Another Sun (12 page)

“I can get you money for the doctor.”

“I went to the hospital and there was a white doctor. He was white like you.” Michel nodded. “He took my blood with a needle, and I went again the next day, and he gave me pills. They were red.”

“Did they work?”

He shook his head. “I wanted the green pills.” His face lit up. “You can get the green pills for me?”

“I’ll see what I can do. First you must answer some questions, Michel.”

The Indian frowned and moved away from her. He walked awkwardly, the weight of his body on his toes.

“Some questions about Hégésippe Bray.”

“He’s not here.” Michel approached the concrete steps of the veranda. “While he’s away, I look after his goats.”

Anne Marie followed him down the steps, smelling the odor of rum, unwashed clothes and rancid sweat. “Where does Bray live?”

“He is in Pointe-à-Pitre now.”

“He sleeps over there, doesn’t he? In the hut?”

Together they moved toward the concrete hut; it stood on the ridge but was lower than the villa and at a distance of about two hundred meters. A grass path led toward the closed, wooden door. The outside walls had been painted white but were now covered with a series of black patches, rain stains and lichen.

Michel tapped the ground with the machete. The grass was already damp with evening dew.

“Does Hégésippe Bray ever go into Monsieur Calais’ villa?”

“They say he’s not coming back.”

Anne Marie frowned. “Why not?”

“They say that Bray’s going to die in prison.”

“Does he ever go to the villa?”

A nod. “To get water. There is a cistern at the back.”

The hut was built on a cement foundation; the surface was chipped and, in parts, overgrown by grass. Near one wall stood a large oil drum, its surface scarred by rust. Beyond it, the regular neatness of vegetable beds. A single plant of lady’s finger was pointing to the red sky.

Michel pulled the bar that closed the door and they stepped inside. A single room, three meters by six. It was dark and the air was still warm.

Michel opened the blinds and the evening light entered the somber space; a couple of lizards darted across the ceiling and hid behind the cement rafter. Flakes of blue paint lay on the floor. The mattress was placed by the wall.

“No bed?”

Michel shrugged “The man spent years in prison.” He had left the machete outside.

A portable gas stove, the paint rusting, a few utensils, a plastic plate, and some cutlery had been neatly arranged on an open sheet of newspaper. Beside the mattress, there was a jar containing a half-burned candle. A crucifix, a bottle of hair oil, and a photograph in a tortoiseshell frame.

Anne Marie picked up the photograph, wondering why it had been left by the gendarmes. With it in her hand, Anne Marie approached the window.

The photograph showed a woman wearing traditional matador—the madras, lace and finery of the national costume. Three tips rose like feathers from the back of the head. The woman looked at the camera diffidently. A Creole woman with an intelligent face, unafraid of the passage of time. Anne Marie turned the frame over and slipped the photograph out. Cockroach eggs tumbled into her palm.

Lucien le Marc, photographe. Fort-de-France, Mque
.

Underneath in fading copperplate, written in pencil: “
A mon petit Hégésippe … celle qui t’aime toujours
.”

Michel said, “He’ll never come back.”

At the bottom, scrawled in a different hand, “
Je suis Hégésippe Bray
.”

Anne Marie slipped the photograph into her handbag, then turned to look at the unadorned walls. The musty odor of mildew. A colorless lizard scurried across the floor.

Michel was standing by the window.

“Where did he keep his gun, Michel?”

He shrugged. “I’ve only been here once.” He rubbed his unshaven shin. “Over there, perhaps.”

A pile of three cartons, the cardboard edges torn, that had once contained cans of vegetable oil, stood by one wall. Anne Marie rummaged through them. One contained folded newspapers. Another contained a couple of pairs of trousers and some tatty pajamas—inscribed in indelible ink,
Clinique N.D. de Lorette, Cayenne
. The box gave off a strong smell of mothballs. The third box was empty except for a packet of seeds. The packet had been opened, the torn top rolled back to prevent the seeds from spilling. Florida watermelon.

“He’s a good gardener?” Anne Marie asked.

“He’s an old man.”

“You two are friends?”

Michel made a laughing sound. In the dingy light, his upper teeth seemed to move, pushing against his lip. “Bray doesn’t talk with anybody, certainly not to an Indian. He used to go drinking.” Michel made a gesture toward the other side of the valley. “Not now. He doesn’t want to talk with anybody.”

“How does he spend his time?”

“In the garden. Sometimes he sits outside.” Michel gestured to the door. “Wave to him and he doesn’t see you. He just sits there.”

“His sight is going?”

The Indian shook his head and laughed. “I’ve seen him kill a pigeon or a blackbird at thirty meters. The eye of a mongoose.”

They stepped out into the fresh air. Michel slid the wooden door back into place.

“You don’t like him?”

“Michel doesn’t dislike anybody.” He picked up the machete where it was propped against the wall. “That old man doesn’t like to talk.”

“Even with visitors?”

“Are you thirsty?” Without waiting for a reply, Michel walked away in his strange, stiff-legged gait, while the tip of the machete tapped against the side of his leg.

“He has visitors sometimes.” Anne Marie caught up with him. “His half sister—and her son. You’ve seen them, Michel?”

“The fat old woman?”

“You’ve seen her?”

“Michel minds his own business.”

“Did you see her the day Calais was killed? Did you see her on Sunday?”

They reached a small orchard at the back of the villa.

Michel took a ladder and set it against a tree. He climbed the ladder, then with one blow of the knife, he sliced the gnarled stem of a bunch of coconuts. The coconuts slithered downward through the branches, still attached together, and fell onto the grass.

He came down the ladder and, crouching on his heels, the frayed cuffs of his trousers rising away from his boots to reveal deformed ankles, he said, “Good.” Michel grinned and sliced the top of a coconut with the ease of a man slicing a boiled egg at the breakfast table. A colorless liquid slipped over the rim.

Michel held the coconut out for Anne Marie. “Drink.”

The juice was sweet and refreshing. She tipped her head backward, and holding the green coconut between her hands, she let the juice run into her mouth. A few drops ran down her chin.

Michel cut another coconut for himself. Then he took a bottle from his pocket. He cast away some of the coconut milk and poured liquid from the bottle into the coconut. “Better,” he said with conviction and gave her a wolfish grin.

“You were here the day that Calais was murdered?”

He wiped his lips, drank and softly belched. “I live here.” He nodded toward a wooden shack on the far side of the orchard. “I’m always here.”

“You saw Bray that day?”

He took another swig. “Coconut milk’s good for a man, particularly at my age.”

“You saw Hégésippe Bray?”

“Good for a woman, too.” He held out the bottle of rum and grinned. “Good for her mother’s milk.” Michel glanced toward her breasts and nodded encouragingly.

“Who came to see Hégésippe Bray on Sunday?”

“Are you from the police?”

“I am a judge.”

“Michel doesn’t poke his nose into other people’s business.”

“What did Bray do last Sunday?”

“Michel told everything to the white men.”

“Everything?”

A neat stroke of the machete and he sliced the coconut into two halves. With a chip of hard fiber, he began scraping at the
soft pulp. His eyes were hidden by the brim of the hat. “Michel saw nothing.”

“You heard the sound of a gun?”

Silence.

“Michel, did you hear Hégésippe Bray’s gun?”

“He killed a bird.”

“When?”

“A blackbird.”

“When?”

“He often shoots at the pigeons and the blackbirds. They eat his seeds.”

“When?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Nothing else?”

“There were shots. But I didn’t give up what I was doing just to go and look. I’m a busy man. Michel doesn’t interfere into other people’s business.”

“What were you doing on Sunday?”

“You will get me the green pills, won’t you?”

“Where were you on Sunday?”

“Working.”

“All day?”

Michel nodded and the long hair moved on his shoulders.

“But it was Sunday.”

“Monsieur Calais expects me to work.”

“There were no visitors?”

The orchard was at the back of the villa, and they were out of the wind. Anne Marie caught the warm odor of the pigsty. Dusk became night; the breadfruit and mango trees stood silent.

“I saw no visitors.” Michel stood up.

“Hégésippe Bray’s not the only person to hate Calais.” Anne Marie turned and walked out of the garden, her shoes distant, autonomous animals lost in the thick grass.

The Indian walked beside her, wiping his lips and his wide grin
now parallel with the rim of the old hat. “Monsieur Calais’s a bastard.”

The moon was rising above the hill on the far side of the valley.

A toad, alerted by Anne Marie’s footfall, hopped nervously away.

“Monsieur Calais deserved to die.”

Madame Calais was leaning forward, her hand on Anne Marie’s shoulder. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Anne Marie must have dozed off.

“Marcia said you wish to speak with me.”

Anne Marie came awake with a start and pushed herself out of the armchair. She got to her feet.

The two women shook hands. Madame Calais’ hand was thin, and Anne Marie felt the angular bones of her knuckles.

“It was about your husband.”

“Of course.” Madame Calais was wearing a black dress and black shoes. A gold necklace lay on the skin of her neck.

“Madame Laveaud. I am the juge d’instruction.”

“I was about to have tea. Or perhaps you would care for something stronger.” With an outstretched arm, Madame Calais invited Anne Marie to follow her into the main part of the house. They went down the steps, and Anne Marie found herself in a long corridor. The smell of wax polish, the distant sound of frogs.

“I always have tea at this time. The heat of the day’s over and it is time to relax. Sometimes, with my husband, I take.…” She corrected herself, “Sometimes we had cocktails but really I prefer tea. Darjeeling or lapsang. I have it sent specially from London. Fortnum and Mason’s. Do you know that shop? Very good.” She
gave a little laugh. “When it comes to tea, I am afraid I am a bit of a snob. Aren’t I, Marcia?”

The maid who was walking silently behind them, said, “Yes, madame.”

They stepped out onto a balcony. Wooden balustrades protected it from the garden. There was a lamp and several low chairs about a white table.

“Please sit down.”

A dog, probably a Labrador, was curled on the floor. He looked up at Anne Marie with melancholy eyes.

Madame Calais tapped the animal’s broad head. “We call him Forty Percent.”

Anne Marie sat down opposite her. “A strange name.”

“All civil servants in Guadeloupe receive an additional forty percent weighting to their salaries.”

“Life can be very expensive.”

“The
métropolitains
working for the government have the expense of coming out to Guadeloupe, of equipping a new home. But for the local civil servants, the forty percent is an unnecessary expense. For the postman and the primary school teacher—what need do they have of an inflated salary?” She shrugged. “France is a big, bountiful bosom, full of milk. And France continues to pay. So now you’ve got an island of people who don’t do anything. But they get fat salaries for sitting in their offices.” She nudged the dog with her foot. “Like him—fat and lazy. Sleep all day and then expect to be fed. And only the very best will do.” Madame Calais turned to Marcia who stood waiting, neat with her feet together and her hands behind her back. “A nice pot of tea, chérie. And perhaps there are some biscuits.”

“Yes, madame.” Marcia hurried away on her prim legs.

Madame Calais smoothed the folds of her black dress over her knees. Then, leaning forward, she whispered, “From Saint Lucia. They work better and they’re honest. The people from Guadeloupe nowadays—they’ve all become thieves.”

“Your husband disapproved of the immigrants.”

She nodded. “The Dominicans—many are marijuana addicts. But the people from Saint Lucia—of course Raymond had nothing against them. Good workers. They don’t ask for exorbitant rates, and like the Haitians, they’re reliable.”

There were bright lights at the far end of the garden, a hedge of oleander and a wire fence. Anne Marie could hear—beyond the relentless threnody of the frogs—the rhythmic bounce of a tennis ball as it hit a racket. Through the hedge, she saw a man and a woman, their white clothes standing out against the deep red surface of the illuminated court.

Madame Calais followed her glance. “My son, Armand.” There was the dull thud of the tennis ball and then light, girlish laughter. “And his wife. Armand, I am quite sure, would love to meet you.” The light from the lamp threw the older woman’s face into shadow and gave her deep, dark eyes. “Please don’t think I hate all civil servants. It’s just that sometimes I have the impression it’s the civil servants with their money who’ve spoiled this département. Guadeloupe, you know, used to be so lovely. So innocent.”

She fell silent.

The scent of mahogany wafted from the garden. The irregular rhythm of tennis balls being struck.

“Nearly half past six.” Madame Calais glanced at her gold watch. “I do love this time of day. For Raymond, it was sacrosanct. He’d always make an effort to get home by nightfall.” A smile. “A time when we could be together and talk. For a moment, when I heard your car in the driveway.…” She shrugged and looked away.