Another Sun

by Timothy Williams

  “I understand, madame le juge.”

  “I can’t begin to understand why Calais was killed if I don’t know what happened in 1940.”

  “I’m doing my best.”

  “There’s a connection between the return of Bray from South America and Raymond Calais’ death—and I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the land. According to Calais’ widow, Bray was going to get the land back, anyway. Perhaps they were hoping he’d die before it was necessary for them to return the land. I need to know what happened before Hégésippe Bray was sent to French Guyana.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I don’t want you to do your best, Monsieur Lafitte. I want results.”

  A silence that hung awkwardly. “Yes, madame le juge.”

  Trousseau continued to mutter over his figures.

  “And I haven’t seen the photographs of the weapon.”

  “Photographs, madame?”

  “The photographs of the gun.”

  “They were in the dossier.”

  “I haven’t seen them. It was an old gun, I believe.”

  “A twelve bore. An Idéale.”

  “That’s why I’d like to see the photographs. Bray’s name was engraved on the butt, wasn’t it?”

  “Engraved on a silver plate that’d been screwed onto the end of the butt.”

  “That’s precisely what I don’t understand.”

  Lafitte shrugged. “Probably screwed on with a screwdriver.”

  “A pre-war gun, Monsieur Lafitte?”

  “Yes, madame le juge.”

  “With Hégésippe Bray’s name on it?”

  Again he nodded.

  “We can assume Bray bought it new—at a time when he could afford to have his name engraved on a piece of plated silver.”

  “Yes.”

  “Bray bought it before the war.” Anne Marie spoke slowly. “He then spent forty years in French Guyana. I’m sure the penal authorities in Cayenne had no intention of allowing Bray keep his gun in prison.”

  Lafitte’s face seemed to brighten. “You mean he must’ve left it here?”

  The telephone rang shrilly, and Trousseau picked up the receiver.

  “Find out, Monsieur Lafitte, where his gun was during all that time.”

  “Your husband, madame le juge.” Trousseau held out the receiver.

  Lafitte had got up to leave.

  “One other thing, Monsieur Lafitte.”

  His shoulders slumped and for a fraction of a second, Anne Marie felt a stab of guilt. She pointed to the newspaper on her desk. “You’ve seen the open letter addressed to the widow of the bomb disposal man?”

  Lafitte nodded unhappily.

  “They mention the insurrection of 1967. They also mention—and I quote—the American freedom fighter, Jerry Dupont, who sacrificed his life in the cause of anti-imperialism. This same Jerry Dupont was mentioned to me by Suez-Panama.” She looked at Lafitte. “There’s a dossier on this Dupont somewhere. Perhaps with Renseignements Généraux. I’d like to see it. See if you can get hold of a copy, please.”

  “Yes, madame le juge.” Hurriedly Lafitte shook her hand and left the office.

  Anne Marie took the receiver from Trousseau.

  “Jean Michel? You’re up already?” She looked at her watch. “Not even eleven o’clock.”

  “I’m sorry about last night. You must understand …”

  “Why are you phoning, Jean Michel?”

  There was a pause and she heard his breath over the line.

  “I can’t pick up Fabrice after school. I’ve got to go out.”

  “Again, Jean Michel?”

  “You remember Le Domien? The magazine in Basse-Terre? The editor’s just phoned asking me to go down there this afternoon.”

  “I see.”

  “I won’t be back until late.”

  “I’m getting used to that, Jean Michel.”

  “I’m going round to the rue Alsace-Lorraine now. Mamie will fetch Fabrice from school, and she’ll give him his afternoon tea. I’ll tell her he can watch television. When you’ve finished at the Palais de Justice, could you go round and pick him up?”

  “You don’t leave me much choice.”

  Silence.

  “So I’ll see you later, Anne Marie.”

  “Yes,” she said flatly, and then the image of the woman, dressed in black and kneeling on the damp gravel while the Préfet held an umbrella, suddenly passed before her eyes. “Jean Michel.”

  “Yes?”

  “Drive carefully.”

  48

  Tear gas

  “Who died in 1968?” Philippe Carreaux asked.

  The university of Paris closed down, and it was one day in mid-May 1968 that Anne Marie was caught in the métro station Odéon. The riot police sealed the exits and then began to fire canister after canister of tear-gas into the closed station. The air turned into a thick grey blanket as women and children lay coughing on the cold stone platform, seeking fresh air.

  The only escape was on the trains, but the trains refused to stop.

  “How many people died in Paris?” Philippe Carreaux asked again.

  “I don’t know.” Anne Marie shrugged. “Theoretically nobody.”

  “Here in Guadeloupe they killed more than a hundred during the riots of ’67.”

  “Those are the statistics of the independence movement. Of people like you, Monsieur Carreaux.” She tapped the newspaper that now lay open on top of the photocopying machine. “I’ve read the letter in the paper.”

  “A hundred—perhaps more.”

  “Your statistics.”

  “The French papers hushed it up. At best, a couple of paragraphs in Le Monde.” He gave an amused shrug. “Who in Paris or Marseilles wants to know about riots in the colonies? We’re only natives, after all.”

  They were in the basement of the university library, next to the stacks. A smell of glue and ink, the hum of the photocopier. An untidy pile of Bulletins Officiels.

  At the far end of the long table, a man—one of the library technicians, wearing blue overalls—was turning the handle of an enormous paper press. He took no notice of their conversation. He had sunken eyes and wore a peaked cyclist’s hat that advertised Mumm champagne.

  Rain fell against the single glass door; wind worried at the wet grass outside.

  “Why were there riots?”

  “Why are there ever riots?” Philippe Carreaux paused. “Because people realize they don’t have freedom.”

  “What happened?”

  Carreaux took a deep breath. “There was a cobbler. An old man who had a little business—an old man with skin as dark as the night who used to repair shoes outside one of the shops in the main street in Basse-Terre. Quick heels or stick-on soles—nothing very sophisticated. For some reason the shopkeeper wanted to be rid of him. The man’d been there for years, never harmed anybody. But the shopkeeper got the idea the cobbler’s presence was bad for business. So he chased him away—and each time the old man came back bringing his box and his tools. One day the shopkeeper came out and he was more furious than ever. His racial supremacy had been questioned. I don’t think he was French. Probably a Jew—all Jews care about is money. He kicked the old man in the rear and sent him flying. But still the man came back. And that’s when the white man set the dogs onto him. A crowd gathered. My people are not violent—but we hate injustice. We’ve already seen too much in our history, and so the crowd started to throw stones at the shop. That’s how the rioting started.”

  “The people of Guadeloupe may not like violence, yet someone has killed an innocent army officer with a home made bomb.”

  “Innocent?” A wry smile behind the small goatee. “A member of the occupying forces.” Philippe Carreaux’s dull features appeared tired. “Madame, I am the first secretary of the Mouvement d’action des nationalistes guadeloupéens. I know absolutely nothing about the bombings at the airport. I’m tired—I’m very tired—of being interrogated by police
officers concerning my whereabouts last Thursday. You’re a reasonable person—indeed, madame le juge, you’re a very attractive person.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So if you’re hoping to trick me into some admission concerning the airport bombing, you’re wasting your time and mine.” Carreaux removed the newspaper and lifted the rubber flap lid of the photocopier. “I’ve got a lot of work to do. The new term starts in a couple of weeks.”

  “Tell me about the riots of ’67.”

  “As for your accusation of violence,” Carreaux went on, turning back to face her and tapping the chest of his loose jacket, “it wasn’t the Africans who introduced slavery to Guadeloupe—the worst violence of all.”

  “About the riots of ’67, Monsieur Carreaux?”

  His eyes were uncertain. Then he shrugged. “The rioting spread to Pointe-à-Pitre. The situation was already tense—the building profession had been on strike for some time—they wanted better pay, but the bosses had all the support of the regime. They said there was no money—and got the riot police to patrol the streets. Fighting broke out in the streets of Pointe-à-Pitre.” Carreaux ran his tongue along his lips. “The French reaction was exactly what was to be expected. Gendarmes, riot police—they came pouring into Pointe-à-Pitre in armored cars and half-tracks. Terrifying—but that’s what de Gaulle wanted. The black race had forgotten to be grateful. And then the shooting started. Not tear-gas, madame le juge, but bullets. Real bullets.”

  The university stood on the hilltop and through the glass door and the falling raindrops, Anne Marie could see the forest of rocking ship masts in the marina.

  “A hundred killed—and that’s a conservative estimate. In France, scarcely a word in the so-called democratic press.”

  “Please go on.”

  For a moment, his face softened. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “At the funeral.”

  Anne Marie asked, surprised, “You were at the funeral this morning?”

  “At the funeral of Hégésippe Bray.” His eyes scrutinized her face and then ran over her clothes. “You were with the police, weren’t you? Taking photographs.”

  “You knew Bray?”

  “Another victim.” Carreaux smiled. “And of all the colonialists, you French have been the worst. Or the most cunning. The English—when they say they’re going to leave, they leave. France turns round—after centuries of exploitation—France turns round and suddenly tells us we are all her children. Black-skinned—but still her children.”

  “How did you know about Hégésippe Bray’s funeral? It wasn’t mentioned on the radio.”

  “I am the first secretary of a legally formed political party whose primary aim is the improvement of the living conditions of my compatriots. I don’t have to tune into the French radio station to know what’s happening on my island. I prefer to hear the truth. And the truth I get elsewhere—not from Giscard’s mouthpiece, which some people foolishly refer to as a radio.”

  Anne Marie tapped the newspaper. “Who was Jerry Dupont, Monsieur Carreaux?”

  “A friend of the people of Guadeloupe.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But he died.”

  Philippe Carreaux nodded.

  “In police custody, Monsieur Carreaux?”

  “No.”

  “But he hanged himself?”

  Philippe Carreaux leaned against the photocopier and folded his arms. “You really want to know the truth about Jerry Dupont?”

  “That’s why I’ve come to see you. In the normal course of things, I would rather stay in my office—particularly when it is raining.”

  “Rain’s good for the vegetables.”

  “Only nobody grows vegetables any more in Guadeloupe.” She shrugged. “Cheaper to buy them in the supermarkets.”

  “I see you’re beginning to understand the absurdity of our colonial situation.”

  “Even an investigating judge has to go shopping.”

  “No one to help you?”

  “My husband is West Indian. Like yours, Monsieur Carreaux, mine is a mixed marriage.”

  “Ah.” He ran his tongue along his lip. “You have studied my file, I see. Yours or that of the Renseignements Généraux?”

  “Just common knowledge.”

  “Does your file tell you about my mistresses?”

  “You dislike the whites—but you have a white wife. A French wife.”

  “Your name is Laveaud?” Philippe Carreaux looked at her thoughtfully. “I believe I know Monsieur Laveaud … a student here once. He gave up his studies to go and live in France.”

  “And marry me.”

  “A very wise choice.” Carreaux gestured toward the wooden stool. “Please be seated, madame le juge.”

  The man in the blue overalls looked at his watch, then took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit a Gitane. He sat down at the far end of the table and started reading a magazine.

  Anne Marie rubbed her finger. The itching had returned.

  “Jerry Dupont turned up here in 1971. I’m surprised he ever managed to get through customs. A hippy—and this was still at the time of Vietnam.”

  “An American?”

  “He had an American passport—but he could speak French. The father was French, and Jerry’d grown up in Morocco, where his father worked for a big oil company. Later he went to the Lycée Français in New York. Jerry Dupont didn’t look like an American—more like an Arab. I first met him by chance.”

  “Where?”

  “Walking down the rue Frébault. Long hair down to his shoulders and a band round his forehead. Dirty clothes, cut-off jeans, and bare feet. Here in Guadeloupe, we don’t like dirtiness—and walking barefoot is for us an insult. We no longer live in the jungle, and we ask for a minimum of respect. But Jerry Dupont didn’t realize that—he didn’t seek to offend. I can remember being very surprised when I discovered he was teaching at the university.”

  “Teaching what?”

  “English. A degree from Tufts University. So he got a job on the small campus. In time we got to be friends. Intelligent—he understood the situation with surprising acuity. Also very gentle.”

  “Flower power.”

  “Precisely.”

  “How did he get arrested?”

  “More riots—this time the cane cutters and the kids at the lycée. Windows got smashed and the administration—with the tacit support of the Communist party of Guadeloupe, their Uncle Tom lackeys—called in the riot police.”

  “And more people got killed, I suppose?”

  He shook his head. “Then Dupont disappeared. Vanished.”

  “Where to?”

  “Ten days later, he re-emerged. His face covered with bruises. A black eye and his hair had been shaved off, down to the scalp. Jerry was no longer a hippy—he looked more like a convict who’d been thrown to the sharks off Devil’s Island. Another French specialty, as no doubt Hégésippe Bray could’ve told you.”

  “Where had Dupont been?”

  “In police detention.”

  “Scarcely likely, Monsieur Carreaux.” Anne Marie shook her head. “Police detention for more than a week? Without a formal accusation? That’s not possible.”

  He laughed. “We’re not talking about France. We’re talking about a colony.”

  “The Republic doesn’t make up the law as it goes along.”

  Philippe Carreaux lowered his voice. “Jerry came to see me. At that time I was sharing a flat in the university—a small, stuffy room that smelled of blocked drains—with several million cockroaches.”

  “Where did Dupont live?”

  “In one of the new blocks of flats that were being built at that time. One of the new estates. I think it was Cité Mortenol.”

  “That’s where I live.”

  “Where they’ve rehoused people who used to live in shacks?” He raised an eyebrow. “A working-class area fo
r a juge d’instruction—for a white juge d’instruction.”

  “You don’t think distinguishing between social classes is a form of racism?”

  Carreaux laughed. “A Marxist juge d’instruction?”

  Anne Marie went on. “What did Dupont tell you?”

  “They’d kept his passport at the gendarmerie, and Jerry was terrified. He had a desperate need to talk to somebody willing to listen, and so I listened. I made some coffee and got him to sit down—but he was very agitated. His hands shook—he spilled half the coffee.”

  “Why was he so worried?”

  “They wanted him to be an informer. The gendarmes had confiscated his personal belongings—including several grams of marijuana. Told him he could have everything back—provided he infiltrated the anti-colonialist movement among the students and staff at the university.” The corners of Carreaux’s mouth turned upward. “In those days, the university had the reputation of being a center of political dissent. Renseignements Généraux told Jerry Dupont, either he worked for them.…”

  “Or?”

  “He’d be facing charges for the possession of drugs. And be deported.” He scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. “There was a drugs charge waiting for him in the US. The last thing Dupont wanted was deportation back to the United States.”

  “He had sympathy for the revolutionaries?”

  “Not revolutionaries, madame le juge. Anti-colonialists. And yes, I think he did have sympathy for us.”

  “What did you advise him to do?”

  The man in the blue overalls lit another cigarette. He raised the magazine he was reading—it was wrapped in brown paper—and placed it on the table.

  “I tried to calm him down. The gendarmes had told him they wanted him to report back a few days later—the gendarmes acting under the orders of Renseignements Généraux.”

  “He calmed down?”

  “Jerry Dupont told me he would never go—that he’d rather kill himself.”

  “But he went?”

  “Because I accompanied him. I told him to act rationally. A new experience for me, seeing a white man getting this treatment from a colonial regime.” He smiled softly at the memory. “I went to the gendarmerie, and I waited outside, thinking he’d be out in a few minutes—a quarter of an hour at most.”