Another Sun (18 page)

The walls of the cemetery were on the far side of the road; they were now covered with posters and red graffiti hostile to the French colonial presence—
FWANSÉ DEWO
. The gates were closed with padlock and chain.

“What time’s this funeral at?” Anne Marie asked for the third time.

“Half past two.” Trousseau did not look up from his religious book.

They should have eaten something more substantial than a sandwich and a bottle of Pepsi Cola. Anne Marie did not feel very well. She rubbed at the back of her hand.

Lafitte turned up at a quarter to three. He parked his car—a rack for cycles on the roof—and then got into the Peugeot. He shook hands and smiled warmly. He was carrying a large camera around his neck. There were cases for various lenses.

Anne Marie said, “Two cars on the sidewalk and a zoom lens. You don’t think somebody might get the impression we’re watching them?”

“They’ll all have their heads down in sorrow and prayer.”

Anne Marie was silent. She thought about her meeting with Suez-Panama that morning. She had done her best for the old man, she told herself; there was no need to feel guilty.

Anne Marie now sat, looking out of the window, staring at the movement of the traffic. From time to time, she turned her head toward the distant steeple of the church that rose up through the foliage of breadfruit trees and the tin roofs of Morne-à-l’Eau. A fall in the temperature by several degrees would have been welcome. There were a couple of clouds away to the north, but they promised no relief from the stifling heat. Anne Marie was sweating profusely. She was hungry. With the tips of her fingers, she scratched at the back of her left hand.

Lafitte laughed. He was chatting with Trousseau. Anne Marie was surprised to see them getting on. She had always believed that Trousseau shared her dislike for Lafitte.

“You believe in all that?” Lafitte asked.

Trousseau shrugged.

A bus went past and the hot fumes enveloped the car. Anne Marie looked at her watch for the third time in five minutes. Another half hour and if by then the procession had not turned up, she would ask Lafitte to take her to the airport. She wanted to be in time for the arrival of her father-in-law on the Paris flight.

She could now feel the perspiration running down her body. Her skirt was badly rumpled.

“Spoons? Why spoons?”

Trousseau put his head to one side. “It’s another local belief. People think that it will bring them luck.”

“Luck?”

“Put a spoon on the steps of the Palais de Justice, and the judge will come down favorably on your side.”

Lafitte laughed. He had picked up the West Indian habit of putting his hand to his mouth.

“Or you can sacrifice a toad.”

“Monsieur Trousseau, the handwriting.”

The two men turned in surprise.

“The handwriting,” Anne Marie repeated. “Monsieur Trousseau, I want you to get a copy of the note.”

“The note, madame le juge?”

“The suicide note—the note Bray’s supposed to have left.”

“The procureur has it.”

“Then get it from him.”

“You think he’ll give it to me?”

“I need to have the handwriting tested.” She took the photograph from her handbag. “Get it, Monsieur Trousseau.”

In the photo, the woman stared with sepia-tinted eyes. “A
mon petit Hégésippe … celle qui t’aime toujours
.” A Creole woman with an intelligent face, unafraid of the passage of time. At the bottom, scrawled in a different hand, “
Je suis Hégésippe Bray
.”

Anne Marie pointed to Hégésippe Bray’s faded signature. “I want the writing checked against this.”

Without conviction, Trousseau took the photograph and tucked it carefully into his pocket. He did not glance at the photograph of the woman in madras.

“Here they come at last.”

Lafitte had raised the camera and placed the long, dark snout of the lens against the edge of the rear window. “Not many mourners.” The hum of the camera’s winding mechanism.

Anne Marie turned to look.

Her vision of the accompanying cortege was largely blocked by the hearse. It was an American car with a wide radiator of chrome that glistened in the afternoon light. A couple of men, both in blue uniform and peaked caps,
were walking slowly in front of the car. They carried wreaths. Another man hurried forward to unlock the gates to the cemetery.

The traffic toward Pointe-à-Pitre was blocked.

“Probably been better if the poor bastard had never come back to Guadeloupe.” Lafitte lowered his head to look through the viewfinder. “For all the good it did him.”

The stupidity of Lafitte’s remark caught on the edge of her raw nerves.

“Madame Suez-Panama,” Lafitte announced. He continued to press the shutter. “And that’s her son with her.”

Marcel Suez-Panama walked with his arm supporting his mother. He had tidied himself up, shaved and put on a dark suit and a clean shirt. Both he and his mother held handkerchiefs to their faces. The old woman moved forward unsteadily, as if unsure of her black shoes and the raised heels. A large black hat with a broad brim and a black veil hid part of her face.

“That must be your Indian, madame le juge.”

He had laced up his boots and tied the laces into large bow knots. He wore a shirt and a crumpled pair of dark trousers. Although he had brushed the long, greasy hair, Michel looked out of place. Without a machete, his hands seemed empty. He walked with his distinctive, stiff-legged gait. A smile hovered at his mouth. He raised his head to look at the trees.

Anne Marie took another glance at her watch. Another ten minutes and with luck, she could be just in time for the plane.

The air had started to cool.

“There’s Armand Calais representing the Calais family.” Lafitte indicated with the camera. “I’ll take a few shots.”

“Carreaux has got a nerve.” Trousseau’s voice sounded offended as he tapped Lafitte on the shoulder. “Get a good profile on our friend Philippe Carreaux.”

The American car drew past. It was followed by a handful of mourners. At the back of the cortege, and only a couple of meters in front of the impatient, blocked traffic, a man was walking with
his head bowed. Light-skinned and good looking. He held his hands loosely clasped in front of him.

“Paints graffiti on the walls and when he gets caught red-handed.…”

“Who is he?” Anne Marie asked.

Lafitte said, “They’re afraid to put him in jail. Afraid there’ll be another insurrection in Pointe-à-Pitre.”

Trousseau shook his head. “When Philippe Carreaux becomes the first president of the independent Socialist Republic of Guadeloupe, believe me, madame le juge, I’ll be on the first plane out of here.”

Lafitte turned to look at her and gave Anne Marie one of his bland smiles, “Philippe Carreaux, university lecturer and president of the Mouvement d’action des nationalistes guadeloupéens,” he said. “The MANG.”

“Sixty years of marriage, the old bastard.”

“I like your grandfather.”

“A vulture,” Jean Michel called from the bathroom. “Only interest is money. Doesn’t talk about anything else.”

“He’s still your grandfather.”

The sound of the tap running. “He never bothered about us when we were children.”

“Your father loves him enough to come back from Paris just for the diamond wedding anniversary.”

“He always exploited Papa.”

Her wedding ring lay in the empty cigar tin on the dressing table. She picked it up and tried to slide it along her finger. The itching had gone, but the skin was still swollen, and the ring would not slide over the numb flesh. Anne Marie placed the ring back in the cigar tin. “That’s no reason for not visiting him. And anyway, your mother’s expecting us to take her to the church.”

Jean Michel turned off the tap. “You know why?”

“Why what?”

“Why he’s ashamed of Papa—because Papa has dark skin.”

“Your grandfather’s always been very nice to me.”

“A vulture—and as deaf as a post. That old man smiles and
nods—but he hasn’t heard a word you’ve said. Ask him about his health, and he complains about the price of tomatoes.”

“I don’t blame him complaining about the price of tomatoes at twenty-eight francs the kilo.”

It was Sunday morning.

Anne Marie felt relaxed. Her skin had been toned up by a chill shower. Her hand did not hurt—just a slight feeling of nausea in her stomach.

“Only a few more years on God’s Earth—and all he cares about is the price of tomatoes.”

Anne Marie stared at herself in the mirror. “Why did you marry me, Jean Michel?”

“Eh?”

She raised her voice. “What did you want to marry me for?”

“We’ve been into this before.”

“Tell me.”

“For your mind,” he called from the bathroom.

“You didn’t find me attractive?”

“What?”

“You didn’t find me beautiful? Like the girl with the headscarf that looked like Pascale Petit?”

There was no reply. Only the sound of the shower being turned on and her husband’s tuneless whistle.

Anne Marie put a few finishing touches to her nails then studied herself in the mirror.

More white hairs. She ran one of her outstretched fingers along the line of her jaw and wondered whether these were the first signs of a double chin. Her eyes looked back at her. There was an expression of quiet resignation on her face.

Jean Michel made her jump. He was standing behind her, dripping wet and quite naked.

Anne Marie said, “I hope Béatrice’s gone.”

“She might learn something.”

“You’re making pools of water on the floor that the poor girl cleaned yesterday.”

He smelled of toothpaste and the faint, sulphuric odor of shaving powder. He placed his chin on the top of her head, and they looked at each other in the mirror.

“Be sensible, Jean Michel. We’re in a hurry and I’ve got to get Fabrice ready.” In the same breath, Anne Marie asked, “Why did you marry me? You could’ve married the princess from the Cameroon. She had a better body than me—and now you’d be a tribal chief with lots of little children running between your legs.”

He smiled. His body was warm against her back. “Perhaps I want something else running between my legs.”

“Why did you marry me, Jean Michel?”

He stroked her hair. “My princess.”

“You’re sopping wet, you’re ruining my hair, and you’re ruining one of the few decent dresses that I own.” Anne Marie grinned into the mirror. “What’s your dear mother going to say when she sees the princess turning up in church dressed like a scarecrow?”

“Don’t get your clothes dirty, Fabrice.”

A trestle table and at least twenty chairs had been set up along the veranda and women were distributing plastic knives and forks and piles of paper plates. At the far end, another table was weighed down by bottles of wine, fruit juice and mineral waters.

Jean Michel said, “The champagne should be chilled.” He turned to look at his wife. “How’s your hand,
doudou
?”

“Getting better.”

As they stepped through the low iron door onto the veranda, an uncle approached and the two men kissed.

“You know my wife?” Jean Michel asked.

He was tall and well-dressed. There were broken veins beneath the large nose. “Uncle Casimir,” the man said, introducing himself. The features were thick. In his hand, he held a glass of whiskey. “We met at the time of your honeymoon.”

Anne Marie smiled.

Jean Michel moved away toward the other guests.

“How are you enjoying Guadeloupe, madame?” Casimir took her by the arm and steered her toward the drinks table. “Something to drink after a thirsty morning in church?”

“A glass of water.”

He opened a bottle of Perrier and poured it for Anne Marie.
He then raised his own glass—it had a motif of painted diamonds and hearts—and said, “
À votre santé
.” He finished the whiskey in one gulp. His eyes watered and he coughed. Then he said, “You went to the Saintes for your honeymoon?”

Anne Marie nodded.

“You’ve now got a job here?”

“At the Palais de Justice.”

“Secretary?”

“Juge d’instruction.”

His eyes widened. “Then I better be careful—but I can’t imagine a more charming person to be arrested by.”

“I can only arrest you if you’ve done something wrong.”

His lips were wet. “We can soon remedy that.” His hand had returned to her elbow. “It must be a very difficult job.”

Anne Marie smiled. “Difficult?”

“There are still a lot of old fashioned ideas in Guadeloupe. And for many people in this département, a woman’s role is to be a mother—to stay at home and look after the children.”

She pointed to where Fabrice was playing with his cousins; already the seat of his trousers was pale with dust. “Our little boy.”

Casimir ran his tongue over his lips. “You work among men—a good-looking young woman. People don’t always accept that very readily. And you’re white.”

“Something I’m learning to live with.”

Casimir wanted to say something, hesitated, then said, “Another drink?”

Anne Marie shook her head. She had not finished the Perrier.

Casimir stared at his own empty glass. Then he went back to the drinks table.

Anne Marie folded her arms.

When he came back, his glass was full of whiskey. “Has Jean Michel found a job?”

“Nothing definite—but several possibilities.”

“A bright boy—he takes after his mother. I’m sure he’ll find something. Just a question of knocking on every door.
Fortunately there’s the family that can help, that can give its support.”