“A future with France?” He laughed again and smoke escaped from his nostrils. “You forget that he’s black like his father.”
“The color of my child’s skin is not an issue.”
“Unemployment—that’s all he can hope for—like all the young people of Guadeloupe. Unemployment while the Békés and the whites like you grow rich.”
“You’re lecturing me on the evils of colonialism, Jean Michel?” Anne Marie sighed noisily. “Unlike you, I was thrown out of my native land.”
70
Pistolero
A humming bird perched upside down on the lip of the yellow letterbox.
Anne Marie felt calm.
Not the lull in a storm but the end of the storm. Now the sun emerged into a clear, cloudless sky. No more decisions to be made. They had all been made for her.
Jean Michel came back and sat down on the far side of the table. “There’s a flight to Pointe-à-Pitre in forty minutes. I’ve phoned for a taxi to take you to the airport.”
She nodded her thanks. “I wasn’t aware there are taxis in the Saintes.”
“You’re sure you want to go?”
“Fabrice is coming with me.”
Jean Michel shook his head. “The child stays with me.”
“It’s a good idea for Fabrice to see his father flirting with another woman? You must take me for a fool.”
“I take you for what you are, Anne Marie.”
“Your wife?”
“What other woman? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She laughed. “And the white girl in the bikini? Or is that just an optical illusion?”
“You always were a fool. A clever, well-educated fool.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re leaving me, aren’t you? To go back to Pointe-à-Pitre and denounce me to your friends at Renseignements Généraux.
“They know.”
“You’re a free woman, Anne Marie.”
“Our marriage is dead, Jean Michel. As far as I am concerned, you no longer exist.”
“Our marriage’s dead because that’s what you’ve always wanted.”
“A bomb that killed an army officer is no laughing matter. At best you can hope for ten years—or perhaps you think that independence is going to come and that you and Freddy are going to be liberated as heroes of the great nationalist cause?”
“I came here to be with Fabrice. There’s no girl in a bikini.”
“Fabrice comes back to Pointe-à-Pitre with me.”
“No, Anne Marie.”
“Where can you go? You can’t get out of the Saintes—unless you want to try your luck sailing to Dominica on your surfboard.”
“I’m not leaving.”
It was all distant, all very matter of fact. She was an outsider, an onlooker. All this was happening to someone else. Jean Michel was somebody she had once known. A long time ago, in a different place, at a time of innocence. Now innocence was dead, and Anne Marie no longer cared. “You think the Cour de Sûreté de l’Etat is going to forget about everything?” Even her voice was distant.
“You’ll help me. I’m the boy’s father.”
“I don’t intend to risk Fabrice’s future just for you. You made your choice, Jean Michel, a long time ago. Now you must live by it. Were you thinking of Fabrice when you planted the bomb? Or when you kidnapped Gurion?”
He stood up and moved toward her. “I need you.”
“Remember the Western, Jean Michel?”
“What Western?”
“We saw it once in Paris—and another time, during our honey moon? Remember one of the mercenaries? I think it was Charles Bronson. The little Mexican boys adored him, and they told the Americans their own parents were peons and cowards.”
Jean Michel was frowning.
“Remember how Bronson got angry with the little boys?”
“The Magnificent Seven?”
“The hired gunfighter told the children to go back to their fathers. Anybody can be a pistolero and pull the trigger. But the man who works from morning till night to feed his wife and his family—that man’s a real hero.” She laughed coldly. “You always loved those American films. But you weren’t listening.”
“You’re the intellectual, Anne Marie. I enjoy the action.”
“You never listen. Instead you spend your life listening to the little boy in your head. Mamie’s little boy.”
“I need you now.”
“Time you grew up.”
“More than ever. I need you now, Anne Marie.” There was pain in his eyes. He placed his hand on hers.
She removed her hand. She noticed that her skin had already begun to dry and was forming a hard, flaky surface. “I’m not your mother. God didn’t put me on this earth just so that I could tidy up the mess you make.”
“Help me.”
“I’m not one of your black women. I’m not going to sacrifice myself or my child for you, Jean Michel. I’m a Jew, remember—as you’re always reminding me. A North African Jew—and I have my son to think about. And I have my own life before me.”
He placed his hand on her knee. “What am I going to do?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Outside, the taxi slid to a standstill beyond the grill gate of the hotel. The driver honked twice.
His voice broke. “They will send me to France. Perhaps I will go to prison—and I won’t see my son.”
She picked up her handbag and stood up. “You never thought of that before?” She moved toward the sunshine.
He caught her arm. “Help me.” He was pleading.
“Hope for one thing, Jean Michel. Hope that over there in the France you profess to hate—just hope Giscard d’Estaing is defeated.” Her voice was flat. “I wouldn’t bet on it—but it’s your only chance. Hope Mitterand and the Socialists get elected. Because then—and only then—can you hope for a presidential amnesty.” She pulled her arm free and went down the steps.
The almond eyes of the taxi driver looked at her legs with interest.
“Stay. Stay with me—just for today.” Jean Michel came down the steps and leaned past her as if to stop her from opening the gates. “You, me, Fabrice—we can spend the day together. Like before—like when we were on our honeymoon. You remember. We should never have returned to Guadeloupe—we were happy in France. We’ll go swimming together—be with the boy. And eat in the hotel. And this evening, we’ll go into town. We’ll watch television. Do you remember? We’ll sit outside the town hall, and with the children, we’ll watch television in the open air.”
“If I wanted to watch television, I could have stayed in Pointe-à-Pitre.” She pulled the iron gate open just as the taxi driver gave another, insolent honk.
71
Return
“Good to see you,” Anne Marie said. “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to get to the airport.”
“I’m not like the others, you know.” Trousseau frowned, irritated. “I do my best to be reliable.”
“And unlike the blacks, you know how to work.”
He nodded, placated. “The car’s outside.”
It was late morning—past 11:30 A.M. and there was a lot of movement through the airport. Overhead, the fans moved through their lethargic circles. Trousseau directed Anne Marie toward the exit from the terminal building.
The car had pulled up onto the sidewalk, near a bush where the allamanda flowers formed bright yellow eyes. Anne Marie recognized the Simca. The driver smiled, and Trousseau put down the typewriter case he was carrying to help her into the back seat.
“You said you were coming with your son, madame le juge.” Trousseau got in beside her.
“Fabrice wanted to get the boat back. I’ll pick him up tomorrow.” She added in a whisper, “Did you tell the driver?”
The car bumped down from the sidewalk and out of the airport. The tires whispered along the tarmac, soft beneath the midday sun.
On the roundabout, the driver accelerated, an
d Anne Marie was thrown against Trousseau’s bony shoulder.
“Tell him what?”
“I don’t want everyone to know I was in the Saintes.”
“Madame le juge, on the phone you told me not to tell anyone. If you believe I’m not reliable, perhaps you’d care to employ a different greffier.…”
“I’ll get the gendarmerie at Trois-Rivières to send the Honda back.”
They came to the road junction where a large hoarding advertised Air France flights to Disneyland. Mickey Mouse smiled at the passing cars. His face was deformed by black daubing. The meaning of the words escaped Anne Marie. She noticed that the graffiti had been sprayed on recently:
Bwé = Dipon = exécution d’état.
Trousseau laughed and Anne Marie imagined that his mirth was triggered by the sight of a man urinating against one of the poles supporting the hoarding.
“They get everything wrong!” He laughed again and she turned to look at him.
“Who?”
“You saw the graffiti, madame le juge?”
She shrugged.
“Bray and Jerry Dupont executed by the state.”
“Well?”
“All on the central computer.” Trousseau nodded. “It never occurred to me to look.”
“You know who killed Dupont?”
“No.” Trousseau placed his finger along his moustache. His dark eyes twinkled as he held the black typewriter case to his chest. “I don’t know who killed him—but I found out who he was.”
“On the central computer?”
“Jerry Dupont wasn’t on it.”
“Then who was he?”
The car stopped for traffic lights at the intersection with Nationale 1.
“Madame le juge, Jerry Dupont didn’t exist.”
“No riddles. I’m not in the mood, Monsieur Trousseau, and you’re not Lafitte.”
The lights changed and the car moved forward. Anne Marie was pushed back against the seat.
“It’s here.” He opened the case and took out a folder. “Pichon’s report—just for you.”
“Perhaps you could explain.”
“Pichon’s good, and for the last nine years, he’s been sitting on his little secret.”
“If it’s a secret, why’s he telling you and me?”
“Sick of seeing Renseignements Généraux being used by the politicians.”
Anne Marie looked through the window as they drove into town. WELCOME TO POINT-A-PITRE. No sidewalk, but a broad stretch of rubble cluttered with parked cars and a few utility vehicles. A large puddle that covered half the road. Wooden shacks with stained corrugated roofs formed a topsy-turvy line. A couple of houses of concrete. On one wall, the paint faded by the rains, BUVEZ COCA COLA. And in the distance, the high, white city blocks rose up from the swamp.
“Pichon knew about Jerry Dupont all along.”
“Then why didn’t he inform us earlier?”
“Madame le juge, it was only the other day you asked me to look into the Dupont affair. I believe you saw Monsieur Carreaux.” Trousseau paused. “Monsieur Carreaux of MANG.”
“You knew there was a connection between the deaths of Hégésippe Bray and Jerry Dupont?”
“I’m only a greffier, madame le juge.”
Anne Marie ran her finger along her upper lip. “But you’re married to a white woman, I believe. Didn’t you once tell me that?”
The dark eyes blinked.
“And you’re an excellent greffier. The best I’ve ever known. The best and the kindest. Not just a greffier, Monsieur Trousseau, but also a friend.”
He paused, took a deep breath. “A Pied-Noir—like yourself. A European born in North America.”
Anne Marie frowned. “Who?”
“Dupont—that’s not his real name. He’d grown up in the United States where his father was a security officer at the embassy in Washington. Jerry Dupont was bilingual.” Trousseau tapped the dossier. “Pichon explains everything.”
“Who murdered Dupont?”
“Murdered?” The idea seemed to amuse Trousseau. His shoulders began to shake. “That’s the sort of simplistic thinking of the MANG.” The laughter ceased. “There was no Jerry Dupont. You’d have thought Renseignements Généraux with all their intelligence officers could have managed to organize something a bit more sophisticated. But their plan worked and they found out what they wanted.”
“What did they want?”
“The RG needed to know whether the students at the university and at the lycée were being manipulated by provocateurs.”
“And?”
“Jerry Dupont gave them the information. His real name is Duchet—Jean Louis Duchet.”
“Is?”
“Now with Renseignements Généraux in New Caledonia. Married a rich local girl.”
“Then he didn’t commit suicide?”
“No—unless his wife is a necrophiliac.” He laughed.
More traffic lights. The wheels screeched as the driver braked.
“Renseignements Généraux were terrified of another ’67 and more bloodshed in the streets. Probably acting on the instructions of the Préfet—who no doubt got his orders from Paris. They indulged in a bit of aggressive information gathering. And I don’t blame them.”
“Dupont was a spy?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“But they created a martyr.”
“Apart from the MANG, who cares about Jerry Dupont?”
“I must read that file.” The car went under the bridge and ran into the Boulevard Légitimus. “Put it on my desk, will you? I’ll be in later today or tomorrow morning.” She leaned forward and then tapped the driver on the shoulder. “I must get out here.”
The driver nodded into the mirror and pulled the Simca into a line of parked vehicles at the traffic lights.
“I was hoping we could have lunch together, madame le juge,” Trousseau said.
“Somebody I must see first.” She got out of the car, and to her surprise, Trousseau followed her. “You have lunch, Monsieur Trousseau. Somebody I have got to see and then I’m going home. I didn’t sleep last night at Trois-Rivières—perhaps it’s the pills I’m taking for my hand. Incidentally, I spoke with the gendarmes in the Saintes. The father confessed to having helped Cinderella kill her baby. Her lawyer hopes to get her deported back to Dominica.”
Trousseau touched her arm. “I wanted to speak to you in private.”
“Perhaps later.”
“It’s about your husband.”
“About my husband?” Anxiety in her voice.
The driver was watching them carefully. The midday sun was hot.
“I’ve heard about Monsieur Laveaud.” Trousseau looked down at his shoes. “A rumor he was involved in the airport bombing. A rumor I’ve heard from several sources.”
“Well?”
“I don’t believe it—not a word. I know my opinion is of no importance—a humble greffier of Indian descent.”
“What rumor?”
“Despite the rumors and all the unkind things that I’ve heard being said over the last twenty-four hours, I want you to know I don’t believe them.”
“Thank you.”
“It is a deliberate attempt to sully your reputation—because you’re efficient and because you do your work well. And because a lot of people would like to see you out of the way, madame le juge. I’ve seen judges come and go—but I’ve never seen anybody like you before—not even a man. You’re hard working and you’re honest. Some people say you’re ambitious—but I know you’re concerned about the people you deal with.” He moved his shoe awkwardly. “I want you to know that it’s not just me. There are other people at the Palais de Justice who know and respect you—and who like you, madame le juge. We will never allow you to be removed on a trumped-up charge against your husband. We will not allow you to be taken away from us just because alone among all the magistrates, you’ve had the courage to do your job—even if it means stirring up a political horne
t’s nest.”
He raised his eyes and for a couple of seconds Trousseau and Anne Marie looked at each other. The Indian and the Pied-Noir, both stranded in a distant land. Trousseau was about to run a finger along the thin moustache when Anne Marie stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Monsieur Trousseau.”
She then darted across the road and entered the building. She stopped to look over her shoulder.
Trousseau had not moved. Nor had the driver sitting in the Simca. They were both staring at her.
She gave a small wave and then went over to the reception desk.
72
Truth
“I was just about to leave.”
“I won’t keep you long. May I sit down?”
The office was chill. Overhead, the conditioner hummed. On the wall, there was a poster with a photograph of Notre Dame de Paris.
The large desk was cluttered. Brochures, timetables, thick volumes of air ticket prices. And a Perspex cube which had been filled with various photographs. Anne Marie recognized the smiling face of Armand Calais in a snapshot taken in New York. Seeing the photograph, Anne Marie was struck by the likeness.
Madame Calais stood up. “I can’t stay.” She was wearing a black dress and a black cardigan draped over her shoulders. There were a couple of bracelets around her wrist. The freckled flesh had formed goose pimples.
There was an electric kettle on the floor. “I think you should. Perhaps you could offer me some tea—it doesn’t have to be Fortnum and Mason.…”
“I’m meeting someone for lunch.”
Anne Marie picked up the receiver of the grey telephone. “Give them a ring and tell them you’re not coming.”
“What on earth for?”
“Tell them you’ve just been arrested.”
Madame Calais sat down again.
“What impressed me was your concern for Hégésippe Bray. You insisted he was innocent, you told me it was the MANG who’d killed your husband. And so I believed you. I believed you sufficiently not to associate you with the gun.” Anne Marie smiled. “I now realize it was you who cleaned it and buried it. Admittedly, it would have been stupid to do otherwise. The gun must’ve been lying about your house for the last forty years—ever since Hégé-sippe Bray was sent to French Guyana and your husband took his land. Then with Bray back in Guadeloupe—and his name engraved upon the butt—you knew the gendarmerie would automatically accuse the old man.”
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