Banco: The Further Adventures of Papillon (6 page)

“Okay. Go and fetch the blonde, and just you see if I’m not happy when I have a girl of my own.”

“I’m on my way,” she said, going into the bedroom to change her dress. “Oh, that Mercedes, how happy she will be!” she called. Before she had time to come back there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Conchita said. The door opened and there was Maria, looking a trifle confused.

“You, Maria, at this time of night? What a marvelous surprise! Conchita, this is Maria, the girl who took me in when Picolino and I first landed up in El Callao.”

“Let me kiss you,” Conchita said. “You’re as pretty as Papillon said you were.”

“Who’s Papillon?”

“That’s me. Enrique or Papillon, it’s all one. Sit down by me on the divan and tell me everything.”

Conchita gave a knowing laugh. “I don’t think it’s worth my while going out now,” she said.

Maria stayed all night. As a lover she was shy, but she reacted to the slightest caress. I was her first man. Now she was sleeping. The two candles I had lit instead of the raw electric light were guttering. Their faint glow showed the beauty of her young body even better, and her breasts still marked by our embrace. Gently I got up to make myself some coffee and to see what time it was. Four o’clock. I knocked over a saucepan and woke Conchita. She came out of her room, wearing a dressing gown.

“You want some coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Only for you, I’m sure. Because she must be sleeping with those angels you’ve introduced her to.”

“You know all about it, Conchita.”

“My people have fire in their veins. You must have noticed it tonight. Maria has one touch of Negro, two touches of Indian and the rest Spanish. If you’re not happy with a mixture like that, go hang yourself,” she said, laughing.

The splendid sun was high in the sky when it saw Maria wake up. I brought her coffee in bed. There was a question already on my lips. “Aren’t they going to worry, not finding you at home?”

“My sisters knew I was coming here, so my father must have known an hour later. You aren’t going to send me away today?”

“No, dear. I told you I didn’t want to set up house, but sending you away is something else again. If you can stay without any trouble, stay as long as you like.”

It was close to twelve and I had to leave for the mine. Maria decided to hitch a lift home in a truck and come back in the evening.

“Hey there,” Charlot said. He was standing in the door of his room, wearing pajamas; and he spoke to me in French. “So you’ve found the chick you needed all by yourself. A luscious one, too: I congratulate you.” He added that, as the next day was Sunday, we might drink to the occasion.

“Maria, tell your father and sisters to come and spend Sunday with us to celebrate this. And you come back whenever you like-- the house is yours. Have a good day, Papi; watch out for the number three pump. And when you quit work, you don’t have to drop in on Simon. If you don’t see the stuff he is looking after so badly, you’ll feel it less.”

“You dirty old crook. No, I won’t go see Simon. Don’t worry, man.
Ciao
.”

Maria and I walked through the village arm in arm, close together, to show the girls she was my woman.

The pumps ran sweetly, even number three. But neither the hot, wet air nor the beat of the motor kept me from thinking about Charlot. He had grasped why I was so thoughtful, all right. It hadn’t taken long for him, an old crook, to see that the heap of gold was at the bottom of it all. Nor for Simon either; and Simon must certainly have told him about our conversation. Those were the sort of friends a man should have--real friends, aglow with joy because I’d got myself a woman. They were hoping that this black-haired godsend would make me forget the blazing heap of loot.

I turned all this over and over in my head, and in time I began to see the position more clearly. These good guys were now as straight as so many rulers; they were leading blameless lives. But in spite of living like squares they had kept the underworld outlook and they were utterly incapable of tipping off the police about anyone whatsoever, even if they guessed what he was up to and knew for sure it would mean bad trouble for them. The two who would be taken in right away if the thing came off were Simon and Alexandre, the men who guarded the treasure. Charlot would come in for his share of the hornets’ nest, too, because every single one of the ex-convicts would be trundled off to jail. And then farewell peace and quiet, farewell house, vegetable garden, wife, kids, hens, goats and pigs. So I began to see how these former crooks must have quaked not for themselves but for their homes, when they thought how my caper was going to ruin everything. “How I hope he doesn’t go and screw it all,” they must have said. I could see them holding a council of war.

I had made up my mind. I’d go and see Simon that evening and ask him and his family to the party tomorrow, and I’d tell him to invite Alexandre, too, if he could come. I must make them all think that having a girl like Maria was all I could ever want.

The hoist brought me up to the open air. I met Charlot on his way down, and I asked, “The party still on?”

“Of course it is, Papillon. More than ever.”

“I’m going to ask Simon and his family. And Alexandre, too, if he can come.”

Old Charlot was a deep one. He looked me straight in the eye and then in a rather flip tone he said, “Why, that’s a sweet idea, my friend.” Without another word he stepped into the hoist, and it took him down to where I had just come from. I went around by the store and found Simon.

The party was a marvelous success. José congratulated us on loving one another, and Maria’s sister whispered questions in her ear--full of curiosity. Simon and his fine family were there, and Aiexandre, too, since he had found someone to fill in for him guarding the treasure. He had a charming wife, and a well-dressed little boy and girl came with them. The rabbits were delicious, and the huge cake, shaped like a heart, lasted no time at all. We even danced to the radio and the Victrola, and an old convict played the accordion.

After a good many liqueurs I laid into my old crooks, in French. “Well, and what have you guys been thinking? Did you really believe I was going to pull something off?”

“Yes, friend,” said Charlot. “We wouldn’t have said a word if you hadn’t brought it up yourself. But it’s dead certain you had the notion of knocking off that ton of gold, right? Give the straight answer, Papillon.”

“You know I’ve been chewing over my revenge these fourteen years. Multiply fourteen years by three hundred and sixty.five days and then by twenty-four hours and each hour by sixty minutes and you still won’t have the number of times I’ve sworn to make them pay for what I went through. So when I saw that heap of gold in such a place, why true enough, I did think of working out a job.”

“What then?” said Simon.

“Then I looked at the position from every side and I was ashamed. I was running the risk of destroying the happiness of you all. I came to see that this happiness of yours--a happiness I hope to have myself one day--was worth much more than being rich. So the temptation of knocking off the gold quite disappeared. You can take my word for it: I won’t do anything here.”

“There you are, then,” said Charlot, grinning from ear to ear. “So now we can all sleep easy. Long live Papillon! Long live Maria! Long live love and freedom! And long live decency! Hard guys we were, hard guys we are still, but only toward the pigs. Now we’re all of the same mind, including Papilion.”

Six months I’d been here. Charlot was right. On the day of the party I had won the first battle against my longing to pull something off. I had been drifting away from the “road down the drain” ever since I had escaped. Now thanks to my friends’ example I had gained an important victory over myself: I had given up the idea of grabbing that million dollars. One thing was sure: it would not be easy for any other job to tempt me, now that I’d given up a fortune like that. Yet I wasn’t entirely at peace with myself. I had to make my money some other way than stealing it, fair enough; but still I had to get enough to go to Paris and hand in my bill. And that was going to cost me a pretty penny.

Boom-bom, boom-bom, boom-bom
: all the time my pumps sucked up the water that flowed into the galleries. It was hotter than ever. Every day I spent eight hours down there in the bowels of the mine. At this time I was on duty from four in the morning until noon. When I knocked off I’d have to go to Maria’s house in El Callao. Picolino had been there for a month, because in El Cailao the doctor could see him every day. He was being given therapy, and Maria and her sisters looked after him wonderfully. So I was going to see him and to make love to Maria: it was a week since I’d seen her, and I wanted her, physically and mentally. I found a truck that gave me a lift. The rain was pouring down when I opened the door at about one o’clock. They were all sitting around the table, apart from Maria, who seemed to be waiting near the door. “Why didn’t you come before? A week’s a long, long time. You’re all wet. Come and change right away.”

She pulled me into the bedroom, took my clothes off and dried me with a big towel. “Lie down on the bed,” she said. And there we made love, not caring about the others who were waiting for us on the other side of the door. We dropped off to sleep, and it was Esmeralda, the green-eyed sister, who gently woke us late that afternoon, when night was already coming on.

When we had all had dinner together, José the Pirate suggested going for a stroll.

“Enrique, you wrote to the chief administrator asking him to get Caracas to put an end to your
con finamiento
(compulsory residence), is that right?”

“Yes, José.”

“He’s had the reply for Caracas.”

“Good or bad?”

“Good. Your
confinamiento
is over.”

“Does Maria know?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“That you’d always said you wouldn’t stay in El Caliao.” After a short pause he asked me, “When do you think you’ll leave?”

Although I was bowled over by this news, I answered right away. “Tomorrow. The truck driver who brought me said he was going on to Ciudad Bolivar tomorrow.” José bowed his head. “
Amigo mio
, are you sore at me?”

“No, Enrique. You’ve always said you’d never stay. But it’s sad for Maria--and for me, too.”

“I’ll go and talk to the driver if I can find him.”

I did find him: we were to leave the next day at nine. As he already had one passenger, P icolino would travel in the cab and myself on the empty iron barrels behind. I hurried to the chief administrator; he handed over my papers and, like the good man he was, gave me some advice and wished me good luck. Then I went around seeing everybody who had given me friendship and help.

First to Caratal, where I picked up the few things I possessed. Charlot and I embraced one another, deeply moved. His black girl wept. I thanked them both for their wonderful hospitality.

“It’s nothing, pal. You would have done the same for me. Good luck. And if you go to Paris, say hello to Montmartre from me.”

“I’ll write.”

Then the ex-cons, Simon, Alexandre, Marcel, André. I hurried back to El Callao and said good-bye to all the miners and the gold and diamond prospectors and my fellow workers. All of them, men and women, said something from the heart to wish me good luck. It touched me a great deal and I saw even more clearly that if I had set up with Maria I should have been like Charlot and the others--I should never have been able to tear myself away from this paradise.

The hardest of all my farewells was to Maria. Our last night, a mixture of love and tears, was more violent than anything we had ever known. Even our caresses broke our hearts. The horrible thing was that I had to make her understand there would be no hope of my coming back. Who could tell what my fate would be when I carried out my plans?

A shaft of sunlight woke me. My watch said eight o’clock already. I hadn’t the heart to stay in the big room, not even the few moments for a cup of coffee. Picolino was sitting in a chair, tears running down his face. Esmeralda had washed and dressed him. I looked for Maria’s sisters, but I couldn’t find them. They’d hidden so as not to see me go. There was only José standing there in the doorway. He grasped me in the Venezuelan
abrazo
(one hand holds yours and the other is round your shoulders), as moved as I was myself. I couldn’t speak, and he said only this one thing: “Don’t forget us; we’ll never, never forget you. Good-bye: God go with you.”

With all his clean things carefully folded into a bundle, Picolino wept bitterly, and his movements and the hoarse sounds he uttered conveyed his wretchedness at not being able to bring out the millions of thanks he had in his heart. I led him away.

Carrying our baggage, we reached the driver’s place. A splendid exit from the town, all right: his truck had broken down; no leaving today. We had to wait for a new carburetor. There was no way out of it--I returned to Maria’s with Picolino. You can imagine the shrieks when they saw us coming back.

“God was kind to have broken the truck, Enrique! Leave Picolino here and walk around the village while I get the meal ready. It’s an odd thing,” Maria added. “But it could be you’re not fated to go to Caracas.”