Another Sun (13 page)

“I’m sorry.”

After some time, Marcia came back carrying a tray and a service of bone china.

“Raymond was so alive, so dynamic.”

Marcia poured the tea from a willow pattern pot and handed a matching cup to Anne Marie.

“So hard to believe Raymond’s never coming back. Dead and gone for good now. My husband was always doing something.
Even when he was away in Martinique or in Paris and I was here alone, I could feel his presence. It was something physical. We formed a happy couple. You know, when a man and a woman’ve been together for so many years, certain things.…” She raised her hands and let the sentence hang unfinished.

Marcia placed the pot on the low table and disappeared in silence.

“Afternoon tea,” Madame Calais said, using the English words, “It was a rite. Me with my pot of tea and my saccharine tablets. An irony, isn’t it, that we could own so much sugar and I can’t allow myself a spoonful.” She tapped her waist. “I have my figure—or what’s left of it—to think about. Raymond said I was quite mad. Drank more punch than was perhaps good for him. But I always think a man’s not a man unless he has … well, a big body. I don’t say corpulent but.…” She hesitated. “At least substantial.” She held her cup with the small finger pointing into the air. “A biscuit, mademoiselle?”

“I must watch my line, too.”

“But you are absolutely lovely as you are. Lovely eyes. And such a nice smile. Like my daughter-in-law.”

Anne Marie smiled and took a biscuit.

“Shortbread,” Madame Calais said. “If I love afternoon tea, it is the English in me.”

The biscuit was stale. “You’re English?”

Madame Calais took a sip of tea. “Part French, part English, part everything. A lot of us are. It goes back to the Revolution.”

“The French Revolution?”

“I grew up in Barbados. And I speak French because I had a French nanny. My family has close contacts with all the cousins and uncles who live in the various islands of the Caribbean. A lot of them returned to Guadeloupe after the French Revolution. When I was a child, in the days before there was all this flying, I used to come up to Guadeloupe with my sister. We used to stay with cousins who had a small coffee plantation near Basse-Terre. In the hills. In those days, the people were very simple and very
good. I’m talking about before the war. People were so kind. There was none of this racial hostility. I’m afraid we imported that from the Americans—they are such racists, the Americans. The people here, they didn’t have much, but they were satisfied with their lot in life. More tea?”

Anne Marie shook her head.

“The métropolitains here think that all the local whites are terrible, that we treat the blacks like dirt. It is not true, you know. Not now—things have changed. Thirty, forty years ago, perhaps. To be quite honest, I never really liked the Békés when I first came here. A very closed circle and I was shocked by the way they—my own relatives—treated their servants. In Barbados—and being part French—I’d always liked to think the French were a bit better than the English. The English have given tea to the world—and we’re all a lot better for it. But the French have given their marvelous civilization. And human rights.”

Anne Marie nodded.

“You have got to understand the Békés—and to do that, you must understand psychology.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Treat the local people as equals—and they don’t like it. They want you—that’s the point—they want you to be white, and they want you to be in a position of authority. Because they don’t want to make decisions for themselves, they’re afraid. Now there’s all this wonderful talk about equality—and really, the people of Guadeloupe don’t want that at all. The people from France—not you, but the civil servants, the people who come for a couple of years to make a pile of money—they think they understand everything, and they criticize. They criticize the Békés, and they say we despise the blacks. It’s just not true. We’re all God’s children, aren’t we? It’s not the color of our skin that’s going to change anything—certainly not in His eyes. Try to understand. We have different traditions—and all this talk of equality is very dangerous.”

Anne Marie finished her tea.

“The worst are the mulattos. They know everything. They think they’re ready. They’ve studied and they’ve been educated—but of
course, they’re still African. Despite their nice clothes and the way they try to ape us.”

“I find that I can’t distinguish between skin colors.”

“It was the mulattos who killed my husband.”

“The mulattos killed Raymond Calais?”

“They’re jealous, that’s what they are, these mulatto revolutionaries.” She stopped. “They killed him,” Madame Calais repeated and then she started to cry. The skin of her face began to crumple, bright tears ballooned from the corners of her eyes. She put down the cup and saucer and took a handkerchief from where she had tucked it under her sleeve. The crying grew noisier.

Forty Percent raised his head.

The Labrador followed her and sniffed at her feet.

Anne Marie looked out into the night. The air was cool.

“I’m sorry.”

Anne Marie turned.

“I’m sorry—but as you see, after forty years together.…” Again, Madame Calais began to tremble. “Raymond was so alive.”

“Why do you accuse the MANG?” Anne Marie asked gently. “No one has claimed responsibility for his murder.”

There was pain in her eyes, and for the first time, Anne Marie noticed the scars of plastic surgery running behind her ear. “They’re scared—scared they’ll get caught.”

“Normally MANG claims its involvement.”

With the handkerchief she wiped at the damp tracks on her cheeks. “The MANG hated everything Raymond Calais stood for.” Madame Calais attempted a smile. “You mustn’t believe everything you hear about my husband. There are a lot of people who were jealous of him—and who wanted to harm him. They say cruel things and many lies. I know my husband and I know.…” She faltered. “I loved him for forty years, and I know what he was really like. A good man—a very good man.”

Anne Marie’s hand had started to itch. “Why would MANG want to kill your husband?”

The short lines about the mouth hardened. “Raymond loved France—that’s why.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Calais family’s been involved in cane sugar ever since the first plants were brought from India, more than three hundred years ago. Sugar was in Raymond’s blood—but he realized it was now a thing of the past. Successive governments have seen to that—by increasing labor costs, by insisting upon social security for the cane cutters and all the crippling expenses—while at the same time favoring cheap sugar from the Ivory Coast and the other countries in Africa. Raymond felt he had to fight his battle; that’s why he had to go into politics. Raymond had the courage of his convictions. He saw sugar was dying—this island’s only real source of wealth—and he had to speak out. How is this département supposed to stay alive? Without sugar there can be no alternative. We need France. But the mulattos.…” She shrugged. “The independence people—what do they care about the future? They’re all Marxists, aren’t they? They seek power for themselves—they want to see Guadeloupe go the way of Cambodia—or Cuba—so that they can play at being Fidel Castro, smoking cigars and talking politics while the rest of the people slave and starve.” She lifted the lid and peered into the teapot. “It was for this island, it was for these people, that Raymond went into politics. White, black, Indian—my husband saw the need to protect them all from the so-called educated classes. Believe me, mademoiselle.…”

“Madame,” Anne Marie corrected her.

“Independence,” Madame Calais snorted. “That’s what they want, the Marxists—but independence from France will bring nothing but poverty.” A bright smile. “You don’t wear a ring. You look so young to be married.”

Anne Marie held out her hand, “I’ve got an allergy—the ring only seems to make it worse.” She added, “I’ve been married for nearly eight years.”

“You must see a doctor—you must see Dr. Lebon. He’s very
good.” She passed a hand over the waves of her tinted hair. “Raymond had none of the viciousness of the—of the MANG people.”

“Where did he get his money from?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did your husband enter politics for financial reasons?”

Madame Calais folded her arms before answering. “It cost him money. It didn’t bring him any money.”

“Your husband maintained he was not a wealthy man. Yet he owned racing horses.”

“Madame le juge, the Calais family’s been here for three hundred years—the Calais family’s not poor.”

“Sugar’s a dying industry.”

“My husband owned a lot of land.”

“Some of which he sold off.”

“Better than letting it lie unused.” Madame Calais no longer smiled. “The soil is not always fertile.”

“And the land that Hégésippe Bray has claimed?”

The two women looked at each other. Madame Calais smoothed the material of her dress. “I should prefer to talk about this at another time.”

“You knew Hégésippe Bray before he was arrested and sent to the penal colony in Cayenne?”

“Of course.” She raised her hands. “He used to work on the estate. He was very close to my father-in-law.”

“You know why he was sent away?”

“We all loved Hégésippe Bray.”

“Why did they send him to Cayenne?”

“He murdered his wife. It was very sad. A good man, a man of his word. A different generation.”

“Why did he murder his wife?”

“She was a witch.”

“You went to the trial?”

She shook her head. “I had just got married, and Raymond felt very protective toward me. He didn’t want me upset.”

“Hégésippe Bray’s now in prison, accused of murder,” Anne
Marie said, shutting from her mind the blue eyes and the tongue lolling from the hanged man’s mouth. “The murder of your husband. I’m sure you’ll understand why I’m here, why I have to ask these questions.”

“Hégésippe Bray never killed Raymond.”

“The gendarmerie at Sainte-Anne believe there’s a strong case against him.”

Madame Calais gave a brave smile and stood up. “With all this stupid crying, I must look a wreck.” She hurried from the veranda, leaving Anne Marie and the lingering perfume of lavender water.

The dog had fallen asleep against Anne Marie’s leg.

Madame Calais had put on bright lipstick, and she was now accompanied by a man.

The man said, “Please remain seated.” He shook hands with Anne Marie. He smelled of fresh soap and his face was still flushed with physical effort.

“Armand now runs the estate. My son studied management in the United States.”

“Mother wanted me to go to England.” He grinned. “But Florida is nearer, and the weather is nicer.” He was good-looking. There was something familiar about the face, which surprised Anne Marie. He had the same, strong jaw that she had seen in the photographs of Raymond Calais—and he had his mother’s bright eyes. But there was something else, something elusive that she recognized as being familiar, and she warmed to it. He had the sallow skin of the white man in the tropics. As he smiled, bright teeth peeked from the edge of his lips.

He sat down on the arm of his mother’s chair.

“A few questions that I need to ask.” Anne Marie smiled briefly. “Then I can be out of your way. Madame Calais, your husband had several men working for him—bodyguards of a sort, I believe.”

Madame Calais laughed. “The only people who worked for my husband were the people here on the estate. The cutters, the
laborers, and Marcia, our maid.” She smiled ruefully. “Pointe-à-Pitre is not Chicago.”

“He was often accompanied by several men. Large, powerful men.”

“His life was in danger. Not bodyguards, mademoiselle, but friends who wanted to pay back all the favors he’d done them. They looked after him.”

“Your husband was afraid of being attacked?”

“They got him in the end, didn’t they? MANG hated my husband and wanted him out of the way. They’d tried to kill him before.”

“But not in the same way.”

“They killed my husband, and believe me, this won’t be their last act of terrorism. They won’t stop the killing—my God, how I wish France would wake up to her responsibilities and do something. These people will turn the poor département into a bloodbath.”

Armand Calais spoke calmly. “MANG want power and won’t stop until they’ve got it.”

His mother patted his hand where it lay on her shoulder.

“Didn’t Hégésippe Bray hold a grudge against Raymond Calais?”

Armand smiled and said, “Perhaps at the beginning when he returned from French Guyana. And understandably. There can be no doubt Papa’d taken some of Bray’s land—but how was he to know Hégésippe Bray was still alive? Forty years is a long time.”

“Especially in French Guyana.”

“Papa never sent him there.” Armand’s eyes flashed. “As for the land, it was all a misunderstanding. Bray had no family to look after it, and during the war, land was at a premium.”

“And his half sister, Madame Suez-Panama?”

“She was in France, and after the war, she never asked for the land.”

“Until Hégésippe Bray’s return from prison?”

Madame Calais said, “My husband agreed to hand it back—all of it.”

“That’s not what Bray thinks.”

“That poor old man doesn’t always understand. When he came back after all those years, Raymond and I were overjoyed to see him—even if he was only the shadow of his former self.” Madame Calais shrugged. “I suppose we’re all old now. Except Raymond—and he’s dead.”

“Bray came to see you?”

“Madame Suez-Panama and her son—he teaches at the university—came to see my husband, and immediately Raymond agreed to give the hut and the fields to the old man.” She gestured in the general direction of the far side of the valley.

“Bray’s entitled to more than that.”

“He’s going to get it all.”

“How many hectares?”

“All the land that belongs to him by law. Eight, ten.” She shrugged. “Our lawyer has been looking into the problem.”