“Can I invite you for lunch? I’d appreciate your company.”
“I don’t see what pleasure a juge d’instruction could possibly find in my company.”
“Lunch and later a drive into the country. A long drive to Saint-François.”
“It’s Friday afternoon and you’re seeing the procureur.”
“Not often we’re together, Monsieur Trousseau, and I value your opinions.”
“Will the procureur appreciate your absence?”
“Your company and your opinions.” Anne Marie had slid the photograph from the envelope. “Let me worry about the procureur while you worry about the driving.”
“Saint-François it is, then.” Without waiting for a reply Trousseau cut across the road, turned in the forecourt of the garage and headed back in the opposite direction. Five minutes later they reached the route nationale and he spoke again. “Left or right?”
“To Saint-François.”
“I do as I’m told and I mind my own business.”
“You’re a good man, Monsieur Trousseau, and you know I’ve always respected your opinion.”
In the photo, mother and daughter were on the beach at La Baule. Behind them, L’Hermitage Hotel. A photograph that made Madame Vaton appear younger. She wore a cotton frock. Her daughter was in a swimsuit. The photograph had been taken too far from the subject for the facial details to be clear.
“About the same height as the girl in the morgue.”
“Her daughter’s alive and she knew that,” Anne Marie said. “She was not behaving like a woman who’s just lost her only child.”
“Our Lord had told her. She’s a deeply religious woman.”
“She makes my flesh creep.”
Trousseau ran a finger along his moustache. “Like Docteur Bouton?”
“At least Docteur Bouton hasn’t got religion—even if he does make my flesh creep.”
Trousseau tugged at his tie. “I know a lot of people who could benefit from religion. People who ought to be a lot more charitable.”
“If you’re alluding to the fact that my maiden name is Bloch, Monsieur Trousseau …”
“Jesus came to earth to save sinners.”
“Let me remind you that I’m Catholic. Like my mother, God rest her soul, I’m a baptized Catholic.”
“Too many sinners who don’t want to be saved.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Our Savior came to wash away our sins.”
“You sound like Madame Vaton.”
“A Christian lady.”
“Vaton’s religion’s not sincere.”
“The day of reckoning will soon be upon us—and then perhaps you’ll see the need for religion, madame le juge. You will have ample time to regret not paying more attention to the word of the Holy Scriptures.” He again pulled at the knot of his black tie. The short end, Anne Marie noticed, was frayed.
“Monsieur Trousseau, I respect your religious beliefs. I respect other people’s opinions—but Madame Vaton’s not sincere.”
“You’ve no right to say that, madame le juge.”
Anne Marie savored the air rushing through the window, pulling at her hair. With a sudden, inexplicable lack of decorum she kicked off the ungainly shoes, raised her legs and set her feet under her thighs on the back seat. In the mirror Trousseau raised a disapproving eyebrow.
Anne Marie set her fist under her chin before continuing. “From the moment she gets off the plane, it’s as if she’s on holiday. Even in the morgue, for goodness sake. The Club Mediterranée. Her daughter’s dead and she’s enjoying herself!”
“She knew her daughter wasn’t dead.”
“Excited at the thought of eating breadfruit.”
“You’re forgetting her husband’s originally from Guadeloupe.”
“She’s not human.”
“If Evelyne Vaton’s not dead, Evelyne Vaton must be alive.”
“If she’s not dead, she’s alive.” Anne Marie started to laugh.
“And if Evelyne Vaton’s alive, she’s going to turn up.” He gestured over his shoulder to the photograph on Anne Marie’s lap. “When Evelyne Vaton turns up, you’ll know whether the mother was lying.”
“An unidentified corpse in the morgue—and because of the Hertz car, everybody thought it was Evelyne Vaton. We’ve shown our incompetence—and we’re no nearer to solving who killed the woman.”
“Incompetence?” He ran his finger along the line of his upper lip.
“Precisely, Monsieur Trousseau—incompetence. I should’ve checked with the people she was staying with in Basse-Terre.”
“Why bother when the mother was flying from France for the autopsy?”
Anne Marie shivered unhappily. “Some mother.”
“I wouldn’t use the word incompetence.” Trousseau shrugged. “Everybody thought it was Vaton’s body—including the prime suspect, Desterres. There was the photo and there was the bikini. You were fed the bait.”
“Bait?”
“You rose to it, madame le juge.” Trousseau started laughing to himself, showing his teeth in the mirror. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I don’t see what’s funny. What bait, Trousseau?”
“Evelyne Vaton’s bikini. Someone wanted you to think it was Evelyne Vaton dead on the beach …”
29
Sandwich
The heat at the Pointe des Châteaux was tempered by a strong sea breeze, coming from Africa, south of the Sahara. It blew and tugged at the Cacharel skirt, pushing it against her thighs. Her feet were hot in her sensible shoes.
Anne Marie approached the snack van. She walked slowly, enjoying the wind, enjoying the magnificent view. The most easterly tip of the island, Pointe des Châteaux had a ruggedness reminiscent of the Brittany coast: Pointe du Raz, Ouessant, Molène. Here the Atlantic and the Caribbean clashed, sometimes angrily. Today the turquoise sea was no more stormy than the placid blue sky. The water was not threatening; the sea gently threw its low breakers against the coral sand.
A beautiful beach, but dangerous. There were red flags flying permanently, warning people not to bathe. Occasionally a surfer ignored them, wanting to enjoy the thrill of the waves crashing landward. He ignored the warning at his own peril: a treacherous undercurrent could easily drag him way out beyond the barrier reef. Beyond the protection of the reef to where the man-eating sharks infested the warm sea.
Trousseau was parking the Peugeot, trying to find some shade in the low scrub. The wind was too strong for the vegetation to grow beyond shoulder height.
It was past midday and the sun was directly overhead, at its zenith and beating down on the shadowless beach, on the smooth sand, on the whitened flotsam of polished branches, tires and rusting cans.
There were few tourists about.
As soon as Anne Marie moved into the lee of the dunes, sweat started trickling down her body. At least, she told herself, she had got away from Madame Vaton’s eau de cologne. She took deep breaths of sea air, heavy with the tang of salt, iodine and seaweed. Anne Marie was no longer sneezing.
SANWICHS’ OLGA had been painted onto the van, an aging Iveco, gnawed at by rust, by the salty air and the humidity. Anne Marie moved into the shadow of the overhanging flap.
“Bonjour, doudou.”
A woman sitting behind the counter stood up and smiled at Anne Marie. She was in late middle age, with chubby features and brown skin freckled around the nose and cheeks. There was lipstick but it had been applied carelessly. “What would you like, doudou?” The woman pointed to a slate advertising Orangina where the prices of food and drink had been chalked up in an unlettered hand. She dabbed at her cleavage with a Kleenex.
“Lovely fresh sandwiches, doudou.” She gestured to a glass cabinet containing sliced baguette. On the top of the cabinet, an opened can of Sovaco butter attracted the attention of a solitary fly. “Chicken, mackerel, cheese, tomato, ham, egg …”
“What sort of cheese?”
“Emmen
thal or Vache Qui Rit. Of course, I can do a hamburger or a croque-monsieur.” She pointed to a couple of grubby cookers, smeared with grease. She was a buxom woman. She wore a T-shirt that said ORANGINA. Beneath the T-shirt, a sturdy brassiere; below the brassiere, patches of sweat.
Anne Marie said, “Make that Emmenthal.”
“Two cheese sandwiches, then, doudou?” A small fan was attached to the open side of the van and the woman set herself in its breeze. “For you and for your gentleman friend?”
Anne Marie turned, following the woman’s glance. In jacket and tie, Trousseau approached the van. From out of the trunk of the Peugeot, he had produced a black umbrella, which he had opened and now held above his head, protection from the midday sun.
“Monsieur Trousseau,” Anne Marie called out. “What sort of sandwich would you care for?”
“Monsieur Trousseau?” The woman in the van had bent forward and was peering toward the oncoming greffier, a fleshy hand to her eyes. “Looks to me for all the world like Alphonse.”
“Alphonse?”
“I always thought Alphonse was in France.”
Trousseau walked with his head down, in the shadow of the umbrella.
A chuckle. “It’s a small world, after all these years.”
“Monsieur Trousseau?”
The woman cackled her amusement. “My word, Alphonse’s aged a lot, hasn’t he?” There were large patches of sweat beneath her arms. “And he’s got a belly, I see. The girls loved him twenty years ago.”
“You know Monsieur Trousseau, madame?”
“I know Alphonse Ayassamy.” She put her head back and the damp neck rippled as she laughed. “God’s gift to women. Back in the days when he was the Nat King Cole of Capesterre/Belle Eau.” The various gold necklaces danced on the dark skin. “He left enough with a gift of his own—of the squalling, crying kind.”
Trousseau heard the woman’s laughter, looked up and tilted the angle of the umbrella. He changed direction and headed for the plastic chairs set out on the sand. There were several tables, each protected by a large blue parasol flapping in the sea breeze. Trousseau sat down with his back toward the van.
“God’s gift to women,” the woman repeated and again she trembled with amusement. “Congratulations, doudou.” Olga—if that was her name—had coarse, short hair that had been straightened and dyed red sometime in the last month. The color was disappearing to reveal greying strands at the root. “I heard Alphonse’d married a white woman from the mainland.” More throaty laughter. “I only hope he looks after the children.”
“I am Madame Laveaud. I am the juge d’instruction for Pointe-à-Pitre.”
“I nearly married him.” A click of the tongue. “I thought back in those days an Indian was more reliable than a black.” She suddenly clapped her hand to her mouth and several gold teeth. “No better, no worse. I learned that the hard way. They’re all the same—but we can’t do without them, can we, doudou?”
“Monsieur Trousseau works for me.”
“Alphonse has done well for himself—a lovely lady like you.”
“Monsieur Trousseau and I are colleagues,” Anne Marie said coldly. “We’re not related.”
“A white wife. And a lot younger than him, I bet. You two must have lots of lovely children with nice hair? I just hope, with you being French, he’s reformed his ways.” A big wink of the watery eye. “I hope he’s zipped up that fly once and for all.” She called out in a deep, masculine voice, “A cheese sandwich, Alphonse?”
Trousseau did not move.
“My greffier and I are making enquiries into the death of the unfortunate girl who was murdered.”
“To drink, doudou?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Sunkist, Krony, Coca, Kroenenburg, Heineken, Pepsi, malt beer, Perrier, fresh passion fruit, cane juice, grapefruit, soursop, starfruit—made this morning. What would you like to drink, Madame Ayassamy?”
Anne Marie held up her hand, turned and walked across the burning sand, approaching Trousseau, who sat with one hand on his attaché case, the other holding the umbrella. He had neither undone his tie nor removed his jacket. He stared in front of him, toward the calvary set atop the Pointe des Châteaux promontory. “A fruit juice and a sandwich, Monsieur Ayassamy?”
“I thought you were taking me to lunch.”
“I need to talk with this woman.” Anne Marie leaned forward. “She seems to know you.”
Trousseau did not react.
“Calls you Alphonse.”
“I’ve never seen the old harpy before. And God willing, I shall never see her again.”
“Alphonse Ayassamy.” Anne Marie began to laugh. She laughed till the tears came down her cheeks. She forgot about the sun reverberating off the sand, she forgot about the nauseous eau de cologne. She even forgot about the morgue.
30
Tarare
“Alphonse suits you.”
Despite the oppressive heat, there were clouds lowering in the north, heading fast toward the Grands Fonds and beyond.
“You invited me for lunch, and in return for driving you, I get a Sunkist and a sandwich.”
“I didn’t know your family name was Ayassamy.”
“I should have stayed in Pointe-à-Pitre where I could’ve bought my own Sunkist. I hope you asked for a receipt.”
Anne Marie shook her head.
“Back to town, madame le juge?”
“Now I’m going to take you to lunch. At Mère Nature—Desterres’s restaurant.”
Unsmiling, Trousseau nodded, put the Peugeot in gear and they set off toward Saint-François. Anne Marie insisted Trousseau keep the windows of the Peugeot open and the air conditioning off. She was now cheerful; Olga’s good humor had been contagious. Her belly muscles ached from too much laughter.
“It was there on Sunday night.”
“What, madame le juge?”
“The Fiat Uno—the Hertz car Evelyne Vaton hired.” Anne Marie allowed herself a cheerful giggle. “Your friend Olga’s a very interesting woman.”
“I know nobody by that name.”
“She knows nobody by the name of Trousseau.”
“Which can only mean we have never met.”
“She was adamant, insisting you were a lady’s man.”
“I’m a happily married man.”
“Before you ever married.”
“My wife’s a white woman. Whiter than you. And unlike your obese black friend, in my household we speak French.”
“I believe you, Monsieur Trousseau.”
“If ever I were to have married a Negro woman—a highly unlikely possibility—there are hundreds, nay thousands of women who would have caught my glance before that … before that harpy.”
“Who mentioned marriage, Monsieur Trousseau?”
“She’s mad.”
“She knows a lot about you.”
“She knows nothing about me—and neither do you. Must I remind you yet again my private life is my own affair? It’s not because I work for you, madame le juge, or because there’s always been a spirit of collaboration between us that you should feel entitled to pry into my private life. I’m an Indian and a greffier and I mind my own business. Those pleasures of the flesh that you allude to exert no charm for me. I’ve been married to a very beautiful woman for more than twenty years and it’s certainly not with some sweaty woman, some Creole-speaking virago selling hot dogs, some toothless old harridan that I’m likely to seek carnal satisfaction.”
“She was not necessarily sweaty twenty years ago. In those days she had all her teeth. And twenty years ago you weren’t married.”
“I don’t wish to continue this conversation, madame le juge.”
Anne Marie was still grinning but she adopted a placating tone. “Don’t get upset.”
“I’ve shown you unstinting loyalty.”
“The woman must’ve made a mistake.”
“If I had known it was your intention to make lewd and unjustified alleg
ations about my private life I would’ve stayed in Pointe-à-Pitre. Madame Laveaud,” he continued, his eyes on the road, his features drawn, “I’m not some West Indian who considers all white women as fair game. I’ve always shown you respect—because you are my hierarchical superior, because you are a good and efficient investigating magistrate. Above all, I have shown you respect because I admire you.” He ran his finger along the edge of his mustache. “It would be a great shame if many years of fruitful collaboration and friendship should come to naught simply because you give credence to the ravings of an ignorant old gossip—une vieille macrelle.” He tapped the steering wheel. “You shall let the matter drop.”
Anne Marie turned her head to look out of the window. She did not want Trousseau seeing her, for she could not control the smile that pulled at her lips, she could not control the wrinkling of her eyes, the laughter within her chest that still wanted to work its way out, that caused her muscles to ache.
They followed the Saint-François road. The hedges were a riot of flowers, bougainvillea, laurel and allamanda. The flame trees were in dazzling blossom.
They went past the old sugar plantation that had been renovated, past the new apartment blocks, past the American hotel.
“If we’re going to eat, I don’t see why you tried to make me eat one of her greasy sandwiches.”
“To get her to talk.”
Clouds were scudding in from Désirade, driving inland.
“And what did she say?”
“That the car was there on Sunday night. She remembered seeing it there.”
“I thought it was on Tuesday night.”
“That’s what the procureur said but she was quite certain. A shame you were sulking.”
“I was not sulking, madame le juge.”
“You would have heard her testimony.”
Trousseau remarked coldly, “Judging from her absurd allegations, your black woman would appear a highly unreliable witness.”
“Perhaps the car was broken into.”
“That’s not what Hertz said.”
“There’s a lot of theft at the Pointe des Châteaux—Olga said as much. If the car was broken into, that’d explain why there were no documents.”
The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe Page 11
