“But the car wasn’t broken into. And anyway, the Vaton girl’s not dead.”
“She doesn’t seem to be alive, either.”
They followed the long beach of Salines, visible through the low shrubs, and the waves breaking against the cays. After another kilometer, they saw the first sign for Tarare, for the nudist beach and the restaurant Mère Nature.
“Are you hungry, Monsieur Trousseau?”
“I was until your friend destroyed my appetite with her base allegations.”
No longer able to hold in her laughter, Anne Marie pretended to sneeze.
31
Mother Nature
They turned off the hot main road onto an unsurfaced track. The car bounced on its high suspension. Dust swirled upwards and reluctantly Anne Marie had to ask Trousseau to close the windows and turn on the cooler.
They traveled through the low brush at little more than ten kilometers an hour for over five minutes. Nobody was in sight.
They came to the open parking space.
“We’ll get out here.”
The ground was hard, dry and uneven beneath the thick soles of her Paraboots. They set off on foot toward the beach. Trousseau had insisted upon taking the umbrella, but rather than giving shade, it prodded at Anne Marie’s face, uncomfortably close to her eyes.
A sign announced Tarare beach and invited visitors to remove their clothes.
Trousseau straightened his tie, allowed himself a sly grin, and they went down the steep incline that led to the beach. From time to time he held out his hand to offer support. Anne Marie noticed, not without pleasure, that her greffier was considerably less agile than she. After a while, he closed the umbrella and used it as a stick to give him balance.
Out of the wind, the air was close. Insects danced in Anne Marie’s eyes and there was a pervasive odor of rotting plants and dead cactus.
Suddenly the path opened out and they came on to the crescent beach, brilliant beneath the overhead sun. With relief Anne Marie rediscovered the breeze. Sweat ran down her back and her linen blouse clung to her skin.
“Very quiet.” Trousseau wiped his face with a handkerchief. He had dropped umbrella and attaché case to the ground.
With its palm trees, Tarare could have been the picture of tropical paradise in a tourist brochure. The sea was calmer than at the Pointe des Châteaux. It was a bright blue, becoming turquoise over the sand, then turning darker where the coral outcrops lay beneath the surface, a magic patchwork of kaleidoscopic greens and blues. The Caribbean as the postcards liked to show it. Even the lapping of the waves against the sand was perfect.
Gwada, pa ni pwoblem.
The restaurant was as Anne Marie remembered it; a wooden building surrounded by tall palm trees, their trunks painted white up to a meter from the sand.
On the wooden veranda stood half a dozen tables. They were bare. The door to the kitchen was closed and bolted. The only living thing was a solitary cat that eyed the two functionaries of the state with indifference.
There were living quarters at the back of the restaurant—a small bedroom with an outside sink and cracked mirror.
“I think we’ve come at the wrong time, madame.”
She remarked, “We can have a look around, can’t we?”
“And I get no meal?”
“Forgotten the Sunkist, Monsieur Trousseau?”
While Trousseau sat down wearily at one of the tables, the closed umbrella between his legs, Anne Marie wandered off along the beach.
The water looked so limpid, so inviting, that she was tempted, out of the view of her companion, to go for a dip. But, as she reminded herself, not only was she without a costume, but she did not have anything to dry herself with. Without fresh water to rinse her body, the salt would be sticking uncomfortably to her skin for the rest of the afternoon.
She took off her shoes and sauntered along the beach. From time to time, the warm water ran up to her feet. Rediscovering an old friend. She felt a strange happiness at being here, at not being in Pointe-à-Pitre, not being in her office, not being at the morgue. She started to whistle and had gone some seventy yards when she heard a movement to her right. She stopped.
Anne Marie saw a low sea grape, but apart from that, nothing. No movement.
She glanced back at Trousseau. He had lowered his head onto the table as if trying to doze. “Alphonse,” she said, smiling to herself. Anne Marie resumed her whistling.
“Bonjour!”
In front of her stood a tall man with his arms crossed against a dark, broad chest. Tall but beginning to take on flesh at the midriff. He had fine features and a long, straight nose. A reflex camera hung from his neck. He held out his hand.
“My name is Richard.”
A bright, white smile but the eyes were bloodshot. The man had not shaved in several days.
Apart from the camera, Richard was as naked as the day he was born.
32
Chair
She felt like a schoolgirl playing hooky.
“Take the umbrella.”
Anne Marie shook her head and got out of the car. “Trousseau, get this man to the hospital as fast as you can and then get hold of Bouton.”
So much to do and yet Anne Marie did not want to return to Pointe-à-Pitre. Not yet. She would get a taxi back to town, or failing that, would wait for one of the rural buses.
She waved but her greffier was sulking—for the last half hour he had been saying he was hungry. Without looking at her, he released the clutch and set off toward Pointe-à-Pitre, accompanied by Richard, immobile in the back seat. The tires screeched on the tarmac road.
There was something terribly pathetic about Richard, Anne Marie thought. He did not look at her, he did not turn his head on the fleshy neck. Lost in his thoughts, indifferent to what was happening around him.
She walked toward the wooden fence.
Loud music came from a radio. There was a gate in the fence that was ajar and as she stepped into a small garden, Anne Marie was surprised by the abundance and brightness of the flowers. So green. The dry season was long over here in the Grands Fonds.
Dark clouds had come scudding in from the east and the sky was now turning grey with the threat of rain in the afternoon. The green and mauve leaves caught the luminescence of the overcast sky and reflected it with a sullen intensity.
The music grew louder.
Anne Marie made her way down the path to the shack, pushing back ferns, tall grass and the branches of a pepper tree. Thanks to the dry air of the Pointe des Châteaux, Anne Marie felt a lot better. Yet the memory of Madame Vaton’s perfume lingered in the pit of her belly. Anne Marie would soon have to return to the morgue. She could feel a lump swelling in her chest.
(In all her school years, in Algeria as at Sarlat, Anne Marie had never once played hooky. She could hear Luc’s voice, “You’ve always been a goody-goody.” She smiled guiltily to herself.)
The door to the shack was open. Anne Marie went up the wooden steps. “Anybody at home?” She knocked at the jamb, leaning inside.
The interior of the shack was clean, the music noisy.
A bare floor, walls of unvarnished planks and a table of molded orange plastic. A couple of matching seats had been taken from a car. A vase beside the radio contained dried bullrushes. The room was empty, but there was another open door that gave on to the back garden.
The music came to a stop as a local disc jockey chatted with a woman who had phoned in to request, in banana French peppered with Creole, a record: Zouk Machine. The radio screeched strident feedback.
Anne Marie stepped into the house and she noticed an exotic smell that took her back to her childhood in North Africa.
“Looking for me?”
A young woman’s face appeared at the rear door. An oval, pretty face, bright eyes, dark skin and hair plaited into long, parallel rows.
“Madame Augustin?”
The woman smiled. “Mademoiselle Augustin.” She came up the plank steps in
to the room. She was wearing a skimpy cotton halter and khaki shorts. She wore sandals; there was mud on her feet. The skin of her legs was perfect except for a vaccination mark at the thigh. In her hand she held several green limes. “I’m Marie Pierre Augustin. Who are you?”
“Madame Laveaud. I’m an investigating judge.”
“Investigating what?”
Anne Marie ran a hand along her forehead. “I wonder if you could give me a drink of water? Would you mind if I sat down?”
The young woman laughed a nasal laugh. “Of course not.” She spoke French with the intonation of the Paris suburbs. Drancy, Aubervilliers, Saint-Denis. Postal code 93.
“Perhaps I could also ask you to turn down the radio—I’m hot and sticky. Finding anywhere in the Grands Fonds can be so difficult … even with a map.”
“You don’t like music?” The girl rolled the limes onto the table. She switched off the radio and went with a light, youthful step through the doorway into the kitchen. Kitchen, living room and another room—the bedroom, no doubt—were separated by hardboard walls that rose to a height of a couple of meters. No ceiling. Above the walls, four sloping sheets of corrugated iron formed the roof of the shack.
Anne Marie lowered herself onto one of the car seats. The smell seemed stronger.
An entire side of the living room was filled with leather bags—small heaps of shopping bags, handbags, men’s bags—that were kept in plastic wraps. There were little tags. Stretching her arm, Anne Marie took a bag and looked at the price tag. The figures were in a currency she did not recognize; the writing looked Spanish.
Anne Marie raised one of the bags to her nose; it had the rich odor of oiled leather.
The girl returned, holding out the glass. She said, nodding to the handbag in Anne Marie’s hand, “Just got back from Brazil.”
“I need to ask you a few questions.” Anne Marie drank some water. “Nothing very serious, mademoiselle.”
“I hope not.” The girl’s mouth smiled a pretty smile.
“I’ve always dreamt of going to Rio.”
“I spent three weeks there.” She gestured to the articles on the floor. “On business.”
Anne Marie held up her hand. “I’m not from Customs.”
“We paid customs, octroi de mer—the lot.”
“I really couldn’t care less—provided it’s not cocaine from Latin America.” Anne Marie took another sip of water, her eyes on Marie Pierre. “I’ve a son at the lycée and like most parents, I have an obsession about drugs.”
“Drugs?” The young woman shook her head. “I stick to lemongrass tea from the garden.” She made a gesture toward her garden.
The sky had darkened.
33
Incense
It was the same incense her grandmother always used to smell of.
“You’d care for something to eat?” Marie Pierre was sitting crossed-legged on a rug. She kept her back upright and her hands were placed on her knees. “There are lentils in the pot.”
Anne Marie shook her head. “You’re very kind.”
“I am a vegetarian. Or perhaps you’d care for a yogurt.”
It had started to rain. There was a short silence as the two women listened to the first patter of raindrops on the roof. Then Anne Marie asked, “What made you become vegetarian?”
“I believe in harmony.”
“Hard to believe in harmony when you’ve seen an autopsy.” Anne Marie changed the subject. “Why the leather goods, Mademoiselle Augustin?”
“We wanted to set up a little business. Selling handicraft, authentic souvenirs—that sort of thing. Ponchos, panamas.”
“We?”
The frown returned to the smooth skin. “Why are you asking these questions? I’ve already told you the octroi de mer’s been paid on everything.”
Anne Marie cast a glance round the room. The furnishings were functional and the place was clean. There was none of the untidiness that came from two people living together. “You’re married?”
“Used to be.”
“And now?”
“I have a friend. Do we make love? Is that what you mean?”
“It’s not my wish to pry.”
“What do you want?”
“You talk about ‘we.’ ”
“I’m not ready for another marriage. There are a lot of things to do in life and I’m not yet ready to settle down, serve one man and have children. Cook three meals a day.” She shook her head. “Each thing in its own due course.”
The patter on the iron roof became more insistent.
“How long have you been together?”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
“I’m curious.” Anne Marie gave an apologetic smile.
“Why?”
“All part of my job.” Anne Marie did not wait for a reply. “You said you used to work in a shop.”
A nod. Anne Marie saw hesitation in the girl’s eyes.
“You worked for Monsieur Dugain, didn’t you, Marie Pierre? Along with another girl, you informed the work inspectorate you were being paid with government apprenticeship money.”
“I’ve answered enough questions about Monsieur Dugain.”
“He subsequently died in mysterious circumstances.”
“I didn’t know he was going to kill himself. I just wanted to be paid decently. I wanted my social security payments. There was nothing personal against Monsieur Dugain. I liked the job.”
“He flirted with you?”
“I never said that.”
“What was your job, Marie Pierre?”
“Monsieur Dugain has a health food shop in Abymes.”
“What did you do there?”
“Working there I decided to become a vegetarian. Agnès and I were sales girls.” She shrugged. “Dugain wasn’t paying our health contributions.”
“Whose idea was it, your seeing the work inspectors?”
“I was fed up with being screwed by that man.” She paused. “Agnès’s boyfriend’s an accountant.”
“And?”
“Olivier said Dugain was not paying us, but the government was giving him money for us. That working in Dugain’s shop was part of the training program and that we could complain to the inspectors because he made us do a lot more than the contract stipulated. We never got any training.”
“You threatened him?”
She looked down at her hands, at the long fingers and the specks of deep red nail varnish. “Agnès wanted to have a baby. She needed health coverage to pay for the doctor.”
“How did Dugain react?”
The falling raindrops became more angry, faster. Wind blew at the open doors and water darkened the wood of the threshold.
“They said he jumped from the top of a building.” Marie Pierre nodded to an old television set that stood on a molded plastic stand. Her eyes reverted to Anne Marie.
“How did Dugain react when you threatened him, mademoiselle?”
“I’d left the shop in February, long before he killed himself.” She tilted her head to one side. “How was I to know he was going to kill himself?”
“How well did you know Dugain?”
“He helped me when he gave me the job.”
“You didn’t like him?”
With her regular features and her perfect skin, she reminded Anne Marie of an African goddess carved in a black hardwood.
The girl rose from her cross-legged position and went to close the door. Rain fell onto the back of her hand and glistened there.
“He harassed you?”
For a moment she stood in the doorway, her back to Anne Marie, as she stared out into the small garden. Without turning, she said, “I can’t answer your question.”
“Why not?”
“Nothing’s free in this life.”
“That sounds to me like an answer.”
“Please.” Marie Pierre closed the door and pulled the wooden bar into place. It was now dark. She turned on the electric bulb, which gave
a tungsten glow to the small room. Rain had fallen onto the bare skin of her shoulder. “I don’t want to talk about him.” A plaintive tone to her voice. “Please.”
“Were there many people who disliked him?”
She laughed. “He was fat and ugly and overbearing and he smelled of aftershave he picked up in Unimag. Or in the Prisunic. He was tightfisted and he bought whatever was cheapest. We worked hard, Agnès and I; we got on well together, we liked the job and we felt we were doing something useful. And he screwed us—he screwed us and he screwed the government.” A click of her tongue. “He used all these long words and he thought he was clever, teaching at the university, but he was just a jumped-up mulatto from Martinique who drove around in a big Mercedes Benz. And between his fat legs …”
Anne Marie frowned. “Jumped-up?”
“He thought we were little girls who could be used and abused.”
“Marie Pierre, why didn’t you leave?”
“I needed the money.” The young woman shrugged. “With thirty percent unemployment, you think I could walk out, just like that?”
“You could’ve complained to the ANPE.”
She gave a toothy grin. “I wanted to get even with the bastard.”
“For exploiting you?”
“All we’d done is ask for a raise. He found a pretext. Said we were not courteous, that we didn’t now how to deal with the public, and he gave us the sack. That’s when I went to the Inspectorate.”
“Where does Agnès work now?”
“I haven’t seen her in a long time.”
“Good friends?”
“We used to be. She’s got her life to lead—and so have I.”
“Her family name?”
“Loisel—Agnès Loisel.”
“Where can I find her?”
The question irritated her. “She was working in a hotel in Gosier but I haven’t seen her recently. Somebody told me she went to Paris.”
“And her boyfriend?”
“They’re not together.”
“I thought you said she wanted a baby.”
“She didn’t talk about anything else.”
“You know his name?”
“Olivier. Why do you want to know?” Marie Pierre’s face had hardened.
The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe Page 12
