Papillon

Henri Charriere

• Editore: William Morrow
• Anno: 2012
• ISBN:
  9780062224477
• Argomento: Literature
• Categoria: Literary Biographies

"A modern classic of courage and excitement."— The New Yorker • The source for theiconic prison-escapefilm starring Steve McQueen

Henri Charrière, nicknamed "Papillon, " for the butterfly tattoo on his chest, was convicted in Paris in 1931 of a murder he did not commit. Sentenced to life imprisonment in the penal colony of French Guiana, he became obsessed with one goal: escape. After planning and executing a series of treacherous yet failed attempts over many years, he was eventually sent to the notorious prison, Devil's Island, a place from which no one had ever escaped... until Papillon. His flight to freedom remains one of the most incredible feats of human cunning, will, and endurance ever undertaken.

Charrière's astonishing autobiography, Papillon, was first published in France to instant acclaim in 1968, more than twenty years after his final escape. Since then, it has become a treasured classic--thegripping, shocking, ultimately uplifting odyssey of an innocent man who would not be defeated.

"A first-class adventure story."— New York Review of Books

FIFTH NOTEBOOK

RETURN TO CIVILIZATION

THE PRISON IN SANTA MARTA

GETTING OUT OF GUAJIRA WAS easy, and we crossed the border at La Vela without incident. On horseback, we were able to do in two days what had taken me so long with Antonio. But it wasn’t only the border patrols that were dangerous; there was also an area of about sixty miles between the border and Rio Hacha, the village I had escaped from.

With Zorrillo standing by, I had my first conversation with a Colombian in an inn. I didn’t do too badly, and as Zorrillo had said, stammering helped a lot to hide my accent.

We set off again toward Santa Marta. Zorrillo was to leave me halfway and return home in the morning.

Now Zorrillo was gone. We decided that he should take my horse. Having a horse meant that you owned a house and belonged to a specific village, and as a result you might have to answer what for me would be embarrassing questions, such as: “Do you know so and so?” “What is the mayor’s name?” “What is Mrs. X up to?” “Who is running the fonda now?”

No, better for me to continue on foot, travel by truck or bus, and after Santa Marta, by train. I would be a stranger everywhere, no one knowing where I was from or what I did for a living.

Zorrillo gave me change for three of the gold pieces; I had a thousand pesos. A good workman earned from eight to ten pesos a day, so I had enough to keep me for a long time. I was picked up by a truck going close to Santa Marta, a good-sized port about eighty miles beyond where Zorrillo had left me. The truck was to pick up some goats.

Every five miles or so we came to a tavern, and every time we came to a tavern the driver got out and invited me to come with him. He did the inviting, I did the paying. And each time he drank five or six glasses of the local firewater while I pretended to drink one. By the time we had gone about thirty-five miles, he was drunk. He was so drunk that he took a wrong turn onto a muddy road and the truck bogged down. This didn’t faze the Colombian: he lay down in the back and told me to sleep in the cab. I didn’t know what else to do. We were still a good thirty miles from Santa Marta. If we met anyone, I was safer with him, and for all our many stops, it was faster than going on foot.

It was already morning, but I decided to get some sleep. The sun had risen, it was nearly seven o’clock. And there, suddenly, was a wagon drawn by two horses. It couldn’t get past the truck. They thought I was the truck driver since I was in the cab, so I pretended to have just waked up, acting confused and stammering.

Then the real driver woke up and discussed the situation with the teamster. After several tries they still couldn’t free the truck. The mud was up to the axle. In the wagon were two nuns dressed in black with coifs, and three little girls. After much talk, the two men agreed that we should clear a section of brush so that the wagon could get by, one wheel on the road, the other in the cleared brush.

They took out their machetes and cut the brush, and I laid it on the road to minimize the drop between it and the shoulder and to keep the wagon from sinking into the mud. After two hours’ work the passage was cleared. The sisters thanked me and asked me where I was going.

“Santa Marta,” I said.

“But you’re on the wrong road. You must turn back and come with us. We will take you within five miles of Santa Marta.”

I couldn’t refuse; it would have seemed odd. On the other hand, I wanted to say that I would stay and help the truck driver, but the difficulty of saying all that compelled me to say instead, “Gracias, gracias.”

So there I was, in the back of the wagon with the three little girls. The two kind sisters sat up front with the driver.

We made quick work of the three or four miles we had mistakenly taken with the truck; and once we reached the right road, we made really good time. As it approached noon we stopped at an inn to eat. The three little girls sat with the driver at one table and I sat with the sisters at another. The sisters were young, between twenty-five and thirty. One was Spanish, the other Irish, and their skin was very pale.

The Irish sister asked me gently, “I gather you’re not from around here?”

“Oh, yes, I’m from Barranquilla.”

“No, you can’t be a Colombian. Your hair is too light and your skin is only dark from the sun. Where have you come from?”

“Rio Hacha.”

“What did you do there?”

“Electrician.”

“Ah! I have a friend at the electric company. His name is Perez; he’s a Spaniard.”

When the meal was finished, they got up to wash their hands. The Irish sister came back alone. She looked at me, then said in French, “I won’t give you away, but my friend says that she saw your picture in the newspaper. You’re the Frenchman who escaped from the prison in Rio Hacha, aren’t you?”

To deny it would have made matters worse.

“Yes, Sister. But please don’t turn me in. I’m not the bad guy they made me out to be. I respect God and love Him.”

The Spanish sister arrived and the other one said, “Yes,” and added something very fast that I didn’t catch. For a while they seemed to be thinking things over, and then they got up and went back to the bathroom. During their five minutes’ absence I thought fast. Should I go before they returned, or should I stay? If they had decided to give me away, it wouldn’t much matter whether I left or not—they’d soon find me. This region had no real jungle or bush, and the approaches to the towns were all too visible. No, I would put myself in destiny’s hands instead. Up to now it hadn’t been unkind.

They returned, smiling. The Irish nun asked me my name.

“Enrique.”

“All right, Enrique. You come with us to the convent. While we’re in the wagon, you’ve nothing to worry about at all. Just don’t talk; everyone will think you’re a workman at the convent.”

The sisters paid for our food. I bought a carton of cigarettes and a tinderbox. Then we left. The sisters didn’t speak to me during the entire trip, for which I was very grateful. This way the driver wouldn’t know how badly I spoke the language. Toward the end of the afternoon we stopped at a large inn. In front of it was a bus on which I read: “Rio Hacha—Santa Marta.” Wanting to board it, I approached the Irish sister and told her my intention.

“That’s a dangerous thing to do,” she said. “Before it reaches Santa Marta, it stops at at least two police stations where they ask all the passengers for their identity cards. They won’t do that to the wagon.”

I thanked her warmly, and the anxiety I had felt since they discovered who I was disappeared completely. On the contrary, it was unbelievable luck to have run into the sisters. We arrived at our first police station as night fell. A bus going from Santa Marta to Rio Hacha was being inspected by the police. I lay in the wagon on my back, straw hat over my face, as if I were asleep. One of the little girls (she was about eight) had put her head on my shoulder and really was asleep. As the wagon passed through, the driver stopped just between the bus and the station.

“How are things with you?” asked the Spanish sister.

“Very well, Sister.”

“I’m glad. Let’s go, children.”

At ten we came to a very brightly lit station. Two lines of vehicles of every description were drawn up here, one on the right, ours on the left. The police were opening all the car trunks. One woman had gotten out of her car and was rummaging through her bag. Then she was taken into the station. She probably had no identity card. I was sure I was lost. In front of us was a very small bus stuffed with passengers. On its roof were suitcases and large parcels, and at the rear a kind of net holding more parcels. Four policemen were forcing the passengers out. It had only one door, in front, from which the people stepped down, the women with babies in their arms. Then, one by one, they climbed back in.

Each had an identity card with his photograph on it.

Zorrillo had never told me about this. If I’d known, I might have been able to get myself a fake one. If ever I got through this checkpoint, I’d pay anything to get hold of one before going on to Barranquilla.

My God, but they were taking their time with that bus! The Irish nun turned to me and said, “Don’t worry, Enrique.” I was furious with her for speaking to me; the driver must surely have heard.

It was our turn to come under the blinding light. I decided to sit up. If I lay down, I would seem to be hiding. I leaned against the tailgate of the wagon, facing the sisters’ backs. They would see only my profile and my hat was down over my face, but not too much so.

“How are things with you?” the Spanish sister said again.

“Very well, Sister. Why are you traveling so late?” “It’s an emergency, so please don’t keep us waiting. We are in a great hurry.”

“Go with God, Sisters.”

“Thank you, my children. May God protect you.”

“Amen,” said the policemen.

And so we went peacefully through, without anyone asking us anything. But the strain of those minutes must have been too much for the sisters’ stomachs, for a hundred yards beyond the control point they had the wagon stop and disappeared into the brush. This touched me so much that when the Irish sister climbed back into the wagon, I said, “I thank you, Sister.”

She answered, “You’re quite welcome. But we were so frightened that I’m afraid it affected our stomachs.”

We arrived at the convent about midnight. A high wall, a large door. The driver unhitched the horses, and the wagon with the three girls was pulled inside. On the steps leading to the courtyard, a heated discussion broke out between my sisters and the nun who was keeping the gate. The Irish nun told me that she didn’t want to wake the Mother Superior to ask her for permission to let me spend the night. And that’s where I made my fatal mistake. I should have taken advantage of the situation and left for Santa Marta, which I knew was only five miles away. That mistake cost me seven years in the bagne.

Finally they did wake the Mother Superior, and I was given a room on the third floor. I could see the lights of the town from the window. I could see the lighthouse and a large boat sailing out of the harbor.

I went to sleep and woke to a knocking on my door. I had had a terrible dream. Lali had ripped her belly open in front of me and our child had come out in pieces.

I quickly shaved and washed. I went downstairs, and there at the foot of the stairs was the Irish sister, a small smile on her lips.

“Good morning, Henri. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Please come to our Mother’s office. She wants to see you.”

We went in. The woman sitting behind the desk was about fifty; she had a very severe expression and unfriendly black eyes.

“Do you speak Spanish?”

“Very little.”

“All right, the sister will serve as interpreter. You are French, I’ve been told.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You escaped from the prison in Rio Hacha?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“When?”

“About seven months ago.”

“What have you been doing since then?”

“I’ve been living with the Indians.”

“What? You, with the Guajiros? That’s impossible. Those savages have never allowed anyone in their territory. Not even a missionary. I refus...