The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe Read online

  Anne Marie found herself laughing. “What was a coolie like you doing in the smart hotels?”

  “Siobud’s wife towered head and shoulders over him.” He added, “They even held hands in the street and everyone knows West Indian men don’t hold hands with their women in public.”

  Anne Marie asked, “He didn’t have mistresses—like his father?”

  Trousseau shook his head. “It was his wife who went off, apparently to be with Dugain—but I never believed that.”

  “Dugain? To be with Dugain, Monsieur Trousseau?” Anne Marie repeated, incredulous.

  He grinned widely, looking at her, his arm over the back of the driving seat. “Perhaps you know her. She didn’t like the name Siobud—I can understand that. She left him—she even left the children—and reverted to her maiden name.”

  “How should I know her?”

  “She left him with the two boys.” Trousseau went on, “It was Dugain who got her the job—a job with an American courier service.”

  “Madame Théodore?”

  Trousseau looked at her and laughed. “That’s right. Mademoiselle Théodore.”

  50

  Breadfruit

  As soon as he closed the door, the car smelled of overripe breadfruit.

  A sickly smell made more nauseating by the closeness and heat within the car. Anne Marie lowered the window. More nauseating than Madame Vaton’s eau de cologne.

  “The conditioner’s on.” Trousseau drove, his illustrated Bible open beside him on the front seat, his thin hands on the wheel.

  “You found your breadfruit.”

  “Nothing wrong with breadfruit.” Trousseau stopped for the traffic lights at the Baimbridge roundabout. “I own land in Trois-Rivières. I grow pineapples and I have livestock.” He laughed. “When the revolution comes, I’ll be able to look after myself.”

  “What revolution?”

  He snorted disparagingly.

  The lights changed and the Peugeot surged forward. Wind through the window pulled at Anne Marie’s hair. “The hurricane last September put paid to all talk of independence. National solidarity—Guadeloupe can’t do without the help of mainland France. Your compatriots were only too glad when they saw professionals flying out from France to get the island back on its feet. Revolution? It’s a thing of the past. Six years ago there were riots but it didn’t take your compatriots long to see that Faisant’s hunger strike was bogus.”

  “A white teacher had chosen to kick a black pupil in the pants. Monsieur Faisant wanted to denounce French colonial injustice.”

  “In this département, schoolteachers strike children all the time. It is like cockfighting—totally illegal elsewhere in France.”

  “Young people need discipline, madame le juge.”

  “Discipline that is meted out solely to black children, Monsieur Trousseau. West Indian teachers never strike white kids because they’re afraid of the reaction from us white parents.”

  “Being hit never did me any harm and in my time, young people respected their teachers. I knew I was going to get the same treatment at home, first from my mother and then from my father.”

  Anne Marie fell silent. They were approaching the city and she looked out of the window at a pack of dogs sniffing at the rubbish spilling from an overturned garbage bin.

  “I have land here—and my wife owns property in France. At the first hint of independence we’ll be on the first plane out.”

  “I thought your wife was in France, Monsieur Trousseau.”

  “There are times, madame le juge, when I can’t help feeling you’re just like the people of this island—in that you seem obsessed by the details of other people’s lives.”

  “Part of my profession.” She leaned forward and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Well?”

  “Well what, madame?” Trousseau half turned in his seat.

  “The pretty young woman I’m supposed to be meeting.”

  “Very pretty.” Trousseau nodded in acquiescence. “She said she’d come back to the palais de justice.” Trousseau went on, “You really must come down to Trois-Rivières one day. I’ll make you pork tails with breadfruit. You’d like that. You spend too much time with people of your own race.”

  “At the moment, my most pressing problem’s my son. According to his teacher, Fabrice’s a clown at school.”

  “That’s what Michel Siobud thinks?”

  “He says I should spend more time with my children.”

  “I’ve been telling you that for years. It’s never too late to get back to the Bible, madame le juge.”

  “A lot of people have been giving me advice—and I don’t listen.” Anne Marie leaned forward and again she tapped him on the shoulder. “Why does this girl want to see me?”

  Trousseau did not reply.

  “Well?”

  “You like breadfruit, madame le juge?”

  “Monsieur Trousseau, please, just for once answer my question. What does this pretty girl want to see me about?”

  He glanced at her in the driving mirror. “Docteur Bouton rang before I left. He wanted to speak with you, madame.”

  “Why won’t you answer my question about the girl? I’m not interested in Docteur Bouton.”

  “Mademoiselle Salondy’s out of danger.”

  “You told me that on the phone.”

  “They’re keeping her in intensive care. Docteur Bouton said you might be able to see her tomorrow. He gave his home number which I duly wrote down and left for you on your desk.” He turned to glance at her. “You really must try to smile, madame le juge. These last few days, you’ve had a permanent scowl on your face.”

  “I didn’t see you smiling at the Pointe des Châteaux yesterday.”

  “Siobud teaches your son?”

  “You don’t think I’ve got reason to scowl with my sister-in-law in the hospital and my son turning into …”

  “Into what, madame?”

  “And a greffier who can’t answer a straight question.” She added hastily, “I’m not sure I like your friend Siobud.”

  “Friends? I’ve got better things to do with my time. I have my garden in Trois-Rivières and I have my pigs and my wife owns a hotel in the tenth arrondissement so I don’t need friends. And if I did have friends, believe me, there are a lot of people I’d prefer to a jumped-up mulatto.”

  “That’s what everybody says about Dugain.”

  “Mulatto runt.”

  “Monsieur Trousseau, I sometimes suspect you’re a racist.”

  “An Indian who marries a white woman? An Indian who has four children who have all completed their university education and who all have jobs?”

  “Pork tails with breadfruit—that sounds appetizing,” Anne Marie mused aloud as she stared out of the window. They approached the city and she did not want to quarrel.

  “I suppose you’re allowed to eat pork, madame le juge.”

  Anne Marie sighed noisily.

  Shacks, concrete and wood, corrugated iron roofs, new cars and abandoned wrecks. They went past the ghetto of Boissard on the edge of the city. A violent ghetto, full of clandestine immigrants.

  Ten years that the mayor had been promising a renovation of Boissard, but there was still no sidewalk, still no shade. Just puddles after the rain, packs of mongrels, pigs and cats. A few chickens. Rusting refrigerators and the bald trunks of coconut trees that had lost their fronds the night of Hurricane Hugo.

  Trousseau spoke. “Docteur Bouton might need to send Mademoiselle Salondy to France.”

  Again the fear in Anne Marie’s belly. “Why does he want to send my sister-in-law to France?” Her knuckles turned grey as she gripped the door handle.

  Trousseau’s lips parted to reveal his teeth. “Docteur Bouton added that everybody at the hospital was counting on your support.”

  “Why send my sister-in-law to France?”

  “The sister of your ex-sister-in-law, madame le juge.”

  “Can’t they treat her here?”
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  They had reached the main boulevard and Trousseau’s attention was taken up by the traffic. Saturday morning and the city was filled with shoppers before the weekend. “To the palais de justice, madame?”

  “Monsieur Trousseau, why can’t they treat Lucette Salondy here?”

  “The young woman said she’d be at the palais de justice before eleven at the latest.”

  “I don’t know any young women. At least, not any young woman that’s alive.”

  “And dead?”

  Anne Marie said, “Let me out here. Something I need to do. Trousseau, I’ll be along in a minute.”

  “One other thing, madame le juge.” The car had turned into the rue d’Ennery behind the church. Trousseau double-parked in front of the hat shop. “The Indian Richard—you can see him at the hospital. Doctor Lavigne rang to say Richard’d woken up and eaten. Quite lucid.”

  “I wish I were lucid.” She got out of the car, the door banging against the high curb. “Tell your girl to wait for me. See if you can get anything out of her. Get her name, for example. Do your understanding older man routine.”

  “It’s not a routine, madame.” Trousseau waved and there was the rattle of the exhaust pipe as the Peugeot pulled away from the sidewalk.

  51

  Chez Camille

  As always, the hat shop was open, with its wares of broad brims, felts and its panamas, but there were no customers. Outside the church, already repaired after Hugo, the women selling imported carnations as well as mountain flowers from Martinique—lobsterclaw and anthuriums—were doing a brisk weekend trade. Solange, an imposing woman who had whored in Paris for twenty years, accumulated a fortune and two very dissimilar sons, gave Anne Marie a friendly wave from under the wide parasol and blew her a kiss, accompanied by a manly laugh.

  It was a bright, dry morning in Pointe-à-Pitre. The breeze was hot and car fumes made Anne Marie’s eyes prickle. The head cold had cleared up.

  Anne Marie always enjoyed the jostling crowd in the rue Nozières, the Dominican women with their displays of Dettol, Morgan’s pomade and carbolic soap, the open shops, the Syrians standing on the sidewalk, trying to entice customers over crackling public address systems. Every other shop sold clothes, from dull emporia with stocks of pith helmets, blue overalls and rubber boots to the franchise boutiques of Cédixsept, Benetton and even Rodier.

  This morning she scarcely noticed the activity about her. She needed another coffee. Strong coffee and a moment to gather her thoughts.

  Anne Marie went into Chez Camille.

  Thoughts about Lucette Salondy, about her son. About the Pointe des Châteaux. About her job, her life and the future.

  Kémel Yacoub was from Beirut, a Christian who had opened a Middle Eastern restaurant and snack bar in the colonial center of Pointe-à-Pitre. The bar gave onto the rue Alsace Lorraine, a hundred meters from the palais de justice. Only two tables, spindly legs and a plastic surface that was occupied by skewered raw meat, piles of Duralex plates and cutlery in preparation for the next meal.

  The Lebanese cedar tree and the red and white flag were ubiquitous. Levantine music came loud and unmelodious from an old cassette player, perched on the counter. Not an attractive place—even if you ignored the flies and the grime.

  Anne Marie sat down at a table and ordered a coffee from the girl who nodded and turned away in silence, dragging her sandals across the floor.

  Michel Siobud was right, of course: it was Anne Marie’s fault. Fabrice was turning into a problem—and she had not noticed a thing because she was spending too much time on the job.

  Children need to be loved—and they need to know they’re loved. Love is time, Anne Marie.

  “Turkish coffee, madame?”

  Anne Marie turned, surprised. “My head feels like putty. I took a sleeping pill last night.”

  “I know just how you feel—and I’ve never taken a sleeping pill in my life.” He laughed; she could smell his breath of Bastos and rum.

  “You were waiting for me, Monsieur Lafitte?”

  He shook his head and she knew he was lying.

  Anne Marie wiped her forehead with a paper napkin as Lafitte slid onto the spindly seat beside her. His discomfort in Chez Camille was almost palpable. “You’d care for some Turkish coffee? This is the only place in Pointe-à-Pitre you can get it.”

  L’Escale was Lafitte’s kind of bar. There he could drink his rum at any time during the day and smoke his Bastos while keeping an eye on the entrance to the Commissariat. L’Escale was a bar frequented by policemen, more often white than black, and by their women, more often black than white. The sort of place where Lafitte would feel in his element.

  He must have been waiting outside the palais de justice, hiding behind the copy of the morning’s France Antilles that he now held in his hand. He had seen her get out of the Peugeot and followed her. He had watched her go into the open-fronted bar.

  He grinned without looking at her. “I suppose it’s a bit early for an apéritif.”

  “You can always have a beer.”

  He looked at the rasping tape recorder. “I didn’t know Arabs drank beer.”

  “Not all Arabs are Muslim and not all Muslims are practicing Muslims. The proprietor is a Christian. Like you and me.”

  “Something very cold,” he said, and dabbed at his forehead. “You’ve seen this?” He grimaced as he threw the newspaper onto the table. On the front page was a photo of the murdered girl, her eyes closed in death. The headline announced, THE IDENTITY OF MUTILATED WHITE WOMAN REMAINS A MYSTERY.

  “There was never any mutilation.”

  “Mutilation sells papers.” He paused. “Isn’t that what Arabs do to their women? Mutilating them—cutting into their parts?”

  Anne Marie quickly read the article. “Where did they get this photo from?”

  “The procureur, I suppose.”

  “I thought I was in charge of the enquiry.”

  The girl brought the bronze pot of black coffee on a tray. She set it down on the table, along with a dish of lumpy brown sugar and a glass of water. “And a Kroenenburg for my friend,” Anne Marie said.

  “She doesn’t look like an Arab.” Lafitte watched the girl disappear.

  “She’s from Pointe-à-Pitre.”

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  “Lots of black Muslims, Monsieur Lafitte. Just as there are a lot of black Christians and Jews.” She gave him a tight smile. “I thought you’d worked in Africa.”

  “Five years in New Caledonia but that was years ago,” he said. “And to tell you the truth, I prefer the West Indies.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “The people are more civilized,” Lafitte replied. “You saw the procureur?”

  “He didn’t mention anything about distributing her photo to the press.” Anne Marie shook her head. “I was at Baimbridge and haven’t seen anyone other than Trousseau.”

  “Trousseau didn’t tell you then that Parise has found the murderer?”

  A car went past in the street, between the dense rows of parked vehicles, hooting irritably at pedestrians.

  Anne Marie poured coffee from the small pot. Her hand did not tremble.

  “Madame le juge.” Lafitte watched her carefully. “Parise’s found the murderer.”

  She returned his glance. “Sure you don’t care for coffee?”

  “You don’t look terribly excited, madame le juge.”

  “Over the moon.”

  For a moment his eyes held hers. “The heat’s off us, madame le juge. You, me, the gendarmerie.”

  “You mean this Pointe des Châteaux dossier is out of my hands?” Anne Marie said flatly, “Now that is good news.”

  “The procureur says the murderer’s identified—and now dead.”

  “I can get back to family and to living my life?” Not without malice, she added, “I can take up the Dugain dossier without everybody frightening me off?”

  He squinted at her from behind a cigarette. Today h
e was smoking filterless cigarettes. “The Dominican killed the girl … the dead Rasta.”

  “William Williamson?” A spoonful of sugar.

  “He was living in Boissard, sharing a shack with a couple of Dominicans like him.” Lafitte nodded. “Small time dealers. Ganja and occasionally cocaine from South America via St. Martin. Petty thieves. The gendarmerie searched the place early this morning.”

  “William Williamson tried to kill Lucette Salondy. I was at Lycée Carnot last night and I stayed with her until past midnight at the hospital.”

  “Since the riots of eighty-five, Boissard is gendarme territory.” Lafitte gave a charitable smile. “Better equipped than us.”

  “What did they find?”

  “Parise did one of his dawn raids. Flak jackets and tear gas—and of course, the TV journalists from RFO. You know how they love to dress up. It comes from seeing too many American films. Can’t help feeling our friend Parise believes he’s Mel Gibson. You’ll see him on the local news this evening.” He added, “Mel Gibson, or perhaps Danny Glover.”

  “On the procureur’s orders?”

  “An arsenal of weapons. Knives and a couple of guns.”

  “I don’t see the connection with the Pointe des Châteaux.”

  “They also found pieces of women’s clothing, madame le juge, which is proof enough for the procureur. The dawn raid was his idea—and he got what he wanted.”

  “Proof of absolutely nothing.” Anne Marie shook her head. “Guns and clothing by themselves do not constitute proof. Arnaud must be out of his mind. We don’t know the cause of death at the Pointe des Châteaux. We don’t even know who the victim is.”

  “The Dominican’s an escaped convict.” Lafitte raised a finger, the nail yellow with nicotine. “Serving five years in Roseau, Dominica.” He paused as the girl brought him a chill can of beer on a tin tray. He paid for Anne Marie’s coffee.

  “Five years for what?”

  “Rape of white American tourists in Dominica.” Lafitte shrugged philosophically. “Getting himself killed was probably a good idea. For us all. Particularly for your friend.”

  “Friend?”