Papillon. Анри Шарьер

us. Two blacks paddling and one white man with a sun-helmet on.

      ‘Welcome to Trinidad,’ said the white man in perfect French. The black men laughed, showing all their teeth.

      ‘Thank you for your kind words, Monsieur. Is the bottom coral or sand?’

      ‘It’s sand. You can run in without any danger.’

      We hauled up the anchor, and the waves gently pushed us in towards the beach. We had scarcely touched before ten men waded in and with a single heave they ran the boat up out of the water. They gazed at us and stroked us, and Negro or Indian coolie women beckoned to invite us in. The white man who spoke French explained that they all wanted us to stay with them. Maturette caught up a handful of sand and kissed it. Great enthusiasm. I had told the white man about Clousiot’s condition and he had him carried to his house, which was very close to the beach. He told us we could leave all our belongings in the boat until tomorrow – no one would touch anything. They all called out, ‘Good captain, long ride in little boat.’

      Night fell, and when I had asked them to heave the boat a little higher up I tied it to a much bigger one lying on the beach; then I followed the Englishman and Maturette came after me. There I saw Clousiot looking very pleased with himself in an armchair, with a lady and a girl beside him and his wounded leg stretched out on a chair.

      ‘My wife and my daughter,’ said the gentleman. ‘I have a son at the university in England.’

      ‘You are very welcome in this house,’ said the lady in French.

      ‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ said the girl, placing us two wicker armchairs.

      ‘Thank you, ladies, but please don’t put yourselves out for us.’

      ‘Why? We know where you come from, so be easy; and I say again, you are very welcome in this house.’

      The Englishman was a barrister. Mr. Bowen was his name, and he had his office in Port of Spain, the capital, twenty-five miles away. They brought us tea with milk, toast, butter and jam. This was our first evening as free men, and I shall never forget it. Not a word about the past, no untimely questions: only how many days had we been at sea and what kind of voyage we had had. Whether Clousiot was in much pain and whether we should like them to tell the police tomorrow or wait for another day: whether we had any living relations, such as wives or children. If we should like to write to them, they would post the letters. What can I say? It was a wonderful welcome, both from the people on the shore and from this family with their extraordinary kindness to three men on the run.

      Mr. Bowen telephoned a doctor, who told him to bring the wounded man in to his nursing-home tomorrow afternoon so that he could X-ray him and see what needed doing. Mr. Bowen also telephoned the head of the Salvation Army in Port of Spain. He said this man would have a room ready for us in the Salvation Army hostel and that we could go whenever we liked; he said we should keep our boat if it was any good, because we’d need it for leaving again. He asked if we were convicts or relégués and we told him convicts. He seemed pleased we were convicts.

      ‘Would you like to have a bath and a shave?’ asked the girl. ‘Don’t feel awkward, whatever you do – it doesn’t worry us in the least. You’ll find some things in the bathroom that I hope will fit you.’

      I went into the bathroom, had a bath, shaved and came out again with my hair combed, wearing grey trousers, a white shirt, tennis shoes and white socks.

      An Indian knocked on the door: he was carrying a parcel which he gave to Maturette, telling him the doctor had noticed that as I was roughly the same size as the lawyer I wouldn’t need anything; but little Maturette wouldn’t find anything to fit, because there was no one as small as him in Mr. Bowen’s house. He bowed in the Moslem way and went out. What is there I can say about such kindness? There is no describing the feelings in my heart. Clousiot went to bed first, then the five of us talked about a great number of things. What interested those charming women most was how we thought of remaking a life for ourselves. Not a word about the past: only the present and the future. Mr. Bowen said how sorry he was Trinidad wouldn’t permit escaped men to settle on the island. He’d often tried to get permission for various people to stay, he told us, but it had never been allowed.

      The girl spoke very good French, like her father, with no accent or faulty pronunciation. She had fair hair and she was covered with freckles; she was between seventeen and twenty – I did not like to ask her age. She said, ‘You’re very young and your life is ahead of you: I don’t know what you were sentenced for and I don’t want to know, but the fact of having taken to sea in such a small boat for this long, dangerous voyage proves that you’re willing to pay absolutely anything for your freedom; and that is something I admire very much.’

      We slept until eight the next morning. When we got up we found the table laid. The two ladies calmly told us that Mr. Bowen had left for Port of Spain and would only be back that afternoon, bringing the information he needed to see what could be done for us.

      By leaving his house to three escaped convicts like this he gave us a lesson that couldn’t have been bettered: it was as though he were saying, ‘You are normal decent human beings; you can see for yourselves how much I trust you, since I am leaving you alone in my house with my wife and daughter.’ We were very deeply moved by this silent way of saying, ‘Now that I’ve talked to you, I see that you are perfectly trustworthy – so much so that I leave you here in my home like old friends, not supposing for a moment that you could possibly do or say anything wrong.’

      Reader – supposing this book has readers some day – I am not clever and I don’t possess the vivid style, the living power, that is needed to describe this immense feeling of self-respect – no, of rehabilitation, or even of a new life. This figurative baptism, this bath of cleanliness, this raising of me above the filth I had sunk in, this way of bringing me overnight face to face with true responsibility, quite simply changed my whole being. I had been a convict, a man who could hear his chains even when he was free and who always felt that someone was watching over him; I had been all the things I had seen, experienced, undergone, suffered; all the things that had urged me to become a marked, evil man, dangerous at all times, superficially docile yet terribly dangerous when he broke out: but all this had vanished – disappeared as though by magic. Thank you, Mr. Bowen, barrister in His Majesty’s courts of law, thank you for having made another man of me in so short a time!

      The very fair-haired girl with eyes as blue as the sea around us was sitting with me under the coconut-palms in her father’s garden. Red, yellow and mauve bougainvillaeas were all in flower, and they gave the garden the touch of poetry that the moment called for. ‘Monsieur Henri, [she called me Monsieur! How many years had it been since anyone called me Monsieur?] as Papa told you yesterday, the British authorities are so unfair, so devoid of understanding, that unfortunately you can’t stay here. They only give you a fortnight to rest and then you must go off to sea again. I went to have a look at your boat early this morning: it looks very small and frail for such a long voyage as you have to make. Let’s hope you reach a more hospitable, understanding country than ours. All the English islands do the same in these cases. If you have a horrid time in the voyage ahead of you, I do ask you not to hold it against the people who live in these islands. They are not responsible for this way of looking at things: these are orders that come from England, from people who don’t know you. Papa’s address is 101 Queen Street, Port of Spain, Trinidad. If it’s God’s will that you can do so. I beg you to send us just a line to tell us what happens to you.’

      I was so moved I didn’t know what to say. Mrs. Bowen came towards us. She was a very beautiful woman of about forty with chestnut hair and green eyes. She was wearing a very simple white dress with a white belt, and a pair of light-green sandals. ‘Monsieur, my husband won’t be home till five. He’s getting them to allow you to go to Port of Spain in his car without a police escort. He also wants to prevent your having to spend the first night in the Port of Spain police-station. Your wounded friend will go straight to a nursing-home belonging to a friend of ours, a doctor; and you two will go to the Salvation Army hostel.’

      Maturette joined us in the garden: he’d been to