The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe

by Timothy Williams

  She had been to the lycée a couple of times before and had an idea of where the staff room was. Unlike at Lucette Salondy’s school, there were no mango or coconut trees here in Baimbridge, just shadowless asphalt, more cars and lots of young people milling around. The lycée was so big—nearly four thousand pupils, and judging from the adolescents about her, a majority of girls.

  Anne Marie picked her way between the cars and entered the staff room. Nobody took any notice of her. A mix of whites and West Indians, no difference in the style of clothes, the way they spoke or held themselves. The same self-importance that had always irritated her in teachers, the result, no doubt, of their always being right in the classroom.

  Anne Marie took a chair and sat down. A man looked up at her and smiled tentatively before returning to a pile of marking.

  “You’re the supply mathematics teacher?” A woman approached her.

  “Madame Laveaud. My son is in Première Scientifique Eight. I have a rendezvous with Monsieur Siobud.”

  The woman nodded and returned to a group of teachers. Many of them were smoking—not Marlboro or Peter Stuyvesant cigarettes but filterless Gitanes and Gauloises. Although the blinds to the staffroom were open and there was a breeze, the air swirled with pungent tobacco smoke.

  Pretty young women—it was hard to be sure they were pupils—hovered at the doors, where teachers chatted with them and laughed. There was a relaxed atmosphere that appealed to Anne Marie. Nothing like the lycée in Oran or later, in Sarlat, after they had left North Africa for good. And certainly nothing like the palais de justice.

  Perhaps Papa was right, perhaps she should have become a teacher.

  “Madame Laveaud?”

  Eighteen hours a week.

  47

  Proud

  Anne Marie stood up and held out her hand.

  She had met Siobud a couple of times before at parent/teachers meetings, but she would not have recognized him in a crowd; he was typical of the island’s educated middle class. A small, fair-skinned man, well-dressed—designer jeans with a careful crease, Daniel Hechter shirt and a couple of pens clipped purposefully to the breast pocket. Short sleeves and dark forearms thick with hair. In his mid-forties, he had well-cut curly hair that was going grey. White socks, black leather shoes with metal tips. A flat gold watch, several gold teeth.

  “You look tired, madame.” He gave her a prompt smile and placed an attaché case on the table before shaking hands.

  Despite a careful shampooing beneath the shower, she could still smell the tear gas in her hair. “I was at the lycée Carnot last night—and I wasn’t wearing a mask.”

  “How exciting,” he said without lowering his glance. “They say two people died.”

  Anne Marie nodded. “A man murdered the concierge.”

  “And the police murdered the man?”

  “He was killed by a police officer—acting on the orders of the préfet.”

  “Wasn’t tear gas sufficient to pacify him?”

  “He was armed—a certain William Williamson. He’d already killed the concierge and the headmistress was being held hostage.”

  “I heard it was the independence people again.”

  “A petty criminal living in Boissard. We’d already deported him back to Dominica a couple of times.”

  “You say ‘we,’ madame.”

  “I’m an investigating judge.”

  “I should’ve remembered—your profession is in your son’s cahier.”

  “The murderer’s a rasta—dreadlocks and bare feet,” Anne Marie said. “We’ve got no idea why he went berserk.”

  “A stand against Babylon?”

  “The gendarmerie tried negotiating but his Dominican Creole was as unintelligible as his English. In the end …” Her voiced trailed into silence.

  “In France, they complain about clandestine immigration, but the problem’s worse here.” Siobud clicked his tongue. “Too many Dominicans and too many Haitians.”

  “The highest standard of living in the Caribbean—only normal that people from the poorer islands should want to come and work in the French islands.”

  “And give birth in our hospitals.” The man invited Anne Marie to sit down. As he took a chair opposite her, he produced a small box of Tampa cigars. “I’ve got nothing against Haitians and Dominicans. An immigrant myself—like most people on this island, I’m a racial hotchpotch. My mother was white, my father black, my grandmother an original Carib.” He lit the cigar. “Hence my high cheek bones, of which I am inordinately proud. I have Arawak blood—my Carib ancestors must’ve eaten enough of them.” He paused. “My children have your color.”

  “Off-white?”

  Siobud laughed, showing his gold teeth and his small tongue flecked with a couple of minute shreds of tobacco. “You must think I’m racist to talk like this of color.”

  “One thing to define people by their color; it’s quite another to judge them because of their color.”

  “You’re an intelligent woman.”

  “A man always find a woman intelligent when she agrees with him.” Anne Marie smiled sweetly. “There are two races on this earth: women and men. Unless of course you consider men a sub-race.”

  “You have a lot of interesting theories.”

  “A lot of experience.” She continued, “About my son, Monsieur Siobud.”

  The pale brown face had blushed very slightly. “Fabrice Laveaud?” He chewed thoughtfully at the end of the cigar.

  “You’ve been having a bit of a problem with him of late.”

  “You could say that.”

  “I’m not always at home to see that he does his work.”

  “And his father?”

  “I divorced him more than eight years ago.”

  “Fabrice sees his father?”

  “My ex-husband’s been in France for over a year, which isn’t a bad thing.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You have children?”

  Siobud nodded. “I have custody of my two sons.”

  “Fabrice’s father isn’t a good influence.”

  “Monsieur Laveaud?” The teacher sucked thoughtfully at the plastic end of the cigar. The cigar had gone out. “Laveaud—was he not the man from Pointe-à-Pitre …?”

  Anne Marie held up both hands. “My ex-husband planted a bomb on an airplane. He was fortunate enough to get a presidential amnesty when Mitterrand was elected.”

  He lit the cheroot. “When I was at the university in Montpellier, there was a Laveaud. Studying law, I believe.” Speaking over a cloud of rising smoke, Siobud said, “You resigned, didn’t you?”

  “My administrative superiors chose to refuse my resignation, maintaining I was not responsible for my husband’s actions.”

  “Something about a trunk being found on the beach?”

  “My husband’s friends had used my trunk to kidnap somebody.” Anne Marie made the same dismissive gesture with her hand that her father used to make, but then she smiled. “At least I have two wonderful children.”

  “Better single than unhappily married?” He tapped ash from the cigar into an ashtray.

  “Fabrice’s a very good son—and a good brother to his little sister.”

  “You could have moved on, got another posting and gone back to France.”

  “My children are happy here.”

  “Never tempted to change your name?” Again the smile. “Your husband’s name.”

  “It is also my children’s name, and they have nothing to be ashamed of.” She smiled, holding his gaze. “At least, as far as my ex-husband’s political activity is concerned.”

  48

  Baccalauréat

  “Difficult?”

  “Madame Laveaud, I have two sons of my own and I know it’s not easy to bring them up single handed.”

  “In what way do you find Fabrice difficult?”

  “Your son’s an intelligent boy—that’s not the problem. He does well without even trying.”
r />   “He likes English.”

  “I’m well aware of that. Good vocabulary that shows he reads in English and that he listens to music.”

  “My son watches a lot of American television.”

  “He could be the best in the class. It’s not his work.”

  “It’s his attitude?”

  “His Spanish teacher agrees.” A pause. “Your son doesn’t want to be at school.”

  “He never goes out—apart from windsurfing. Fabrice hasn’t got a girlfriend.”

  “Your son can scrape by on his native wit, but native wit’s not sufficient in mathematics and in science. Your son doesn’t want to make the necessary effort but chooses instead to be difficult.”

  “Difficult in what way, Monsieur Siobud?” There was a querulous tone to her voice.

  “Sarcastic toward his teachers and his classmates. Your son’s not a very popular boy.”

  She shook her head. “He has lots of friends.”

  “In class Fabrice’s disruptive. Talking, not paying attention and preventing the others from working. There are times when he is elsewhere, daydreaming. At others, he tries to attract attention with puerile remarks. Puerile and obscene remarks.” Siobud shrugged. “Which is why I asked to see you.”

  “At primary school and in quatrième and troisième, his teachers praised him. They praised him because he was so well-behaved.”

  “Madame Laveaud, your son’s in a good class and all being well, he should sit his scientific baccalaureate next year. All being well but regrettably at the moment all’s not well.”

  Somewhere a bell rang, signaling the end of the break. The staff room was now empty and they were alone.

  “The clown of the class. Only nobody is laughing.”

  “I find that hard to understand, Monsieur Siobud.”

  “Your son can’t afford to lose sight of his future.”

  People were hurrying along the corridors, beyond the metal blinds.

  “You and I—professionally we’re both dealing with human beings. Human beings don’t always want to make life easy for us or for themselves.”

  Anne Marie nodded.

  “Fifteen years here at Baimbridge—and before that I was in Paris. This is a good lycée. There aren’t real discipline problems—and when there’s conflict, we teachers know we can count on the support of the parents.”

  “You can most certainly count on me, Monsieur Siobud.”

  He smiled his appreciation before looking down at his hands that he had placed palm upwards on the table. “When children are difficult, there’s always a reason. Nearly always the reason is …”

  “Yes?”

  An intake of breath. “A lack of affection.”

  “You’re suggesting I don’t love my children?”

  “I’m not a psychiatrist, but in some way, Fabrice’s not getting the kind of affection he wants.” Siobud held up his hand. “When there’s a divorce, there’s often a sense of guilt. ‘If Maman or Papa has left, it’s my fault because I should’ve been able to keep them together with my love.’ ”

  “If my husband left, it has nothing to do with my son,” Anne Marie said hotly. “And it was a long time ago.”

  “Fabrice may know that—but he may not necessarily believe it.”

  “I know how my son feels.”

  “I know how my own boys feel—most of the time.” A wry smile as Siobud lightly touched the back of her hand. “Girls are used to crying, to showing they’re unhappy but boys are taught from an early age they have to be strong.” Siobud sat back in the uncomfortable chair and folded his arms.

  “Fabrice has always been very open with me.”

  “He’s turning into a man. There are things he feels he can’t tell you.”

  “Fabrice knows I love him.”

  Siobud lit another cigar, his eyes watching her from behind the grey smoke. “Sometimes, when we feel the love we want is not forthcoming, we try to provoke it. And if we can’t provoke love, we try to provoke other reactions.”

  “Provoke?”

  “The opposite of love is not hate. Hate’s a kind of love, a perverted love.”

  “I love my son.”

  “Madame Laveaud, I don’t have the presumption to say I know what your son thinks. I simply know from experience he’s looking for a reaction.”

  “Why?”

  “By causing a reaction, he knows he exists, even if the reaction is negative.” A puff of cigar smoke. “Fabrice’s making life awkward for me and for himself because his need for love isn’t being answered.”

  “Absurd.”

  “He’s trying to get himself hated.” The grin of gold teeth. “Believe me, your son’s succeeding.”

  49

  Wife

  “Something wrong, madame le juge?”

  “Of course not.” For the eighth time Anne Marie dabbed her forehead with a crumpled Kleenex. “It’s hot.”

  Trousseau had been waiting for at the foot of the hill, sitting in the Peugeot with the door open, reading his illustrated scriptures while occasionally looking up as pretty adolescents left the lycée. “Back to the palais de justice?” Sunlight bounced off the dark polish of the car’s roof.

  “Yes.”

  Nothing wrong other than her son was turning into a juvenile delinquent and that it was her fault.

  “Where do these young people get the money from? They can’t all be rich but they are all so well-dressed.” Trousseau shook his head. “With that kind of money, I could’ve built myself a villa. In my day, my parents could scarcely afford my books. We wore the clothes handed down from one brother to the next. Eight brothers—plus two girls. We were always clean, mind.”

  She knew her face was still flushed. “Does the name Siobud mean anything to you?”

  “When we were kids, everybody laughed at us because we wore rags, because we had to walk the three kilometers to school. My poor father, God rest his soul, never learned to read and write. Like all the Indians, he had to wait until 1928 before they decided to make us French citizens.”

  “You know anything of the Siobud family, Monsieur Trousseau?”

  “I know nobody.” He ran a finger along the thin line of his moustache before rising from the seat and opening the car door for her. “You seem to forget that I’m a greffier.”

  “Siobud?” Anne Marie repeated coaxingly as she slid into the rear seat.

  “I don’t walk the corridors of power. I keep my own company—it’s the best way to avoid problems. The inhabitants of this island enjoy interfering into your affairs, always asking questions and telling lies. They’ll even put a curse on you, because they’re jealous of your success.” He closed the rear door quietly and then took his place behind the steering wheel.

  “Well, Monsieur Trousseau?”

  “A family from Pointe-à-Pitre, isn’t it?” He tapped his chest. He was wearing the same frayed shirt as yesterday. “I’ve lived in Paris, madame le juge, and I know what it’s like to live in a big city.”

  “Of course.”

  “You seem at last to be aware of the lack of respect your race has shown toward the black man.”

  “Have I ever shown you a lack of respect?”

  “Siobud—try writing it. Or if you prefer, try writing it backward … D-U-B-O-I-S.”

  “I fail to understand.”

  “You understand perfectly. The superiority of the white race must manifest even in our family names.”

  “How?”

  “When Victor Schoelcher set the black race free, names had to be found for people who’d been little more than beasts of burden. What better way of reminding us how ridiculous we were than by giving us ridiculous names?”

  “Dubois written backward?”

  Trousseau sighed. “Look in the telephone directory and you’ll find names like Nirélep and Noslen, Trébor and Succab, Cirederf, Nomis and Divad. As well as Nègre and Pasbeau, just to inform the world we’re black and ugly.”

  “Do you know Siobud?
”

  The heave of an exaggerated sigh. “The father had a printing business in rue Moretenol.”

  “The Siobud who teaches English at the lycée?”

  “One of those families where the father has enough money to have many children and several mistresses.” He turned in his seat to look at her. “Wasn’t he married to a white woman?”

  “Who?”

  Trousseau again ran the finger along the line of his upper lip, and Anne Marie knew he was no longer offended. “The Siobud who teaches. There’s a son who works at the dispensary and another at the agricultural institute. A daughter who died in childbirth and whose husband returned to France with the newborn baby and was remarried within a couple of months.” His shoulders jerked in soundless amusement. “The Siobuds—they all married whites.”

  “Love’s blind, Monsieur Trousseau.”

  “Not color blind.” He grinned maliciously. “The man you’re talking about—Michel Siobud. Small—he was at university in Montpellier studying languages and that’s where he met his wife—a woman several years his senior who speaks English.”

  Anne Marie nodded. “What do you know about him?”

  Trousseau put the key into the ignition but did not turn it. “Typical mulattos.”

  “Pointe-à-Pitre’s full of typical mulattos. Guadeloupe is full of typical mulattos.”

  “Stuck-up and self satisfied. The Siobuds worshipped the whites, despising anybody with a skin that’s a shade darker than their own.” A dry laugh as he plucked at the dark hair of his arm. “Better than me because I’m black.”

  “You’re not very tolerant yourself.”

  The eyes flared. “People like the Siobuds’ve always despised us coolies. Michel’s problem is simple. He’s a runt.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “One meter sixty and the blackest skin in the family. With an inferiority complex like that, you can see why he needed to marry a white woman.”

  “Because he loved her?”

  “To gain some self-esteem.”

  “You married a white woman, Monsieur Trousseau.”

  “You used to see them in Pointe-à-Pitre, shopping or going to the cinema or in the smart hotels. He was so proud of his wife.”