The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe

by Timothy Williams

  “The polka?”

  “Zouk—hot, fast and sweaty. A relentless Caribbean rhythm.” She smiled. “I’ll need to be kept posted. I’d like you to report here at seven thirty in the morning. In person, on a daily basis.” Again Anne Marie paused. “Capitaine Parise will be working out of Saint-François—the procureur’s no objection to my entrusting this enquiry to the gendarmerie.” She looked at Parise. “But I repeat I am coordinating and it’s back to me here in Pointe-à-Pitre that you’ll report.”

  Parise nodded.

  “I’ll be needing all the support of both the gendarmerie and the SRPJ so we’ll be seeing a lot of each other—perhaps too much. I trust we can put aside professional rivalries, petty animosities and everything else to get this murder cleared up before it goes cold on us. For everybody’s sake.”

  Again Parise and Lafitte nodded. Two schoolboys, Anne Marie thought, wincing inwardly.

  “I’ll be standing in on the autopsy.” She lowered her voice. “Not something I relish, but I’ve informed the procureur. Perhaps you could accompany me, Monsieur Lafitte.”

  “A pleasure, madame.”

  Anne Marie wondered if she detected sarcasm in his voice.

  “Capitaine Parise, please get this photograph distributed and a search put out for Richard. Richard works in a bank, but it might also be a good idea to put pressure on your informers in the ghetto.”

  “The SRPJ has informers in Boissard. We don’t go in for that sort of thing.”

  “Perhaps you should.” She clicked her tongue sharply, in the West Indian manner. Turning back to Lafitte, Anne Marie went on, “Boissard, Pointe-à-Pitre—see if you can find anything there, Lafitte. Anybody mysteriously scratched, grazed or covered in blood, any external bruising that could be the result of the victim putting up a fight.”

  “In the ghetto?” Lafitte asked in mild surprise.

  “Use stick and carrot.”

  “A reward?”

  “Whatever gets results.” She coughed. “Then, gentlemen, I think—”

  Lafitte said, “I’ve brought Desterres’s dossier, just as you asked.”

  “If he’s got a history of sexual violence, it’ll be useful to know how he operates. For the moment, let’s do nothing more provocative than keeping a tab on him. A man like Desterres can always afford lawyers—and it’s best to keep lawyers at arm’s length as long as possible.”

  Parise said, “A man who’s got money can always buy women—he doesn’t need to rape them.”

  “But he has in the past. Go to Tarare. He gave me his address in town—but Desterres said he often sleeps at Tarare rather than driving back home to Pointe-à-Pitre. Check his car.”

  “I’ll need a warrant.”

  “You’ll have your warrant,” Anne Marie said.

  14

  Court Bouillon

  He did not wait for Anne Marie to be served, but sliced the boudin and began to eat.

  “Bon appétit, Eric.”

  He nodded. The air was very chilly in the dining room and the table Eric André had reserved was just beneath the air conditioner. Anne Marie shivered.

  The waitress set down plates of salad and for the next half hour, Anne Marie and Eric ate in silence, apart from an occasional remark concerning the food. Eric had ordered a court-bouillon of fish with lentils and rice. From time to time he rubbed the fish with sliced pepper.

  Anne Marie took the plat du jour of octopus, which she found too salty. The white wine was palatable.

  “Not the best food in the world,” Eric admitted as he stirred his coffee. “This place has the advantage of doing real Creole cooking rather than the bland compromise you get in a lot of the hotels.”

  “You hope to get the tourists down from America and Canada?”

  “It’s precisely the bland, Coca-Cola variety of food they prefer.”

  Anne Marie’s coffee was served in a cracked cup. “Why did you want to see me, Eric?”

  “Always nice to see my sister-in-law, Anne Marie.”

  “Eric, I used to be your wife’s sister-in-law but that was before the divorce.”

  He seemed surprised. “I’m not divorced.”

  “Before my divorce, Eric.”

  He wiped his lips with the stiff white napkin. He had a high forehead and he had started to go bald. He had the brown eyes that Anne Marie liked in West Indians. Yet despite the firm jaw and the brown eyes, Eric irritated her. Perhaps, she told herself, she knew too much about him.

  He had nice, long hands.

  “You still see your husband, Anne Marie?”

  “You invited me here to talk about my husband?”

  He lowered his shoulders in apology. “I want to talk about you.”

  “About me, Eric? Or about the Office of Tourism?”

  “Office of Tourism?” He wrinkled the skin of his nose—a strangely boyish gesture.

  “That’s what you’re in charge of, isn’t it? Americans and Canadians are no longer going to visit this island now a tourist has been found raped and murdered on the beach.”

  “Anne Marie, the majority of non-French tourists are from the EEC. More Italians and Germans than Americans. The Americans prefer Hawaii.”

  “Why the lunch?” Anne Marie sighed. “Somehow the entire island knows I’ve been given the enquiry. And what’s worse, the entire island knew long before I ever did.”

  “Why are you French women so aggressive?”

  “Thanks, Eric, for the lunch. It was very good, I enjoyed the octopus, thank you, and I enjoyed the wine. Now if you think you can influence me, I’m afraid—”

  “I’m not trying to influence anybody.” He held out a silver case. “A cigarette?”

  “I must be going, Eric.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “We’ve already talked.”

  “Anne Marie, you’re not making this easy for me.”

  She looked at her watch. A Kelton, nearly twelve years old, but with the new strap, it was now quite fashionable. Very retro, very tendance.

  “Why so aggressive? We may no longer be family, Anne Marie, in the strict sense of the word …”

  She bit her lip. “I’m not sure men know the strict sense of the word family.”

  “We’re friends.” His hand touched hers.

  “I’m never friends with a married man.”

  His laughter surprised her. It also surprised several other diners who turned their heads. “You think I’m trying to seduce you?”

  “Where’s your wife?”

  “In Paris.” He lit the cigarette. The flame of the lighter flickered. “She’s in Paris with the children.”

  “And you’re getting divorced?”

  Eric made a gesture, lowering his hand. “Keep your voice down.” He glanced at the other diners before shaking his head. “We’ve decided on a short separation to get things into perspective.”

  “You want perspective? Go to the art gallery.” She made a sound of irritation. “Perspective’s what you wanted to see me about?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Eric, I must be going—there are things I’ve got to do.”

  His eyes carefully scrutinizing her face. “You know I’m going into politics?”

  15

  de Gaulle

  “That surprise you?”

  “Politics? And the Office of Tourism, Eric?”

  “I’m hoping to get onto the Conseil Général. For way too long it’s been a fief of the Socialists and the Communists. What the département needs is a modern, capitalist approach to our problems.”

  “You want to give up your job?”

  Eric ignored the question. “The left’s held sway for too long; they’ve stifled any enterprise. If this island’s to get anywhere, it must stop turning to France for handouts. Since Hurricane Hugo, things’ve only gotten worse. We’re like whores, always asking for more money—but at least whores work. They put in the mileage even if they are lying on their backs. They earn their keep while we
overseas French, we do nothing other than fret over our mixed identity. Are we blacks or are we French? We’re spoilt children, always asking for pocket money for our champagne habit and trips to Paris. Except we’re no longer children and it’s up to us to produce our own pocket money. Thirteen percent, Anne Marie—that’s how much our exports cover our imports. Thirteen percent—and the Socialists begging for more money. It’s time we assumed responsibility.”

  “You know of a politician who doesn’t want greater local responsibility?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t have much respect for politicians?”

  “I’ve worked with them.”

  “We must run our own island.”

  “You mean independence?”

  “I never said that,” he retorted. “Without France, Guadeloupe’s not going to achieve anything. Certainly not yet. We haven’t got the know-how, we haven’t got the managerial experience.” He ran the point of his tongue along his lips. “I’m a Gaullist; there’s no alternative to being French. But at the same time …”

  Anne Marie shook her head. “You really did invite me here to talk politics.”

  Realizing his mouth was still open, he put his hand to his face and rubbed his chin before asking, “Why are you so aggressive?” Eric André had difficulty in concealing his irritation. “I wanted to see you, Anne Marie, because perhaps there are some things you don’t fully appreciate …”

  “About de Gaulle, Eric? I grew up in Algeria, remember.”

  “Things you don’t completely understand. That you could …”

  Anne Marie was smiling. “Yes?”

  “You could put yourself in a situation that would be far from satisfactory.”

  “You’re talking in riddles, Eric.”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “When I needed help, it was not forthcoming. Not from you, nor from the rest of my in-laws.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I’ve managed to get on famously without your help.”

  “Stop being so stubborn, Anne Marie. You white women are all the same. I thought you were different—you’ve been in Guadeloupe now for ten years and you’ve done useful work. You’re stubborn, Anne Marie—too stubborn.”

  “I get by.”

  “You must be careful.”

  “You want me off the Pointe des Châteaux affair—is that it? The Tourist Office wants me to keep the lid down?”

  He laughed, but there was no humor in his eyes. What Anne Marie saw was male pity and chose not to hide her anger. “I mustn’t frighten off the Italian and the German tourists, Eric? They might head off to Hawaii and eat all that bland American food. That would throw discredit on your Tourist office.”

  She dropped her napkin onto the table and pushed her chair back, ready to leave.

  He caught her wrist. “As a relative, I want to help you.”

  “Eric, we’re no longer relatives.”

  “Several people—people who don’t know you and I are in any way related—several people are more than unhappy about what you’re up to.”

  She stood up. She had started trembling.

  “People who can make life miserable for you.”

  She laughed incredulously. “It’s not miserable enough?”

  “Forget Dugain, Anne Marie.”

  “Dugain?”

  “You can’t do any good. Not now. The man’s dead and gone.”

  16

  No Man’s Land

  Carême, the Lenten drought, was now over and it had started to rain.

  The rain cooled the air, but Anne Marie felt hot and sticky, with her blouse clinging to her back. She crossed the road, her eyes on the sudden torrents of swirling water that ran across the asphalt and fed the rising puddles. An Opel hooted at her, and she had to step back fast. Its spray flecked her skirt and drenched her shoes—red shoes bought in Caracas.

  She walked across the no-man’s land between the road and the new multi-story car park. The white earth was wet but hard underfoot. Rain battered onto her umbrella as Anne Marie hurried toward the courier office.

  The octopus lay heavy on her stomach.

  Twenty years earlier, when Anne Marie, young and newly married, had visited Pointe-à-Pitre for the first time, this part of the city had been a ghetto of wooden shacks lined haphazardly alongside the ditches where mosquitoes and glow-moths danced to the rhythms of tropical poverty, and where late at night the trucks collected buckets of malodorous night soil. In time, the mayor had had everything pulled down, replaced by the new town hall, the post office and the social security buildings, concrete tokens of France’s determination to modernize the long forgotten colonial backwater.

  (“After a century of doing it wrong in Algeria and Indochina,” Jean Michel said.)

  Two young boys cycled past her. They wore baseball caps, shouted gaily to each other and were impervious to the rain that drenched their clothes. Each boy carefully balanced his machine on the rear wheel, while the front wheel was held in suspension in the damp air. The tires left tracks that were immediately washed away by the incessant rain.

  They grinned, their smiles lit up by perfect white teeth. The rain ran down the glowing skin of their young faces.

  For some reason this stretch of land, glistening now in the grey light of the afternoon clouds, had been left, overlooked by the politicians and the developers. Surrounded as it was by high rises, office blocks, the ugly parking lot and the walls daubed with impenetrable curlicues of graffiti, Anne Marie could have been in the suburbs of Paris or Lille.

  The sweat trickling down her back and the monotonous croak of the frogs reminded her she was in the tropics.

  “Continental Couriers Inc. Expédition vers les Etats Unis, la Métropole et l’Europe.”

  Anne Marie pushed open the glass door and entered the office. The air was chill. She closed her umbrella and wiped the dampness from her face as she looked around.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I am looking for Madame Théodore.”

  The woman stood up. “I am Madame Théodore.”

  Average height, navy blue slacks, a blouse, a red and white scarf slipped through a gold ring at the neck. She set a half consumed cigarette in the ashtray and moved round the desk. She smiled. “You seem surprised.” Long hands and varnished nails.

  Anne Marie returned the smile. “I wasn’t expecting a white woman. And you’re not wearing a wedding ring.”

  “Because I’m no longer married, Madame …”

  The two women shook hands. “Madame Laveaud. I should like to talk to you.”

  “About sending a parcel to Miami or Tokyo? Or perhaps you want something to be in Paris by tomorrow morning. Because if you do, you’ve come to the right place and to the right person, but at the wrong time.” Madame Théodore glanced at her watch. “You’ve just missed the last Paris flight. Mid-morning Monday is the best I can now do.” She nodded to the low chair in front of the desk. “Please be seated.”

  Anne Marie sat down and set her elbows on the edge of the table. Madame Théodore sat down opposite her, returning the cigarette from the ashtray to her mouth.

  “No parcel, I’m afraid.”

  “A letter?” The grey eyes twinkled. “A flat rate up to two US pounds.”

  “I’m an investigating judge.”

  “How exciting.”

  “Mainly routine, and it can be depressing.”

  “Change jobs.”

  “It’s not always depressing.”

  A cough followed by a gesture of the right hand. “Join me in the wonderful world of private enterprise.”

  “Not as easy as it sounds, Madame Théodore, when you live by yourself and you’ve got two young children to bring up. There are certain advantages to being a civil servant.” Anne Marie sneezed.

  “Bless you.”

  “Wet feet from walking in puddles.” She added, “And I’ve ruined my best Italian shoes from South America.”

  “Use a car and y
ou won’t get your feet wet.”

  “I don’t enjoy driving in town.”

  “Then it won’t be you I give a job to. Being a courier means driving back and forth between here and the airport—and spending most of the time in traffic jams. I’ve gotten to the stage where I have to smoke if I can’t get a decent intake of petrol fumes.”

  There were filing cabinets, a fax machine, a photocopying machine and on the wall, a large, framed map of the world. The office was on the ground floor. Venetian blinds of coarse brown linen protected the office from the glance of passersby along the arcade outside. The carpet was synthetic, green and badly stained by the passage of feet.

  Anne Marie’s umbrella had left trails of water.

  “Madame Théodore, I haven’t come here to ask you for a job.”

  “I guessed that.”

  Anne Marie sneezed again.

  Madame Théodore exhaled smoke through her nostrils. “You’re not going to arrest me?” The eyes flickered.

  “Not for the time being.”

  “How can I help you, madame le juge?”

  “With information.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “Monsieur Dugain. He killed himself by jumping from the top of a building and I want to know why.”

  “Dugain?” Madame Théodore looked away. “I only know what I’ve read in the papers.”

  Anne Marie sneezed again. “You weren’t his mistress, Madame Théodore?”

  17

  Vitamin

  Blood had gone to her face and neck. Madame Théodore stubbed her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, stood up and went to the door. She turned the key, then pulled the blinds, cutting out the grey light of the wet afternoon. She switched on the neon, which flickered hesitantly before filling the room with its impersonal whiteness.

  “You are very direct.” She took another cigarette and lit it. She did not sit down. “Dugain’s mistress?” She shook her hair. She wore it in short, permanent waves, without any attempt to hide the greying streaks.