The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe (9 page)

Léopold opened the evidence case and produced the seven Polaroid photographs of the body as it lay on the beach at Saint-François. He ordered them in two neat rows on the tabletop so that Dr. Bouton
could refer to them. Next Léopold set out a series of wooden spatulas, plastic jars, glass slides.

Plastic bags for the internal organs.

The laboratory seemed very chilly and Anne Marie sneezed behind the gauze mask.

Looking up at her and smiling, Léopold said, “Bless you.”

“Poor thing,” Dr. Bouton repeated to himself. He peered into the dead face before testing the microphone of his recorder.

The body was no longer human; it was a dark grayish blue and the inert limbs had nothing to do with the young woman who had once been alive and well and healthy.

Twenty-four years old and still alive last Sunday. Until around midnight.

Dr. Bouton finished his coffee. “A white girl?” He checked the label attached to the large toe of the cadaver.

“I beg your pardon, doctor.”

“Coarse hair, dark nipples.” He bent forward. “And prominent, rounded buttocks. Are you sure that Evelyne Vaton’s a white woman?”

Anne Marie stepped forward hesitantly. She looked down at the round face. It was grey. The two breasts, pretty and firm in the photograph, now sagged slightly to either side of the body. Coarse hairs around the nipples. “She was born in Paris.”

“Less white than you are.” The doctor glanced at her, before turning back to the corpse. “There’s West Indian blood—or perhaps North African.” He turned on the cassette recorder. He coughed before announcing, “Docteur Jean Louis Bouton, at the University Hospital of Pointe-à-Pitre, pathologist to the
parquet
, in the presence of the investigating judge Madame Laveaud and police officer Geoffroy Lafitte …”

Léopold was carrying a circular saw. The teeth of the blade were sharp and spotless. He grinned brightly as he plugged the lead into the wall socket.

“I can’t stand him.”

“Who?”

“I’m sure he’s a nice man. That’s what’s so awful. Lafitte’s always very nice with me, always has been.” She laughed. “I try not to hate him.”

“You’ve no reason to dislike him,
madame le juge
. A good police officer and a good man.”

“An ageing boy scout who’s taken to rum.”

It had been raining again and the wheels of the Peugeot hissed along the drive to the airport. Above the double row of palm trees, the low clouds caught the lights from the landing strip. The illuminated Air France livery—red, white and blue—of a jumbo’s tail-plane rose above the terminal building.

“He’s so earnest.”

“Lafitte managed to sit out the autopsy.” Trousseau grinned. He ran a finger along his moustache. “And you didn’t.”

“Not much fun when Docteur Bouton starts cutting through the skull.” Anne Marie bit her lip.

“You should never have gone to the morgue in the first place—it wasn’t necessary.”

“The
procureur
wanted me there.” Anne Marie shook her head, as if trying to rid it of a bad memory. “Poor cow.”

“Vaton? She’s dead.”

“So young.” Anne Marie added, “Bouton thinks she’s part West Indian.”

“She looks white in the photograph.”

“Hard to tell from the photograph. She may be North African.”

“Lot of West Indians get taken for Arabs in France—and they don’t like it.” Trousseau laughed. He pulled over and parked illegally in front of the departure lounge, beneath the wet fronds of the palm trees. “Desterres said she was white.”

An overweight policeman, his plastic raincoat glistening, saw Anne Marie and gave an almost imperceptible nod of recognition.

“We shouldn’t be too long, officer,” Anne Marie said as she climbed out of the car. After the chill air, the exterior was hot and humid. She could feel the damp climbing her legs, into her clothes.

The man saluted. Unexpectedly, the dour face broke into a grin. “No problem,
madame
,” he said in Creole, with a wink. He had the round features and soft complexion of a young girl.

Trousseau got out of the car, still carrying his attaché case but not bothering to lock the doors.

The first Boeing from Paris had already landed.

“Bouton couldn’t find a cause of death.” She guided Trousseau gently by the arm as they cut across the road, past the laurel and hibiscus bushes. “He hadn’t found anything by the time I had to leave. I think he was embarrassed. Wouldn’t look at me, just the occasional remark into the tape recorder. I could feel him getting annoyed. Very proud of his forensic skills, our Docteur Bouton.”

“She was raped?”

“No sign of penetration.”

“And the bruising around the belly?”

“Bouton says it occurred after death.” They entered the airport hallway. “If the Institut Pasteur can’t find the cause of death, it’ll mean sending tissue to Paris.”

“Hopefully that won’t be necessary.”

“Let’s hope we can identify the killer first.”

Trousseau laughed again and in that moment, Anne Marie realized just how fond she had grown of her
greffier
. She touched the dark, gnarled skin of the Indian’s hand. “Thanks for being here tonight, Monsieur Trousseau.”

For some reason he took offense. “I never had to become a
greffier
.
I own good land in Guadeloupe and in France. The day the revolution comes …”

“I know, I know.” Anne Marie nodded vigorously. “You’ll be on the first plane back to France. Your wife—you’ve already told me—your wife is a white woman and your children are all studying in France. And there’s no need for you to stay in Guadeloupe once the independence people get hold of power.”

Trousseau went into a sulk. He hugged the attaché case to his chest and watched the new arrivals waiting to collect their baggage. “Revolution,” he muttered under his breath.

Four hundred or so passengers barged and pushed as they retrieved their luggage from the moving belt. There were many West Indians, overdressed and glad to be home, relieved to have been delivered safely from the sky. The majority of the passengers were off-season tourists from France, pink faced and uncomfortable in the sudden heat and humidity of the Caribbean. The jackets and long sleeved shirts seemed out of place.

“They’re all crazy.”

Trousseau did not look at her. “Who,
madame le juge
?”

“I can understand tourists in winter, but why now? May’s the best month of the year in Europe.”

“Low season prices.”

“When I was growing up in the Dordogne …”

Trousseau turned to look at her, his face lit up by a bright grin. “I thought you were from North Africa,
madame
.”

“We
pieds-noirs
got kicked out of Algeria. When I was growing up in Sarlat—”

“Madame Laveaud?”

Anne Marie was interrupted by a jovial man from the Frontier Police who saluted her, his eyes partially under the peaked cap. He was holding a walkie-talkie. “Bertillon’s getting your woman off the plane.” He beckoned and led them to his office on the main concourse. The air was frigid. He did not remove the cap, merely pushed it back, and Anne Marie wondered whether he was bald. On the desk, beside a pile of Haitian passports lay an unopened copy of
L’Equipe
that had come in on the Paris flight.

The officer gestured to a couple of seats and then sat down himself. He turned his attention to the newspaper.

Anne Marie and Trousseau waited five minutes. The walkie-talkie, as if bored by the inactivity, suddenly began to beep. The officer got up. He nodded at Anne Marie and simultaneously slipped the cap back down over his eyes. “Here they come.”

Shuffling through customs without being stopped by the men in khaki, an elderly woman was accompanied by a female police officer. The young woman, in uniform slacks and shirt, a holster at the wide hip, recognized Anne Marie and nodded. She neither smiled nor saluted but simply said, “Madame Vaton.”

Anne Marie held out her hand to the older woman. “You have no baggage, Madame Vaton?”

Without permission and without another word, the two Frontier officers went off together, returning to the office and
L’Equipe
.

“I am Madame Laveaud.”

The white woman took Anne Marie’s hand. A soft, almost boneless grasp. Her eyes were bleary, as if she had been crying. The vivid lipstick was badly smudged at the corner.

Anne Marie continued, “I am the investigating judge and this is my
greffier
, Monsieur Trousseau. I’m most grateful to you, Madame Vaton. This must be an ordeal for you and I realize you must be very tired. My
greffier
and I will drive you to the hotel immediately. Unless of course you’d care for something to eat?”

“The first time I have ever been in an aircraft.” Her voice was thin and had a marked Paris accent.

Madame Vaton had taken off her pale raincoat. She was wearing a loose-knit beige cardigan, a rumpled skirt and shoes with corduroy uppers. She held her suitcase close to her body. In her other hand, she had several magazines,
Jours de France
and
Paris Match
. Her skin was pale. Fresh powder freckled her face. The
eau de cologne
was strong.

“You’d like to go to the hotel?” Anne Marie asked, holding back the desire to sneeze.

The older woman nodded.

“No other baggage,
madame
?” Trousseau spoke in a soft voice as he took her raincoat from her. Anne Marie took Trousseau’s attaché case.

“No point in bringing a lot of clothes.” Madame Vaton looked at Anne Marie; she had pale blue eyes. “I’m not on holiday, am I?” Her eyes were bright and questioning. “They’ll give me breakfast in the hotel?”

They made their way through the arrival hall. Noisy, rhythmic music came from one of the airport shops. Already the large hall was filling with people who would be flying to Paris in one of the evening Boeings.

Several people, waiting to be called to the departure lounge, were carrying bunches of anthuriums and other tropical flowers. At the newsstand a mulatto girl with green eyes gave Trousseau a wave and a grin. He chose not to see her, his attention taken up in helping the older woman.

Overhead, the slowly swirling fans moved through the sluggish air. The dry season was over.

“They’ll give me breakfast?”

“Of course you will have breakfast.”

“I’m returning to France tomorrow. It seems a bit strange to …”

“Tomorrow? You can stay in the hotel for several days, if you so wish. I imagine you’re tired. With the time lag of six hours …”

“Stay in the hotel?” The woman sucked at her lip. “That’d be very nice.” She walked slowly and leaned on Trousseau’s arm for support. Anne Marie noticed swollen veins beneath the thick, skin-colored stockings.

“After the long flight you must want to sleep. Then in the morning, there’ll be somebody to fetch you and we can see about all the formalities.” Anne Marie tapped the woman’s arm reassuringly. “There’s no hurry.”

They moved out of the terminal into the damp night. Trousseau directed her toward the car. The policeman in the plastic raincoat had disappeared.

“It’s very warm, isn’t it?”

Trousseau replied, “You soon get used to that. It’s like the cold in Paris for us West Indians.”

“That noise? What’s that noise? There.” Madame Vaton held her pale head to one side. “A kind of chirping.”

Trousseau ran his finger along his moustache. He smiled. “Frogs,
madame
.”

“They make that din?”

“After a while you no longer notice it.”

“How horrible!”

Trousseau opened the door of the Peugeot and helped Madame Vaton into the back seat. “Like the sound of the traffic in Paris.”

“Frogs? It certainly doesn’t sound like frogs.” She must have been about sixty years old. Her white hair had been recently permed. She smiled at Anne Marie. “There was so much to eat. They keep waking you up to give you more food. And to think that I’d always been frightened of taking the plane.” Madame Vaton’s smile broadened. “I really enjoyed the journey.” A glance at her watch. “Eight hours? The time just flew by.”

Anne Marie got into the front seat beside Trousseau.

The car pulled away from the curb. Trousseau had closed the windows to the warm, humid air.

“The hostesses were very nice.”

Anne Marie found the woman’s
eau de cologne
overpowering.

“One hostess kept bringing me food and drink. Lovely girl. Very attentive and very black.”

Anne Marie sneezed all the way to the hotel.

“A woman’s pubic hair is normally coarser than a man’s.”

“Go to sleep, Anne Marie.”

“You always say that, Luc.”

“You worry too much.”

“Have you ever been to an autopsy?”

“It’s over—forget about it.”

“You ever been?”

“Why do you think I became a pediatrician? Try and get some sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“At least let me sleep.”

“Sleep if you want to.”

“Not with you tossing and turning beside me. Worrying and fidgeting and sneezing.”

“I took something to stop the sneezing.”

“And just for once, Anne Marie, turn that light off.”

“I always sleep with the light on.”

“Just once, as a favor, Anne Marie.”

“Luc, I’m hot and I can’t sleep.”

“I can’t turn the conditioner up any further. Take a shower. Close your eyes. Breathe deeply and relax.”

“I’ve got a bad cold coming. I don’t like these hotel beds.”

“We could’ve stayed at your place.”

“With the children?”

“Take another aspirin, Anne Marie.”

“Thanks for the sympathy.”

“Stop thinking about the autopsy.”

“Why did you become a pediatrician, Luc?”

“The one branch of medicine where the patients survive.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“The difference in pubic hair—between men and women.”

“I don’t know.”

“But you’re a doctor, Luc.”

“Then I must’ve forgotten. Funny, things I did in third year anatomy—I forget about them at this time of the night.”