The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe (32 page)

“Who doesn’t take his studies at school very seriously, I’m afraid.”

“With the intelligence of his mother,” Lafitte said, “I’m sure he has excellent marks.”

The congregation was slowly disappearing into the cars parked along the neighboring streets. It was nearly midday and the faithful were in a hurry to get out of the sun, to get out of their Sunday best before heading off to the beach or to the hills.

Anne Marie took her children by the elbow. “Monsieur Lafitte, it’s been nice.”

The policeman smiled, his breath tinged with beer. “You’ve never met my wife, have you?” He placed his hand on the shoulder of the chairbound woman.

There was no smile of acknowledgment in the immobile face. There was no movement of the bulging eyes. Just a hand that trembled.

“Madame Lafitte.”

The McDonald’s was in the main street of Pointe-à-Pitre, and with its beige, synthetic décor, it reminded her of an ageing computer. The building had in fact just been renovated.

Anne Marie hated hamburgers, but today she was spoiling her children in return for their having agreed to accompany her to the hospital.

(She had read somewhere that junk food was one of the solutions to anorexia. Children who did not want to eat could often be persuaded to wolf down a Big Mac, French fries and a giant Coke. Anne Marie would have preferred anorexia. She wondered whether Papa would shudder at the gastronomic suicide or whether he would be delighted to see his grandchildren eating with such gusto.)

They sat by the window on the first floor. Anne Marie had ordered a cane juice. The smell of grease alone was sufficient to spoil her appetite. Létitia and Fabrice ate noisily. There were still traces of rouge on Létitia’s cheeks, although Anne Marie had carefully purged her daughter’s face of makeup.

Rouge or ketchup?

Létitia had poured ketchup onto the hamburger and now it ran from the sides of the bun onto her fingers. Fabrice pretended to eat with more delicacy, but his taste and appetite were identical to his sister’s.

“You promise me you will make an effort, Fabrice?”

“Siobud doesn’t understand anything, Maman.”

“That’s not for you to say.”

“The old bore spends his time giving us vocabulary.”

“He’s your teacher and you must listen to him.”

“Siobud says I speak with an American accent but I’m only repeating what I hear on CNN and BET. Lots of words he doesn’t understand.”

“Of course he understands.”

“When I put my hand up, Siobud ignores me.”

“Fabrice, you go to school to learn.”

“The other teachers don’t complain about me.”

“That’s not what he said. The math teacher—”

“Math is difficult, Maman. In math, I know I need to learn. And the math teacher is nice. He made all the fuss when the headmaster slapped Alexandre.”

“Who’s Alexandre?”

“The
béké
in my class.”

“The headmaster slapped a white pupil?”

“The headmaster hits everyone, Maman—particularly the girls.” Fabrice shrugged. “Siobud is a pain in the ass.”

“Mind your language in front of your sister.”

“My sister’s not a pain in the ass?” Fabrice gave her a disarming smile. “She’s Miss Pain 1990.”

While her brother’s attention was elsewhere, Létitia took some of his fried potatoes.

“Siobud spends his time talking about slavery and he thinks he is cool but the guy’s racist and he doesn’t like me because I can speak good English and for him I’m a white. He made us watch a Spike Lee film over four lessons and I told him I was part Jewish and that Jews are like everybody else and that his film was crap. He got angry and said Portuguese Jews invented the triangular slave trade. He likes to pretend he’s a musician but Siobud’s never heard of zydeco. He knows nothing about American music.”

“What’s zydeco?”

“A kind of music, Maman,” her son said, taking a couple of French fries from Létitia’s basket.

“Don’t,” Létitia said, slapping him with ketchupped fingers. “And anyway, Fabrice’s got a girlfriend and that’s why he doesn’t like his English teacher, because the English teacher has favorites.”

“You’ve got a girlfriend, Fabrice?” Anne Marie asked, setting the juice down on the plastic tabletop.

Fabrice started to blush. He turned toward his little sister. “You should mind your own business, Mademoiselle Sait-tout. Mind your own business or I can tell Maman what you said to Béatrice about Luc.”

“Fabrice, your girlfriend’s in your class?”

He ignored the question by lowering his head and raising the remains of his hamburger.

“What’s her name?”

“The other teachers don’t complain about me.”

“She’s in your class?”

“Except Néron,” Fabrice acquiesced, “and he’s an old fart who reads the racing results when he should be teaching.”

“Don’t talk like that in front of your sister.”

“Néron wears the same shirt to school for three days.”

“You’ve really got a girlfriend, Fabrice?”

“Néron’s breath smells because he never brushes his teeth.”

“Fabrice, you’re not answering my question.” Anne Marie frowned. Her little boy.

(“Eight years and two months—eight years, two months and ten days.”

The white beach was scattered with dry sponge. Fabrice’s naked back was hot beneath her hand. “You should put on a T-shirt.” She looked around for a beach mat, a towel and some clothes. There was nothing.

“That’s right, Maman. Eight years and two months and ten days.”

“What on earth are you talking about,
doudou
?”

“If you had to walk to the moon. You remember, don’t you? That’s how long it would take.” He folded his arms with satisfaction.

Anne Marie kissed his forehead, which tasted of salt; grains of sand glistened in the hairs of his eyebrows.

“Papa helped me—we used the calculator in the hotel. But that’s without sleeping.”)

“If you really must know, the girls in my class are so pathetic. They sit at the front and they flirt with the teachers.”

Létitia nodded. “That’s why he doesn’t like Monsieur Siobud. Because of Rita.”

“Rita, Fabrice?”

He raised his voice. “Your daughter tells lies.”

“I don’t tell lies, Fabrice. I heard you on the phone and I heard you talking to your friend and you said that you didn’t like Monsieur Siobud because he sends Rita to the blackboard just before the bell goes.”

“I never said anything of the sort.”

“Oh yes, you did. You were talking to Patrice Ganot and you said Siobud keeps your Rita behind after the end of the class and then he talks to her. I heard you, Fabrice—don’t lie to Maman. You said you were going to let the air out of the tires on Monsieur Siobud’s car because he’s a sex maniac and because he’s already invited Rita to the beach and she’s not even seventeen.”

Hinitil, the cane row terrier Létitia had found on the beach and brought home, was a good guard dog and once he started barking, it took a long time for him to fall silent.

Hinitil and all the neighboring dogs were asleep when Anne Marie heard knocking on the door. At first she thought it was Béatrice and turned the sound of Frédéric Mitterrand down and got out of the armchair.

“That you, Béatrice?”

A man’s voice.

“Who is it?”

“I need to talk to you,
madame le juge
.”

Her heart beat faster.

“We met yesterday,
madame le juge
.” It was an educated voice. “Could you please let me speak to you? I know it’s late but I have something which I need to tell you.”

There was a spyhole in the unvarnished wood, but looking though it served no purpose because the outside light had blown a long time ago and Anne Marie had forgotten to have it repaired.

“Tell me tomorrow.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Who are you?”

“I need to talk to you about the dead woman.”

“Who are you?”

“You don’t know my name,
madame le juge
. I work for the television.” Carefully she opened the door and the light from behind her lit up a man—a West Indian wearing a pair of white tennis shorts and a V-necked T-shirt. He wore a golfing eyeshade and as he moved his head and his eyes came into the light, Anne Marie recognized him.

“You saw me yesterday,
madame le juge
.”

“The technician?”

“My name is Léonidas—Lionel Léonidas, the cameraman. We came to interview you in the hospital annex.”

“Then you’d better come in.” She removed the chain from the door. “Come in if you’re not going to stick a microphone down my throat.”

He was small and slim and as the man stepped past her she could smell suntan lotion.

“Who is it, Maman?”

“You go back to bed, Fabrice,” Anne Marie said, turning to her son, who stood in the kitchen doorway. He had his hand behind his back and was in his pajamas.

Léonidas entered the room.

“Are you all right, Maman?”

“Go to bed, Fabrice.”

“Do you mind if I sit down?” Léonidas asked and without waiting for a reply, he lowered himself not onto the armchair but onto one of the high-backed wooden chairs. He was an attractive man—she had scarcely noticed him at the hospital because the bright lights had prevented her from getting a good look.

“Care to join me in a drink?” Anne Marie nodded to the almost empty glass on the chair arm. “
Rhum vieux
.”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. He had soft hair, almost blond, and he could have passed for a European with a deep tan. He was wearing green boating shoes. “Unless of course you’d have a verbena tea.”

“Nothing could be easier.”

“Very kind,
madame le juge
.”

Anne Marie went into the kitchen and poured water from a bottle into the electric kettle. Fabrice was standing in the doorway and he made her jump. He whispered the question, “Who’s the man, Maman?”

“From the television,” she replied and noticed that there was a carving knife on the draining board. “Now go to bed.”

When she returned to the sitting room, Léonidas was watching the television. “I can’t understand a word he says.”

“Who?”

“Professionally, it’s very well put together—slick and fast in the way that the English do their documentaries, but I just can’t understand a word Frédéric Mitterrand’s saying. My fault, I suppose.” He gave a wide grin. “Seven years of
lycée
, another four at university studying communication technologies. Only normal it should be beyond me.”

“You studied in France?”

“
Madame
, I’m sorry to come knocking on your door at this hour of the night.”

“I was about to go to bed, actually.”

“Not really the done thing, barging in on the privacy of a
juge d’instruction
.”

“How did you know where I live?”

“A few enquiries at the television station. But I don’t want to take up your precious time.”

“You’ll drink the verbena now that you’re here.”

“You see, I’m a homosexual. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. Perhaps if I did, that might change things. Believe me, when you’re different from other people, life can be pretty grim.” A wide smile. “No, I haven’t come here to give you a dissertation on homosexuals.”

“Why have you come here?” Anne Marie sat down in her chair, without taking her glance from his regular features.

“A piece of information that might be of use to you.”

“That you’re gay?”

“I’ve heard about you,
madame le juge
; people say you’re decent, so you can understand why I’ve come to see you privately.”

“Not really.”

“You’ve lived in this island and you’ve adapted to the customs of the place. You know how small-minded the people of Guadeloupe can be. You’re probably from Paris—you grew up without knowing the neighbor on the other side of the hallway and you know things aren’t like that in Guadeloupe. Not here. Privacy, having a place to yourself, having your own personal space that no one will intrude upon—that’s
not part of our culture. You’ve seen the vulgar graffiti on the walls and you know the meaning of the word
maco
.”

Anne Marie frowned and glanced in the direction of the bedroom.

“To be curious, that’s what
maco
means. The worst insult you can use—and yet everybody here is
maco
. People need to know what you’re doing.” He really was very attractive. Léonidas smiled his broad grin and she saw he was not looking at her.

Anne Marie sat up in the armchair and turned. Fabrice had entered the room, carrying a tray with a pot of boiling water.

“The verbena tea, Maman.”

She thanked her son, who set the tray down on the coffee table and then left the room, accompanied by the glance of Léonidas.

“A nice boy,” he said.

“You take sugar?”

“At the
lycée
I imagine.”

“Fabrice?” She nodded. “Not a very good pupil, I’m afraid. Really far too interested in the girls.”

The smile slowly disappeared from the regular features. “You understand my need for discretion,
madame le juge
.”

“Discretion’s a word that people like here, Monsieur Léonidas, but it’s a virtue that few seem to practice.”

“Precisely what I was saying.”

She poured the tea into a cup and handed it to the man. “What exactly was it you came to see me about?”

“I’ve just come back from Tarare beach. I go there every week. I have a friend now.” He paused.

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Every Sunday I go to Tarare, sometimes by myself, sometimes with a friend.”

“Last Sunday you were not alone?”

“No, I was not alone.”

“That’s why you’ve come to see me? Here, at my house in Dupré, at nine in the evening?”

“There’s a man you’ve been seeing at the
palais de justice
. His name is Desterres and I don’t think he likes us very much.”

“Us?”

“He hates gays.”

“I thought it was just investigating judges he didn’t like.”

“Like most homophobes, Desterres’s afraid of finding out he has more in common with us than he’d like to admit. Desterres wouldn’t be the first—Adolf Hitler was a repressed homosexual.”