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Banco: The Further Adventures of Papillon. Henri Charriere
Читать онлайн.Название Banco: The Further Adventures of Papillon
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780007378890
Автор произведения Henri Charriere
Жанр Биографии и Мемуары
Издательство HarperCollins
‘It’s nothing to do with us,’ he said. ‘Next time, he’ll watch out.’
‘You’re gaga, Jojo. There’ll be no next time for him, on account of he’s dead.’
‘True enough: but what can we do about it?’
I was following José’s advice, of course. Every day I sold my foreign notes, the diamonds and the gold to a Lebanese buyer, the owner of a jeweller’s shop in Ciudad Bolivar. Over the front of his hut there was a notice ‘Gold and diamonds bought here: highest prices given’. And underneath it ‘Honesty is my greatest treasure’.
Carefully I packed the credit-notes payable on sight to my order in a balata’d envelope – an envelope dipped in raw latex. They could not be cashed by anyone else nor endorsed in any other name. Every gallowsbird in the village knew what I was doing, and if there was any type who made me feel too uneasy or who didn’t speak French or Spanish, I showed him. So the only time I was in danger was during the game or when it ended. Sometimes that good guy Miguel came and fetched me when we stopped for the night.
For the last two days I’d had the feeling the atmosphere was getting tenser, more mistrustful. I’d learnt the smell in penal: when trouble was brewing in our barrack on the islands, you realized it without being able to tell how. When you’re always on the alert, do you pick up waves put out by the guys getting ready for the rough stuff? I don’t know. But I’ve never been wrong about things like that.
For example, yesterday four Brazilians spent the whole night propped up in the corners of the room, in the darkness. Very occasionally one of them would come out of the shadows into the hard light that shone on the blanket and lay a few ridiculous little bets. They never took the dice nor asked for them. Something else: not one of them had a weapon that could be seen. No machête, no knife, no gun. And that just didn’t go with their killers’ faces. It was on purpose, no doubt of it.
They came back this evening. They wore their shirts outside their pants, so they must have their guns up against their bellies. They settled into the shadows, of course, but still I could make them out. Their eyes never left the players’ movements. I had to watch them without their noticing it; and that meant I must not stare straight at them. I managed by coughing and leaning back, covering my mouth with my hand. Unfortunately there were only two in front of me. The others were behind, and I could only get quick glances of them by turning round to blow my nose.
Jojo’s coolness was something extraordinary. He remained perfectly unmoved. Still, from time to time he did bet on other men’s throws, which meant the risk of winning or losing by mere unaided chance. I knew that this kind of gambling set him on edge, because it forced him to win the same money two or three times before keeping it for good. The disadvantage was when the game grew red-hot he became too eager to win and passed me over great wads of dough too fast.
As I knew these guys were watching me, I left my pile there in front of me for everyone to see. I didn’t want to behave like a living safe-deposit today.
Two or three times I told Jojo, in quick crook’s slang, that he was making me win too often. He looked as if he didn’t understand. I had worked the lavatory trick on them yesterday and I had not come back; so it was no good doing it now – if these four types meant to move in tonight, they were not going to wait for me to return: they’d get me between the shack and the shit-house.
I felt the tension mount: the four images in each corner were more on edge than ever. Particularly one who kept smoking cigarette after cigarette, lighting one from the butt of the other.
So now I started making bancos right and left, in spite of Jojo’s ugly looks. To crown it all I won instead of losing and, far from shrinking, my pile kept on piling up. It was all there in front of me, mostly in five-hundred-bolivar notes. I was so keyed up that as I took the dice I put my cigarette down on them and it burnt two holes in a folded five hundred. I played and lost this note together with three others in a two-thousand-bolo banco. The winner got up, said, ‘See you tomorrow,’ and went out.
In the heat of the game I took no notice of how the time passed, and then all at once to my amazement I saw the note there on the blanket again. I knew perfectly well who’d won it, a very thin bearded white man of about forty with a pale mark on the lobe of his left ear, standing out against the sunburn. But he was not here any more. In a couple of seconds I had put the scene together again: he’d gone out alone, I was certain of that. Yet not one of those four types had stirred. So that meant they had one or two accomplices outside. They must have a system of signalling from where they were that a guy was coming out loaded with cash and diamonds.
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