Another Sun

by Timothy Williams

  (Anne Marie was reminded of her school years in Algeria.)

  “I got the impression she was more angry than upset.”

  The headmistress raised her shoulders. “Liliane’d been married long enough to know what Dugain was like.”

  “He was fond of women?”

  “You know a man who isn’t?”

  Anne Marie glanced at Mademoiselle Salondy as they stepped into the school building. “That’s why you never married, Lucette?”

  “One of many reasons.” The headmistress put her finger to her lips and nodded to the closed doors of the administrative offices.

  The muffled sound of a typewriter.

  They went up the wooden stairs and entered an air conditioned room. There was a large desk. A photograph of President Mitterand hung on the wall between a poster of the Declaration of Human Rights and a calendar from a local garage. The cables leading into the light switches were unconcealed and had been tacked into the wall with staples. A telephone sat on the desk and beside it, a plastic cube containing various pictures of Lucette Salondy’s relatives. In a small glass jar, there was a solitary anthurium.

  “Madame Dugain’s your cousin?”

  “Sit down, Anne Marie.” Lucette Salondy had a smile that formed wrinkles at the corner of her bright eyes. “Who isn’t a cousin on this island?” She was a large woman whose dress could not hide the matronly hips.

  “You know her well?”

  “Liliane’s more than twenty years younger than me, and when I came back from France in ‘66 she was doing her philosophy baccalaureate. A bright girl and the youngest in her class.” She tapped the desk. “That was when the lycée was still here, before they built the concrete jungle on the ring road.”

  “I shouldn’t discuss things that have been told to me in confidence.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Anne Marie squared her shoulders. “Liliane Dugain was acting out a role—that’s the impression I got.”

  “Liliane’s too old to act. She simply needs to be left alone.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Perhaps you don’t understand Guadeloupe women here. They hide their suffering.”

  “Do you ever talk to her?”

  “My prison.” The headmistress gestured to the office, the walls painted the pale grey of France’s tropical public buildings and beneath the opaque louvers, the potted dieffenbachia, the leaves yellowing at the edges. “No time for idle chat—there are at least three new teachers this year whom I’ve never spoken to.” She pulled a blue cardigan from the back of the chair onto her shoulders. “Headmistress? I’m just a cog in a big, faceless administration. My job’s to sign bits of paper or phone the Rectorat in Martinique to sort out problems of their making. I am afraid our cousins in Martinique are notoriously incompetent.”

  “You’re talking like a racist.”

  “Perish the thought. Put simply, in Martinique they don’t understand our problems in Guadeloupe because those gentlemen of Martinique prefer not to understand. During the revolution we set up a guillotine here in the Place de la Victoire and we chopped off the heads of all the whites who hadn’t run away. For eight years we were free while over in Martinique the English protected the slave owners. So they like to think of us as peasants.”

  “The gentlemen of Martinique fail to understand the honest folk of Guadeloupe?”

  “My word! I see you’ve done some studying, Anne Marie.” She smiled. “The nobility of Saint-Domingue, the gentlemen of Martinique and the honest folk of Guadeloupe. Except that now in Guadeloupe and Martinique we run around in SUVs while the immigrants from Haiti cut our cane in the fields.”

  Anne Marie smiled. “You don’t have time to talk to Madame Dugain, but you find time to talk with me.”

  “First time I’ve seen you since Léonore’s wedding.” She stretched a plump arm across the desk and squeezed Anne Marie’s hand. “I rarely get out of this office.”

  “You’ve just been out.”

  “I went looking for you, Anne Marie Laveaud because I want to talk to my sister-in-law before she scurries back to the law courts.”

  “Sister-in-law, Lucette?”

  “I’m your father-in-law’s daughter—remember? Which makes me the half-sister of your husband.”

  “My ex-husband.” Anne Marie gave a terse smile. “You still have your apartment on the beach at Le Moule?”

  “I was there yesterday. I had to take a couple of hours off to drive over to les Alisées. Someone renting it—and the lavatory is blocked up.” Lucette Salondy shrugged. “A couple of hours I could ill afford to waste on private business. I just don’t get time for myself. My weekends are taken up with administrative work. Perhaps when I retire.”

  “You’ll never retire, Lucette.”

  The large woman sighed. “So many things to do, and never a moment to spare. I can’t wait to retire.” She added, “She was Dugain’s second marriage, you know.”

  “They weren’t happy?”

  “Liliane Dugain has two lovely children.”

  “Why wasn’t she happy?”

  “My cousin married someone who was seventeen years older than her. That kind of age difference’s common here in our islands but Liliane’s an educated woman, and she wanted a friend, and in the end she married somebody who could’ve been her father. She wanted equality, and she found a man who never treated her as an equal. Someone who gave her two lovely daughters but who went elsewhere for his pleasure.”

  “Other women?”

  “I don’t know why you sound so surprised, Anne Marie.”

  “Not the sort of thing I’d expect.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When there’s a big age difference, men are supposed to lose interest in philandering.”

  “Are they?”

  Anne Marie shrugged. “Or so I am informed.”

  “Men in mainland France—but not here in the islands,” Lucette Salondy said, folding her arms. “Dugain appeared on television. He was a public figure, the kind of person to appeal to women, to our groupie mentality. We’re attracted to the dominant male.” She clicked her tongue, as if reproaching herself for something. “Dugain probably didn’t go out of his way looking for women—but they were there. There are always women.” She sighed. “You haven’t learned that about Guadeloupe?”

  “Who?”

  “Even a headmistress and a spinster locked away in her office hears things.” She got up and went to a small filing cabinet. She turned the key. “Care for a drink? A white rum at fifty-nine degrees from Marie-Galante can work wonders.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Let me tempt you. I often wonder how you manage to stay so slim, Anne Marie, but I suppose I shouldn’t. So slim and so young.” Lucette Salondy poured herself a thimbleful of white rum into a small glass. She took a slice of green lime from a small refrigerator. “Worry about my figure at my age?” She sipped and winced. “The great thing about being old is you don’t have to try to please any more, and the strange thing is, it’s only when you’ve stopped trying to please men that they actually start noticing you. Not for your body, for your figure, for what you can do in bed—they actually notice you for what you are.” She smiled wistfully. “I was thinking about your husband only the other day, Anne Marie.”

  “My ex-husband.”

  Another sip. “How’s your son?”

  “Who were Dugain’s women?”

  “Tell me about Fabrice, Anne Marie. We were all sad when he moved on to the lycée.”

  “Fabrice?” Anne Marie flushed. She was about to say something bitter but instead she chose to relax and allowed herself to sit back in the tubular chair. “Wind surfing, most of the time. And probably about to repeat his year in the première scientifique at the lycée. Fabrice is quite hopeless at school.”

  “He can’t be too hopeless if he’s in première scientifique. Brilliant when he was here and always top of the class—but never conceited.”

&nbs
p; “Hopeless in everything except English—because it’s the only thing he’s willing to put his mind to. He’s so stubborn, never wants to be helped.”

  “Stubborn like his father.” Lucette Salondy frowned. “Where is that ex-husband of yours now?”

  Anne Marie looked at her hands. “Fabrice’s lazy. If he’s not interested in something, then he just can’t be bothered. He spends his time watching the American channels on the satellite dish. Understands everything in English—but refuses to work at school. I mustn’t complain, though. He’s a good boy and very affectionate. Just dotes on his little sister.”

  Lucette Salondy’s face broke into a broad smile. “And Létitia?”

  “The apple of her mother’s eye.”

  The headmistress took the plastic cube and pointed to a photograph on one side of it, a photograph taken outside the church in Pointe à Pitre. Children in white dresses, holding flowers and squinting into the sun. Létitia stood in the centre of the group. Her dark hair hung in short, beribboned plaits. The soft brown skin of mixed parentage. She was wearing a white dress, and she looked at the camera with her head to one side. She was holding a bouquet of flowers. Inquisitive, self-assured eyes.

  “The apple of her aunt’s eye, too. An aunt who doesn’t get to see her enough.”

  “Létitia just loves church—goodness knows why. Perhaps it’s the dressing up she likes.” Anne Marie touched the cube with her finger, “I thought I was too old to have a second child, and when I found out about Létitia, it really wasn’t the happiest of times, and I even thought about an abortion. When I now think I could’ve spent the rest of my life without Létitia …” Anne Marie looked up at the older woman. “You could’ve had children, Lucette.”

  “Instead I’ve got an entire school. Before long, you’ll be sending Létitia to us—only by then, I’ll be long retired.”

  “You love this job too much to retire.”

  Somewhere a bell rang.

  “Why are you interested in Liliane Dugain, Anne Marie?”

  “It’s her husband’s death I’m interested in.”

  The headmistress folded her arms. “He jumped from the top of a building.”

  Anne Marie remarked, “There are a lot of nasty rumours.”

  “Rumours concerning the police judiciaire?”

  Anne Marie gave Lucette Salondy an unblinking stare.

  “Dugain had a lot of enemies, Anne Marie.”

  “Arnaud doesn’t believe it was suicide.”

  “Who’s Arnaud?”

  “You don’t know the procureur here in Pointe à Pitre?”

  “Arnaud is his given name?” Lucette Salondy held her glass motionless in mid-air, and the room seemed suddenly chilly. With her other hand, she pulled the cardigan tight against her large shoulders.

  “Dugain had a mistress?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Perhaps you ought to change jobs.”

  Anne Marie pointed to the poster on the wall. “There’s no republic without justice.”

  “I thought it was me who was supposed to teach philosophy.”

  “There’s no justice without truth.”

  An amused laugh, lubricated with white rum.

  “Never underestimate the Lycée in Sarlat.” Anne Marie grinned with pleasure. “I won the prix d’excellence.”

  “You were a swot.” The headmistress put down the glass of rum and sighed as she took a pen from the mahogany inkstand in front of her. “Everybody knew it was a mistake. Liliane should never have married Dugain. Few people will miss him—not even his groupies. Forget about justice and, in your position, I’d certainly forget about Monsieur Environnement.” She jotted something onto a piece of paper then folded the paper twice, firmly, as if she wanted to have nothing to do with its written contents. “A womanizer and a fraud.”

  “You’re not in my position.” Anne Marie took the slip of paper, without glancing at it.

  “But like you, I’m a woman.”

  5

  Trousseau

  Trousseau had been putting on weight. It pushed at the cracked crocodile belt of his trousers.

  “They told me downstairs you were here, madame le juge.”

  Lucette Salondy smiled brightly. “Please enter.”

  Trousseau took a hesitant step into the office. He held a briefcase under his arm, and Anne Marie noticed that beneath the white shirt, the narrow shoulders ran down to a bulging belly. His eyes darted from one woman to the other. He smiled nervously and straightened his tie. “I wouldn’t have …”

  “Come in and sit down, Monsieur Trousseau.” Anne Marie gestured him to the chair beside her. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. Just two old ladies chatting.”

  “We’re in a bit of a hurry, madame le juge.” He stood with his dark hand on the handle of the open door. “I’ve just come from the Palais de Justice.”

  “Monsieur Trousseau, you know Mademoiselle Salondy?”

  He moved reluctantly towards the desk and shook the outstretched hand, while his eyes remained on Anne Marie. “There’s a plane waiting for you, madame le juge, at the airport.”

  She laughed. “My children are waiting for me.”

  “You’re wanted in Saint François.”

  “On Wednesdays I have lunch with my children. This afternoon I’m taking them to the beach.”

  “It’s very important.”

  The laughter left her eyes. “Why a plane, Monsieur Trousseau?”

  He smiled nervously and edged back towards the door.

  “To think that I chose this job.” Anne Marie looked at Lucette Salondy. “A functionary of the state,” she sighed before getting wearily to her feet. “Come and see us. Létitia would love to …”

  Lucette held Anne Marie’s hand. “I’m retiring at the end of the year. I’ll have plenty of time to visit you then.”

  Trousseau was fidgeting and again he pulled at the dark tie. “The procureur insisted on an escort.”

  “Give my love to the children, Anne Marie. Kiss the lovely Létitia.”

  “If ever the procureur allows me to see them.”

  The two women embraced and Lucette Salondy squeezed Anne Marie’s hand.

  6

  Gendarme

  The officer helped Anne Marie from the military helicopter and accompanied her to the waiting car—a dark blue Peugeot that glinted in the sunshine. Trousseau followed, muttering to himself and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “We’ll be there in a few minutes.” The gendarme spoke with an educated accent. He belonged to the new generation of West Indians that was now beginning to reach the positions of authority. There was about him the faint odour of expensive eau de cologne and self-assurance. Anne Marie got into the car, and he closed the door behind her. He went round the back of the vehicle and climbed in from the other side, a smile playing at the edge of his lips.

  Trousseau sat beside the uniformed driver. He held the battered attaché case on his knees. He was now wearing his threadbare jacket.

  “To the Pointe des Chateaux.” The gendarme removed his kepi, revealing a high forehead and the short, curly hair that had begun to recede. He was good looking, but slightly chubby. “Capitaine Parise,” he said.

  “Anne Marie Laveaud.”

  The lips broke into a wide smile. “I’ve heard much about you.” He held out his hand; Anne Marie noticed a gold wedding ring. “A pleasure to meet you, madame le juge.” The intelligent eyes watched her carefully.

  The car took the road from the small airport, went past the Méridien Hotel and the bright flags flapping from the high staffs, and out onto the road toward the Pointe des Châteaux.

  Tourists were swinging golf clubs on the green of the golf course. Caddies lolled in the limited shade of the motorised buggies.

  The sky was cloudless, the sun directly overhead. The car was air conditioned and the windows tinted. Only the slightest hint of humming as the Peugeot travelled east
ward. Thin dancing mirages played on the surface of the tarmac.

  “I don’t envy you.”

  “What?”

  “The Dugain business. You’re making a lot of enemies within the SRPJ.”

  “Why the helicopter, Commandant?”

  Parise coughed. “The procureur wanted you as soon as possible. Over the coming days, I’m afraid, you’re going to be rather busy. Good job it’s not the high season.”

  “High season?”

  “The high season for tourism.”

  “Does that matter?”

  Parise glanced at Trousseau’s neck. “A nurse, madame le juge, aged twenty-three or twenty-four. She was on holiday here.”

  The unmarked Peugeot went past the new restaurants—low, concrete buildings with grey-green corrugated roofs—specialising in lobster, conch and other sea food. The restaurants were doing brisk business beneath the hot, midday sun. Rented cars with their stencilled plates were parked along the narrow highway.

  Another day in this tropical paradise.

  “A tourist from Paris who was raped and then murdered, madame le juge.”

  Trousseau was humming softly.