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Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk
Previously published in paperback by Grafton 1974
First published in Great Britain by Hart-Davis, MacGibbon Ltd 1973
Copyright © Editions Robert Laffont, S. A. 1972
This translation copyright © Hart-Davis, MacGibbon Ltd 1973
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780586040102
Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780007378890
Version: 2016-02-26
To the memory of Dr Alex Guibert-Germain, to Madame Alex Guibert-Germain, to my countrymen, the Venezuelans, to my French, Spanish, Swiss, Belgian, Italian, Yugoslav, German, English, Greek, American, Turkish, Finnish, Japanese, Israeli, Swedish, Czechoslovak, Danish, Argentine, Colombian, and Brazilian friends and all those friends who are faceless but who have done me the honour of writing to me.
‘What you think of yourself matters more than what others think of you.’
(author unknown to Papillon)
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Translator’s Introduction
1: First Steps into Freedom
2: The Mine
3: Jojo La Passe
4: Farewell to El Callao
5: Caracas
6: The Tunnel under the Bank
7: Carotte: the Pawn-Shop
8: The Bomb
9: Maracaibo: among the Indians
10: Rita—the Vera Cruz
11: My Father
12: I become a Venezuelan
13: My Childhood
14: The Revolution
15: Camarones
16: The Gorilla
17: Montmartre—My Trial
Keep Reading
About the Publisher
Translator’s Introduction
MIDDLE-AGED, impoverished by an earthquake and worried about his future, Henri Charrière sat down to write a book to restore his fortunes: it was his first, and he called it Papillon, the name by which he had been known in the underworld of Paris and in the French penal settlements. He had no great opinion of himself as an author and he was quite willing to have it improved, cut about and put into ‘good French’; but the first publisher he sent it to happened to employ a brilliant editor who at once realized the exceptional quality of the manuscript and who delivered it to an astonished public in its original state, merely tidying up the punctuation, the spelling and a very few points of style.
That was in 1970, the year of the phénomène Papillon, a phenomenon almost unparalleled in the annals of publishing: it was not only that an extraordinary number of people read the book (850,000 copies were sold in the first few months), but that the readers embraced the whole spectrum of literary opinion, from the Académie Française to those whose lips moved slowly as they made their fascinated way through the strange adventures of an indomitable man struggling against the society that had sent him to rot in the infamous tropical prisons of Guiana with a life-sentence for a murder that he had never committed.
They were all deeply moved by the burning sense of injustice that runs right through the book and that gives it its coherence and validity, but even more by Papillon’s sheer narrative power, his innate genius for telling a story. ‘This is a literary prodigy,’ said François Mauriac. ‘It is utterly fascinating reading…This new colleague of ours is a master!’ And he pointed out that it was not enough to have been a transported convict and to have escaped again and again; extraordinary talent was required to give the book its ring of truth and to make its value ‘exactly proportional to its immense success’.
The soundness of Mauriac’s words can be seen not only from the immense quantities of hopeless manuscripts by other ex-prisoners (purple characters, but untouched by genius) that flow into publishers’ offices every week, but also by the baldness of the following summary that is intended to put the reader of this second volume into the picture: the main facts are here, but I am the first to admit that the heart of the matter is lacking.
The facts, then: in 1931 Henri Charrière, alias Papillon, was sentenced to transportation for life and he was taken away with some hundreds of others in a prison-ship bound for South America, for French Guiana. Here he found himself in an appallingly tough and savage world where corruption, terrorism, sodomy and murder were commonplace; he was well equipped for survival in this world, being as tough as any man there, perfectly loyal to his friends and perfectly uncompromising in his hatred of the official establishment, and in time he could have carved out a respectable place for himself. But he had no intention of staying; he had sworn not to serve his unjust sentence, and forty-two days after his arrival he made a break. With two companions (one broke his leg in escaping) he made his way down the Maroni river in a crazy boat; at a remote lepers’ island they changed boats and so rode out to sea, sailing under the broiling sun day after day until at last they reached Trinidad. On and on to Curaçao, where the boat was wrecked; on to Rio Hacha in Colombia, where the wind failed them and they were taken prisoner. Another break, this time with a Colombian friend, and eventually Papillon reached hostile Indian territory, alone and on foot. They took him in, gave him two wives, and then, when at last he would stay no longer, a bag of pearls. Back to Colombia, only to be arrested and imprisoned once more, and, after several abortive breaks, handed over to the French authorities. Then solitary confinement on the Île Saint-Joseph—a deeply moving account of the silence, the heat and the utter loneliness of that dim, timeless, underground cage—two years of it. When at last it was over and he was out in the light again, he began to make a raft for another break; but a fellow convict informed upon him, and having killed the informer he went back to solitary—an eight years’ sentence cut to nineteen months for rescuing a little girl from the sharks. Another attempt to escape; transfer to Devil’s Island and then the final break at last, riding two sacks of coconuts through the shark-infested sea to the mainland. A new boat and a new series of adventures brought him, by way of British Guiana (and a new wife), to Venezuela and to the Venezuelan penal settlement at El Dorado, where he was held on the charge of being a rogue and a vagabond. But a coup d’état in Caracas brought the promise of release, and the last pages of the book show Papillon, equipped with genuine papers at last, and dressed in good civilian clothes, ready to walk out into freedom after thirteen years of being in prison or on the run. That is where the present volume starts, and from now on his story is told in his own infinitely more living words.
But, before I leave Henri Charrière to tell his own story, perhaps I may be permitted to say a word about the translation. I had followed Papillon’s wild success; I had watched the splendid time the author was having (Papillon in a sledge with Brigitte Bardot, Papillon with an immense cigar and a diamond ring, Papillon in a dinner-jacket, painting Paris red) with delight and with admiration for his iron resistance; but I had been afraid that fame and wealth might alter his style and complicate my task. Not at all: as soon as I looked into Banco I recognized exactly the same voice: here and there a slightly more literary turn of phrase, here and there a literary allusion, but not the least change in the essential Papillon. So I made no alteration in the techniques I had adopted for translating his earlier book: of these the only one that seems to call for any explanation is my use of a somewhat archaic Americanized slang, particularly in the dialogue. This seemed to me the only way of rendering Papillon’s equally archaic argot; and in the few cases where even American would not quite yield the liveliness of the French, I comforted myself with the proverb from Papillon’s own country: ‘If you cannot have thrushes to eat, then you must make do with blackbirds.’
PATRICK O’BRIAN
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 behind me these thirteen years. I held Picolino by the arm and we took a few steps up the steep path from the river-bank, where the officer had left us, to the village of El Dorado. And now, sitting here in my old Spanish house on the night of 18th August 1971, to be exact, I can see myself with unbelievable clarity on that pebbly track; and not only does the officer’s voice ring in my ears in just the same way, deep and clear, but I make the same movement that I made twenty-seven years ago – I turn my head.
It is midnight: outsidé, the night is dark. And yet it’s not. For me, for me alone, the sun is shining: it’s ten o’clock in the morning and I stare at the loveliest shoulders, the loveliest back I have ever seen in my life – my gaoler’s back moving farther and farther away, symbolizing the end of the watching, the spying, the surveillance that had gone on every day, night, minute and second, never stopping for thirteen years.
A last look at the river, a last look beyond the warder at the island in the middle with the Venezuelan penal settlement on it, a last look at a hideous past that lasted thirteen years and in which I was trampled upon, degraded and ground down.
All at once pictures seemed to be forming against the mists raised from the water by the blazing tropical sun, to show me the road I had travelled these thirteen years, as though it were on a screen. I refused to watch the film; I caught Picolino by the arm, turned my back on the weird picture and led 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 plateaux of Venezuelan Guiana, in a little village deep in the most luxuriant virgin forest you can imagine. This was the south-east tip of Venezuela, close to the Brazilian frontier: an enormous sea of green broken only here and there by the waterfalls of the rivers and streams that ran through it – a green ocean with widely-scattered little communities with ways and customs worthy of biblical times, gathered round a chapel, where no priest even had to talk about love for all men and simplicity because that was the way they lived naturally, all the year round. Often these pueblitos are only linked to others, as remote as themselves, by a truck or two: and looking at the trucks, you wondered how they ever got so far. And in their way of life 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, drawing 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 the left, little houses, all bright and clean and surrounded by flowers. Some children had caught sight of us: they knew where we came from. They came up to us, not unfriendly at all; no, they were kind, and they walked beside us without a word. They seemed to understand how grave this moment was, and they respected it.
There was a little wooden table in front of the first house with a fat black woman selling coffee and arepas, maize cakes.
‘Good morning, lady.’
‘Buenos dias, hombres.'
‘Two coffees, please.’
‘St, señores.’ And the good fat creature poured us out two cups of delicious coffee: we drank them 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 there a bus?’
‘Today’s a holiday, so there’s no bus; but there’s a truck at eleven.’
‘Is that right? 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 paralysed. He’s got to go to 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 come and 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 it was a woman of about thirty who took over. She was almost black. She asked me whether I was married. Yes, in France. 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 then spoke – he had big, staring eyes, but they were kind – ’My relation 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.’
‘What do you think I was a prisoner on Devil’s Island for?’
‘Something very serious, for sure. Maybe for having killed someone, or for a really big theft. What did you get?’
‘Penal servitude for life.’
‘The top sentence here is thirty years. How many did you do?’
‘Thirteen. 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 be forced to feel ill-will towards other men and maybe even hate them. Only forgetting will let you love them again and live among them. Marry as soon as ever 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. In their kindness these humble people left us the best seats, next to the driver.
As we lurched wildly along the bumpy, pot-holed 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 working-man 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 that sense of Christian charity and nobility of heart that forgives men who have done wrong? How did they manage to find just the right encouraging words, helping the ex-convict with their advice and what little they possessed? 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 idea of giving the man who is down his chance, whoever he is and however bad the thing he’s done? Those were not qualities that could ever come from Europeans: so the Venezuelans must have got them from the Indians.
Here we are in El Callao. A big square: music. Of course: it is 5th July, the national holiday. People dressed in their best clothes, the motley crowd of tropical countries where all sorts of colours are mixed – black, yellow, white, and the copper of the Indians, whose race always comes out in the slightly slanting eyes and the lighter skin. Picolino and I got out, as well as 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. With my little bundle in one hand and Picolino holding 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 and a few hundred bolivars (one bolivar is worth about ten new pence) given me by my mathematical pupils at the penal settlement. And a few raw diamonds found among the tomatoes in the kitchen-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 boarding-house.
‘Come to my place first: then you can look around.’
We crossed the square with her and in a couple of 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,’ said the girl. 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, smooth black hair, the same colour as his daughter’s; Indian eyes. 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,’ said the father. And he repeated the ritual words, ‘This house is yours. Sit down here, round the table. Are you hungry? Would you like coffee or rum?’
I didn’t want to offend him by refusing so I said I’d like some coffee. The house was clean, but 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 sooner tell you that myself, before you hear it from someone else.’
Maria poured coffee for us. Now I could look at her more closely, seeing she had come to sit down 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, came down to her shoulders. She had fine features, and although you could make out the drop of Indian blood from the colour of her skin, there was nothing Mongolian about her face. She had a sensuous mouth: splendid teeth. Every now and then she showed 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, hidden by a brassière that could be seen 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 bright red, and two pencilled lines at the corners of her huge eyes made 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 coloured 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.’ [Henri: in Spanish they say Enrique.]
‘Were you in prison long?’
‘Thirteen 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. Still, 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.’ said Maria. ‘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: the room was in use, because they brought out women’s things and put them somewhere else. I pretended not to notice anything. No bed, but something better, something you see most of the time in the tropics – two fine wool hammocks. A big window with just shutters – no glass – opening on to 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 why I let myself be managed was because I had been a prisoner so long that obeying was the only thing I understood. Yet now I was free and I ought to make my own decisions; but still I was letting myself be led. Just like a bird when you open the door of its cage and it doesn’t know how to fly any more. 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. Just one thought before I dropped off: these people’s hospitality was something staggering and wonderful.
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: a machête in his belt.