Another Sun (28 page)

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 you.”

“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.

Anne Marie waited. She wanted to get home. She wanted to
make the meal for her family, but perhaps, she told herself, it would be better if she simply went to bed. Lemon juice, brown sugar, and a shot of rhum agricole. The best thing to do was to sweat the fever off.

“Four hundred and sixty-three francs, madame.”

She signed the check and gave it to the girl, whose green eyes were bloodshot from the flickering overhead light. The girl wore a pen stuck in the bun of her hair. “Identity card, please.” She took the pen from her hair and scribbled something on the back of the check.

“Bonsoir.”

The automatic doors slid open, and Anne Marie stepped out into the parking lot. After the chill of the supermarket, the warm air hit her like hot, wet flannel. She could feel the humidity working its way back into her clothes as she pushed the trolley over to the Honda.

The smell of roasting chicken came from a Renault where a woman was doing brisk business.

“You still believe he’s innocent?”

Anne Marie spun round.

“Hégésippe Bray’s innocent?”

His face was hidden because of the brightness of the overhead neon,
PRISUNIC
in bright red lighting. The tip of the cigar glowed against the black circle of his face.

Anne Marie swallowed. “Hégésippe Bray?” Although her hand was trembling, she managed to take the keys from her bag and unlock the car door.

“He killed Calais, madame le juge. Trust me.”

“The evidence is far from conclusive.”

He approached her, the hairs on his short arms touching her skin. “You must let me help you.” He removed the shopping bags from the trolley and placed them onto the back seat of the Honda. “You need a man for this sort of thing.”

She unclenched her teeth, afraid that she would vomit. “You’re most kind.”

“Sure you wouldn’t care for a drink?” He gestured toward Gosier. “Sit on the veranda by the sea, sip a planter’s punch, and relax. Enjoy the evening breeze, watch the cargo ships sailing out into the night.” The bright end of the cigar flickered again as he caught his breath. “In this wretched job, we’re so busy we often forget the good things in life.” He took her by the arm.

“I’ve got to be getting on.” Nausea was washing at the back of her throat. “My family is waiting for me, monsieur le procureur. You must let me go. Another time, perhaps.”

“Of course,” he said, his voice strangely soft. “Got to get back to your waiting husband.” The grip on her arm remained firm. “Back to your waiting husband. The good and faithful wife.”

“Au revoir, monsieur le procureur.”

Although she moved forward, the man did not relinquish his grip on her arm.

“Please excuse me.”

“Anne Marie, if you help me, then perhaps I can help your husband.”

She could feel the weight of the procureur’s rotund belly pushing against her. “You must agree to be helpful.” His breath was bitter.

“I must go.”

He was hurting her now.

“You really are a very pretty young woman.” The cigar was only a few centimeters from her face. She could feel the heat on her cheek.

“Attractive and very intelligent. But I don’t think you want to use your intelligence. You have so much to gain, Anne Marie—you don’t mind if I use your first name? I can help you, you see. When there’s so much at stake.”

“You’re hurting me.” Anne Marie wrenched her arm free, and the procureur let her go. She could feel herself trembling as she climbed into the car.

“I can help your husband,” the procureur said as he courteously closed the car door for her. “At this difficult time for you both.”

Anne Marie almost stalled the Honda in her haste to leave the parking lot.

The lights were off, and there was no movement in the house other than the gentle tapping of the curtain against the window.

She was out of breath after climbing the six flights of stairs. Anne Marie lowered the plastic bags to the floor, leaned against the door, and waited for her heaving chest and thumping heart to regain their normal rhythm. Then she kicked off her moccasins.

Anne Marie went into the kitchen. When she opened the refrigerator, it cast a golden wedge of light across the beige tiles of the floor. She took the ice tray from the freezer. Its aluminum stuck to her fingers. Going to the sink, she ran water against the tray until the cubes began to work themselves free and tumble noisily into the sink. It was then that Anne Marie turned the lights on.

She drank three glasses of iced water. She made no attempt to wipe away the water that dribbled round the edges of the glass, down her chin and onto her blouse.

She rubbed a block of ice against the back of her hand, and soon the swollen, ugly skin was numb.

The flat was tidy and empty. Béatrice had gone home to Le Moule. 7:15
P.M
. and still her husband and her son were not back.

She turned on the television and while she put the shopping away—a cockroach lurking behind a can of asparagus—she listened to the evening news.

Gurion, the FR3 journalist, had been discovered on a beach near Gosier. Drugged, abducted, and then left in a metal trunk. He was now recuperating in a private clinic outside Pointe-à-Pitre. There was no anxiety concerning his health, but he would be resting for several weeks, possibly returning to mainland France.

Surprisingly, the cold water made Anne Marie feel better, and she wondered whether she was suffering from dehydration. She undressed slowly and went upstairs to take a shower. She felt a lot less tired and as she wrapped the towel around her body she decided the couscous would be for another time. She needed to relax.

At 8:10
P.M
. she took her shower. The chill water revived her. She no longer felt sick, and her hand had miraculously ceased to itch.

Afterward, stepping out of the bathtub, she looked at her body as she rubbed herself dry. She ran her finger along the livid scar under her belly. Perhaps it was time to give Fabrice a little brother. Yet lately her husband had not seemed very interested in that sort of thing. Anyway, they could not think about having another child until Jean Michel landed a decent job.

She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. She had forgotten the nauseating stench of cigar and now dabbed a drop of Van Cleef and Arpels onto her wrist.

Anne Marie went downstairs and collapsed onto the settee in front of the television.

The American film with Steve McQueen and Yul Brynner that Jean Michel enjoyed so much. Anne Marie had seen it a couple of times before. It now failed to hold her attention. Frequently her glance went to the clock on the bookcase, next to the photograph of Fabrice.

They were still not back at nine o’clock.

There was an old packet of Royale Menthol cigarettes. She took a stale cigarette and started chewing at the mentholated filter.

At 9:15
P.M
., she heated a
croque monsieur
, and then at 9:30
P.M.
precisely, the phone started to ring. She picked up the receiver before the second ring. “That you, Jean Michel?”

“Madame Laveaud.”

“Yes?”

“Jacques Azaïs here. I’m calling you from the rue Gambetta. I think you’d better come down here to the police station immediately.”

There was a bench by the door. It stood against the wall beneath the high metal blinds. A boy sat there. He had glistening dark skin and a bruise beneath his eye. A large woman also sat on the bench; from a cut on her cheek, blood dripped quietly onto the concrete floor. Between the boy and the woman sat a policeman who stared at his shoes. His kepi was balanced on his knee, and he was handcuffed to the boy.

Anne Marie went to the reception counter.

“Monsieur Azaïs, please.”

The duty officer lowered his cup of coffee. “Who are you?”

She showed her identity card.

“I’ll accompany you.” He gave her a belated smile and left his coffee on the wooden counter.

Anne Marie followed the officer up the steps. The Commissariat was an old building and she came here as rarely as possible. Policemen—even the most intelligent—seemed to suffer from an inferiority complex before a woman from the Ministry of Justice.

“At the end of the corridor, madame.” The duty officer saluted, turned, and went down the stairs.

At the top of the stairs on the third floor, there was a recruiting poster. A white policeman in crisp uniform was smiling and over his face somebody had scrawled in thin letters the single word,
MERDE
.