What Became of the White Savage (7 page)

For a few moments, he was pleased with himself for having understood the truth. But why had they sent her to him? Should he go in search of the rest of them? But what good would it do him to climb a tree or comb the woods? They’d show themselves when they were good and ready. They’d stay hidden if they felt like it. Either they’d send the old woman to him, or they wouldn’t. She could bring him life-giving water, or she could give him a poisoned apple. He had no means of knowing the rules of the cruel game they were playing. He sat down under a tree.

When he was a boy, playing with the other lads in the courtyard before their catechism lessons, he and the other boys would sometimes play with a mouse brought there by the cat. The little creature would run around, coming up against a boot, the fence of the vegetable plot, or a plank laid across the courtyard by the boys. They’d move the obstacles around and the mouse would flail about desperately, crashing into the barriers they put up. But it would never give in, and its tormentors had to remain on their guard – woe betide the careless lad who let the little creature get away. Finally, when the curate rang the bell, they’d go in, leaving the mouse at the cat’s mercy.

Now it was his turn to be that mouse.

The old woman was back. He hadn’t seen her coming, but she was walking at a good pace towards the forest. He went over to join her, but she paid him no attention and continued to walk at the same pace.

“Where are you going, you old crone?”

She seemed not to hear him when he spoke. Angrily, he called out to the trees, the hill, the bay:

“I know you’re there! I know you’re watching me! Come out and show yourselves! Why are you hiding? I know what you’re up to!”

She carried on walking, heedless of his shouts, already disappearing into the trees that marked the edge of the forest. He ran to catch up and made to grab her wrist to stop her, but she anticipated his move and he didn’t even manage to touch her. Should he throw himself to the ground, force her to stop? But then what?

He started walking beside her. Were they heading for a spring? A place where there was good hunting? His hunger was ever present, and like it or not, this woman was his only chance of getting anything to eat.

After about two hours of walking, he began to get worried. They’d left the beach and were moving inland away from the coast. Everything in this flat forest looked the same. So different from the forests of his childhood, where he’d go to collect firewood and look for mushrooms, or birds’ nests. The trees here were all the same. Instead of the infinite variety of beech, ash, alder and chestnut there was only a tree that he couldn’t identify. No undergrowth, no fertile compost of rotting vegetation. Only this sterile, sandy earth; no animals but lizards and flies of all kinds. There was no breath of wind in this forest, no whisper of the breeze stirring the foliage, no cracking of a branch, no rustling of unseen beasts. Here the space was filled with the emptiness of an overwhelming silence.

His shipmates would never find him if he went too far away from the shore. He could leave the old woman and retrace his steps, but he’d starve to death or die of thirst before the ship came back. He had to get her to turn back with him. He tried to block her path, standing in front of her with his arms spread to show her that he would not go any further. But she anticipated his move as before, and with an agile movement slipped under his arm and continued without slowing down or deviating from her path.

He’d have to keep going. What else could he do? She carried on walking without turning round to see if he was following. After a few moments’ hesitation, he set off again, walking about twenty paces behind her.

The plain had given way to a gentle slope, getting slowly steeper; they were climbing. From the top of the hill, he’d be able to see the sea and fix his position, work out a route back to the bay.

But up on the plateau, the same trees grew in a dense formation, completely blocking the view. The old woman carried on walking. They went downhill again. He was lost, with no way to find his bearings. He felt he was being plunged into a desolate limbo, far away from the land of the living.

The sand gave way to dusty red earth. Night was approaching. Hungry and thirsty, exhausted now from the long march, he began to stagger drunkenly, leaves and branches whipping him as he stumbled blindly along.

And then, all of a sudden, the trees began to thin out and he saw a clearing, with a dark greenish pool in the centre.

On the far side of the pool, a fire was burning.

Sydney, 17th March 1861

Monsieur le Président,

I had thought that this affair would be no more than the stuff of an amusing anecdote, but it is gradually becoming clear to me that I am embarked upon a veritable adventure. I believe that you may find some use for the singular details of this tale, which I now take the liberty of recounting to you.

The governor was true to his word. Once I agreed to accept the curious mission he wished to confer on me, he promptly gave me his full support and enquired as to my needs.

Taking a room for Narcisse at my hotel was out of the question: no respectable establishment would have accepted this speechless creature. Virtually naked, hirsute and covered in tattoos, he did indeed present a somewhat alarming spectacle. Equally inconceivable was the prospect of setting off for France immediately. For what captain would have taken on such a passenger? Narcisse would first have to learn to speak our language, how to dress, and how to conduct himself in polite society. In short, he would have to adopt our way of life.

A small house was made available to me at the far end of one of the longest inlets of Sydney Bay. This charming residence belongs to the colony and reputedly once housed the mistress of a former governor. Open on one side to the sea, and with a small river at the back, the house can be reached by dinghy or by means of a rough trail. A discreet guard was mounted at the gate and ordered to remain out of sight. It was not clear to me whether they were there to protect us or to prevent us from leaving, although this was perhaps of little import.

We were transported to the house in a dinghy along with the servant I had requested. Bill had been serving his time in the colony for the last three years, convicted of a series of thefts, precise details of which I do not know. He proved to be an obedient servant. Resourceful, intelligent and ambitious, he had previously been in service in several good families in London and understood that the report I gave of him would determine his future in Australia.

The house consists of a tastefully furnished apartment, opening onto a veranda. At the back, there is a simple kitchen and two modestly appointed bedrooms. A meadow, bordered by trees, leads down to the jetty. Beyond the river, a few flowering shrubs mark the boundary between the grounds and the sparse forest that one sees everywhere around Sydney.

It did not take long for us to move in. The crew of the dinghy deposited our possessions in front of the house, and Master Bill busied himself with organising them. I was informed by the coxswain that if I were to need assistance, I was to hoist a white flag to the top of the flagpole, or at night, a lantern, and the dinghy would come to my rescue within two hours.

After they had left, I considered my situation, not without some ambivalence. Had I thrown myself too hastily into a ridiculous experiment? What was I doing here at the back of beyond in Australia, with this white savage, and a convict for a servant?

As for Narcisse, he seemed less concerned about such matters and was clearly pleased to have regained his liberty. Freed from the confines of his prison and from the watchful scrutiny of soldiers armed with bludgeons, he wandered about at will. He went down to the river, drank deeply from it and went over to sit on the grass and gaze at the sea. He had not uttered a word since our encounter in the governor’s garden. While he sat there, completely still, I took the opportunity to make some sketches of the tattoos and scarifications on his back, shoulders and torso.

My sketching was interrupted by Bill who came to ask for my instructions for dinner. I was thrown into confusion by this simple, everyday question. Narcisse had eaten almost nothing while in prison, and what little he did accept, was consumed with visible disgust. I instructed Bill to vary the dishes on a daily basis, hoping to stimulate Narcisse’s appetite and learn something of his tastes. From then on our mealtimes were full of unexpected and surprising moments in which Bill did his best to provide a mixture of flavours, striving to recreate dishes from every corner of the world. It was soon apparent that neither sweets nor foods from the dairy appealed to Narcisse. He enjoys meat, but only when grilled. He loves fish and considers nuts to be an incomparable delight.

In the morning, after his swim in the river, Narcisse breakfasts on whatever is left over from the previous evening, preferring it not heated. He eats no midday meal. When the sun sets, he dines on a hot meal, but without the use of knife or fork. Not wishing to modify my own habits, I instructed Bill to serve me exactly as he would were I to be dining in company. Narcisse occasionally observes me as I sup by candlelight on the terrace, the table set with porcelain plates, crystal glasses and silver candelabras.

From the second day, I concerned myself with improving his appearance. It was a long time since his unruly hair had seen a comb and it grew over his neck and covered his shoulders. His face was concealed by a thick, dirty beard. I now instructed Bill to play Figaro to Narcisse.

I should tell you that convicts in Australia have their heads shaved once a week, and must remain clean-shaven, with neither beard nor moustache. This ingenious rule makes it easy to identify them and to recapture them if they escape. My man Bill was subject to this ruling and I feared that he would give the same treatment to my countryman, if only out of malice. I therefore stayed close at hand as he wielded the razor and scissors. He combed Narcisse’s brown hair back from his face, shaved his beard and fashioned his whiskers in the English style with a thin, neatly trimmed moustache. When he had finished his barbering, I could scarcely believe my eyes. Narcisse looked ten years younger and now presented an attractive physiognomy, with the ugly scar on his left ear covered by his longish hair. Bill was to be commended on his work.

The question of attire was somewhat more delicate. In order to take Narcisse back to France, I would have to teach him to dress in the European fashion. He had been clothed, all this time, in nothing but a loincloth given to him by the crew of the
John Bell
, and it was with this rudimentary garment that we would have to begin.

In accordance with my instructions, Bill assisted Narcisse in removing the insalubrious garment and donning some drawers. Narcisse accepted this latest flight of fancy with the same resigned indifference he showed towards everything. Turning my attention towards my servant’s livery, I determined that it was not fitting for this convict to so disport himself in a costume that was not at all reminiscent of the colony and its harsh discipline. That he should thus place himself above my unfortunate compatriot was not to be countenanced. Nothing should suggest that Narcisse was inferior in rank to an English convict. I therefore ordered Bill, ignoring any objections he might harbour, to restrict his own attire to his drawers.

On his left shoulder, Bill has a tattoo in the shape of a flower, which his shirt had hitherto hidden from sight. Looking at these two men, dressed in the same fashion and both sporting tattoos, I reflected on life’s vicissitudes and the unexpected turns of fate. If providence had determined otherwise, Bill might have been the castaway, Narcisse a member of the crew that found him some years later.

On the afternoon of the second day, Bill came to inform me, in an obsequious tone heavy with innuendo, that my protégé had urinated in his trousers. The implication was that Narcisse was unable to control himself and did not deserve to be treated as an adult: he was no better than a child who wets the bed. I was shaken for a moment. Was it possible that Narcisse was mad, or simple? Not the simple-minded village idiot, living out his life in his village, who no captain would burden himself with for a long sea voyage. But regressed to childhood, or to infancy, perhaps as the result of a blow to the head. The doctor at the garrison, however, had found no scars to the head. Could this be the result of the sufferings of his exile, the extreme anguish of his sorrows? Had he lost his reason as the ship foundered, or a few months after the shipwreck?

And yet contrary to Bill’s insinuations, Narcisse’s demean-our provides daily evidence of his intelligence. In spite of the language barrier, we communicate in gestures; his efforts to improve our exchanges are as avid as mine. His reserved attitude, his interest in all that we do, his ability to learn, all this suggests an adult of sound mind, utterly foreign, but entirely normal. I hold firm in my belief that I will succeed in bringing him back to our world. I surmised that if he had embarrassed himself thus, it was simply because he had forgotten our customs with respect to such matters. The question would have to be approached with the same patience and gentleness I strove to employ in all our endeavours. I instructed Bill to provide Narcisse with fresh linen, and then to show him how to relieve himself without mishap. At a time when I had so many pressing details to take care of, I was much amused by the comical spectacle of Bill’s crestfallen and incredulous expression. He nevertheless complied, although not without much indistinct muttering of an array of obscenities, and the lesson was successful: Narcisse adopted our habits in this regard with good grace.

But of greater import than all of this, is without doubt, the question of language. During the short week before we removed to our present retreat, I betook myself to the prison every morning and evening, where I undertook to speak to Narcisse in French. I had no means of knowing how best to help him rediscover his mother tongue, and he was scarcely of any assistance since he remained completely mute. I surmised that he would first need to become accustomed once again to hearing the sounds that were once so familiar to him, and that this would then enable him to recover his language more readily. Every day, I would sit down next to him, tell the guards to leave, and talk to him about anything that came into my head. I am scarcely garrulous by nature and inspiration soon deserted me. The prison governor made his entire library of French books available to me, but they numbered only three. And how could I read to Narcisse from such titles as
Elements of Mathematics for Infantry Officers
or
Italian Memoirs of a Woman of the World
?