don’t want to know. But I’ll just give you this tip. The day you feel like sleeping here, come along. I’ll look after you.’
He spoke an odd sort of French, but from his accent I realized he was a Corsican. ‘You a Corsican?’
‘Yes. And you know a Corsican never betrays. Not like some guys from the north,’ he added, with a knowing smile.
‘Thanks. It’s good to know.’
Towards seven o’clock, Jojo lit the carbide lamp. The two blankets were laid out on the ground. No chairs. The gamblers would either stand or squat. We decided I shouldn’t play that night. Just watch, that’s all.
They started to arrive. Extraordinary mugs. Few short men: most were huge, bearded, moustachio’d types. Hands and faces were clean; they didn’t smell; yet their clothes were all stained and very nearly worn out. But every single one of the shirts – mostly short-sleeved – was spotlessly clean.
In the middle of the cloth, eight pairs of dice were neatly arranged, each in a little box. Jojo asked me to give each player a paper cup. There were about twenty of them. I poured out the rum. Not a single guy there jerked up the neck of the bottle to say enough. After just one round, three bottles vanished.
Each man deliberately took a sip, then put his cup down in front of him and laid an aspirin tube beside it. I knew that there were diamonds in those tubes. A shaky old Chinese set up a little jeweller’s scales in front of him. Nobody said much. These men were shagged out: they’d been labouring under the blazing sun, some of them standing in water up to their middles from six in the morning till the sun went down.
Ha, things were beginning to move! First one, then two, then three players took up a pair of dice and examined them carefully, pressing them tight together and passing them on to their neighbour. Everything must have seemed to be in order, because the dice were tossed back on to the blanket without anything being said. Each time, Jojo picked up the pair and put them back in their box, all except for the last, which stayed there on the blanket.
Some men who had taken off their shirts complained of the mosquitoes. Jojo asked me to burn a few handfuls of damp grass, so that the smoke would help to drive them out.
‘Who kicks off?’ asked a huge copper-coloured guy with a thick black curly beard and a lopsided flower tattooed on his right arm.
‘You, if you like,’ said Jojo.
Out of his silver-mounted belt, the gorilla – for he looked very like a gorilla – brought an enormous wad of bolivar-notes held in an elastic band.
‘What are you kicking off with, Chino?’ asked another man.
‘Five hundred bolos.’ Bolos is short for bolivars.
‘OK for five hundred.’
And the craps rolled. The eight came up. Jojo tried to shoot the eight.
‘A thousand bolos you don’t shoot the eight with double fours,’ said another player.
‘I take that,’ said Jojo.
Chino managed to roll the eight, by five and three. Jojo had lost. For five hours on end the game continued without an exclamation, without the least dispute. These men were uncommon gamblers. That night Jojo lost seven thousand bolos and a guy with a game leg more than ten thousand.
It had been decided to stop the game at midnight, but everyone agreed to carry on for another hour. At one o’clock Jojo said this was the last crack.
‘It was me that kicked off,’ said Chino, taking the dice. ‘I’ll close it. I lay all my winnings, nine thousand bolivars.’
He had a mass of notes and diamonds in front of him. He covered a whole lot of other stakes and rolled the seven first go.
At this terrific stroke of luck, for the first time a murmur went round. The men stood up. ‘Let’s get some sleep.’
‘Well, you saw that, mate?’ said Jojo when we were alone.
‘Yes: and what I noticed most were those right hard mugs. They all carry a gun and a knife. There were even some who sat on their machêtes, so sharp they could take your head off in one swipe.’
‘That’s a fact: but you’ve seen others like them.’
‘Even so…I ran the table on the islands, but I tell you I never had such a feeling of danger as tonight.’
‘It’s all a matter of habit, mate. Tomorrow you’ll play and we’ll win: it’s in the bag. As you see it,’ he added, ‘which are the guys to 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 nor 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 said to me, ‘Where do you come from, brother?’
‘After what you said yesterday, I can’t lie to you. I come from penal.’
‘Ah? You escaped? I’m glad you told me.’
‘And what about you?’
He drew himself up, six foot 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 honour – an honourable bandit.’
His face, all lit up with the pride of being an honest man, impressed me. He was really magnificent to see, this honourable bandit. He went on, ‘Corsica is the paradise of the world, the only country where men will give their lives for honour. You don’t believe it?’
‘I don’t know whether it’s the only country, but I do believe you’ll find more men in the maquis who are there on account of their honour than 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 ever 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