Another Sun

by Timothy Williams

  His excitement was infectious.

  “You think that Raymond Calais’s murder was a revenge killing?” Anne Marie asked.

  “Revenge among the Békés.”

  “And Suez-Panama?”

  “An idiot.”

  61

  New York

  “You sound very sure,” Lafitte said.

  “Suez-Panama’s confessed to the killing.”

  “A university man—not the sort of person to go around using a twelve bore gun.” He cocked his head, “The idiot’s probably trying to cover up for somebody in his stupid, quixotic way.”

  “He has good reason to hate Calais.”

  “Everybody hated Raymond Calais—including his own brother.”

  “You think Jacques Calais killed his brother?”

  “It’s obvious. Raymond Calais had been blackmailing his brother for years.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Not me, madame le juge.” He tapped his chest. “Pichon. Pichon’s got contacts everywhere—even among the Békés. They’re not all corrupt businessmen—or so Pichon maintains.” Again the unexpected laugh. “There are even Communists among them.”

  “What could Raymond Calais blackmail his brother over?”

  “It was you who asked me to get the information on Kacy, madame le juge.”

  “Well?”

  “Kacy owns Travaux et Terrassements Antillais—and poor bastard, he’s got the Foch accountant in now. TTA’s a big concern—but certainly not quite as big and certainly not quite as efficient as Kacy would like to make out. One hundred and fifty employees—administration, lorry drivers, bulldozer men. Big—but it’s not the only company of its type.” Lafitte grinned. “Strangely, though, TTA’s always been able to offer more competitive tenders when an operation’s been put up for bidding by the SODECA. More than once TTA’s had to go back on the initial estimate. And then ask the SODECA for a higher price. What’s amazing is that nobody seems to have minded. Which has let Kacy build up a virtual monopoly on the SODECA jobs.”

  “Connivance over the tenders.” The back of her hand was red, and the throbbing pain was returning. “That doesn’t explain how Raymond Calais was involved. More important, it doesn’t explain why he was killed.”

  “Raymond Calais isn’t involved, madame le juge. He never was—not directly. With his political aspirations, he felt he couldn’t have his finger directly in the pie—even though the pie was so big and juicy. Virtually everybody else was in on it. But Raymond Calais kept his finger clean. He used a spoon.”

  “How?”

  “Raymond Calais used his brother.” Lafitte glanced over his shoulder. “Jacques Calais imports vehicles from General Motors.”

  Anne Marie waited.

  “Not just cars—but also heavy machinery. Agricultural machinery used for sugar harvesting, and also all the stuff used by the building trade. Tractors, tip-ups, and rollers. The sort of thing Kacy needs for his company. Big, industrial machines that cost a lot of money.”

  “Well?”

  “Just think for a moment, madame le juge.” Lafitte sat back.

  “I don’t understand.”

  He edged forward again on the low armchair. “Kacy couldn’t hand out money just like that. Earth-moving machinery—it’s not the sort of thing you pay for in cash. You need financial help.”

  “You go to the bank.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Desist from using this patronizing tone, Monsieur Lafitte. Please. This is not a university class, and I’m not your pupil.”

  He made an apologetic gesture and knocked over an empty can of juice. “I’m sorry,” he said, dabbing at the drops running across the tabletop, “I allow myself to get carried away.”

  “I am a juge d’instruction—not a cycling companion.”

  It was as if she had struck him in the face. His features became grey and drawn. “Yes, of course.”

  “There’s nothing illegal in asking for a loan from the bank.”

  “I beg your pardon, madame le juge?”

  “No crime in borrowing money from the bank to buy heavy machinery.”

  “Provided you do in fact buy machinery.”

  “I imagine Kacy needed the equipment.”

  “But he didn’t need all the equipment that he got from Jacques Calais—the equipment that he got on paper, at least.”

  “There was false accounting?”

  Lafitte nodded.

  Anne Marie started rubbing at the back of her hand. “Kacy got false receipts from Jacques Calais for equipment that was never sold to him. With these he got loans from the bank. Is that it?”

  “A bulldozer costs a lot of money. Kacy managed to get a lot of money from the banks for something that existed only on paper.” Lafitte stopped. “You mustn’t do that to your hand.”

  “What bank, Monsieur Lafitte?”

  “The Lower Hudson Securities Bank of New York.”

  “There’s a branch in Guadeloupe?”

  Lafitte nodded.

  “Any bank director before lending a substantial sum of money would make enquiries. Enquiries about the borrower’s assets.”

  “Normally, yes.”

  “Are you implying the director of the Lower Hudson Securities Bank of New York was involved in this scam?”

  Lafitte raised his shoulders in a gesture of acquiescence. “There are two elements that perhaps you are unaware of, madame le juge.”

  Anne Marie smiled wearily. “A lot more than two, I can assure you.”

  Lafitte leaned forward over the table until his symmetrical, earnest face was less than twenty centimeters from hers. “The director of the Lower Hudson Securities Bank of New York is Monsieur Charraud. Until last year, he was the president of the Chamber of Commerce. A man of considerable power, who by his position, was a de facto member of the governing board of the SODECA.”

  “And the other bit of information?”

  “He’s the brother-in-law of your boss, the procureur.”

  In the street, an old man was unlocking the padlock that held his bicycle to the parking meter.

  62

  Lies

  Anne Marie ignored the proffered hand. “You lied to me.”

  Michel continued to grin.

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “An Indian.” The false teeth in the upper jaw shifted as he proudly added, “Like me.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “We’re talking.”

  The other Indian stood up, leaning his weight against the concrete post. He was smaller than Michel and a lot neater. His hair was short beneath a pith helmet, and he wore khaki shorts and rubber boots that came up to the knees of his spindly legs.

  “Edouard Ragassamy.” He held out his hand and Anne Marie took it hurriedly.

  She turned back to Michel. “I must speak with you.”

  The smile grew wider.

  “Alone.”

  They left Ragassamy, who produced the stub of a cigarette from his shirt pocket and began to smoke peacefully.

  Anne Marie walked round the empty villa. Michel was close behind her, smelling of dry sweat, goats, and rum. It was late afternoon, the air was cooling and from the nearby field came the gentle odor of newly mown grass.

  “You lied.” She turned to look at Michel. “On the Sunday afternoon—the day that Calais died—there were visitors.” Over her shoulder she glanced at Ragassamy. Smoke was rising from under the pith helmet as he stared out across the valley, across the double row of coconut palms, the white track, the pond where Raymond Calais’ body was found—and in the distance, the route nationale and the cars that moved along it like silent toys.

  “Michel doesn’t interfere into other people’s business,” Michel said.

  “Because of you, another man died. Hégésippe Bray died because you didn’t tell me the truth.”

  “He was going to die.”

  “His sister—the woman from Morne-à-l’Eau. She was here, wasn�
��t she?”

  Michel said nothing. He smiled and the long dirty hair danced with the wind.

  “She came with her son. They came to visit Hégésippe Bray that afternoon, didn’t they?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I can have you put in prison—and perhaps you’ll die there. No more women—no more black women or Indian women.”

  Slowly, very slowly, the smile disappeared. There were short black hairs that protruded from his nostrils; the hairs quivered as Michel exhaled. “It’s nothing to do with me.”

  “The sister and her son—were they here?”

  He nodded.

  “Good.” Anne Marie started to walk again. “At least we’ve got that settled.”

  He fell into step behind her, with the tongues of his boots flapping against the muddied leather.

  There was a breadfruit sapling that was protected by a fence of iron mesh. Anne Marie placed the back of her left hand against the jagged ends of hard wire. She could scarcely feel them as they pushed against the skin. “He could shoot a pigeon or a mongoose at thirty meters?”

  “Who?” The grin had returned.

  A grackle chirped overhead in a guava tree.

  “Hégésippe Bray was a good shot, wasn’t he?”

  “Would you like a coconut?” He nodded toward her chest. “Good for you.”

  “At thirty meters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring me the gun.”

  “What gun?”

  Anne Marie held out her hand. “Hurry up, Michel.”

  “What gun?”

  He stood in front of her. The wind whispered through the leaves of the guava tree and the young breadfruit. A pig snorted, and there was the hollow thump of hooves on the concrete floor of the sty.

  “You stole Hégésippe Bray’s gun.”

  “He left it.”

  “Where?”

  “Over there.” Michel gestured toward the hut.

  “He left it—or you took it?”

  “The gendarmes took him away. He left it with me.”

  Again the chirping of the grackle.

  “How is your hand, madame?” Michel’s face broke into an ingratiating grin.

  “Fetch the gun.”

  The Indian shrugged and the smile died. Then he turned away and made off toward the wooden shack. The seat of his trousers was baggy, and when Michel returned he was carrying a rifle.

  The muzzle was raised. It pointed toward Anne Marie’s chest.

  “Pests.”

  “What?”

  “There are rats, madame. Calais never gave me anything—but he was the first to complain when the rats ate his lettuce. Or when the mongooses ate the eggs in the chicken run.” The barrel of the rifle was like a third eye. “Calais said I stole the eggs.”

  “Give me the gun.”

  Apart from the first specks of dust along the thin barrel, it was in good condition. It could only be a few months old.

  “Give me that gun.”

  Michel hesitated.

  Anne Marie took hold of the barrel and the Indian let go. He did not resist.

  “You should never have taken it.”

  “The old man didn’t need it.”

  She opened the breech. It was not loaded. “A twenty-two long rifle.”

  “Good for the rats.” Michel shrugged.

  63

  Couscous

  It had been a long time since Anne Marie had done any real cooking for Jean Michel and Fabrice. Nothing more demanding than an omelet, an opened can of Paris mushrooms, and a salad.

  She took a basket and walked the length of the open refrigerators. Vapor rose in wispy clouds.

  Jean Michel would be back before 7 P.M., and tomorrow being Wednesday, they would be in no hurry to go to bed. Anne Marie smiled contentedly. For once they could all sit down together, turn off the television, and eat. She would make couscous.

  She started looking for a packet of frozen lamb.

  Despite the chill air of the supermarket, Anne Marie had started to sweat.

  Butter, oil, Mediterranean spices.

  She studied the shelves, looking for something that would go well with the meal. Bordeaux, Chablis, Côtes du Rhone. There was everything. She smiled when she saw the display, ten bottles deep, of Algerian wine.

  Anne Marie no longer missed Algeria. But sometimes she thought about Maman, who had died before the long, painful journey to France, Sarlat, and a new life.

  She placed a bottle of Bordeaux in the wire trolley.

  There was salami—hanging in wrinkled old sausages from a shelf near the refrigerator. It smelled good—a smell of Europe. Again Anne Marie ran a hand along her forehead. She was feverish. A germ she must have picked up somewhere—or perhaps a cold caused by the wet shoes at the funeral.

  The rice crackled beneath the soles of her Mephisto moccasins.

  Two men were transferring bags of rice from a wooden trolley onto the lower shelves. One of the bags had slipped from their grasp and burst open. Rice was scattered across the red tiles. The jute bag lay like a dead child.

  “I’m looking for couscous.”

  The men were wearing overalls over naked chests. One man looked up and studied Anne Marie carefully before replying, “Over there.” The gesture was vague.

  Couscous with lamb and a spiced sauce. Followed by banana flambé.

  She found the couscous between the sugar and the bags of imported flour.

  “Like a good housewife, doing her shopping?”

  She was crouching, and she had been too busy comparing prices to have noticed the man. She looked up in surprise and saw him smiling benignly.

  He was wearing white tennis shorts that were too tight; the cotton shirt swelled above the leather belt. He was smoking a cigar.

  “Like you, monsieur le procureur.”

  “My good wife’s away in Florida, and so I’ve got to look after myself.” He raised his shoulders and the thick lips broke into a smile. “We should pool our resources, madame le juge.”

  Anne Marie stood up and they shook hands.

  “Very pleased to see you,” the procureur said. “Been a bit worried about you, I must admit.” He took the cigar from his mouth. “Not so much that I can’t sleep, but lately I’ve been getting the feeling you’re not happy with your work, madame le juge.”

  His trolley was full of bathroom articles. Nivea cream, talcum powder, shampoo, razor blades. And incongruously, several packs of Corsaire beer.

  “Perhaps this isn’t the best place to discuss my professional or personal problems.”

  He grinned and placed the cigar back in his mouth. Moving to Anne Marie’s side, the procureur took her by the arm. “Come, finish your shopping, and then we can go for a drink.”

  The neon lighting of the supermarket flattened his face.

  “I’ve got to get home, I’m afraid. It’s very kind of you, of course. It’s just that the family’s waiting for me.”

  The procureur raised an eyebrow. “You do the cooking?”

  For a moment, the round face seemed to swim before Anne Marie’s eyes. “Sometimes.”

  “I see you’re a very capable woman.”

  “Many, many women just as capable as me.…” She smiled, and crouching down, took a packet of couscous.

  “An excellent cook, I’m sure. You must invite me around one evening.”

  “It’d be a pleasure. You can meet my husband.”

  They moved forward together.

  Anne Marie felt hot. Sweat on the back of her neck. At the same time, the smell of the procureur’s cigar caught in her nostrils. Like an angry sea, her stomach began to lurch.

  “I’d be delighted to see him again, madame le juge. Has he found a job yet?”

  She shook her head.

  “A shame. An intelligent man. I met him a couple of times when I did evening classes at the Vizioz Institute. In those days, the university was next to the Palais de Justice.” The procureur added, “Should’ve stuck to law, like y
ou.”

  “My husband likes writing.”

  “Trouble is there’s no work here.”

  “Jean Michel’s thinking of doing a novel.”

  The cigar smoke was making her eyes water. Anne Marie pushed toward the row of cash registers, hoping that the procureur would go off to finish his shopping alone.

  He remained resolutely at her side, his damp hand on her forearm.

  “A novel—that’s an interesting idea.”

  “The mineral water.” She tried to keep the note of desperation out of her voice. “I forgot the mineral water—do excuse me.” She turned, wrenched her arm from his grip, and, in an inelegant, fast walk, moved back to the far end of the supermarket. She held the back of her hand to her lips. The skin throbbed sullenly and now her eyes were watering freely.

  The smell of the floor polish that a girl with a microphone was trying to promote made Anne Marie feel giddy.

  She stared at the bottles in their plastic crates. Evian, Vichy, and a couple of bottles of the local Matouba water. Her heart thumped angrily. She moved slowly, trying to kill time. She waited. One minute. Two minutes.

  Peeping down between the aisle of dairy products and the steaming refrigerators, her watering eyes sought the procureur but the plump man in the tennis clothes had disappeared.

  The feeling of sickness, the tinge of cigar smoke on her nostrils slowly ebbed away. Anne Marie had begun to tremble.

  Another two minutes before she moved toward the crêpes imported from Finistère. She picked up a packet. She also took a tin of Quality Street.

  Waiting.

  She wanted to go home. The presence of the procureur—even when dressed normally and not in the bulging, obscene tennis wear, even without the foul cigar—made her feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and vulnerable.

  She made her way back to where she had left the trolley at the checkout register. She had overloaded her arms with articles to buy and her arms now ached from the weight of the mineral water.

  At the checkout, she looked along the lines of customers. The procureur had gone, thank God.

  The goods tumbled from her arms into the trolley. Anne Marie took her place in the queue. In front of her, a little boy played with a plastic car while his mother scolded him in resentful Creole.