“He has you, madame.”
“What can I do to help Hégésippe? I am old. He was too proud to come back when I was still young, too proud to return from that terrible place.”
“How did the child die?”
A television came alight across the road.
“He was drowned in a pond.”
“A coincidence?”
“What coincidence?”
“Like Calais.”
Madame Suez-Panama was silent.
“How old was the child?”
“Two years old. The mother never cried. I remember because there was a phone call for me at the school, and in those days there weren’t many cars. We were all poor then, except for the Békés. I couldn’t wait for the bus. So I had to borrow a bicycle. And I cycled all the way from Pointe-Noire. The roads weren’t surfaced in those days. It took me almost a day to cycle to Sainte Marthe.” She allowed herself an amused grunt at the recollection. “Nothing that I could do. The little boy was already dead.”
“Why kill her own child?”
The old headmistress was lost in her memories. “I sat there through the night at the wake, and Hégésippe wept like a woman, burying his large head in his hands. Hégésippe who’d spent two years at Verdun—he wept like a silly woman. I can remember his hair was already turning white. If only I could have taken some of the pain. But that little métis woman.…”
Madame Suez-Panama fell silent.
“Please go on.”
“Not one tear.”
“She didn’t love her own little boy?” Anne Marie asked, her hand on her son’s head.
A snort of ancient resentment. “I don’t think I ever saw her pray even though we lit candles and set them round that poor, cold little corpse. She was pleased with herself. That woman was pleased with herself. Woman? She wasn’t a woman. She was a devil.”
The smell of rotting fruit in the market drifted through the blinds.
“It was that witch who put a curse on Hégésippe Bray.”
“You really believe in those things, Madame Suez-Panama?”
“A spell on him and Hégésippe Bray became like a dog, with a chain around his neck.”
“You’re an educated woman.”
“She bewitched him. She ruined him.”
“How could she do that?”
“By getting him sent to that terrible place.”
“Hégésippe murdered her—transportation to Cayenne was his punishment.”
The woman nodded slowly. “I was in France—but if I’d been at the trial, Raymond Calais wouldn’t have got away with it. Old man Calais’ son—of course he wanted Hégésippe Bray out of the way so that he could get his hands on Hégésippe’s land. All Raymond Calais ever cared about was the land.”
“So your half-brother had good reason to hate Raymond Calais?”
“Anybody with any sense hated Calais.”
“Who killed Raymond Calais?”
The gentle hum of the evening traffic along the route nationale and the confused sound of the neighbor’s television. Fabrice tugged again at his mother’s arm.
“Madame, who killed Raymond Calais?”
A harsh noise. Anne Marie felt the cold finger of fear running down her back. And that debilitating sense of fear remained with her even once she realized that it was merely the sound of the old woman sobbing.
Anne Marie hurriedly took her leave. She left, going down the creaking stairs with Fabrice pulling on her arm, urging her on, his face small and pale.
“Send Hégésippe Bray back,” the voice called hoarsely from above. “Do you hear? Send him back before it is too late.”
12
Alfa Romeo
Jean Michel’s Alfa Romeo was there.
“Papa’s back,” Fabrice cried excitedly.
The garage, with its series of unlit concrete compartments and the puddles in the ground smelled of urine and stagnant water. Somewhere a pipe was leaking. The sharp, unpleasant smell was compounded by that of the refuse bins overturned and scattered by foraging dogs.
Anne Marie took the beach equipment from the Honda and walked toward the stairs. Fabrice pressed against her side.
Light from a naked bulb overhead was reflected on the cream paint and the chrome of the Alfa Romeo.
“Female intuition,” Anne Marie said and with the palm of her hand, she touched the car’s bonnet. It was still warm. She smiled grimly to herself.
“What does intuition mean, Maman?” He did not expect an answer. Once out of the garage, Fabrice released her hand. He was tired, and wearily he trudged up the stairs of the Cité Mortenol. There were lifts, but they frequently broke down, caught between two floors. Only the foolhardy or the handicapped would trust them. Anne Marie was terrified of being stranded in a lift during an earthquake.
Cité Mortenol.
Two apartment blocks facing each other. Two cubes built on the concrete pillars of the garage, five stories high and united by a couple of stairwells. There were small shops at terrace level. The last shops were now closing—it was nearly eight o’clock—and the iron blinds were being pulled down, their metallic rattle echoing against the canyon-like walls of the apartment blocks. Teenagers were playing basketball with an impromptu hoop attached to the first floor balcony.
Anne Marie knew that she had been lucky to get the flat. It was thanks to Freddy—one of Jean Michel’s brothers who worked in the housing department at the town hall. Without Freddy’s help, they would have been forced to stay at 31 rue Alsace-Lorraine with Mamie.
Anne Marie was out of breath by the time she reached the top floor. Fabrice was a flight of stairs behind. As she waited, she looked up at the sky where clouds hid the moon. A white haze lay over Pointe-à-Pitre—the glow of the street lamps.
Fabrice caught up as she was taking the keys from her handbag. He panted like a puppy. Anne Marie opened the door and Fabrice pushed past her.
“We’re back, Papa!”
Fabrice ran forward and kissed Jean Michel.
Anne Marie’s husband was wearing shorts and a tanktop. He lolled on the sofa with his eyes on the television. A newspaper lay at his feet.
“How was your day?” Anne Marie set the beach equipment on the floor and then went over to Jean Michel, bent over and kissed him lightly on the forehead. His cheeks were smooth and he smelt of bay rum.
“I drive all the way to Basse-Terre where I wait two hours for the editor. And the bastard never turns up.” Jean Michel clicked his tongue. “He’d left a message with his secretary and the silly cow forgets to tell me.”
“Why didn’t he turn up?”
“He was called to the Dutch part of St. Martin—had hired a private plane to fly up there.” Again her husband clicked his tongue. “My whole day wasted.”
“I was hoping you’d come to the beach.”
He appeared surprised. “I told Mamie to tell you not to expect me, Anne Marie.”
“It would’ve been nice to spend the afternoon all together.”
“I need a job.” His brown eyes glinted as he turned back to look at the television. Then he smiled. “If it materializes, this could be the job I’ve been looking for. The man’s bringing out a magazine.”
“And what are your chances?”
“Pro-Giscard, pro-government, pro-status quo. With all the latest news on Guadeloupe, Martinique and French Guyana. Plus Réunion. He’s hoping to reach the West Indian market in Paris. With me doing the cultural page. They need people with journalistic experience.” He laughed. “Le Domien.”
Fabrice asked, “What does Domien mean, Papa?”
“Inhabitants of the DOM’s—the départements d’outre-mer.”
“Go and get ready for bed, Fabrice.” Turning back to her husband, Anne Marie asked, “When will you know?”
He shrugged.
“Fabrice,” Anne Marie said, her voice suddenly stern, “I told you to get ready for bed.”
“But.…” The fear of the evening and of the old wo
man had disappeared. “I haven’t eaten yet.” Fabrice had clambered onto the sofa and was now snuggling down against his father in front of the television.
“Get ready for bed. This minute. And just for once, do as you’re told.”
Jean Michel said, “He can sit with me for a few minutes.”
“First he must get undressed and take a shower.”
The young eyes looked at the television. Fabrice frowned in simulated concentration.
“Hurry up, Fabrice.”
“I’m clean, Maman. I was in the sea.”
“Hurry up. You don’t want me to lose my temper, do you? So far you’ve been a good boy this evening.”
“I’m not dirty.”
“Take the shampoo and get that awful sand from out of your hair.”
Fabrice removed his thumb from his mouth and gave an exaggerated sigh. He slid from the sofa.
“And you can put that T-shirt in the wash, Fabrice. It’s filthy and it smells of old sweat. You’re worse than a Creole goat.”
Fabrice went bleating up the stairs, his grubby hand reluctantly moving up the wooden banister. Anne Marie watched him, unblinking and unamused. Halfway up the stairs—the flat was on two floors—he stopped for another sigh.
“Wash, Fabrice.”
He disappeared into the bathroom.
“You’re too hard on him, Anne Marie.”
“That’s what comes with dealing with professional criminals.”
She grinned. “Fabrice’s an amateur.”
“Give him time.”
On the screen, the news anchor was talking about the cane crop. The camera moved from Michel Gurion’s pale face, almost hidden behind steel-rimmed glasses, to shots of new harvesters arriving at the port of Pointe-à-Pitre. The television picture was bright; against the wharves, the sea was an improbable royal blue.
Jean Michel tapped her knee. “I’m hungry, too.”
“And I’m tired.”
“You’re going to prepare something?”
“The girl said she’d make a quiche lorraine.”
“Béatrice is a lazy cow.”
“She may be lazy—but I can’t do all the housework. I’m a busy woman.”
“Of course, chérie.”
Anne Marie ignored the hint of irony. “I’m tired,” she said.
Anne Marie did not want to argue—not again, not tonight. She flopped down onto the settee beside him. She had kicked off her shoes and their legs touched. The Courrèges skirt was now very grubby.
“Get a Dominican, Anne Marie. They work harder than these Guadeloupe girls.” Jean Michel sucked on his teeth. “All Béatrice can think about is her boyfriend and money to buy new jewelry.”
Absent-mindedly, Anne Marie stroked his hair. Her eyes looked at the image on the television screen but her thoughts were elsewhere.
“I’m very hungry.” Jean Michel yawned.
A white man, his bald head catching the unflattering studio lights, was talking about the rainfall and its effect upon the sugar content of cane. It was as if he had difficulty forcing the words from his mouth. He spoke with the local accent—an accent that Anne Marie was finding increasingly irritating. He appeared unhappy.
“What’s in the fridge, chérie?”
“I don’t know.” She stood up and padded barefoot into the kitchen. “What would you like?” She scratched her hand. “I really don’t want to cook tonight.”
“What is there?”
Anne Marie opened the refrigerator.
Tomato puree in a battered tube, a few eggs, sterilized milk, an avocado pear sliced in half and the green flesh now turning black. There was also a quiche lorraine on a glass plate; the glass had misted over.
A short silence. “What?”
“The girl made a quiche.”
Jean Michel did not reply.
Anne Marie went to the kitchen door to look at him. “When did you get back from Basse-Terre?”
“About half past three.” Jean Michel glanced at his wife. “Perhaps a bit later.”
“Half past three?”
“When I realized the bastard had stood me up, I came straight back. Half past three—four.” A shrug. “Too late for the beach.”
Briefly they looked at each other—he was stretched out on the sofa and Anne Marie was leaning against the cold wood of the kitchen door.
“In four hours you didn’t think to look in the refrigerator, Jean Michel?”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
Anne Marie knew that her husband was lying.
“Would you like me to make you an omelet?” she asked softly.
13
Le Raizet
“He’s a maniac.”
“Who?”
“The driver—the man they sent to fetch me.”
“Jean Gabriel? Been like that ever since he lost his wife—and she was only seventeen.” Trousseau shrugged. “Indians marry young.”
Anne Marie stretched out against the backseat.
“How’s your hand, madame le juge?”
Trousseau had been reading. There was a book on his thin knees. When Anne Marie did not answer, he picked up the book and continued his reading.
Way above her head, large fans—three of them—were revolving slowly. She could feel the gentle draft and the sweat on her body began to dry.
It was going to be another hot, humid day in Pointe-à-Pitre. Outside, cars traveling in front of the terminal entrance threw their reflections against the interior wall.
Shops were opening up. At the bookstore a girl was pulling a rack of postcards out into the main concourse. Elsewhere, there was the sound of iron shutters being cranked up.
The Laveaud family had come to greet Jean Michel and his young wife at the airport, and the newlyweds had spent a couple of nights in Pointe-à-Pitre. That first night in the Caribbean, Anne Marie had showered several times because of the oppressive heat and stickiness.
This morning, most of the airline desks were still closed. An Air France hostess in uniform and blue shoes headed toward the departure lounge. She carried a small clipboard beneath her arm, and as she went past, she gave Anne Marie a sharp glance. The glance went from Anne Marie to Trousseau and back again.
It was too early for the 747 from Paris. The next flight would be the Miami plane, calling in at Pointe-à-Pitre on its way to Caracas. That would be in a couple of hours’ time.
In the departure lounge, there were few passengers waiting to be called—just a small group sitting on the row of armchairs or standing around, looking at their watches. Businessmen—probably from the English islands—wearing old-fashioned pastel-colored shirts and big shoes. A group of tourists, conspicuous with their pale faces and their canvas holdalls. And a couple of large women, flying home with their bags and cumbersome cardboard boxes. The women spoke pidgin English in a high lilt, and their matronly chests heaved. They were waiting for the short, interisland hop to Dominica.
“My hand itches less this morning, Monsieur Trousseau—and thank you for asking,” she said finally. “What’ve you found out about Raymond Calais?”
Trousseau tapped the case of his portable typewriter. “I brought the file.”
Anne Marie turned to look at him. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know how punctual these flights can be.”
“Where would I be without you?” Their eyes met and she tapped his arm. “You’re very thoughtful.”
The face seemed to grow darker; the eyebrows moved together. “Just because I’m not white.…” He put the book down and Anne Marie noticed that it was a comic. “You really mustn’t think I’m like all the other people in this island. I’ve lived in France, you know. I’ve got a flat in Paris.”
“In the Seventeenth Arrondissement, I believe.”
Trousseau hesitated a fraction of a second before pulling at the skin of his arm. “I don’t behave like them. West Indians, mulattos, Indians—don’t expect me to be like them, madame le juge. To dance like them, to laugh like
them, to talk like them, to have their women. I’ve lived in Paris, and I know what it means to have to get up at five o’clock to catch the métro.”
An old man in faded dungarees was pushing a cleaning machine across the concourse floor. The bristles of the revolving brushes turned rapidly, and the machine made a quiet hum. A cigarette hung from the corner of the man’s mouth; his eyes wrinkled against the rising smoke.
“My wife’s from France.”
“So you once told me.”
“You see me now, madame le juge, and I’m an old man. But once I was young. And women found me attractive. I had my choice of women, you know—but I chose a white woman.”
“Monsieur Trousseau, I’m very grateful to you for the way you always try to help me. You—more than anyone else—have taught me how to adapt to life in the département.”
Trousseau appeared mollified. He sat back and folded his arms.
Anne Marie scratched lightly at the back of her hand before asking, “You still think he’s guilty?”
“Who?”
“Hégésippe Bray.”
Carefully, Trousseau folded down the corner of the page and closed the comic book. It was only then that Anne Marie saw the pink and yellow cover. The New Testament in pictures. “I’m merely a greffier, madame le juge. It’s not for me to give my opinions.”
“But I do respect them.”
“No, you don’t.”
They looked at each other; then a voice—and Anne Marie, turning her head, saw the Air France girl talking into a microphone behind the glass window of her office—announced the imminent departure of flight AF 627 to Fort-de-France. Trousseau listened, his finger raised from the backrest of the seat.
Anne Marie turned away and looked at the man behind the machine.
He walked slowly. Like someone carefully mowing the lawn, he moved along a stretch of fifteen meters at a time, leaving behind damp, clean parallels and clear prints of his own worn shoes. Apart from the curling wisp of blue smoke from the cigarette, the man could have been asleep on his feet.
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