Another Sun (14 page)

“It will be returned to Hégésippe Bray?”

“Of course. Hégésippe Bray knows that. He doesn’t hate my husband—there’s no reason.”

“You’ve been very helpful.” Anne Marie stood up. “I’m only surprised the gendarmerie didn’t make these enquiries before deciding to bring Hégésippe Bray in.”

Madame Calais smiled. “Civil servants. Forty percent and the sunshine.”

Sleepily, the dog got to his feet and raised his head to look at Armand.

Anne Marie picked up her bag, and thanked Madame Calais for the tea.

The woman smiled. “
Adan on dot soley
!”

Anne Marie frowned as she returned the smile.

“Until next time. It was so nice meeting you, mademoiselle.”

“Until we meet under another sun,” Armand Callais whispered as he accompanied Anne Marie out of the house. “Another day.”

The wind tugged at her skirt.

“I dropped in on the estate on my way here,” Anne Marie said, blinking, dazzled by the sudden brightness of the flood lamps. She shielded her eyes with her hand. “I met the old Indian with the long hair.”

“Michel?” Armand Calais accompanied her across the gravel.

“Another alcoholic.”

“He works for you?”

“He lives on the estate.”

“I’m afraid there may be something seriously wrong with his arteries.”

Armand Calais laughed, and the bright garden lights were reflected on his even teeth. His face appeared frightening in that brief moment—there was something feral. “Michel’s been complaining about his legs for years.”

“He should see a doctor.”

“Goodness knows how many times we’ve paid for him to go to the doctor. He just takes the money, goes to see some voodoo quack, and then spends all the rest on tafia.”

“Get him insured.”

“He doesn’t want insurance.”

“He works for you, doesn’t he?”

“Never wanted to be a declared worker. For some reason Michel thinks it would be demeaning for him.”

“That’s against the law.”

“Tell him that, madame le juge. Nothing we’d like more than to get rid of him. We don’t need the garden—it’s cheaper to buy the vegetables in the supermarket. As for the animals, they’re more bother than they’re worth.” A gesture of impatience. “Michel just refuses to go. All because my father was too generous. Now Michel is there, quarrelling with everyone, and he’s going to stay there until his last breath.”

Armand Calais opened the car door for her.

“Thank you.”

“If there are any other questions, don’t hesitate to contact me. You’re nothing like my idea of a juge d’instruction.”

“Should I feel flattered?” Before he could answer, Anne Marie continued, “There’s a question that I didn’t really want to ask your mother.” Anne Marie was embarrassed. “According to reliable sources, your father.…”

“Yes?”

“Monsieur Calais had the reputation of being very fond of the company of women.”

He put his head back and laughed. “Who isn’t?” This time, his mirth appeared genuine.

“The information’s correct?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“And your mother—she didn’t object?”

“The West Indies, madame le juge.”

“What about the West Indies?”

“You’re in the Caribbean.” The smile was now attractive. “Where men are men. White, black, mulatto—under the skin, we’re all the same animal.” He hesitated. “That reputation—Papa acquired it when he was still a young man.”

“Your mother never objected?”

“Probably never knew.”

Anne Marie said coldly, “You really believe that?”

“Perhaps she preferred not to know. Most women believe what suits them.” Armand Calais shrugged. “He was a good father. And we all loved him.”

“I see.”

“Twenty, thirty years ago. When Papa was still relatively young and a bit thinner, with more hair on his head.” He shook his head. “In more recent years, I think Papa had other interests that took the place of women.”

“Men calm down with age?”

“I hope not.”

“What other interests did your father have?”

“Politics—the future of Guadeloupe.” He closed the car door. “The future of Sainte Marthe.” His hand remained on the window frame. With the bright garden lamps behind him, Armand Calais’ face was now in the shadow, and Anne Marie had the strange feeling of having met him somewhere before. A different place, a different time. “Now I have a question for you, madame le juge.”

“Yes?”

“You spoke with Michel?”

She nodded.

“Michel didn’t get irritable?”

“I don’t think I did anything to offend him.”

“He didn’t find some reason to quarrel?”

She shook her head. “He was very polite.”

“Michel doesn’t like outsiders. Unless they’re Indians like him.”

“He even cut down a coconut for me.”

“You must be careful.” He turned slightly, and she saw the gleam in Armand Calais’ eye. “Michel has a temper.”

“Not the impression I got.”

“A quick temper and a quick machete.”

Anne Marie leaned forward and switched on the engine.

“Michel once took the machete to Hégésippe Bray, you know.”

“Michel!”

The breeze whistled through the coconut fronds and glowing night insects moved across the sky like planes with erratic lights.

“Michel!” Anne Marie left the headlamps on and stood by the car. The grass was damp, and the night dew fell on her instep. Clouds running in from the Atlantic hid the stars.

The rear lights of the Honda gave an eerie glow.

The shadow darted across the edge of her vision and Anne Marie shrieked. A fast moving shadow close to the ground. A shadow that disappeared into the darkness.

Instinctively she had put her hand to her throat, and another shadow came forward, zigzagging frantically, clinging to the ground.

Anne Marie screamed again and then recognized a hen as it darted into the flood of light from the headlamps. It moved noisily, flapping its wings, and when Anne Marie shouted, it flew off toward the oleander and the orange trees.

She took a flashlight from the car.

The breeze played in her hair. Her heart was thumping, her forehead damp with cold perspiration.

Anne Marie dropped her handbag and shrieked again as another chicken, fluttering, flapping and clucking, moved
between her legs. It banged in headlong flight against the side of the car and disappeared into the night.

Anne Marie stood quite still and waited for her heartbeat to slow down.

“At night,” she told herself, her voice still trembling, “chickens sleep.”

Moving stealthily, the flashlight casting its circle of wan light, she went round the villa toward the orchard. She aimed the beam at Hégésippe Bray’s hut.

The shutters were closed. The flaking paint on the door seemed undisturbed. She followed the outside veranda of the deserted villa. A toad jumped away.

She reached the orchard. There was the sound of banging.

An uneven sound:
bang, bang, bangbang
.

She held the flashlight down. The nape of her neck was chill.

The door of the chicken run was open; the wooden door banged in the wind. Anne Marie moved toward it, walking on the tips of her toes. She placed a hand on the doorjamb.

The warm smell of fowl came from the inside. She ran the light across the floor. Dry, dusty, a few pellets of chicken feed. Shadows danced with the movement of the flashlight.

A hen was perched on a transversal bar. Caught in the beam, the yellow eye blinked with disturbed gravity. The white head jerked.

“Ssshhhhh.”

The hen rose up on its wings, fluttered, and then settled down.

The head was held at an inquisitive angle.

Anne Marie saw the gun first.

Then she saw the laceless boots.

The battered trouser leg, besmirched with dirt, had risen up to reveal the thin, dark ankles and the protruding veins.

There was a note for Anne Marie on the dining room table. She picked it up and read it.

“Monsieur Trusso has fixed your appointment. Dr. Lebon, 16.40.”

Béatrice was now asleep. She lay on her back on the settee with a cotton sheet over her shoulders. Her head was to one side of the cushion. A crucifix at her neck hung lopsidedly on its chain and nestled against the swell of her breast. She stirred in her sleep. Anne Marie kissed her lightly on the forehead, turned off the light and went upstairs.

Fabrice was on the upper bunk. He had kicked aside the sheet, and his thin body was naked except for a pair of cotton briefs. His pajamas lay crumpled and discarded on the moquette floor, in the midst of debris—plastic soldiers, ray guns, cars tipped on their sides.

He was staring at the ceiling.

“Awake?”

“Where have you been?”

“You should be sleeping, Fabrice.”

“It’s hot.”

“Turn on the fan.”

“It’s noisy and keeps me awake.” He added, reproach in his voice, “Where’ve you been?”

“Working.”

“I don’t like it when you come home late.”

“I’m sorry.” She kissed him. His skin was hot.

“You smell of doctors.”

“I had to get a very drunk man to the dispensary in Sainte-Anne.”

“Why?”

“He’d drunk more rhum agricole than was good for him.”

Fabrice still refused to look at her. “Why do you stay out late?”

“I have a job to do.”

“In France you always came home. I’m lonely when you’re not here.”

“There is Béatrice. You like her, don’t you?”

A tear had formed in the corner of his eye. It swelled, then raced down the side of his cheek. “I want to go back to France.”

“No beach in Paris—no warm sea that you can go to whenever you want.”

“I want to go home, Maman. I don’t like Guadeloupe.”

“You’re exaggerating, Fabrice. You’ve got your cousins to play with—Jean Yves and Christophe. And the girls.”

“I am not exaggerating.”

“We went to the beach yesterday. Didn’t you enjoy that?”

“Papa didn’t come.”

“Papa’s looking for a job.”

“It’s not like before.” He turned to look at her. “What does exaggerate mean, Maman?”

“And you like Mamie. Your grandmother plays with you.”

“Too bossy. She won’t let me put my toys on the floor. Instead she wants me to sit at the table and draw.”

“If you leave everything on the floor, you get in her way.”

“I don’t like my cousins, and I don’t like Mamie. They are all too bossy.”

“You’re exaggerating again.”

“I don’t like women.”

“I’m a woman.”

“But you’re my mother,” Fabrice said and he threw his arms about her neck. Within a few seconds, the thin, precious body was racked with sobs.

Anne Marie watched her son until he disappeared from sight, hidden by the milling children, by the thick baobab tree and the bicycle shed.

She crossed the square.

It was not yet eight o’clock. Anne Marie walked slowly, savoring the freshness of the hour. Beneath the shade of the royal palm trees in Place de la Victoire, old women were setting up their wares of caramel peanuts, jars of chewing gum and doughnuts. Traveler’s trees, like giant fans, swayed with the light breeze. Beyond the trees, the immobile white hull of a cruise ship rode at anchor.

“Madame le juge.”

She turned.

School children, eating sandwiches, walked across the square. She could not see beyond the satchels perched high on their backs.

He raised his arm and called her again.

Anne Marie stopped, and Marcel Suez-Panama approached unsteadily. “You didn’t even tell me.” His shoulders were hunched. His eyes were red and lines ran along the eyelids. “Why?” He wore the same clothes as last time, but now they were wrinkled as if he had spent the night sleeping in them. The shirt was grubby and the expensive shoes were covered with dust.

“About Hégésippe Bray?”

“You could have told me—the least you could do after killing him.”

“Your uncle hanged himself.”

“Why?” Suez-Panama asked. “Why did you have to kill him?”

“I’m sorry for what happened, Monsieur Suez-Panama.” Anne Marie gave a slight shrug. “Regrettably your uncle decided to end his life—and so he hanged himself.”

“You believe that?” Suez-Panama made an angry movement of his hand. “My uncle hanged himself?”

“I’ve asked for an enquiry.”

“Hanged himself—just like Dupont.”

“Who’s Dupont?”

Cars had formed a jam outside the Renaissance cinema where an army bus had stopped to let the school children alight. The impatient drivers honked.

Suez-Panama bit his lip and swayed unsteadily on his feet. “It suited you, didn’t it, to kill him?”

“Nobody’s been killed.”

“Then why’s my uncle dead?”

“Who’s Dupont?” Anne Marie asked again.

“The American who hanged himself because it suited you.”

“Suited who?”

“The French—the colonizers.” Suez-Panama pointed in the direction of the rue Gambetta. “You think you can do as you please.”

“Your uncle hanged himself. I can assure you,” she said, trying to make her voice calm and full of conviction.

“Hégésippe Bray survived French Guyana and the forty years of prison.” He shook his head. “Just so you could murder him in a cell. In his own land.”

“I wasn’t in Pointe-à-Pitre when it happened.” She resented the lameness in her voice. “Your uncle left a note. A note saying he wanted to die.”

“Hégésippe Bray, who couldn’t read or write? Hégésippe Bray, who’d never been to school—he left a note?”

Anne Marie realized her mouth had fallen open. “How can you be sure?”

“You’ll have to do better than that, madame le juge.”

She shook her head. “But I have some of his writing.” She was aware of a stammer in her voice. “Something Hégésippe Bray wrote on the back of a photograph.”

“What photograph?”

“Of his wife—the woman from Martinique.”

“No. A witch would never have allowed a photograph. It could’ve then be used against her. A evil spell cast against her.”