Banco: The Further Adventures of Papillon by Henri Charrière Page A

watch closest?”
    “The Brazilians.”
    “Well done! That’s how you can tell a man--the way he spots the ones who may turn lethal from one second to another.”
    When we had locked the door (three huge bolts) we threw ourselves into our hammocks, and I dropped off right away, before Jojo could start his snoring.
    The next day, a splendid sun arose fit to roast you--not a cloud or the least hint of a breeze. I wandered about this curious village. Everyone was welcoming. Disturbing faces on the men, sure enough, but they had a way of saying things (in whatever language they spoke) so there was a warm human contact right away. I found the enormous Corsican redhead again. His name was Miguel. He spoke fluent Venezuelan with English or Brazilian words dropping into it every now and then, as if they’d come down by parachute. It was only when he spoke French, which he did with difficulty, that his Corsican accent came out. We drank coffee that a young brown girl had strained through a sock. As we were talking he asked, “Where do you come from, brother?”
    “After what you said yesterday, I can’t lie to you. I come from the penal colony.”
    “Ah? You escaped? I’m glad you told me.”
    “And what about you?”
    He drew himself up, six feet and more, and his redhead’s face took on an extremely noble expression. “I escaped, too, but not from Guiana. I left Corsica before they could arrest me. I’m a bandit of honor--an honorable bandit.”
    His face, all lit up with the pride of being an honest man, impressed me. He was really magnificent to see, this honorable bandit. He went on, “Corsica is the paradise of the world, the only country where men will give their lives for honor. You don’t believe it?”
    “I don’t know whether it’s the only country, but I do believe you’ll find more men who are fugitives on account of their honor than because they’re just plain bandits.”
    “I don’t care for town bandits,” he said thoughtfully.
    In a couple of words I told him how things were with me; and I said I meant to go back to Paris to present my bill.
    “You’re right; but revenge is a dish you want to eat cold. Go about it as carefully as you can; it would be terrible if they picked you up before you had had your satisfaction. You’re with old Jojo?”
    “Yes.”
    “He’s straight. Some people say he’s too clever with the dice, but I don’t believe he’s a wrong ‘un. You’ve known him long?”
    “Not very; but that doesn’t matter.”
    “Why, Papi, the more you gamble the more you know about other men--that’s nature; but there’s one thing that worries me for you.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Two or three times his partner’s been murdered. That’s why I said what I did yesterday evening. Take care, and when you don’t feel safe, you come here. You can trust me.”
    “Thanks, Miguel.”
    Yes, a curious village all right, a curious mixture of men lost in the bush, living a rough life in the middle of an explosive landscape. Each one had his story. It was wonderful to see them, wonderful to listen to them. Their shacks were sometimes no more than a roof of palm fronds or bits of corrugated iron, and God knows how they got there. The walls were strips of cardboard or wood or sometimes even cloth. No beds; only hammocks. They slept, ate, washed and made love almost in the street. And yet nobody would lift a corner of the canvas or peer between the planks to see what was going on inside. Everybody had the utmost respect for others’ privacy. If you wanted to go and see anyone, you never went nearer than a couple of yards before calling out, by way of ringing the bell, “Is anyone home?” If someone was, and he didn’t know you, you said, “ Gente de paz ,” the same as saying, I’m a friend. Then someone would appear and say politely, “ A delante. Esta casa es suya .” Come in; this house is yours.
    A table in front of a solid hut made of well-fitting logs. On the table,