Another Sun (19 page)

“Jean Michel’s been unemployed for more than a year.”

Casimir was not listening. His watery eyes had moved from Anne Marie to a group of men who were approaching the table. “Come,” Casimir said.

There were three men, all in their mid-fifties and extremely well-dressed. Lightweight suits, expensive shirts and keysrings that were weighed down with keys. With them came a pungent cloud of aftershave.

Anne Marie recognized two of the men.

“I must introduce you to the company. It’s not every day that the family celebrates sixty years of marriage.”

More cars were arriving in the garden. The priest had changed out of his robes and arrived in a Deux Chevaux, accompanied by an unsmiling nun. He was wearing dark trousers and a grey shirt.

Casimir had wandered off to pour himself another drink.

Anne Marie found herself in conversation with a distant uncle, a school teacher. From time to time, he pulled at the tight fabric of his trousers. In his hand, he held a gold lighter. “A lucky man, our Jean Michel, marrying such a beautiful girl.”

He kissed her on the cheek.

Lunch was served, and Casimir thrust a glass of rum and fruit juice into Anne Marie’s hand. She shook her head.

“You must drink, madame le juge—it is part of our cuisine, part of our traditions.”

The children were herded up and set at their own table. They were fussed over by the aunts and by Louise, Jean Michel’s youngest sister, who, at seventeen, was still at the lycée.

For the adults, large dishes of grated cucumber, carrot and avocado pears were set out along the trestle table. Bottles of good wine were opened. There was music—Julio Iglesias, Jim Reeves, and Nat King Cole—and the guests took their places. Pappy sat at one end of the table, and Anne Marie found herself between Casimir and Freddy’s wife, Odile. Opposite her, the priest smiled absent-mindedly, his eyes on the bottle of rosé wine.

The nun had disappeared.

Jean Michel was on the other side of the table. He was alongside his mother who had now removed her large hat. By leaning back in her chair, Anne Marie could see down the row of backs, and she saw the woman that Jean Michel was talking to with such interest. Elegant shoulders and smooth, matte skin that contrasted with the white dress. Very pretty—a cousin who
occasionally visited Mamie in the rue Alsace-Lorraine. The shoulder straps looked as if they could slip at any moment.

“You don’t know when you’re lucky.”

Anne Marie turned.

Odile smiled. “You’ve got a husband who’s lived in Europe. Jean Michel doesn’t think that women exist merely to keep him warm in bed.”

“That was when he lived in France.” Anne Marie returned the smile. “He was cold and I had to keep him warm.”

“Jean Michel’s a good husband.”

“Where is Freddy?”

It was Freddy who worked at the town hall in Pointe-à-Pitre and had helped them get their apartment in the Cité Mortenol. He was younger than Jean Michel by two years.

“Who knows?” Odile held a cigarette between her long fingers.

“I thought he drove you here.”

Odile shook her head. “I brought Pappy and the children.”

Beside Anne Marie, Casimir reached for the bottle of rosé.

“Freddy’s gone for a cycle ride. There was a time when he hoped to become a professional cyclist.” Odile raised her shoulders. “Says he’s out cycling with the club but I suspect he has other things to do on Sundays—like all the men on this damned island.” She paused, inhaled on her cigarette. “He says this whole reception is a farce.”

Apart from Freddy, all Jean Michel’s brothers and sisters were there. Louise sat at the small table. She was looking after the children. Fabrice sat beside her, drinking from a tumbler.

“A farce,” Odile repeated as she inhaled. She was a good-looking woman, with fine features. An attractive birthmark, a black spot at the side of her nose, moved as she smiled.

Anne Marie said, “That’s what my husband says, too.”

“Jean Michel’s always done what his mother tells him to do.” She stubbed out the cigarette.

“Jean Michel doesn’t like his grandfather very much.”

“Nobody likes that old devil—Freddy’s just a bit more honest.
He doesn’t want to have anything to do with the old couple.” She pointed to where Ondine and Gaston sat. The woman that Gaston had married when she was just nineteen was nodding off in front of a plate of food, a senile old woman. She sat at a table that resembled a baby’s high chair. Gaston smiled and fiddled with a beige hearing aid.

“They’re still his grandparents.”

Odile laughed. “You know how old your father-in-law is?”

Anne Marie glanced at Pappy. He was eating, and he placed a large piece of blood sausage in his mouth. He had put on a red tie.

Anne Marie shook her head.

“Sixty-four.”

“Well?”

“Sixty-four—and that couple has been married for sixty years.”

“He must’ve been born out of wedlock.”

“That’s his mother. Your husband’s grandmother.”

“What?”

“Over there. The old woman.”

Anne Marie turned, following the direction of Odile’s gesture.

An old woman in slippers, with white hair against a leathery head, sat in an armchair by herself. A loose cotton dress with floral patterns came down to her ankles. As Anne Marie looked, the woman lifted her head and their eyes met. Eyes that were bright in the African face. The skin creased to form a warm smile.

A kind face.

Anne Marie turned away, embarrassed. “Jean Michel never mentioned anything to me.”

“You never wondered why Pappy had such dark skin—when those two over there are almost as white as you?”

Anne Marie shrugged. “Never gave it a second thought.”

“You didn’t wonder why the priest never mentioned Pappy during the sermon? But mentioned all the other brothers and sisters?”

Anne Marie shook her head. Again she glanced at her father-in-law.

“The Catholic Church only recognizes her own marriages.” A sour laugh. “If the old man’d had any sense, he’d have stayed with the black woman. As bright as a button—eighty-five if she’s a day. Got all her faculties—which is more than can be said for the legitimate wife.”

“Gaston and Ondine look happy enough.”

Odile clicked her tongue angrily. “Money’s the only thing they’re interested in.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Jean Michel?”

“I thought Ondine was his grandmother. Every time I see her, I kiss her.”

Casimir had dozed off and now he came awake with a start. The smoldering cigarette had fallen from his mouth onto his trousers.

“My husband should have told me the truth. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I hear you’re pregnant.”

Anne Marie shook her head in amused surprise. “One child’s more than enough.”

“There are times when I wonder how I manage to survive with my two. Always at each other’s throat. Five years’ difference between Jean Yves and Christophe they’re like cat and dog.” Odile brought her mouth closer to Anne Marie’s ear. “They’ve got two half-brothers.”

“Jean Yves and Christophe?”

“Freddy and your husband—they’ve got two half-brothers. Pappy had an affair with a woman before he got married—and never recognized the boys. They sometimes come to the house in Alsace-Lorraine.”

Anne Marie drank water from her glass and then started cutting the chicken that had been set on her plate. She did not feel hungry.

“They’re all the same.”

Anne Marie smiled. “Men?”

“If Freddy had several women, then perhaps I wouldn’t mind so much. Then there’d be nothing special. But one woman … a woman who’s taken my place.…” Odile fell silent.

The priest’s eyes were almost closed, and his lips were greasy
from the fat of the chicken. Clumsily, he got to his feet, mumbled an apology and walked on unsteady legs into the house.

“You know the woman, Odile?”

The sister-in-law shook her head. “Aren’t there enough men without her having to take mine from me? Freddy’s been disappearing on weekends for two years now. Doesn’t tell me where he’s going. Or he invents some lame excuse. Afterwards, in bed at night, he’s too tired for me.” She pushed the food away and lit another cigarette. “I’d leave him—believe me, Anne Marie, I’d leave him if only I could. Be rid of him—just to see how his mother would react. She hates me—she wanted all her children to marry white people. I’m not good enough for one of her boys.” She inhaled a mouthful of smoke. “I’d leave him, but there’s the children to think about.”

A mosquito bit Anne Marie’s leg.

“I don’t earn enough.” Smoke eddied up from her nostrils. “So I put up with him—and he knows it. There to make his meals and bring up his children and do the washing—and share his bed when his woman’s not available or willing.” Odile’s eyes squinted in the rising smoke. “Which is not very often.”

Anne Marie picked at the chicken in silence.

“West Indian men despise their own women—our skin reminds them of themselves.” A laugh. “You’re white. At least your husband can respect you.”

“You really think it’s a question of color?”

“I ought to go to France. There’d be freedom. There wouldn’t be all these people watching me, knowing exactly what I do, laughing at me behind my back.” Again Odile inhaled. “I want to live my life, and if I can’t, then I’m quite willing to sacrifice myself for the sake of the children. But I’m not going to sacrifice myself for him.” Her eyes were damp. “I’d earn more in Paris.”

“You work in Pointe-à-Pitre, Odile?”

She nodded. “By the end of the day I’m washed out, but I’ve got all the housework to do—and the kids.”

“You’ve got a nice car.”

She laughed mockingly. “Freddy’s got a nice car. You think he lets me use it? Today—but that’s just to impress his mother.”

“Where d’you work?”

Odile bit her lip. “I’m a secretary.” She turned away, putting an end to the conversation.

Later, the plates were cleared away, and the women brought out a large bowl of fruit salad.

Tatie Lucette, Anne Marie’s favorite sister-in-law, the children’s favorite aunt, who by day was headmistress in a local school, took the aluminum ladle and dished out the fruit—pineapple, banana, soursop, and grapefruit in red wine and sprinkled with brown sugar.

Jean Michel came over. He bent down beside Anne Marie and told her that he was leaving.

“Where’re you going?”

“Stay and take coffee.”

“I don’t want to stay, Jean Michel.”

“It’d be rude for you to leave now. Fabrice’s enjoying himself.”

“Tell me where you’re going.”

“I’ll be back later.” Her husband gestured toward the Alfa Romeo where a couple of male relatives stood waiting. Anne Marie recognized the bald school teacher. “I think we’ve found someone to buy the car.”

“You don’t need to sell it, Jean Michel.”

He took the keyring from his pocket and played with it impatiently.

Anne Marie whispered, “Jean Michel, I don’t want to stay here.” There was nervousness in her voice. “I want to go home. I don’t know all these people—I don’t belong here.” She was holding his wrist.

“I’ll be back in an hour.” A brief smile. “Talk to the girls. You’ve made a very favorable impression on Tonton Casimir.” He pulled his wrist away, bent over and kissed her on the cheek.

Anne Marie said nothing as she watched her husband step into the afternoon sun. He got into the car, laughing. The two men
climbed into the back seat. Jean Michel backed the car, did a sharp turn, then sat, his arm through the window and the engine idling.

The cousin came running across the grass.

Her high heels were unsteady on the dry earth. The woman pulled a loose, seersucker jacket over her shoulders and the straps of her white dress. Jean Michel opened the door and she climbed in beside him, her smooth, brown calves glinting.

The car drove away in a cloud of dust and petrol fumes.

Later, as the afternoon cooled, the women made ice cream, using an ice bucket and an old American mixer that was filled with condensed milk.

Afternoon became evening, and the mosquitoes rose up from the mangrove in their endless search for blood.

Light poured through the high, stained-glass windows. The church of Saint-Pierre-et-Saint-Paul was crowded. There were a lot of soldiers in damp uniform. Some wore kepis, others wore flat berets pulled down on the side. The air smelled of flowers and wet clothes. A middle-aged woman knelt beside Anne Marie. Eyes firmly closed behind dark glasses, a dress that had been drenched by the rain. Water trickled down the closed umbrellas and formed meandering rivulets on the slabs of stone.

The organ was overhead, in the gallery of steel girders.

The light from the windows bleached the image on the color television sets. A set had been placed on a shelf at each pillar. As the priest moved down the aisle, a score of electronic images moved in eerie unison.

The bishop gave the sermon. He was a local man with a dark skin, a receding hairline, and a gentle, almost effeminate manner. Anne Marie had once met him at a garden party at the residence of the
Sous-Préfet
. He now went from the far side of the altar, genuflected, and climbed the winding stairs that led to the cast-iron pulpit. He placed his hands on the edge of the pulpit. The congregation sat down. Those people standing in the aisles shuffled their feet and crossed their arms.

“A wife has lost her husband. A mother has lost her son. Many
of you have lost a comrade and a friend.” The bishop spoke into the microphone and the thin voice echoed round the church and off the high roof of steel. “The Church has lost a child.”

Anne Marie’s feet were damp.

The rain had worked its way through the leather. Her best pair. Distractedly, she scratched at her hand. She tried to concentrate on the sermon. At the front of the church, she recognized the Préfet in tropical uniform and black epaulettes, heavy with gold braid. His hair was as white as the uniform.

Beside the
Préfet
, their heads turned attentively toward the pulpit, sat the local dignitaries. The thin face of the mayor of Pointe-à-Pitre, mayors from the other towns, officials from the Chamber of Commerce. Anne Marie recognized a
député
. And in the row behind him, wearing a black suit, sat Jacques Calais, accompanied by his nephew, Armand.