The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe (28 page)

Anne Marie placed her hand on the doctor’s sleeve and looked up at him. Doctor Lavigne had an intelligent face, freckles and thick lips. He was not from France, she now realized, but a Creole and despite his remarks, he may well have been from Martinique. A gentleman from Martinique. “Richard Ferly’s the last person to have seen the
murdered woman alive. If I’m to arrest the right person, I must speak to him.”

“Then come back on Monday.”

“Monday?”

Docteur Lavigne added cheerfully “Perhaps you and your
greffier
would care for a drink?”

“Mild schizophrenia.”

“Does that mean Richard’s capable of murdering?”

Lavigne smiled. “I don’t think I can answer your question,
madame le juge
, because I don’t know the patient sufficiently well. From what I’ve been told, Richard seems a mild sort of person and not at all aggressive.”

“Schizophrenics can be murderers?”

“Six percent of prisoners in high security are schizophrenics, but more often than not, their anger, their rage is directed against themselves.”

“Suicide?”

“One in four attempts suicide.” Lavigne added, “One in ten succeeds.”

It was strangely quiet in the long, empty ward. Docteur Lavigne sat on the bare mattress of a bed. From time to time, Anne Marie’s eyes went from his face to the paint at the bedpost—paint that had been chipped away. By handcuffs, no doubt.

“You must understand my problem, Doctor.”

“You must try to understand my position.” He took a cigarette from the pocket of his jacket and lit it. “Another drink?”

She shook her head, but Trousseau went to the refrigerator and poured himself a second glass of mineral water.

“Is Richard capable of having murdered the young woman at the Pointe des Châteaux?”

“Anyone is capable of murder,
madame le juge
. In the right circumstances. Murder can be the instinct for survival breaking free from the norms imposed upon us by a civilized society. We’re all animals.”

Trousseau coughed noisily.

“Darwin tells us all species seek survival. Without the desire to survive, there’s no life. Life must procreate in order to live.”

Trousseau coughed again, even more noisily. He had returned to his plastic chair. Drops of moisture glistened on his straightened tie.

“We don’t know whether animals have moral codes but we humans do have codes. You and I,
madame le juge
—there are things we do, not because we need to do them but because our group has told us to do them.”

“Like murder?”

“Like not murder. Murder—in terms of group survival—isn’t a very good idea. Nor is incest. That’s why we created subjective rules which in time have taken on a force of their own.”

“What’s this got to do with Richard?” Anne Marie asked.

Lavigne laughed, and she liked the way the corner of his lips moved upwards in amusement. She also liked his long, delicate fingers. He must have been in his early forties, with his hair greying at the temples and the first wrinkles coming to the corner of his eyes. He did not wear a wedding ring. “The human brain’s a highly sophisticated piece of machinery. A Porsche among Renaults.”

“Mine feels like a Mobylette scooter.”

“Whereas you can put your Porsche on a jack and send in the mechanics, nothing’s so easy with the brain.” He laughed to himself. “Removing a bad plug’s less dangerous than lobotomy.”

“Lobotomy for Richard?”

“Richard’s an autonomous human being. He can live his life perfectly well. When he came in, he told me he had a doctor and I’ve been in touch with Docteur Finlande.”

“If Richard can run his life perfectly, why was he hanging around on the beach at Tarare, unshaved and unwashed? It’s normal for a bank employee to wander around in swimming trunks and a camera? To judge from his breath, he hadn’t eaten for several days.” Anne Marie crossed her legs and sat back. The synthetic leather of the upright chair was uncomfortable beneath her skirt. “Docteur Lavigne, I’m sure Richard’s a lovely person—kind, good and affectionate—but I need to know whether he killed the woman Agnès Loisel.”

“You know how she was killed?”

“Not yet.”

“Schizophrenics tend to retreat into themselves. Like you and me …” Lavigne paused, glanced at Trousseau. “… and like your
greffier
, they’re capable of murder. But the schizophrenic’s not the sort of person capable of plotting ahead. His is the sudden, explosive rage of restrained forces suddenly being set free.”

Trousseau said, “On the way back from the Pointe des Châteaux, he talked about killing.”

“Killing who?”

“He wanted a Kalashnikov and said there were twenty or thirty people in Pointe-à-Pitre who needed to be eliminated—people who talked about him, who were plotting against him.”

Lavigne turned back to Anne Marie. “In a state of acute stress, his idea of violence and revenge’s not very sophisticated. More Rambo than Macchiavelli.”

“Most people don’t go around talking about killing other people.”

“That fat journalist who was sticking his microphone into your throat—you don’t think with a gun in your hand, you could’ve pulled the trigger?”

“Stop putting ideas into my head.” She smiled, almost against her will. “I’m taking the children to church tomorrow.”

“You’ll be going to confession,
madame le juge
?”

Trousseau coughed again. Anne Marie turned and frowned. Trousseau drank more water. Her
greffier
stood up, setting the battered carnations into an empty coffee tin. He took a comb from his pocket and started to comb his hair, looking into the mirror.

“You go to confession,
madame le juge
?”

“Haven’t got time.”

“To go to confession? Or you haven’t got enough time to confess everything?”

Anne Marie wondered whether the
béké
doctor was flirting with her. “Docteur Lavigne, I’ve never murdered anybody.”

Lavigne inhaled on his cigarette, put his head back and watched the blue-grey smoke swirl toward the ceiling. “Richard’s a mild sort of character. Indeed, Finlande says he’s personable, when he doesn’t slip into one of his depressions.”

“What do you know about him?”

“In his late thirties. Richard Ferly’s held down a good job in a bank for over ten years. He draws up financial reports and is well-educated
and literary. His director …” A slight bow of the head. “The bank’s run by a cousin of mine from Martinique. The director’s got no complaints other than the occasional absence, but all absences are accompanied by a medical certificate. Lately they’ve been more rare. Some surprise at the bank when Richard disappeared without warning. Nobody saw the connection between their well-mannered colleague and the Indian of the Pointe des Châteaux killing.”

“He’ll lose his job?”

“That depends largely on you,
madame le juge
.” Lavigne smiled. “If you feel you’ll have to arrest him for murder and rape, I don’t think my cousin at the Crédit des Outremers will be able to keep him on for very long.”

“What set Richard off on this depression?”

“He’d been hearing voices like Joan of Arc.”

“The maid of Orleans was a schizophrenic?”

“Would you have stayed in Orleans if you thought the English were going to burn you at the stake?”

“I ceased being a maid a long time ago.”

“Hearing voices and having the impression people are plotting against you are frequent symptoms of schizophrenia. But with Richard it’d got to the stage where he couldn’t endure staying in his house. Had to get out into the open to places like the beach. He lives in the city center and he was being woken at nights by the sound of talking. According to his doctor, what Richard believes to be the figment of his imagination was in fact taxi drivers making a din outside his house in the night and the noise was preventing him from sleeping. Once Richard started to lose sleep, he’d lose touch with reality—an objective sound his mind would transform into devils and demons plotting things against him. He’d lose sleep, he’d cease to eat—and started spinning out of control.”

“Out of control when he met the girl at the Pointe des Châteaux?”

“No idea—I can only tell you what I know about Richard. He grew up in Paris, where I assume he felt slightly out of things because of his color.”

“He never married?”

“Richard doesn’t have much respect for himself. Although he would appear to be attractive to the opposite sex—and he has a good job but he’s never lived with a woman. He told his doctor he isn’t interested in local girls—only in white women.”

“He assumed Loisel was a white woman?”

“Finlande maintains Richard loses interest in women who show any interest in him. He’s had lots of affairs—even with pretty, young girls—but he lives alone.”

“Wouldn’t be the first man to be afraid of responsibility.”

“It’s more like the old joke—the man who won’t join a club that accepts riffraff like himself.” The doctor shrugged. “Richard was asleep on his feet when he was brought in. He showered and went straight to sleep without eating. He woke up during the night and was given a steak and yam
purée
. I managed to chat with him for twenty minutes.” Again Lavigne breathed heavily on the cigarette. “He’s been sleeping ever since.”

“He’ll be awake by Monday?”

“He’s not on medication,
madame le juge
. Times when Richard took thorazine, but Finlande doesn’t think it’s necessary now—just plenty of sleep and a regular diet. It’s not the first time he’s lost hold on reality. His father died several years ago. With people like Richard, behind the death of the loved one lurks the realization he’s going to be left alone in the world. The death of the loved one opens the prospect of years of solitude to come.”

“What triggered the present crisis?”

“He was probably already beginning to slip from reality when he met this woman at Tarare.” Lavigne paused. “Once he recovers the lost hours, once he gets a square meal under his belt, he should be as right as rain. He’ll probably wake up, feeling refreshed, and having forgotten everything about his days of wandering.” A resigned smile. “Sigmund Freud always believed schizophrenia was chemical in its origins. Even the modern drugs—the Americans are getting very good results with Clozapine—require psychological backup. I don’t think there’s any clear cut line between physical and mental—they run into each other and interact.”

“It’s possible his emotional problems were triggered by a woman? It’s possible Richard already knew Agnès Loisel.” She took a copy of the Polaroid photograph from her bag. “Look at this photograph: there’s an almost possessive look on Richard’s face.”

“If you say so.”

“You say humans are like animals. What do animals do when they think they’re going to lose something? You’ve tried to withhold a dog
from approaching a bitch in heat? Agnès’s pale enough to pass for a white woman and he’s a handsome man—with a good job.”

“So?”

“There’s an affair between them … until she discovers the man she wanted to fall in love with was far from mentally stable. What does she do?”

Trousseau spoke. “She tells him it’s over.”

“What does Richard do—faced with the prospect of the years of solitude opening up before him?”

Neither Trousseau nor Lavigne said anything.

“Like an animal—if he can’t have it, he certainly won’t let any one else have it. Particularly if that other person is a rich mulatto like Desterres. He does the only thing that can assuage his anguish.”

“Richard Ferly murders the girl.” Trousseau ran a thoughtful finger along his moustache.

She was anxious at the thought of seeing Lucette.

“At least the journalists from RFO have gone,
madame le juge
.” Trousseau was grinning as he walked beside her. They had to go down the hill before taking the road up the opposite morne that led to the hospital. The air had cooled as the sun moved slowly westward.

“What’s the time, Monsieur Trousseau?”

He tipped the bunch of flowers downwards to look at his watch. “Half past three.”

“I hope I can get to the beach before the wind drops. Last time Fabrice sulked because I was late again.”

Trousseau said, “I suppose you’re still wanting me to take you home.”

“That would be very kind of you.”

“I know what’s expected of a
greffier
.”

“You’re good to me, Monsieur Trousseau.” She looked at him and despite the tumult of feelings in her chest, Anne Marie could not stop herself from smiling. “I’m surprised your wife doesn’t want you with her on a Saturday afternoon.”

“
Madame le juge
, you know full well my wife’s in France. My youngest boy, Ronny, has just finished at the university and is looking for a job. My wife wants to be with him.”

“Must be very difficult for you, Monsieur Trousseau. I know you’re attached to your family.”

“Madame Trousseau doesn’t really like this island.” He was slightly
out of breath from walking. “Unlike you, she’s never really tried to fit in.”

“You feel I fit in?”

“You do your best.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“There’s no need for compliments.”

“You have in the past reproached me for my disdain toward the darker races.”

“I would never presume to reproach you with anything. I know for a woman, ours is a macho society.”

“You never talk to me about your wife.”

“You don’t normally ask me to work on Saturday afternoon.”

Anne Marie smiled. “I won’t be asking you to work tomorrow. I’ve decided to spend the day with my children for once. I’ll take Létitia to church. She’s been rather religious lately—and I don’t know whether it’s for her first communion or just for the pleasure of wearing a new dress.” She added, “My daughter’s discovered the joys of dressing up.”

“My wife returned to Paris six years ago.”

Anne Marie turned. “You never mentioned anything.”

“As much as I respect you,
madame le juge
, and as much as there’s considerable sympathy between you and me—sympathy that’s been built up over our years of collaboration, fruitful collaboration together …”