“You’re asking me to attribute to Hégésippe Bray the murder of Raymond Calais just for the sake of all the good, hard-working people out there?” She gestured to beyond the window.
“They’re Frenchmen.”
“Liberty and equality—that’s what the French Republic stands for—and if it doesn’t stand for those things in the département of Guadeloupe, then the independentists are probably right. Your kind of republic is not a republic at all.”
Maître Legrand tilted her head. “Are you a Communist, madame le juge?”
Anne Marie stood up and moved toward the door. Trousseau joined her.
“You forget one thing, madame le juge.”
Anne Marie stopped, her hand on the door handle.
The procureur’s face had hardened. “You wanted this case. You’re an ambitious woman. You’re tired of dealing with petty thefts and juveniles. You wanted a murder because it means you’re moving up the ladder. A very ambitious woman, but you forget one thing.”
“What?”
“Clear an old convict who was going to die anyway—clear him and before you know it, the Cour de Sûreté de l’Etat will be sending its own men—to take your job out of your hands. They’ll be stepping out of the next Boeing.”
Anne Marie hesitated.
“Rest assured that, as far as I’m concerned, your diet will be more juveniles, more petty crime and more cases of shoplifting. Until it’s time for you to leave the département and return to France.”
“Sounds very much like a threat, Monsieur le procureur.”
The handle moved in her hand.
The door was opened. The man with the long head and the shoulder holster entered. His face was drawn. He glanced hurriedly at Anne Marie and went straight to the procureur, placing something on the desk before him. A piece of crumpled paper. He whispered in the procureur’s ear.
The procureur nodded.
“Bad news for you, madame le juge.” The procureur pushed the crumpled piece of paper across the desk. “Just found in the old man’s overalls—a suicide note.”
24
Sainte Marthe
Anne Marie stared at the pool. The reeds swayed and frogs croaked.
Eight hundred meters to drag Calais’ inert corpse—from the hut down to the pond, crossing the road. Anne Marie rubbed the back of her hand. Hégésippe Bray could not have dragged the body that far. Too old and arthritic. If he had killed Raymond Calais, he must have done it near the pond.
Ripples ran across the surface. Anne Marie had taken off her moccasins and the mud was cool between her toes. She was lost in thought for a few moments, then she shrugged and returned to the Honda.
Hégésippe Bray and Raymond Calais must have met by chance. Bray hunting birds and suddenly the white man before him. After all those years—large, white, sweating and without a gun. Defenseless.
The report from the gendarmerie had been precise. They had dredged the pond, they had scoured the ground—but had found no other spent cartridges. As for footprints, the ground had been too wet to preserve anything. For three days it had not stopped raining. By the time the first gendarmes had arrived, the ground had been trampled over.
Anne Marie stopped.
She had seen something out of the corner of her eye. A moving man.
He was at the top of the hill, a thin silhouette a few meters from Bray’s hut. Caught against the reddening evening sky, walking between the cement hut and the Sainte Marthe villa, the silhouette carried a rifle, open at the breech.
Long legs that moved slowly.
Anne Marie ran back to the Honda, let out the clutch and the car jumped forward onto the road. And stalled.
She cursed.
A yellow post van came round the corner at speed and braked fast, almost going into a skid. Beneath his cap, the postman looked at Anne Marie in surprise. He just managed to avoid the Honda.
She put the Honda into first gear, crossed the road and went up the narrow cart track to the Calais villa. An old track—two lines almost lost beneath the grass and pitted with stones. The car bumped mercilessly on its springs, and twice the exhaust pipe hit the ground.
On either side of the track, there was hibiscus and oleander, forming a low hedge. She pulled on the steering wheel and came to a halt outside the deserted villa on the sloping lawn. The grass was short and had recently been mown. She banged noisily on the horn and then got out of the car.
The man was in a field that was staked off by a series of wooden posts and two strands of barbed wire. He was calling to the goats that seemed reluctant to give up their meal—grass that was less green than the lawn.
He wore large boots with lace holes but no laces. The tongues of his boots flapped against the ankles. The man had a strange walk, as if afraid to set his heels firmly against the ground. One hand held the rifle. In the other, he held several ropes to which the goats were tethered.
“I want to talk with you,” Anne Marie shouted against the wind.
If the man heard her, he gave no sign. He did not turn, but continued walking downhill, past a rusting cauldron.
“I am from the police.”
She saw the head nod, and the man lifted the rifle in a sign of recognition. He disappeared over the brow of the hill. The goats bleated, and the man reassured them with animal-like sounds. His voice was carried by the wind.
Soon the sun would be setting. The blue of the sky was washed with red.
Anne Marie stepped round the car and went up the concrete steps that led to the villa. A squat building, a flat roof and a large, iron door that had not been open in months. The villa was surrounded by a broad, open veranda made of concrete. Grass had begun to grow along the winding cracks of the surface.
Anne Marie crossed the veranda and peered through the grimy glass of the closed shutters. The wall was still warm with retained heat. The wind whistled along the isolated electricity cable that sagged from successive poles. The wind also pulled at her hair, blowing strands into her eyes.
Through the glass, she could see the interior was dingy. Armchairs of wood, a dusty table, a crucifix on the far wall and a large dresser, with a dreary parade of bottles of rum and liquor. An ancient television cabinet.
“Madame?”
Anne Marie swung round.
A thin nose, dark matte skin, narrow lips and a broad forehead. In a different context, he might have been a teacher or a priest. He was wearing a battered hat, made of soiled cloth, with several haloes of sweat along the band and a large brim that partly hid his eyes. Long, scraggy hair, streaked a greasy black and grey, lay upon the shoulders of a khaki shirt. Thin chest and long, slender arms.
“Who are you?”
He raised his head slightly. A smile ran along the protruding, toothless jaw. Glinting dark eyes.
“Who are you?” Anne Marie asked again. She stepped back.
In one hand, dangling loosely at his side, was a long machete—the type of machete for cutting cane. The edge had been sharpened to a scarred silver.
25
Tetanus
“I live here.”
“This is Monsieur Calais’ villa.”
An affirmative nod. “I work for him.”
“Calais is dead.”
The smile disappeared but the narrow head continued to nod. “Dead,” he repeated sadly.
An idiot. Anne Marie glanced at the machete.
As suddenly as it had disappeared, the smile returned. He shrugged lopsidedly. “I work here.”
“Work?”
“I look after the animals. The goats that belong to Monsieur Calais. And several cows. And chickens. And the pig. I have to feed them.” Beneath the sagging brim the eyes clouded. “I’m going to lose my job? She won’t let me keep my job?”
“Who?”
The odor of rum was heavy on his breath. “She can’t get rid of me, you know.”
“Who?”
He moved toward Anne Marie. “I’ve always worked here—Madame Calais knows that.�
�
“I never said Madame Calais wanted to get rid of you.” Anne Marie’s eyes remained on the machete.
The tip of the blade tapped against the cement. “A thousand francs—even the Haitians ask for more. A thousand francs a month—it’s not a lot to ask for.” The machete went from one hand to the other. Then all grievance disappeared and he held out his hand. “My name is Michel.”
“Madame Laveaud, juge d’instruction.”
Michel looked at her admiringly. They shook hands.
“Would you like an avocado pear?”
Anne Marie remarked, “A thousand francs is certainly not a lot of money.”
“A thousand francs and a place to sleep—next to the pig.” His skin was unwrinkled and the texture smooth, though he was well into middle age. His features were Indian. “I work for it. I look after the animals.” He scratched his chin with the hand that held the machete. “And the vegetables. Monsieur Calais refuses to pay for any insecticide and then tells me off when the tomatoes are shriveled and green.”
“You could go elsewhere. You’d earn more—a lot more.”
“No.” He pointed to the distant Souffrière, now a darkening line against the angry red sky. “My woman is over there.” In a conspiratorial whisper he added, “In Basse-Terre.”
“Go and live with her.”
“I can’t.”
The evening wind rustled through the leaves of the tamarind tree. “Why not?”
“They’re jealous.”
Anne Marie noticed that he had long eyelashes.
“Look,” he said, with sudden excitement, “look.” He rolled up the bottom of his trousers. He did not crouch but bent over awkwardly to show protuberant veins that pushed against the dusty skin of his foot. The tongue of his boot lolled over the edge of the laceless eyelets. He pushed the point of the machete against the skin.
“Don’t do that.”
He laughed happily. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“Please.” Anne Marie held his wrist—thin and strong. “You can catch tetanus.”
“In my legs.” He rolled up the other trouser leg and tried to prod at the foot with the machete.
Anne Marie tightened her grip.
There was pride in his voice. “My feet are numb.”
“You must see a doctor.”
“A curse. Because of the women.” Michel nodded. “All the women.”
Anne Marie shivered. “In the hospital they will be able to give you blood tests. They’ll give you x-rays.”
“I’m not insured.”
“You can still go to a hospital.”
He shook his head, grinning broadly. “Because of a curse.
That’s what the man told me.”
“What man?”
“He knows about these things—he’s studied them. A Haitian. He knows how to cast curses—and how to get rid of them.” The Indian sighed. “Somebody hates me.” Then he laughed, putting a hand to his open mouth. “They hate me because I enjoy the women too much. Somebody’s jealous—some husband who’s growing horns like a goat.” As an afterthought, he added, “Pretty women—Métis and Negroes and,” he raised his eyes, “white women.”
“You must see a doctor.”
He held out his arm—lines of muscle and vein stood out beneath the skin. “Numb.” His fingers opened and closed. “Sometimes I can’t even hold the knife. It jumps from my hand—like a devil.”
“I can get you money for the doctor.”
“I went to the hospital and there was a white doctor. He was white like you.” Michel nodded. “He took my blood with a needle, and I went again the next day, and he gave me pills. They were red.”
“Did they work?”
He shook his head. “I wanted the green pills.” His face lit up. “You can get the green pills for me?”
“I’ll see what I can do. First you must answer some questions, Michel.”
The Indian frowned and moved away from her. He walked awkwardly, the weight of his body on his toes.
“Some questions about Hégésippe Bray.”
“He’s not here.” Michel approached the concrete steps of the veranda. “While he’s away, I look after his goats.”
Anne Marie followed him down the steps, smelling the odor of rum, unwashed clothes and rancid sweat. “Where does Bray live?”
“He is in Pointe-à-Pitre now.”
“He sleeps over there, doesn’t he? In the hut?”
Together they moved toward the concrete hut; it stood on the ridge but was lower than the villa and at a distance of about two hundred meters. A grass path led toward the closed, wooden door. The outside walls had been painted white but were now covered with a series of black patches, rain stains and lichen.
Michel tapped the ground with the machete. The grass was already damp with evening dew.
“Does Hégésippe Bray ever go into Monsieur Calais’ villa?”
“They say he’s not coming back.”
Anne Marie frowned. “Why not?”
“They say that Bray’s going to die in prison.”
“Does he ever go to the villa?”
A nod. “To get water. There is a cistern at the back.”
The hut was built on a cement foundation; the surface was chipped and, in parts, overgrown by grass. Near one wall stood a large oil drum, its surface scarred by rust. Beyond it, the regular neatness of vegetable beds. A single plant of lady’s finger was pointing to the red sky.
Michel pulled the bar that closed the door and they stepped inside. A single room, three meters by six. It was dark and the air was still warm.
Michel opened the blinds and the evening light entered the somber space; a couple of lizards darted across the ceiling and hid behind the cement rafter. Flakes of blue paint lay on the floor. The mattress was placed by the wall.
“No bed?”
Michel shrugged “The man spent years in prison.” He had left the machete outside.
A portable gas stove, the paint rusting, a few utensils, a plastic plate, and some cutlery had been neatly arranged on an open sheet of newspaper. Beside the mattress, there was a jar containing a half-burned candle. A crucifix, a bottle of hair oil, and a photograph in a tortoiseshell frame.
Anne Marie picked up the photograph, wondering why it had been left by the gendarmes. With it in her hand, Anne Marie approached the window.
The photograph showed a woman wearing traditional matador—the madras, lace and finery of the national costume. Three tips rose like feathers from the back of the head. The woman looked at the camera diffidently. A Creole woman with an intelligent face, unafraid of the passage of time. Anne Marie turned the frame over and slipped the photograph out. Cockroach eggs tumbled into her palm.
Lucien le Marc, photographe. Fort-de-France, Mque.
Underneath in fading copperplate, written in pencil: “A mon petit Hégésippe … celle qui t’aime toujours.”
Michel said, “He’ll never come back.”
At the bottom, scrawled in a different hand, “Je suis Hégésippe Bray.”
Anne Marie slipped the photograph into her handbag, then turned to look at the unadorned walls. The musty odor of mildew. A colorless lizard scurried across the floor.
Michel was standing by the window.
“Where did he keep his gun, Michel?”
He shrugged. “I’ve only been here once.” He rubbed his unshaven shin. “Over there, perhaps.”
A pile of three cartons, the cardboard edges torn, that had once contained cans of vegetable oil, stood by one wall. Anne Marie rummaged through them. One contained folded newspapers. Another contained a couple of pairs of trousers and some tatty pajamas—inscribed in indelible ink, Clinique N.D. de Lorette, Cayenne. The box gave off a strong smell of mothballs. The third box was empty except for a packet of seeds. The packet had been opened, the torn top rolled back to prevent the seeds from spilling. Florida watermelon.
“He’s a good gardener?” Anne Marie asked.
“He’s a
n old man.”
“You two are friends?”
Michel made a laughing sound. In the dingy light, his upper teeth seemed to move, pushing against his lip. “Bray doesn’t talk with anybody, certainly not to an Indian. He used to go drinking.” Michel made a gesture toward the other side of the valley. “Not now. He doesn’t want to talk with anybody.”
“How does he spend his time?”
“In the garden. Sometimes he sits outside.” Michel gestured to the door. “Wave to him and he doesn’t see you. He just sits there.”
“His sight is going?”
The Indian shook his head and laughed. “I’ve seen him kill a pigeon or a blackbird at thirty meters. The eye of a mongoose.”
26
Coconut
They stepped out into the fresh air. Michel slid the wooden door back into place.
“You don’t like him?”
“Michel doesn’t dislike anybody.” He picked up the machete where it was propped against the wall. “That old man doesn’t like to talk.”
“Even with visitors?”
“Are you thirsty?” Without waiting for a reply, Michel walked away in his strange, stiff-legged gait, while the tip of the machete tapped against the side of his leg.
“He has visitors sometimes.” Anne Marie caught up with him. “His half sister—and her son. You’ve seen them, Michel?”
“The fat old woman?”
“You’ve seen her?”
“Michel minds his own business.”
“Did you see her the day Calais was killed? Did you see her on Sunday?”
They reached a small orchard at the back of the villa.
Michel took a ladder and set it against a tree. He climbed the ladder, then with one blow of the knife, he sliced the gnarled stem of a bunch of coconuts. The coconuts slithered downward through the branches, still attached together, and fell onto the grass.
He came down the ladder and, crouching on his heels, the frayed cuffs of his trousers rising away from his boots to reveal deformed ankles, he said, “Good.” Michel grinned and sliced the top of a coconut with the ease of a man slicing a boiled egg at the breakfast table. A colorless liquid slipped over the rim.
Another Sun Page 9