What Became of the White Savage (15 page)

Not only was this arrangement a matter of principle for me, it was also a practical necessity. Narcisse had begun to make astonishing progress, and every day spent at sea was needed for the continuation of our work. I was concerned too about the effect Narcisse might have on others: so strange were some of his reactions to events, I preferred to be able to observe him at all times.

We bade a hasty farewell to the governor, who scarcely recognised the clean-shaven, modestly dressed man at my side as the creature he had entrusted to me a mere three months earlier. The once naked savage was now attired in grey trousers and a loose white shirt, a blue cravat and a cap of the same colour. Our leave taking completed, we embarked on the
Strathmore
and set sail that evening.

The first days of the crossing were uneventful, with calm seas and fair winds. The first-class passengers began to make acquaintance with one another. Among their number I noted a few officials and members of the civil service returning home after completing their term of duty, a cotton merchant, an English lady on her way to meet her brother in San Francisco and a couple of Scottish missionaries. (Wherever I go, I seem to encounter British missionaries, one or two on every ship. Are there really so many of them?) Narcisse and I mingled little with our fellow passengers: we were the only Frenchmen on board and we had much to do.

Narcisse spent the first morning strolling about on deck, engrossed in observing the ship and its crew. He examined the rigging, the boom and jib and watched intently as the crew manoeuvered the sails or the cabin boy scrubbed the decks. He gazed at the ordinary seamen, the officers and the captain in his gold-braided jacket, and stared out to sea at the wind on the waves. Such close attention did he pay to all these details, that I was provided with further proof, if such were indeed required, of his seafaring past.

But of what he saw, he said nothing. I enquired as to his sentiments upon finding himself on board ship once again, but Narcisse never speaks of his feelings or emotions. I can never be sure, on such occasions, if he has really understood my question. Perhaps he is loath to share his thoughts, or cannot find the words to express himself. Or perhaps he simply has nothing to say.

One afternoon in the deckhouse, the English lady happened to walk past and glance at Narcisse who had rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. Seeing his tattoos, she uttered a cry of astonishment. Having noticed that I spoke English, she asked me about these strange markings. I replied, somewhat brusquely, that my friend had lived on an island in the South Pacific for a number of years and had decided to have himself embellished in this manner. Realising that we were talking about him, although not understanding the precise nature of our exchange, Narcisse smiled at the lady.

The next morning, he joined me in the dining room for breakfast, and informed me excitedly: “I shagged the English woman last night.” As if to be sure he had made himself clear, he grasped the crotch of his trousers in a lewd gesture.

Surprised and shocked as I was, I almost burst out laughing and explained to Narcisse that it was not seemly to boast of one’s exploits in such a way, nor to make such an uncouth gesture. He was disconcerted by this new rule:

“I must not speak of it?”

“One does not flaunt one’s conquests in such a manner. Ladies prefer such things to remain private. You must be discreet.”

“I can speak of it, but I must be discreet?”

“Yes, but you do not have to mention it at all. With one’s close friends one can discuss such matters. Sometimes it is better, more amusing, not to divulge one’s secrets. One should not make too much of these things.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for example, instead of the gesture you made, you can wink, or just raise your thumb. That is all you need to do.”

I winked at him to show him what I meant, and he tried it himself before asking:

“What about you? Did you shag in Sydney? Or on the ship?”

I beg you to forgive me, Sir, for repeating Narcisse’s words in all their coarseness. You instructed me to make a note of everything – scientific enquiry should never be compromised by mere notions of good taste – and, if you will indulge me by reading my missive to the end, you will understand the significance of his choice of words.

I explained to Narcisse that one did not ask such direct questions and that I preferred not to give him an answer.

“But we are friends, close friends?”

Dismayed to see that he had misunderstood, I smiled and reassured him on the subject of our friendship. Sensible of my reticence, he showed remarkable tact and did not press me any further on the subject. He then announced: “In Sydney, I didn’t shag. Didn’t want to.”

What did he mean by this? Had the linen girl propositioned him? I was unable to restrain myself from asking him to clarify this.

“In the house. Bill signals to me to come into his room. Then he puts his hand on my belly, and lower down. I ask him why. He shows me he wants to shag me. I say no. I leave the room.”

I was completely taken aback by this confession. I had rescued this convict from the penal colony, given him my trust and employed him in my service. He had taken advantage of that trust to indulge in the basest of his vices under my roof and had singled out Narcisse as the least likely to offer any resistance. One can imagine what depravity must be rife in the penal colony, but I was nevertheless astounded by the depths of this scoundrel’s ingratitude. I reproached myself bitterly for having left Narcisse open to such abuse. Every day that passes brings further confirmation of the extent of my obligation towards this young man. This incident reminded me yet again that I alone am responsible for Narcisse.

Bill’s vile overtures called for a long explanation, but nothing would have made me more uncomfortable than a discussion of this subject. Without pausing to weigh up the most appropriate response, I said simply: “You acted correctly.”

So shocked was I to learn of the convict Bill’s degenerate nature, that I did not immediately perceive the most important element of this conversation. Narcisse’s very words were: “I shagged the English woman.”

Where had he learnt this obscene word? Certainly not from me. And on board ship, as in Sydney, he heard no French from anyone but me. Could it be that his new lady friend had taught him this expression?

At the risk of making a scene, I resolved to clear up the matter. Some time later, I passed the lady in question on the gangway. I greeted her in French with a courteous “
Bonjour, madame,
” and in the same conversational tone one might adopt to exchange pleasantries, I enquired : “
Alors, vous avez baisé avec mon ami?
” repeating the very words Narcisse had used. But she registered no understanding of my impudent question, and I was neither slapped nor castigated for my insolence. She merely asked me to repeat in English what I had said. I excused myself for my momentary lapse into French, uttered an appropriately banal pleasantry, and continued on my way, satisfied that this woman had played no part in the conundrum before me.

I perceived that the only possible explanation was that Narcisse had spontaneously recovered this lewd expression. He had no doubt uttered it frequently during his seafaring days, when he must have played his part in the daily round of swearing and bragging with his shipmates. Proud of his recent amorous exploit and wishing to tell me about it, he had summoned up the expression from the depths of his memory. Perhaps there had already been other less striking words that he had recovered in a similar fashion. I began to see that in his lessons with me, he was not merely learning French; he was rediscovering it, often quite independently of my efforts, and with a rapidity that would have been truly astonishing had he indeed forgotten it entirely.

Imagine, if you will, that his knowledge of our language remains frozen within him, bound in ice, and that it has not simply disappeared from his mind like a page of writing dissolved in water. Our conversations are like warm breezes wafting over the frozen block; from the moment I began to read Racine’s verse to him, the ice has been melting, slowly at first, and then with gathering speed. And as it does so, the language locked inside gradually emerges from the frost that binds it. I am reminded of spring in Iceland, visions of snowdrops piercing through the snow as the meadows are released from their winter wrapping. And I had that English woman to thank for having enabled me to see this.

In the days that followed, this same lady would often retire to her cabin in the afternoon complaining of seasickness. Narcisse would disappear a few moments later. And the next morning in the dining room, he would wink and give me a thumbs-up gesture.

Three days before our arrival in Valparaiso, we were taking the air on the poop deck, conversing about nothing in particular. To say we were conversing is perhaps a little misleading, since our dialogue was largely confined to my efforts to engage Narcisse on all manner of subjects. He listened and occasionally, all too rarely, responded with a few words. I reminded him that upon our return to France he would be able to continue with his old life and we would go our separate ways. Sad as I would be to bring to a close our singular adventure, I would accept that this was the appropriate course of action. I added, half to myself: “
C’est la vie.
” He asked me to repeat what I had just said, a request he had never yet made until this moment. I did as he asked, and carefully enunciating every word, repeated that we would go our separate ways, adding as before: “
C’est la vie
.” Narcisse then said quite clearly: “Vie… Vie… Gil… Vie.”

He did not usually make spontaneous associations between words, and “Gil” was a new addition, as new as the vulgar expression on the subject of which I have already importuned you too much. I was taken aback by the solemn air of concentration Narcisse adopted as he continued to mutter: “Gil… Vie… Gil.”

Was the word “
vie
” itself reviving a vague memory of another life? And who or what was this “gil” or “gilles”? Prompted perhaps by the sight of the sea and the waves, my thoughts turned to a small fishing town in the Vendée, Saint-Gilles-sur-Vie. Without wishing to exert undue influence on Narcisse’s ruminations, I suggested:

“Gilles-sur-Vie?” Narcisse responded immediately with “Saint-Gilles-sur-Vie,” a look of astonishment on his face. We were both taken aback by his prompt completion of this name.

“Are you acquainted with the town of Saint-Gilles-sur-Vie?”

“I don’t know.”

He repeated the name several times, as if to savour its sonorities, or perhaps to summon up further sounds or more precise memories.

“Narcisse, do you come from Saint-Gilles-sur-Vie? Did you live there? Are your parents there?”

He did not reply, but went aft to stare into the water and contemplate the ship’s wake. What were his thoughts as he gazed at the line carved by the ship in the water, a line that led directly to Australia? In deference to his desire for solitude, I left him alone.

As I pondered the significance of this spontaneous recall of the town’s name I wondered if Saint-Gilles-sur-Vie was indeed the place of his birth. Was this his childhood home, the scene of his schooldays, his earliest games? For what name other than that of his childhood home could spring forth with such force from a memory as shattered as his?

No longer a man with no identity, the white savage now has a name and a place of origin: Narcisse from Saint-Gilles-sur-Vie.

I wrote a letter to the Mayor of Saint-Gilles-sur-Vie, asking him if a son of the town had disappeared ten or twenty years before during a long sea voyage.

With every passing day, as we come closer to Europe, I begin to take stock of what awaits Narcisse, and of the experiences to which I shall be exposing him.

Our next port of call was Valparaiso, where we made a brief stop. The captain did not wish to make landfall for fear of losing members of his crew to the gold fever that was laying waste to ships’ crews faster than an epidemic of cholera. Men were flocking to California from all over the world, eager to join the gold rush and seek their fortune. We therefore remained at anchor in the bay while the dinghy went ashore carrying the mail and with it the aforementioned English lady, still complaining of seasickness. As soon as the dinghy returned, loaded with fresh supplies for the ship, the captain was eager to depart.

We set sail that very afternoon, our course set for the south.

Before long the weather turned foul and a storm was soon upon us. The next week was spent in a prolonged battle to round Cape Horn, where the notorious winter passage proved equal to its reputation. I hardly need to describe to you the raging seas and louring green-tinged skies we encountered, nor the ever-present dangers of icebergs and monstrous waves, or the spectacle of albatross and giant petrel, those great seabirds, borne aloft and buffeted by the winds. You are well acquainted with it all.

I was quite undone by the pitching and rolling of the ship, as were most of the other passengers. Gigantic waves crashed against the hull. At night my bunk was tossed around with the heaving of the ship; sleep was impossible, dreams mercifully denied. Eating was out of the question. I lacked the strength even to pay attention to Narcisse, let alone to engage him in conversation.

Seemingly unaffected by the storm, Narcisse kept his sea legs and maintained a healthy appetite. After three days of idleness, he was bored and expressed a wish to help manoeuvring the sails. Unable to dissuade him from his plan, and in a rare moment when the turmoil of my stomach allowed, I informed the captain. I stressed that this was not a mere whim and that my friend had considerable seafaring experience. The captain of the
Strathmore
, no doubt imagining that Narcisse was no more than an amateur yachtsman, responded with a polite refusal: it was out of the question to send a first-class passenger into the rigging at the height of a storm. Only in the most extreme circumstances would he consider such a thing, and the ship was certainly in no danger of sinking. Furthermore, Narcisse would be unable to understand the orders shouted to the crew in English. I concurred on this point but asked that he be permitted to take the helm.