life."

"The top sentence here is thirty years. How many did you do?"

"Fourteen. But now I am free."

"Forget all that, _hombre_. As quick as you can, forget everything you suffered in the French prisons and here in El Dorado. Forget it, because if you think about it too much you'll feel ill will toward other men and maybe even hate them. Only forgetting will let you love them again and live among them. Marry as soon as you can. The women in this country are hot-blooded, and the love of the woman you choose will give you happiness and children, and help you forget whatever you have suffered in the past."

The truck arrived. I thanked these kind, good people and went out, holding Picolino by the arm. There were about ten passengers sitting on benches in the back of the truck. They left us the best seats, next to the driver.

As we lurched along the potholed track, I thought about this strange Venezuelan nation. Neither the fishermen of the Gulf of Paria, nor the ordinary soldiers of El Dorado, nor the humble workingman who talked to me in that thatched mud hut had had any education. They could hardly read and write. So how did they come to have the charity and nobility to forgive men who had done wrong? How did it come about that the heads of the penal settlement of El Dorado, both the officers and the governor- educated men, those-had the same ideas as the simple people, the belief in giving every man a second chance, whoever he is and whatever he's done? That generosity could not have come from Europeans; so the Venezuelans must have got it from the Indians.

We arrived in El Callao. A big square, music. Of course: it was July 5, the national holiday. All the people in their best clothes made up a motley crowd, typical of tropical countries where so many colors are mixed-black, yellow, white and the copper of the Indians, whose race always shows in the slightly slanting eyes and the lighter skin. Picolino and I got out, along with some passengers from the back of the truck. One of them, a girl, came up to me and said, "Don't pay: that has been looked after." The driver wished us good luck, and the truck set off again. Holding my little bundle in one hand while Picolino gripped the other with the three fingers he had left, I stood there wondering what to do. I had some English pounds from the West Indies, a few hundred bolivars * [* A bolivar is worth about a quarter in U.S. money.] given me by my math pupils at the penal settlement, and some raw diamonds found among the tomatoes in the vegetable garden I had made.

The girl who had told us not to pay asked me where we were going, and I told her my idea was to find a little boardinghouse.

"Come to my place first; then you can look around."

We crossed the square with her, and in a couple hundred yards we reached an unpaved street lined with low houses; they were all made of baked clay, and their roofs were thatch or corrugated iron. At one of them we stopped.

"Walk in. This house is yours," the girl said. She must have been about eighteen.

She made us go in first. A clean room with a floor of pounded earth; a round table; a few chairs. A man of about forty, medium height, with smooth black hair, Indian eyes, and the same light reddish-brown skin as his daughter. And three girls of about fourteen, fifteen and sixteen.

"My father and my sisters," she said, "here are some strangers I have brought home. They've come from the El Dorado prison, and they don't know where to go. I ask you to take them in."

"You're welcome," the father said. And he repeated the ritual words, "This house is yours. Sit down here, around the table. Are you hungry? Would you like coffee or rum?"

I didn't want to offend them by refusing, so I said I'd like some coffee. I could see from the simple furniture that they were poor.

"My daughter Maria, who brought you here, is the eldest. She takes the place of her mother, who left us five years ago with a gold prospector. I'd just as soon tell you that myself, before you hear it from someone else."

Maria poured coffee for us. Now I could look at her more closely, because she had taken a seat next to her father, right opposite me. The three sisters stood behind her. They looked closely at me, too. Maria was a girl of the tropics, with big, black, almond-shaped eyes. Her jet-black curling hair, parted in the middle, fell to her shoulders. She had fine features, and although you could detect the drop of Indian blood from the color of her skin, there was nothing Mongolian about her face. She had a sensuous mouth and splendid teeth. Every now and then she revealed the tip of a very pink tongue. She was wearing a white, flowered, wide-open blouse that showed her shoulders and the beginning of her breasts, covered by a brassiere that was visible under the blouse. This blouse, a little black skirt, and flat-heeled shoes were what she had put on for the holiday-her best. Her lips were painted bright red, and she had penciled two lines at the corners of her huge eyes to make them seem even larger.

"This is Esmeralda [Emerald]," she said, introducing her youngest sister. "We call her that because of her green eyes. This is Conchita; and the other is Rosita, because she looks like a rose. She is much lighter than the rest of us, and she blushes at the least thing. Now you know the whole family. My father's name is José. The five of us are the same as one, because our hearts beat all together. And what's your name?"

"Enrique." * [* Enrique is the Spanish form of Henri.]

"Were you in prison long?"

"Fourteen years."

"Poor thing. How you must have suffered."

"Yes, a great deal."

"Papa, what do you think Enrique can do here?"

"I don't know. Do you have a trade?"

"No."

"Well then, go to the gold mine. They'll give you a job."

"And what about you, José? What do you do?"

"Me? Nothing. I don't work-they pay you very little."

Well, well, well. They were poor, sure enough; yet they were quite well dressed. Stiff, I couldn't very well ask him what he used for money-whether he stole instead of working. Wait and see, I said to myself.

"Enrique, you'll sleep here tonight," Maria said. "There's a room where my father's brother used to sleep. He's gone, so you can have his place. We'll look after the sick man while you go to work. Don't thank us; we're giving you nothing-the room's empty in any case."

I didn't know what to say. I let them take my little bundle. Maria got up and the other girls followed her. She had been lying: I could tell the room was in use, because they brought out women's things and put them somewhere else, but I pretended not to notice anything. In the room there was no bed, but something better, something you often see in the tropics-two fine wool hammocks. A big window with just shutters-no glass- opened onto a garden full of banana palms.

As I swung there in the hammock I could hardly believe what had happened to me. How easy this first day of freedom had been! Too easy. I had a free room and four sweet girls to look after Picolino. Why was I letting myself be led by the hand like a child? I was at the world's end, to be sure; but I think the real reason I let myself be managed was that obeying was the only thing I understood after being a prisoner for so long. I was just like a bird that, when you open the door of its cage, doesn't know how to fly anymore. It has to learn all over again.

I went to sleep without thinking about the past, exactly as the humble man of El Dorado had advised me.

I had just breakfasted off two fried eggs, two fried bananas covered with margarine, and black bread. Maria was in the bedroom, washing Picolino. A man appeared in the doorway; he was wearing a machete in his belt.

"_Gente de paz_," he said. Men of peace, which is their way of saying, I'm a friend.

"What do you want?" asked José, who had had breakfast with me.

"The chief of police wants to see the men from Devil's Island."

"You don't want to call them that. Call them by their names."

"Okay, José. What are their names?"

"Enrique and Picolino."

"Señor Enrique, come with me. I am a policeman, sent by the chief."

"What do they want with him?" Maria asked, coming out of the bedroom. "I'll come, too. Wait while I dress."

In a few minutes she was ready. As soon as we were in the street she took my arm. I looked at her, surprised, and she smiled at me. When we reached the little administrative building, there were more police, all in plain clothes except for two in uniform with machetes hanging from their belts. A black man with a gold-braided cap presided over a roomful of rifles. He said to me, "You're the Frenchman?"

"Yes."

"Where's the other?"

"He's sick," Maria said.

"I command the police. I'm here to help you if you need it. My name's Alfonso." And he held out his hand.

"Thanks. Mine's Enrique."

"Enrique, the chief administrator wants to see you. You can't go in, Maria," he added, seeing she was about to follow me. I went into the next room.

"Good morning, Frenchman. I am the chief administrator. Sit down. Since you're in compulsory residence here in El Callao, I sent for you so that I could get to know you. I'm responsible for you." He asked me what I was going to do-where I wanted to work. After we had talked a while he said, "If there's anything at all, come and see me. I'll help you work out as good a life as we can manage."

"Thank you very much."

"Oh, there's one thing. I must warn you that you're living with very good, honest girls; but their father, José-he's a pirate."

Maria was outside, at the station door, settled into that attitude Indians adopt when they are waiting, neither moving nor talking to anyone at all. She was not an Indian, but because of that little drop of Indian blood she had, the race came out. We took another way back to the house and walked through the whole village, her arm in mine.

"What did the chief want with you?" Maria asked, calling me by the familiar pronoun for the first time.

"Nothing. He told me I could count on him to help me find a job or in case I was in a hole."

"Enrique, you don't need anyone now. Nor does your friend."

"Thanks, Maria."

We passed a peddler's stall, full of women's trinkets-necklaces, bracelets, earrings, brooches, etc.

I took her over and picked out the best necklace with matching earrings, and three other, smaller sets for her sisters. I gave thirty boilvars for these tinselly little things, paying with a hundred note. Maria put the necklace and the earrings on right away. Her big black eyes sparkled and she thanked me as though the jewels were really valuable.

When we got back to the house, the three girls shrieked with delight over their presents. I went to my room, leaving them. I had to be alone to think. This family had offered me their hospitality with a splendid generosity; but should I accept it? I had some money, after all, not to mention the diamonds. Reckoning it all together, I could live four months and more without worrying, and I could have Picolino looked after.

All these girls were lovely, and like tropical flowers they were surely all warm, sexy, ready to give themselves only too easily, almost without thinking. I had seen Maria looking at me today almost as if she were in love. Could I resist so much temptation? It would be better for me to leave this too welcoming house before my weakness brought trouble and suffering. I was thirtynine, although I looked younger, and Maria was not quite eighteen, her sisters younger still. I ought to go, I thought. The best thing would be to leave Picolino in their care, paying for his board, of course.

"Señor José, I'd like to talk to you alone. Shall we go and have a rum at the café in the square?"

"All right. But don't call me señor. You call me José and I'll call you Enrique. Let's go. Maria, we're going out to the square for a minute."

"Enrique, change your shirt," Maria said. "The one you've got on is dirty."

I went and changed in the bedroom. Before we left, Maria said, "Don't stay long, Enrique; and above all, don't drink too much!" And before I had time to step back she kissed me on the cheek.

Her father burst out laughing. "That Maria," he said, "she's in love with you already."

As we walked toward the bar I began, "José, you're a man, so you will understand that if I lived among your daughters it would be hard for me not to fall in love with one of them. But I'm twice as old as the eldest, and I'm legally married in France. So let's go and have a drink or two together, and then you take me to some cheap little boardinghouse. I can pay."

"Frenchman, you're a real man," José said, looking me straight in the eye. "Let me shake your hand like a brother for what you've just said to a poor guy like me. In this country, you see, almost nobody's married legally. You like one another, you make love, and if there's a child, you set up house together. You join up as easily as you leave one another. It's very hot here, and on account of the heat the women are very full-blooded. They mature early. Maria's an exception; she's never had an affair although she's nearly eighteen. I think your country's morality is better than ours, because here many women have children without a father, and that's a very serious problem. But what can you do about it? The good Lord says you must love one another and have children. So although I see you are surrounded by temptation all the time, I ask you again to stay with us. I'm glad to have a man like you in the house."

We were in the bar before I answered. A dozen men were sitting around. We drank a few rum-and-Cokes. Several people came up to shake my hand and bid me welcome to their village, and each time José introduced me as a friend who was living at his house. We had a good many drinks. When I asked what they came to, José became almost annoyed; he wanted to pay for every. thing. Still, I finally managed to persuade the bartender to take my money instead.

Someone touched me on the shoulder. It was Maria. "Come home. It's lunchtime. Don't drink anymore; you promised me not to drink too much."

José was arguing with another man; she said nothing to him, but took me by the arm and led me out.

"What about your father?"

"Let him be. I can never say anything to him when he's drinking and I never come to fetch him from the café. He wouldn't have it, anyway."

"Why did you come and fetch me, then?"

"You're different. Be good, Enrique, and come along." Her eyes were so brilliant, and she said it so simply, I went back to the house with her.

"You deserve a kiss," she said when we got there. And she put her lips to my cheek, too near my mouth.

José came back after we had had lunch together at the round table. The youngest sister helped Picolino eat, giving him his food little by little.

José sat down by himself. He was high, so he spoke without thinking. "Enrique is frightened of you, my girls," he said, "so frightened he wants to go away. I told him that in my opinion he could stay, and that my girls were old enough to know what they were doing."

Maria gazed at me. She looked astonished, perhaps disappointed. "If he wants to go, Papa, let him. But I don't think he'd be better off anywhere else than he is here, where everyone likes him." And turning to me she added, "Enrique, don't be a coward. If you like one of us, and she likes you, why should you run away?"

"On account of he's married in France," her father said.

"How long since you saw your wife?"

"Fourteen years."

"The way we see it, if you love a man you don't necessarily marry him. If you give yourself to a man, it's to love him, nothing more. But it was quite right of you to tell our father you were married, because like that you can't promise any of us anything at all, aside from just loving her." And she asked me to stay with them without committing myself. They would look after Picolino and I would be more free to work. She even said I could pay a little, as if I were a boarder, to ease my mind. Did I agree?

I had no time to think properly. It was all so new and so quick after my years as a convict. I agreed.

"Would you like me to go with you to the gold mine this afternoon to ask for a job? We could go at five, when the sun is lower. It's a mile and a half from the village."

"Fine."

Picolino's movements and his expression showed how pleased he was that we were going to stay. The girls' kindness and their care had won his heart. My staying was chiefly on account of him. Because here I was pretty sure I'd have an affair before long, and I wasn't sure it would suit me.

With all that had been going on inside my head these last fourteen years, with all that had kept me from sleeping all those nights in prison, I was not going to drop everything as quickly as all this and settle down in a village at the far end of the world just because of a girl's pretty face. I had a long road in front of me, and any stops must be short. Just long enough to catch my breath. Because there was a reason why I had been fighting for my liberty these fourteen years and there was a reason why I had won the fight; and that reason was _revenge_. The prosecuting counsel, the false witness, the cop: I had a score to settle with them. And that was something I was never to forget. Never.

I wandered out to the village square. I noticed a shop with the name Prospéri over it and figured the owner must be a Corsican or an Italian. Indeed, the little shop did belong to the descendant of a Corsican. Monsieur Prospéri spoke very good French. He kindly suggested writing a letter for me to the manager of La Mocupia, the French company that worked the Caratal gold mine. This splendid man even offered to help me with money. I thanked him for everything and went out.

"What are you doing here, Papillon? Where the hell have you come from, man? From the moon? Dropped by parachute? Come and let me kiss you!" A big guy, deeply sunburned, with a huge straw hat on his head, jumped to his feet. "You don't recognize me?" And he took off his hat.

"Big Charlot! I'll be damned!" Big Charlot, the man who knocked off the safe at the Place Clichy Gaumont in Paris, and the safe in the Batignolles station! We embraced like two brothers. Tears came into our eyes, we were so moved. We gazed at one another.

"A far cry from the Place Blanche and the clink, pal, huh? But where the hell have you come from? You're dressed like an English lord: and you've aged much less than me."

"I'm just out of El Dorado."

"How long were you there?"

"Over a year."

"Why didn't you let me know? I'd have got you out right away, signed a paper saying I was responsible for you. Christ above! I knew there were some hard cases in El Dorado, but I never for a moment imagined you were there, you, a buddy!"

"It's a miracle we should meet."

"Don't you believe it, Papi. The whole of Venezuelan Guiana is stuffed with convicts making a break. And as this is the first bit of Venezuelan territory you come across when you escape, there's no miracle in meeting anyone at all between the Gulf of Paria and here-every last son of a bitch comes this way. All those who don't come apart on the road, I mean. Where are you staying?"

"With a decent fellow named José. He has four daughters."

"Yes, I know him. He's a good man, a pirate. Let's go and get your things: you are staying with me, of course."

"I'm not alone. I've got a paralyzed friend and I have to look after him."

"That doesn't matter. I'll send a donkey for him. It's a big house and there's a Negrita who'll look after him like a mother."

When we had found the donkey we went to the girls' house. Leaving these kind people was very painful. It was only when we promised to come and see them, and said they could come and see us at Caratal, that they calmed down a little.

Two hours later we were at Charlot's "chateau," as he called it. A big, light, roomy house on a headland looking out over the whole of the valley running down from the hamlet of Caratal almost to El Callao. On the right of this virgin forest was the Mocupia gold mine. Charlot's house was built entirely of hardwood logs from the bush: three bedrooms, a fine dining room and a kitchen; two showers inside and one outside, in a perfectly kept garden. All the vegetables we had at home were growing there, and growing well. Besides a chicken run with more than five hundred hens, there were rabbits, guinea pigs, two goats and a pig. All this was the fortune and the present happiness of Charlot, the former crook and safecracker, specialist in very delicate operations worked out to the second.

"Well, Papi, how do you like my shack? I've been here seven years. As I was saying in El Callao, it's a far cry from Montmartre and the clink! Who'd ever have believed that one day I'd be happy with such a quiet, peaceful life? What do you say, pal?"

"I don't know, Charlot. I'm too lately out of stir to have a clear idea. It sets me back a little, seeing you quiet and happy here at the back of beyond. As far as I'm concerned, you see, I don't feel up to it yet."

When we were sitting around the table in the dining room and drinking Martinique punch, Big Charlot went on, "Yes, Papillon, I can see you're amazed that I live by my own work. Eighteen bolIvars a day means a modest life, but one not without its pleasures. A hen that hatches me a good brood of chicks, a rabbit that brings off a big litter, a kid being born, tomatoes doing well… all these little things we despised for so long add up to something that gives me a lot. Hey, here's my black girl. Conchita! Here are some friends of mine. That one's sick; you'll have to look after him. This one's called Enrique, or Papillon. He's a friend from France, an old-time friend."

"Welcome to this house," the black girl said. "Don't you worry, Charlot, your friends will be properly looked after. I'll go and see to their room."

Charlot told me about his break-an easy one. When he first got to the penal colony he was kept at Saint-Laurent-du-Maroni, and after six months he escaped from there with another Corsican called Simon and a detainee. "We were lucky enough to reach Venezuela a few months after the dictator Gomez died. These open-handed people helped us make a new life for ourselves. I had two years of compulsory residence at El Callao, and I stayed on. Little by little, I took to liking this simple life, you know? I lost one wife when she was having a baby, and the daughter, too. Then this black girl you've just seen, Conchita, she managed to comfort me with her real love and understanding, and she's made me happy. But what about you, Papi? You must have had a cruelly hard time of it; fourteen years is a hell of a stretch. Tell me about it."

I talked to this old friend for more than two hours, spilling out everything these last years had left rankling in me. It was wonderful for us both to be able to talk about our memories. But, oddly, there was not a single word about Montmartre, not a word about the underworld, no reminders of jobs that were pulled off or misfired, nothing about crooks still at large. It was as though for us life had begun when we stepped aboard La Martinière, me in 1933, Charlot in 1935.

Good Chianti, excellent salad, a grilled chicken, goat cheese and a delicious mango, all put on the table by the cheerful Conchita, meant that Charlot could welcome me properly in his house, and that pleased him. He suggested going down to the village for a drink. I said it was so pleasant where we were I didn't want to go out.

"Thanks, my friend," my Corsican said-he often put on a Paris accent. "You're dead right: we are comfortable here. Conchita, you'll have to find a girl friend for Enrique."

"All right: Enrique, I'll introduce you to friends prettier than me."

"You're the prettiest of them all," CharIot said.

"Yes, but I'm black."

"That's the very reason why you're so pretty, poppet. Because you're a thoroughbred."

Conchita's big eyes sparkled with love and pleasure; it was easy to see she worshipped Charlot.

Lying quietly in a fine big bed I listened to the BBC news from London on Charlot's radio: but being plunged back into the life of the outside world worried me a little-I was not used to it anymore. I turned the knob. Now it was Caribbean music that came through: Caracas in song. I didn't want to hear the great cities urging me to live their life. Not this evening, anyway. I switched off quickly and began to think over the last few hours.

Had we purposely avoided talking about the years when we both lived in Paris? No. Had we purposely not mentioned the men of our world who had been lucky enough not to be picked up? No again. So did what had happened before the trial no longer matter?

I tossed and turned in the big bed. It was hot; I couldn't bear the heat anymore and walked out into the garden. I sat down on a big stone, from where I could look Out over the valley and the gold mine. Everything was lit up down there. I could see trucks, empty or loaded, coming and going.

Gold: the gold that came out of the depths of that mine. A lot of it, either in bars or turned into bills, would give you anything on earth. This prime mover of the world, which cost so little to mine, since the workers had such miserable wages, was the one thing you had to have to live well. Charlot had lost his freedom because he had wanted a lot of it, yet today he hadn't even mentioned the stuff. He hadn't told me whether the mine had much gold in it or not. These days his happiness was his black girl, his house, his animals and his garden. He had never even referred to money. He had become a philosopher. I was puzzled.

They caught Charlot because a guy by the name of Little Louis tipped off the police; and during our short meetings in the Sante Charlot never stopped swearing he would get Louis the first chance he had. Yet this evening he had not so much as breathed Louis's name. And as for me-Christ!-I had not said a word about my cops, or Goldstein, or the prosecuting counsel, either. I should have talked about them! I hadn't escaped just to end up a cross between a gardener and a day laborer.

I had promised to go straight in this country, and I'd keep my word. But that didn't mean I had given up my plans for revenge. You mustn't forget, Papi, that the reason you're here today is that the idea of revenge kept you going for fourteen years.

His little black girl was very pretty, all right; but still I wondered whether Big Charlot wouldn't be better off in a city than in this hole at the far end of creation. Or maybe I was the square, not seeing that my friend's life had its charm? That was something to chew over.

Charlot was forty-five, not an old man. Very tail, very strong, built like a Corsican peasant fed on plenty of good, healthy food all his young days. He was deeply burned by the sun of this country, and with his huge straw hat on his head, its brim turned up at the sides, he looked terrific. He was a perfect example of the pioneer in these virgin lands, and he was so much one of the people and the country he did not stand out at all. Far from it: he really belonged.

Seven years he'd been here, this still young Montmartre safecracker! He must certainly have worked more than two years to clear this stretch of plateau and build his house. He had to go out into the bush, choose the trees, cut them down, bring them back, fit them together. Every beam in his house was made of the hardest and heaviest timber in the world, the kind they call ironwood. I was sure all he earned at the mine had gone into it, because he must have had help and must have paid for the labor, the cement (the house was concreted), the well, and the windmill for pumping the water up to the tank.

That well-rounded young Negrita with her big loving eyes: she must be a perfect companion for this old sea dog on shore. I'd seen a sewing machine in the big room. She must make those little dresses that suited her so well.

Maybe the reason Charlot hadn't gone to the city was that he wasn't sure of himself, whereas here he enjoyed a life with no problems at all. You're a great guy, Charlot! You're the very picture of what a crook can be turned into. I congratulate you. And I also congratulate the people who changed your way of seeing what a life can or ought to be.

But still these Venezuelans are dangerous, with their generous hospitality. Kindness and goodwill turn you into a prisoner if you let yourself be caught. I'm free, and I mean to stay that way forever.

I'd better watch it. Above all, no setting up house with a girl. A man needs love when he's been cut off from it for a long time, but fortunately I'd had a girl in Georgetown two years before, my Hindu, Indara. So I was not so vulnerable as if I'd come straight from jail, as Charlot had. Indara was lovely and I was happy with her; but it wasn't for that I had settled in Georgetown, living there in clover. If the quiet life is too quiet, even though it's happy, it's not for me: that I know very well.

Adventure! A man needs adventure to feel alive, alive all through! That was why I left Georgetown and why I ended up at El Dorado. And that was why I was where I was today.

Okay. The girls were pretty, full-blooded and charming, and I certainly could not live without love. It was up to me to avoid complications. I must promise myself to stay there a year, since I was forced to do so anyway. The less I owned, the easier I'd be able to leave this country and its enchanting people. I was an adventurer, but an adventurer with a shift of gear-I must get my money honestly, or at least without hurting anyone. Paris, that was my aim: Paris one day, to present my bill to the people who put me through so much suffering.

I was calmer now, and my eyes took in the setting moon as it dipped toward the virgin forest, a sea of black treetops with waves of different heights-but waves that never stirred. I went back to my room and stretched out on the bed.

Paris was still a great way off, but not so far that I wouldn't be there again one day, walking the asphalt of her streets.