A sleepwalker. A zombie.
Then after those first two days in Guadeloupe Anne Marie and Jean Michel had flown down to the Saintes for their honeymoon. At last together alone. Three weeks in a tropical paradise.
“He was dying of cancer.”
“Who?”
“Hégésippe Bray was right.” Trousseau allowed himself a faint smile. “Calais was going to die anyway—according to the autopsy from the Institut médico-légal. Cancer of the stomach.”
The airport, with its clean, tiled floor, its banks, its shops, the anthuriums and orchids now on display—it was modern and reassuring. European, civilized—what Anne Marie was used to. Reassuring and tangible.
Anne Marie shuddered. A sudden cold fear of death.
“The autopsy report arrived yesterday afternoon.”
“How could Hégésippe Bray have known Calais was going to die?”
Trousseau laughed. “He didn’t need to know.”
“He’d put a curse on Raymond Calais? That’s what you’re saying, aren’t you?”
The old man had come to the end of the stretch of floor. He turned the machine round and the rotating brushes tipped sideways. Then he stood quietly smoking. For a moment the old man looked at Anne Marie. There was a look of reproach in the brown, bloodshot eyes.
“Madame, you prefer not to believe in these things,” Trousseau scolded.
14
Raymond Calais
Raymond Calais was born on January 8, 1919 on the Sainte Marthe estate, the son of Gérard and Laure Calais. At the time of his sixtieth birthday, he was a large man, weighing eighty-four kilos, one meter seventy in height, stocky and completely bald. With a protruding jaw and a large forehead, he resembled Benito Mussolini. Raymond Calais felt flattered by the comparison.
The first attempt on his life was made on Wednesday, March 5, 1980.
He drove his car down to the main dock area of Pointe-à-Pitre. It was 6:45 in the morning, and the sidewalks were still wet after a brief rainfall. Normally at this time of day, Raymond Calais had breakfast—two boiled eggs, a couple of croissants and a pot of coffee—in a bar at the corner of the Quai Lardenoy and the rue Achille René Boisneuf where he would spend half an hour in the company of friends—two of whom were believed to be on his payroll. On the morning of March 5, several people were waiting for him inside the bar—La Sirène du Sud—and the serving girl had already started to prepare Monsieur Calais’ breakfast.
Raymond Calais parked his car—a Renault R30 with a tax-free registration plate, issued in the département of Gironde—against the curb outside the ironmonger’s in the rue Achille René Boisneuf. He turned off the engine, got out of the car and opened the rear door in order to pick up his attaché case that lay on the back seat.
According to two witnesses—a municipal employee and a Dutch sailor returning to his ship—gunfire was heard at 6:48 A.M.
Raymond Calais lost consciousness and fell, with blood pouring from the left side of his head and trickling across his temple into the rainwater of the gutter.
He regained consciousness at 7:53 A.M.
Friends and associates had been able to pull him from the gutter where he had nearly drowned. The Police Secours was contacted, and Calais was taken by ambulance to the Clinique Venise in the Assainissement.
The bullet fired from a .22 long rifle had penetrated the skin behind the ear, had been deflected by the bone of the skull and had exited through the temple. The scar on the left side of Mr. Calais’ head was eight centimeters long.
The projectile was later found inside the Renault. After bouncing off Calais’ head, it had ricocheted off the roof and buried itself in the upholstery of the back seat.
Analysis of the bullet’s trajectory was not sufficiently precise to indicate the place from where the shot had been fired.
Three photographs:
A photograph of Calais’ head, with two white arrows indicating entry and exit point of the bullet.
A photograph of the back seat of the car, with a white circle drawn about a slight tear in the fabric.
A photograph of the flattened bullet.
Anne Marie looked at the photographs carefully. Apart from Calais’ dark eyebrows, none of his face was visible. His ear was small, like a child’s.
Anne Marie continued reading the report.
After an initial period of shock, Calais was soon sitting up in bed. His mind appeared to have lost none of its clarity. On enquiring where he was, he was informed that an attempt had been made on his life. The news did not appear to surprise him; he accepted it with grim satisfaction.
Raymond Calais immediately denounced the political nature of the attack. Medical staff had difficulty in calming him. While his bandage was being applied, Raymond Calais insisted upon speaking loudly and gesticulating. To the police officers present, he announced that the previous day he had submitted conclusive proof of municipal corruption to a local magazine. The magazine—Le Pointois—was left-wing in sympathy and favorable to the national independence movement of Guadeloupe (MANG).
The written evidence that Raymond Calais had handed over to the magazine concerned the Communist mayor of Pointe-à-Pitre. As proof of his own objectivity and as proof of the reliability of the evidence, Raymond Calais had submitted it to a paper whose political viewpoint he clearly did not share.
“They’re calling our flight.”
Anne Marie looked up. “Mmm?”
The old man was nearer now, still pushing the whispering machine across the airport.
“They’ve just announced the departure of our plane.” Trousseau clicked his tongue and carefully took the file from her. “Only forty minutes late.”
15
Town Hall
The airport, the city, and the encroaching mangrove swamps grew smaller as the Twin Otter banked. Skyscrapers and slowly moving traffic along the Pointe-à-Pitre bypass appeared like a picture from a geography book. The plane flew over the hospital and then evened its angle of flight, and there was a high-pitched ping as the safety belt and no smoking lights were extinguished.
Anne Marie relaxed slightly. Her palms were moist, and her left hand was itching again. “What municipal corruption?”
Trousseau was reading. “Look at the file, madame le juge.”
“I can’t understand it.”
“Pichon dealt with it.”
“Who’s Pichon?”
“With Renseignements Généraux.” Trousseau nodded. “Pretty thorough for a local. Not afraid of a bit of hard work. He looked into it and decided there was nothing political.”
“In what?”
“The attempted murder on Raymond Calais.”
“What were the allegations that Calais was making?”
“Something to do with a contract being handed out to a friend of the mayor’s.”
“And that’s a crime?”
“Raymond Calais wanted to think so.” Trousseau put down the book and laughed. He ran a finger along his moustache. “Nothing came of it. Just another excuse for Calais to attack the mayor of Pointe-à-Pitre.”
“Why do that?”
Trousseau replied, his dark eyes now liquid with amusement. “Raymond Calais always wanted to be mayor himself.”
The plane banked again, and a bright row of sunbeams poured through the portholes. Anne Marie blinked and turned her head. Most of the seats were empty. A young man was sitting in the row behind. He was listening to a portable stereo headset. The thin strip of metal cut through his afro hair.
“What were his chances?”
“Of being elected mayor? Virtually nil.”
Anne Marie looked sharply at Trousseau. “Why?”
“Raymond Calais was a Béké—and that alone excluded him. We don’t like whites, you know.” He shook his head. “They’ve always exploited us. Exploited us and despised us. The whites from France—the whites like you—you’re bad enough.” He turned and gave Anne Marie a long, thoughtful look. “You pretend to be broad-min
ded—after all, you’re from the mainland. You’re from France where people have got no time for stupid, old-fashioned prejudices.” He snorted. “Doesn’t stop you from thinking you’re better than us. We’re a lesser breed—and we all look alike.”
“You generalize, Monsieur Trousseau.”
“You’re better than the Békés.” He tapped his chest. “Otherwise I’d never have married a French girl. My wife’s from France.”
“A tax inspector, I believe.”
“Her skin is fairer than yours, madame le juge.”
“I had the misfortune, Monsieur Trousseau, of being born—like you—in the colonies.” She made a gesture of impatience. “Tell me about Calais.”
“The Békés hate us—they always have. They speak our Creole, and when they speak French, they have our accent. But they are ashamed of that, and they don’t want to have anything to do with us. They despise us because they are rich and we’re poor, because we’re nothing but simple-minded folk whose ancestors were captured like animals in the dark continent and brought across the Atlantic to work as slaves.”
“You’re not Indian?”
The smile of amusement had disappeared from Trousseau’s lips; the eyes now gleamed coldly. “They speak Creole like us, but they send their children to the private schools and the white priests. In the three hundred years that they’ve been living here, as slave traders, as masters and now as respectable businessmen, they’ve done everything to keep their skin as white as the first day they came to Guadeloupe.” A tight, hard grin as he ran his finger along the moustache. “Oh, don’t worry—they’ll screw our women—they always have—and they’ll leave their half-breed kids for the mother to bring up. But when it comes to marriage,” he held up a thin finger, “when it comes to all their fine ideals and their Catholic values—then they forget the steatopygous black women and they marry among their own.”
“Steatopygous?”
“Got to keep the fair, Béké skin—even if it means marrying within the family and getting their pure chromosomes all mixed up. Better incest than black skin, better a deformed child—blind, deaf or retarded—than having the stain of black blood in the family.”
“What does steatopygous mean?”
He made a slapping gesture, and then the cabin grew dark as they went through a cloud.
“I don’t understand, Trousseau.”
“The Békés will defy God’s law rather than marry someone with black skin, madame le juge.”
“Who did Raymond Calais marry?”
“A stuck-up, arrogant English woman.” Trousseau looked down at the book, then at Anne Marie. He did not hide his irritation. “Raymond Calais had no chance of being elected because he was a Béké. That’s all. We don’t like Békés—nothing more subtle than that. And he was too stupid to realize it.”
“But he was a member of the Conseil Général. He represented Pointe-à-Pitre at a departement level.”
“He could get a few friends to vote for him.” The book slid from Trousseau’s knees onto the grubby carpet of the passageway.
“Who?”
“Traders and shopkeepers who hate blacks as much as he did and who are terrified one day we might take over. Being voted conseill général is one thing—being mayor of Pointe-à-Pitre is something quite different. Calais had absolutely no chance.”
“I was here during the riots.”
Trousseau frowned. “Against the English?”
“Against the immigrants from Dominica. Calais was one of the ring-leaders—and he had popular support.”
Trousseau shrugged. “Just another way of attacking the mayor—and nobody here likes the Dominicans. The pedestrian zone—he accused the mayor of letting it become a marijuana trading post for Dominicans and Haitians—a place where no self-respecting Frenchman would dare go. And when fighting broke out in the street and the rastas from Dominica were being hit over the head by angry demonstrators, Calais was making good political mileage.”
“How?”
“Calais liked violence—that’s why he had his band of armed men. That’s why he often hung around the port. But people aren’t stupid, madame le juge—not even my compatriots. You really think the people living in the slums—and even more so, those who have been recently re-housed into the new estates—you really think they had any sympathy for Calais? For a fat, wealthy Béké who modeled himself on Mussolini? A man who could buy any silly little girl into his car—and into his bed? They couldn’t stand him. But Raymond Calais was too stupid to realize even that.” Trousseau bent over sideways and picked up the book. “Calais always was stupid. A cocky, arrogant bastard, a womanizer—and everybody laughed at him. His father wanted to disown him. Old man Calais knew his son Raymond was incapable of running the Sainte Marthe estate.”
“Raymond Calais was rich.”
“Because he sold off a lot of land. Sainte Marthe was one of the oldest and most successful of the plantations—there are even people who maintain it existed before the English came here during the Seven Years’ War. Perhaps if his brother Jacques had been in charge he might have made it into the biggest sugar plantation in the French Caribbean.”
“Who did Raymond Calais sell the land to?”
“His father had started selling—but not on a large scale—to other planters. Raymond Calais sold to people who wanted to build. The only real economic boom in Guadeloupe’s been in the building industry. Over the last twenty years, there’s been a shortage of housing—of decent houses that will stand up to the hurricanes and earthquakes. Which explains why even a high-ranking civil servant like you—with the whitest of skins—is living in a city housing project. With all the money France pumps in, there are a lot of people who can afford to build. Hand in hand with the decline in sugar, there’s been a boom in agricultural land transformed into real estate.”
“Raymond Calais still grows sugar?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“So that he can take the subsidies that France hands out so generously.” Trousseau looked at the palms of his callused hands. “Sugar’s a lame duck—but France gives money so that there is not total unemployment. Our sugar’s not competitive—twice as expensive as the sugar coming out of Barbados or Jamaica.” He shrugged. “France subsidizes an ailing industry—and of course, the money goes straight into the pockets of the Békés. With the connivance of the local politicians—and the government in Paris which doesn’t really care one way or the other, provided Guadeloupe votes the right way at the time of the general elections. Or perhaps you have forgotten that de Gaulle’s margin in 1967 was equal to the number of votes cast in Guadeloupe. And all the while sugar continues to slump.”
“That’s why he wanted to be mayor?”
“Raymond Calais missed the boat. Most Békés saw the change coming—like his brother Jacques Calais—and many moved into commerce. Sugar’s dead. It will never be competitive again. Raymond Calais was just too stupid to see that.”
Anne Marie grimaced. “But why mayor?”
“He wanted power.”
The Twin Otter banked sharply, and glancing through the porthole, Anne Marie saw sunlight dancing across the surface of the sea.
“And his brother?”
“Too clever to want to hang around his older brother. A couple of years younger than Raymond, and like most Békés, Jacques Calais had got into import-export. In the early fifties, he managed to obtain the importer’s license for American General Motors. Now one of the wealthiest men in Guadeloupe.”
“The two brothers got on well?”
“The Békés form a caste. From the outside, they always appear united. And impenetrable.”
“Then Calais’ wife has nothing to worry about?”
Trousseau repeated sharply, “To worry about?”
“About money.”
“During the war, when old man Calais died, she brought all her wealth. There are some people who say that was why Calais married her. She comes from a rich family—one
of those white families where you never know if they’re French or English. Families that have roots and relatives—and a lot of money—in all the islands. Not just in Martinique and Guadeloupe—but in the English islands as well. Trinidad and Dominica and St. Kitts.”
“Where’s she from originally?”
Trousseau shrugged. The cotton of the white shirt had been darned where the points of the collar had worn the fabric thin. “Who knows?”
“She works for Air France, I believe.”
Trousseau laughed. “She works in the central office of Air France on Boulevard Légitimus—it gives her social security, it gives her the overblown salary of a civil servant.…”
“We’re all civil servants.”
“At least we work.” He looked at his palms again, then folded his arms. “A job at Air France gives her tickets at ten percent of their real price—for her and for all her family. So that they can fly regularly up to Miami and stash their money away safely in some American bank—thousands of kilometers away from the uncertain future of Guadeloupe.”
The plane lost speed. The warning lights came on above the cockpit.
Anne Marie did not feel well. She was sweating.
“The Békés look after themselves,” Trousseau said as he tightened the clasp of his seatbelt.
16
Honeymoon
On their honeymoon, the young couple had spent most evenings in Terre de Haut. After the stifling heat of Pointe-à-Pitre, Anne Marie was appreciative of the cool winds that blew across the Saintes. And she felt healthy. Not since leaving Algeria had she felt so well, so fit. Nor had she been so attractive.
At first sight Anne Marie had fallen in love with the Saintes, with the flowers, with the lemon trees, the café bâtard and the wild cinnamon. They formed, these forgotten islands, a terrestrial paradise, a corner of another, long-forgotten France, old-fashioned and peaceful, existing on the far side of the globe.
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