The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe

by Timothy Williams

  Lafitte held open the door and they entered the morgue.

  26

  Sheet

  “Bless you.”

  Anne Marie sneezed a second time.

  “Bless you,” the woman repeated and tapped the back of Anne Marie’s hand affectionately. “I hope I don’t catch your cold. I always catch something when I travel. Last year I went to Venice and came back with a shocking flu. I didn’t like Italy. You know it? Not at all civilized and very dirty and there was orange peel in the canals.” Madame Vaton chirped, “I must say, it’s a lot nicer here. This is my first time in the West Indies and my husband would be terribly jealous if he were alive to see me in Guadeloupe. Always jealous of me, Gérard was—always jealous, and yet he liked to stay at home. Thirty years traveling the world and then he’d scarcely leave the house. Preferred to be with his little girl.” The eyes were bright like a bird’s. “Such lovely weather, isn’t it? You’re so lucky to live here. And so many lovely flowers. He’d have liked this, my Gérard. Always talking of coming back one day to his Guadeloupe.”

  The smell of the morgue. Anne Marie could feel a tightening in her stomach. “Your husband grew up in Basse-Terre?”

  “He grew up in Marseilles but he traveled the world, did Gérard. He was with CGM—French Line. But he came to his island only a couple of times. South America, yes, and Australia. But Guadeloupe only twice in more than thirty years. Perhaps better that way—he might’ve met a local beauty and settled down here. I must say, these dark girls are so very pretty.”

  Trousseau said, smiling, “A lot of pretty women in France.”

  Anne Marie found herself impressed by the courtesy of Trousseau. He was polite and thoughtful and he did everything to put Madame Vaton at ease. He now gave her a helping arm as they approached the viewing window.

  “Such nice people and my husband always said so. He said that in Martinique the girls are even prettier. Black as ebony, of course, but pretty.”

  “Your husband chose the prettiest of them all, madame,” Trousseau said.

  Anne Marie held the inside of her wrist to her nose—First, van Cleef and Arpels. The smell of flowers, of life.

  “Instead he chose me.” The gay laugh seemed out of place in the morgue. The woman looked earnestly at Anne Marie. “I was his second wife, you know. He was nearly sixty when we married. I don’t think he regretted it—I hope not, I tried to be a good wife. Gérard always dreamed of coming to the Caribbean—it had been his dream since childhood.” The woman laughed again. “How he’d love to be here.”

  The sweat was drying on Anne Marie’s skin and she found herself wanting to sneeze again. She fumbled with a vitamin tablet in her bag.

  “If he could see me now, he’d be green with envy.”

  Behind the glass, there was the whine of a motor and the corpse, lying beneath the sheet, was hoisted slowly into sight.

  “Of course, the death of his daughter would be a terrible blow. He loved our Evelyne. Gérard loved our daughter more than he loved life itself.”

  “Bouton’s done a good job.” Lafitte, standing close behind Anne Marie, whispered in her ear, his breath bitter with smoke and rum. “Bit of an artist with the scalpel.”

  Léopold, the assistant, loomed from behind the glass wall and pulled back the sheet covering the corpse. He glanced at Anne Marie. Beneath the flight deck haircut he winked conspiratorially.

  “I was at work most of the day. I met my husband when I was at sea—but I got too seasick and so we went to Paris where I got a job in a hair salon. Had the little girl and then went back to work. Evelyne was just a little thing and Gérard’d stay at home and play with her. Nearly sixty-five years’ difference between them—and they were like brother and sister.” The woman shook her head. “Now they’re gone.” A sigh. “There’s only me.”

  The doctor had reshaped the face; the eyes were closed. Although the features were lopsided and the skin was waxen, it was as if the dead woman had just fallen asleep. Anne Marie wondered if Bouton had used makeup. There was a scarf around the top of the head, hiding the line of incision.

  Anne Marie glanced unhappily at the socket in the wall. No sign of the electric saw. She shuddered and took a small step back, again breathing at the scent on her wrist.

  Lafitte and Trousseau remained at Madame Vaton’s side, afraid perhaps she should fall. Instead she chatted continuously. From behind, Anne Marie watched the woman’s face. Madame Vaton pulled her cardigan tightly to her shoulders—it seemed to be growing colder by the minute in the basement—and frowned.

  “I’m not looking forward to this,” Madame Vaton said. Then there was silence.

  On the far side of the glass, Léopold stood beside the corpse. His hands were crossed in front of his white laboratory coat. In one hand, he held a comic book. Remembering it, Léopold put it down somewhere out of sight. He grinned sheepishly.

  Madame Vaton turned her head round to face Anne Marie. “Where’s my daughter?”

  Anne Marie stepped forward.

  The woman’s face had suddenly turned very pale, as if at last she realized where she was. “You told me they’d murdered my daughter.”

  Anne Marie gestured to the other side of the glass.

  “My daughter.” Again the woman shook her head. “Where’s my daughter? Our Evelyne?”

  Trousseau held her arm with both hands. His weathered face was drawn and pale.

  “This is not our little girl.”

  “Not Evelyne Vaton?”

  “My child has soft, white skin.” Like a fluttered bird she shook her head. “I’ve never seen this unhappy creature before. Never.” Madame Vaton pulled anxiously on the cardigan and started to cry. Small, round tears.

  27

  Accountancy

  Trousseau drove.

  Madame Vaton had overcome her emotion and now sat in the back of the Peugeot, looking out at the passing countryside, the cardigan folded on her stockinged knees. In her left hand she held a small leather-bound volume.

  They took the busy ring road, went past the university—now being repainted an improbable bright pastel—and headed along the riviera toward Gosier and the hotels.

  Anne Marie did not speak. She had nothing to say and despite her cold, she could no longer stand the woman’s sweet perfume. Anne Marie held her wrist to her nose; the van Cleef and Arpels seemed to have lost much of its effect.

  “The poor, poor thing,” Madame Vaton said. “Who could’ve done a thing like that to a young girl?” She had a handkerchief in her right hand, but was not crying. Since leaving the morgue she had found time to repair her makeup and renew the lipstick along the thin lips. “My Evelyne’s a naughty girl, not to keep in touch. Headstrong, just like her father.” She added, “The Lord loves Evelyne and He loves me so I knew He would not take her from me. He doesn’t need her—not yet.”

  “You’ve no idea where your daughter is?” It was Trousseau who spoke. He half turned his head, taking his eyes for a moment from the road, from the black tarmac.

  “She’s here somewhere.” A pause. “Evelyne must be in Guadeloupe.”

  “What makes you so sure, Madame Vaton?” Even interrogating her, Trousseau was uncharacteristically gentle. “You say she never told you she was coming to the West Indies.”

  “It was her dream—just like her father.” A thoughtful pause. “Madame Laveaud’s shown me the photograph.”

  “You’re sure it’s your daughter? The photograph’s not very clear.”

  “Not the sort of thing I approve of, that kind of nakedness on the beaches. Certainly not at her age. There’s a place for everything—and on the beach there are young children and it’s wrong to shock them. I belong to an older generation, that’s what Evelyne always says. There are things I don’t really understand about this modern world.”

  Trousseau smiled without taking his eyes from the road.

  “The photo certainly looks like our Evelyne.”

  “Looks like her—but it could be the
girl in the morgue,” Trousseau remarked, briefly glancing at her over his shoulder. “Do you have in your possession a photograph of your daughter that you could give us?”

  “Give you?”

  “To be on the safe side. It was your daughter who was reported missing, it was your daughter who hired the car. So when she turns up, we want to be sure it’s her.”

  “I have a picture … it’s at the hotel. But you must promise to give it back. It’s a very lovely photograph—taken at La Baule several years ago. The summer before my Gérard died.”

  “A recent photo?”

  “People used to think we were sisters—even if I’m a lot broader across the beam than her. And I didn’t have her until I was thirty-five.”

  “The person in the Polaroid doesn’t look like you at all. Your daughter’s white, Madame Vaton?”

  The woman gave a high-pitched giggle. “What a strange question!”

  “Would you care to answer my strange question?”

  It was a few minutes after eleven o’clock and children were returning home from primary school for lunch. They walked by the roadside, their clothes bright, their satchels perched high on their backs. Away from Pointe-à-Pitre, ribbons and plaits appeared popular among the rural schoolgirls.

  “Is your daughter white? Your husband …”

  “Somewhere, perhaps, my dear husband had Negro ancestry but it was nothing to be ashamed of. He was from Guadeloupe and he had lovely skin.”

  Trousseau drove carefully. “You weren’t surprised your daughter had come to Guadeloupe without telling you?”

  “Ever since she was little she talked about coming to her father’s island.”

  “She didn’t tell you before she left?”

  “My little girl can be secretive—that’s something she gets from me.”

  “There are relatives? Your husband was from Basse-Terre. Is it possible she’s gone to stay with people from your husband’s family?”

  Perhaps Madame Vaton did not hear Trousseau’s question; perhaps she chose to ignore it. “With the Lord’s help, I know she’ll turn up. It’s happened before. She’ll turn up, alive and well.”

  “She has relatives in Guadeloupe?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  A row of banana trees ran alongside the road, their green leaves shifting with the breeze of the passing cars.

  Soon the Peugeot came to the cemetery where a group of boys was intent on throwing sticks into a mango tree; to take better aim, they stood out on the roadway, indifferent to the hoots of the traffic.

  “Happened before?” Anne Marie had come out of her reverie. “What happened before?”

  “A cemetery?” Madame Vaton pointed. “Is that a cemetery?”

  Trousseau smiled. “Here in the islands, the cemeteries are often bigger than the towns. Probably something to do with our voodoo past.”

  “I wouldn’t like that.”

  “We’re on this Earth for a short space of time. Death is forever so we take it seriously.”

  “Madame Vaton.” Anne Marie did not attempt to hide her irritation—as much with Trousseau as with the woman. “This isn’t the first time your daughter’s disappeared?”

  “Voodoo?”

  “Please answer my question. Your daughter’s disappeared before?”

  “Several times.” Madame Vaton looked sideways at Anne Marie. The thin lips had tightened. “Nothing to worry about. I never believed she was dead. I knew Our Lord wouldn’t take my little angel from me.” A tight smile. “In my heart I knew she was alive, even when the two policemen came to my house.” She touched her forehead. “And to think it was only two days ago.”

  Trousseau turned right off the riviera and headed toward the center of Gosier, past the Total garage.

  “When was the first time?”

  Madame Vaton lowered her voice, “When she pretended to run away from home.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “Evelyne was sixteen and under the pressure of exams. Evelyne is such a perfectionist. She gets that from me.”

  “When did she run away?”

  “It was before her Brevet but we soon found her—or at least the police found her.”

  “Where was she?” Anne Marie asked, resenting the sweet eau de cologne, resenting the woman’s deliberate obtuseness and her synthetic emotions. “Where was she?”

  “Staying with a teacher—a woman teacher of bookkeeping. Stayed with her for nearly a week before we found out where she was. I was almost out of my mind from worry and when they found her, the police weren’t at all happy.”

  “What made her run away?”

  The voice was now a whisper. “The police were convinced she was a …”

  “Yes, Madame Vaton?”

  “That she was a … lesbian.”

  Trousseau turned in his seat and for an instant forgot about the other traffic, about the children playing at the roadside.

  “I never believed it, of course.” Madame Vaton reverted to a conversational tone. “When Gérard retired, there was his pension, but that wasn’t enough. Not for a family, not to pay for her school things. I had to go out to work. I did a lot of overtime—it would pay for the clothes. Clothes and the other innocent pleasures in life.” The face broke into a pleasant smile. “I must say, madame le juge, that you have a lovely skirt.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Evelyne always said I worked too much. Wanted me to stay at home—but I couldn’t afford to. She likes to be spoiled, to be pampered by me. That’s not a good thing.” A sigh. “I tried not to give in—for her sake. Evelyne didn’t always understand it was for her good. When she went to Church on Sunday, it was important she should be well-dressed. As pretty as a picture. I tried to do my best, I tried to do what was right. I was a good mother and I brought my daughter up to be a good Christian.”

  “Your daughter’s a lesbian?”

  “A lesbian? Of course not. What on earth makes you think that?” She laughed with amusement. “The teacher of bookkeeping was a lesbian. Or perhaps she wasn’t. It didn’t really matter either way, because our Evelyne’s a good girl and she doesn’t need any of that. She’s not interested in sex with women—or with men. Perhaps when she was younger—it’s a stage they all go through, isn’t it? But now she’s very sensible.” Madame Vaton raised the leather-bound book. “Too much talk about sex nowadays.”

  Trousseau nodded. “Undoubtedly.”

  “Evelyne was studying for her Brevet and the police said the woman’d tried to seduce other young girls, too, so we decided, Gérard and I, we decided not to bother with pressing charges. Best all around to let the matter drop. And of course, Evelyne got her exam. Clever girl, Evelyne. Clever and hardworking.” Madame Vaton added, “I like to think that she gets that from me.”

  28

  Allude

  Anne Marie climbed back into the car

  Trousseau had straightened his tie. “Back to town, madame le juge?”

  “You’ve got the photo?”

  Trousseau was sweating and he ran a handkerchief across his brow before handing Anne Marie a manila envelope. “Hot, isn’t it?”

  “Take your tie off.” She took the envelope he held out. “For once, you could take off your jacket.”

  Trousseau clicked his tongue as he slid behind the wheel of the Peugeot.

  “Can we go now?” Anne Marie said tersely.

  “Why the hurry?”

  “Turn the conditioner off.”

  Trousseau appeared offended. “Where to?”

  “And open all the windows, for heaven’s sake. Get rid of that smell of perfume. I think I’m going to vomit.”

  Trousseau did as he was told. He yanked the car into gear and looped round in front of the hotel. The wheels screeched on the hot concrete.

  “That better, madame le juge?”

  “Sorry to be so abrupt. Forgive me.” Anne Marie felt guilty. “I didn’t mean to be aggressive.”

  He drove in silence.
/>   “And thanks for accompanying her, Monsieur Trousseau. I didn’t feel up to it.”

  “Madame Vaton was excited at the prospect of lunch. Said she’d heard so much about breadfruit, she was dying to try it.”

  Anne Marie shuddered. “You’ve looked at the girl’s photo?

  “A Christian woman,” Trousseau said.

  “Madame Vaton?”

  “You don’t like her, madame le juge?”

  “I can’t stand her.”

  “Lately there haven’t been many people you can stand, madame le juge.”

  “As I get older, I get more intolerant.”

  “You’re a lot older than you look because quite clearly you can’t stand me.” He caught his breath. “I do my best.”

  “It’s the heat, Monsieur Trousseau. The heat and that woman’s dreadful eau de cologne. I know I’m …” She ran a hand through her hair. “I’m fed up, Monsieur Trousseau, fed up with the morgue and with this wretched enquiry—I hate murders. So sordid and sad.”

  Trousseau glanced into the overhead mirror and accelerated. The stone walls to the hotel gardens were covered with unkempt, blossoming bougainvillea. “I’m simply a greffier, madame le juge. I try to do my job to the best of my ability.”

  “You were very good. I truly admire your diplomatic approach, Monsieur Trousseau. You understand white women.”

  The face clouded. “White women, black women, oriental women—madame le juge, I really don’t choose to distinguish.” He grimaced. “The Creator made us all equal, you know.”

  “I appreciated your asking all the questions.” Anne Marie added, “Perhaps we ought to change jobs, you and I.”

  “A nice lady.”

  “You liked her?”

  “Back to Pointe-à-Pitre?” Without waiting for a reply, without stopping at the stop sign, Trousseau pulled the car out on to the main road, turning left toward the city.

  “You liked Madame Vaton?”

  Trousseau said nothing.

  “There are times when you amaze me.”

  “Amaze you? I don’t see why. To me Madame Vaton seems a good Christian woman.”