“Like hell you will! This is my job and I intend to do it, woman or no woman.”
“If you do this job, Monsieur François, it will be woman. Is that clear?”
He squinted at her, his pale blue eyes reflecting both annoyance and acceptance, along with a hint of amusement. A tangle of crows feet emanated from the corners of his eyes and, because he was frowning and squinting in the bright sunlight, his forehead was an accordion of wrinkles and ridges. “Do you really think you can run this job?”
“What do you care? ou won’t be around to find out,” she replied dryly.
“Then I guess I’d better save you from yourself,” he answered with a snort, turning toward the forgotten crowd of construction workers that had been observing the scene with obvious interest. Suddenly he whipped back around to face her. “Do you want to wait until the men can put up a shack, or do you want to have our site meeting now?” He shot the words at her.
“What works best for you, M. François?” she fired back almost before he’d finished speaking, her rapid response catching him by surprise.
“Well, ah, if it’s all the same to you, tomorrow morning would be better. After I get the shack built and the blueprints hung.”
“Tomorrow morning it is, then. Eight-thirty?”
He threw her a salute and hustled over to the cluster of workers who were waiting for orders so they could begin earning what by island standards was a good living, and Carole Ann got busy earning hers. She re-confirmed her one o’clock meeting with Philippe, ignoring his bemused look. Since she’d originally planned to be on site for the better part of the morning, she wasn’t dressed to do anything else— like Paul Francois, she wore jeans, a tee shirt, and work boots—so she decided to head home. She reasoned she could spend a couple of extra hours being briefed by Harold Collins on the intricacies of the security devices he’d installed, and change for her afternoon meetings at Government House. But first:
She leaned against the Jeep, baseball cap pulled down low to shade her eyes from the brilliant sun, peeled the mango, and ate it, tossing the leathery skin and, ultimately, the pit, into the tangled tropical foliage that grew right up to the road way, and wiping her sticky hands on her jeans. Then, instead of climbing into her truck, she walked a few yards up the road, noting that it was relatively level and free of potholes. A great place to run, she thought, noting the absence of traffic. She walked back toward the construction site and her truck, scrutinizing the dense growth, and she silently cursed Hubert de Villages, whoever he was, for being such a small-minded, petty bastard. They needed the two additional earth movers that he somehow controlled. She hoped that he’d recover from his temper tantrum within a day or two; otherwise, she’d have to figure out how to get construction equipment to the island. hich, she told herself with an inward smile, would be a hell of a lot easier than finding and importing a construction foreman.
Jacqueline LaBelle agreed, expressing surprise that Paul Francois had backed down so easily. “I can only think that he envisioned you bringing in someone from the States, because surely he’d know that you wouldn’t find such expertise in the vicinity.” Carole Ann’s final meeting of the day was with the young diplomat. She had been intrigued by Jackie’s assessment of relations between the various island factions and she wanted to learn more. She also wanted to delve into the psyche of the president’s wife.
Her understanding of the shift of power from Henri LeRoi to Philippe Collette was related to the version offered by Jackie on the previous day the way kiwi fruit were related to watermelon: Both were green-covered fruit with black seeds but you wouldn’t mistake one for the other. The version given to Carole Ann and Jake by Philippe Collette and, subsequently, by an official on the Caribbean desk at the U.S. State Department, was that while LeRoi had not been a despotic ruler like the Duvaliers of Haiti or the Marcoses of the Philippines or Noriega of Panama, he had been ineffective and the people had tired of him, especially as the tourist trade evaporated, sucking island income into the vapor with it. According to that version, Collette, with the combined support of the wealthy island families and the island’s commercial establishment, and with French financial support, had hired an army of mercenaries and, without the firing of a single shot, seized control of the government. Henri LeRoi was said to have departed quietly with his family. But according to Jackie’s version, LeRoi all but invited Collette to return home and take over.
“Henri was liked. Philippe is respected. He is, you know, eminently qualified to be president. He’s quite well educated, and for years he was a director of a French manufacturing company, in Europe and in America. But as you know, he’s a bit formal and stuffy. He’d never dream of walking to work, even if he would dream of living in town, in a regular house. Which, of course, he would not.” She hesitated, a tiny frown knitting brows. “Marie-Ange would not. I don’t think Philippe really cares...” Her words trailed off in an air of uncertainty.
“Is she really so shallow, Jackie?” Carole Ann probed, relieved that Jackie herself had introduced Marie-Ange as a topic of conversation. “That’s not the impression I had of her.”
Jackie’s frown deepened, and along with it, the uncertainty in her voice. “She’s not really shallow...it’s more that she’s...um...Marie-Ange enjoys wealth and the trappings of wealth and power. But, I think, she appreciates the wealth more. She was really divided about their return here.”
“Again, I was under the impression that Marie-Ange was completely supportive of Philippe.”
“Of course she supports him. It’s just that...well... being president of Isle de Paix isn’t exactly a well-paying job. In addition, there are so many responsibilities that Philippe has that don’t involve Marie-Ange, so much loss of a private life. She feels a bit...um...on the outside looking in. Is that how you say it?”
Carole Ann nodded absently, her thoughts at full speed. “Everybody on this island seems to know about every event almost as soon as it occurs, the fracas at the construction site this morning being a perfect example. How could Marie-Ange feel left out?”
Jackie lowered her voice conspiratorially. “That’s a perfect example. Marie-Ange was really angry at Philippe because he hadn’t told her there was any difficulty with the new clinic and school. She didn’t learn until this morning of Philippe’s visit to his excellency last night; he didn’t tell her for exactly the reason that he knew how she’d respond. So, while he was with you on the North Coast Road this morning, someone from the de Villages called Marie-Ange to complain. I don’t know which was the more humiliating for her: Being chastised by the aristocracy or being kept in the dark by her husband. Anyway, she was waiting for him in his office when he returned from the site.”
“The perils of living with the president, huh?” Carole Ann said with a smile, remembering that, due to a dearth of living space for single young professionals on the island, Jackie lived in a suite of rooms in the Collette mansion.
“Marie-Ange is a complicated woman, Carole Ann, and I don’t want you to think she’s shallow. Yes, she revels in her status as a high-born, and all that comes with that. At the same time, though, she really and truly does concern herself with the well-being of the people. This island desperately needs a new school and clinic, without a doubt, and Marie-Ange sees herself as the only person willing to fight for them.”
“But does she,” Carole Ann asked carefully, “recognize the need to ensure the stability of the government first? To protect the president and the ministers as individuals, as well as the knowledge and information they possess and generate?”
Jackie smiled a wise smile, giving a hint at why she would, with time and experience, blossom into a true diplomat. “You’re asking whether she understands why it’s necessary to construct a road into the interior of the island and why it’s necessary to construct a new government building? Of course she does. In addition to all the other things she is, Marie-Ange is extremely intelligent. But does she like to lose? Oh, mai, non! She likes losing
less than practically anything! Except, perhaps, being poor.”
“So...what are you saying? That this is a game for her? A power struggle between the two of them?”
Jackie’s wise smile converted to Cheshire-cat grin and raised her palms heavenward in a comme c’est-comme ca gesture.
Carole Ann stood up and began to pace, caught herself, and resumed her seat across the desk from Jackie. Her thoughts, however, were not so easily corralled. She was remembering the conversation she and Jake had had with Philippe and Marie-Ange in Washington six months ago, in which Marie-Ange passionately acknowledged that the return to democracy was long overdue on Isle de Paix— political and social and economic democracy— and that her husband was the only person who possessed the requisite combination of skill and ability and desire succeed. ‘It must happen,’ she had said in her French-accented English. ‘Isle de Paix’s royal families must relinquish the scepter if we are to survive into the new century. There is no longer room for the old ways.’ And Carole Ann had believed her; had believed in the passion and commitment of her words.
“You look worried, Carole Ann,” Jackie said, her face serious but humor still evident in her voice, “and there is no need for it. Marie-Ange and Philippe are partners dedicated to serving the people of Isle de Paix. Even, perhaps, to their own detriment. Do not doubt or question that even for a moment.”
“But why would it be to their detriment?”
“Because,” Jackie replied solemnly, “restoring democracy to Isle de Paix and serving the people, of necessity and by definition, means no longer catering to the aristocracy. Philippe and Marie-Ange are of the aristocracy, n’cest pas? The construction of schools and clinics and the paving of roads will mean an increase in taxes, no matter how many tourists come, no matter how many gifts flow from the aristocracy.”
“Aren’t you part of the aristocracy yourself? Don’t you belong to the one of wealthy, old families?” C.A. asked Jackie.
“Mai oui. My mother and Philippe are brother and sister and their grandparents on both sides are directly descended from wealthy Frenchmen who may have been slave traders and rum runners for all I know. The point is, the old ones all are dead and gone, the middle ones, like my parents are in Paris, earning lots of money, and all that’s left of the past is a short supply of money and long memories of a time when inherited wealth and title mattered. Even the British have dismantled the House of Lords after almost a thousand years, which explains why I work for a living,” she said with a wry grin. “This job is not my hobby.”
Carole Ann walked back to her house from government square deep in thought. She knew that every place possessed its cultural peculiarities and she had expected to have to feel her way around the island and its mores. She had not expected to feel that her ability to perform her contractual obligations would be in jeopardy. Perhaps, she chided herself, she was overreacting. After all, Jackie believed strongly in Marie-Ange and her commitment to securing the government’s stability, and Jackie knew both the island and the Collettes intimately. She was even part of the aristocracy and, theoretically, had as much at stake as the Collettes if democracy failed. And yet, Carole Ann knew, she could not blindly trust Jacqueline LaBelle or anyone else. GGI wasn’t hired to trust other people or to take somebody’s word for something. Which meant paying a visit to Marie-Ange as soon as possible and practical, to assess in person how much or how little commitment the president’s wife had to her husband’s objectives.
“Godddammit!” The alarm beeped when she pushed open the door and she jumped, her mind so full of her thoughts that for an instant she had forgotten that earlier that day, Harold Collins had activated the security system in the house. Then, she didn’t recall the password that would turn the thing off. “Goddammit!” she muttered again, running toward the kitchen as her brain finally kicked in and she remembered that the codes and passwords to everything that Harold had booby-trapped were on a pad on the kitchen counter. She punched in the numbers that were her brother’s birthday and the alarm whimpered and silenced, the green light glowing happily at her as if she’d done something wonderful.
“Technology is my life,” she mumbled as she padded down the hallway to the office. “I love technology.” She dropped her purse and briefcase on the floor and plopped down into the desk chair, whirled it around and rolled to the computer table. She wiggled the mouse and cursed again. “I don’t know the damn password!” she whined as she pushed the chair back to the desk and grabbed the pad. She typed in her grandmother’s maiden name and waited patiently for the computer to allow her to access the GGI-Isle de Paix contract. “The computer is my friend,” she intoned.
Although she knew, because she’d drawn up the document, exactly what GGI had been contracted to do, she pulled it up on to the screen anyway, and re-read it, searching for any hint or suggestion that the plan of action GGI had recommended for Isle de Paix subverted the true needs of the people. After all, their response, hers and Jake’s, had been based on the needs of the government as an entity, not on the needs of the people who made up the government. Yes, they had discussed— at length— the need for more and better social services on the island, and had agreed on a plan. Had that been the correct decision? And was it any of their business anyway? She could imagine Jake’s response, and so she concentrated on what they were being paid to do: The construction of a new governmental center in the island’s interior that would house a central computer system and security monitoring apparatus. GGI would design both systems and oversee their installation and provide training for their use, in addition to long-term assessment and management; and the establishment and training of an island police force, utilizing the most modern equipment and training procedures.
She stood and stretched, rotating tension out of her neck. It was only Tuesday. She’d only been on the island for four days, and already she was feeling a strange exhaustion. She had not allowed herself to think much about why, focusing instead on the work to be done. Without the additional earth moving equipment, the road would not be cut through and paved in the allotted forty-five days, which would mean that the foundation for the new government building would not be poured on time, before the advent of hurricane season. Six weeks...forty-five days until the official, calendar start of hurricane season. She arched her back and performed the yoga posture her mother had taught her called the Half Moon. She slowed and deepened her breathing and felt the tightness begin to release. ut no matter how deeply she breathed, her mind would not empty itself of the thoughts and worries that crowded there.
She exhaled a sigh instead of a breath, and returned to the desk, picking up her notepad as she sank into the chair and checking the notations there. She was enormously relieved that David Messinger would arrive some time over the week-end so that she could lift the weight of worrying about Philippe’s safety from her shoulders. Messinger was the cop; protecting people was his job, not hers. She was much more interested in learning why the interior minister hadn’t been at the construction site this morning; that was his job, not the president’s, and if he’d been there, she wouldn’t have had to worry about Philippe standing out in the open, himself and all of them powerless against an ambush or an attack. She etched a dark, heavy line under his name and the time of their meeting tomorrow.
“Enough,” she muttered and tossed the notebook back on the desk. She switched off the computer, grabbed up her purse, and headed for the door, remembering to enter the security code before exiting, being reminded as she punched in the numbers of her brother’s birthday that she owed him a letter. Her mother, too.
“A table for one, please, Helene’,” Carole Ann said smiling at the young waitress who met her as she hesitated at the entrance of the restaurant, scanning the room for an available table. Then, she added, “You’re not Helene. I’m sorry, I thought you were.”
The young woman smiled. “I’m Eliane. Helene’ is my sister. And my mother would be pleased if you’d join her at her table,” Eliane said, an
d turned away, plunging into the depths of the restaurant before Carole Ann could respond. So she followed, aware of being noticed every step of the way and realizing as they approached the front table, who Eliane’s mother must be.
“Bonsoir, Madame. Thank you for joining me. I am Odile Laurance and I’m counting my blessings that you grace us with you presence twice in one day.”
Carole Ann smiled and returned the warm handshake that was extended to her. “The pleasure is mine, Madame Laurance, though certainly you expected my return, after so magnificent a lunch. And besides, where else would I go to learn what people are saying about me?”
Odile Laurence threw back her head and laughed out loud, a full, rich, resounding noise that attracted the attention of practically everyone in the room. And those who didn’t pivot in their chairs to stare were exercising the most stringent self- control. “S’il vous plait, asseyez-vous. You will eat and drink as my guest tonight and I will tell you every word that has been said of you since your arrival. And there have been many!” C.A. sat and Odile dipped her head slightly, though in no particular direction, and, as if by magic, Eliane re-appeared, trailed by a waiter, an older man carrying a napkin-wrapped bottle. He showed it to Odile who nodded, and he unwrapped and opened the bottle and placed it on the table to breathe.
“My sister will join us momentarily, and I must, of course, visit with the other customers,” she said, waving her hand at the room. “This is my domain; the kitchen belongs to Viviene. Enjoy the wine. The salad will come soon, with some conch, perhaps, and I will return before too long. You will not, I trust, feel abandoned and alone.”
“I feel very well cared for, Madame. Please, attend to your guests and do not worry about me.” Carole Ann sat back in her chair and slowly raised her head and her eyes, to give those who were observing her time to shift their own gazes As earlier, the room was packed. From this position, the patio was not visible but she had no doubt that every table there, too, was occupied. She casually studied the diners, finding it difficult, in most cases, to discern tourist from islander: Only two tables were occupied by wearers of shiny new vacation wardrobes. However she easily could differentiate between the wealthy and those who worked for a living, and the line was not one of color.
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