Another Sun

by Timothy Williams

  “Hégésippe Bray believed me. I explained he’d soon be set free.”

  “The old man hanged himself.”

  Everybody—including Trousseau—turned to look at Dr. Bouton. “Hégésippe Bray hanged himself, madame le juge,” the bloodless lips repeated with precise conviction.

  “I know he didn’t.”

  “Can you explain how Hégésippe Bray was found hanging from the bars of his cell?”

  “He was put there.”

  Maître Legrand sighed.

  “That is a very serious accusation.” Dr. Bouton spoke softly—like a professor at the faculty of medicine.

  “The only possible explanation.”

  “Hégésippe Bray wanted to die. Psychologically, it makes sense. You may have explained the temporary nature of his incarceration. You may have made it clear he’d never be sent to French Guyana. But that is not the point.” Dr. Bouton tapped a pen against the side of his nose. “How old was Bray? Eighty-two, eighty-three? Clearly no longer in his prime. Clearly debilitated by the rigors of French Guyana. And totally unprepared for the new Guadeloupe.” The voice was calm, reasonable, persuasive. “Social, psychological changes—all the changes that have taken place here since his departure for South America. Hégésippe Bray was lost. It was only normal he should feel.…”

  “Hégésippe Bray had a place in the country—at Sainte Marthe—and he was happy there.”

  “Then who killed him?” Maître Legrand asked. Her sweet perfume mixed with the bitter odor of the cigar.

  Anne Marie said, “I could make a guess.”

  The procureur placed his hand on the desk. “I’m pleased to see your reaction, madame le juge. I admire you. You show you’re a warm person.”

  Maître Legrand gave a small nod.

  “But are you not allowing yourself to be too emotional?”

  Anne Marie remained silent.

  “Please sit down.” He gestured, then with the same hand, he put the cigar in the ashtray. “This death is very embarrassing.” The procureur leaned back in the leather armchair and ran two podgy hands though his hair. A button on his shirt was missing, and the fabric had drawn back to reveal pale flesh. “What we need is a drink.” He thumped the desk. “Platon!” he shouted.

  A man opened the door and stuck his head through the crack. “Monsieur?”

  “Drinks—and fast.” The procureur raised his hands, hospitable but slightly bewildered. “Bring us something. I don’t know.” He looked at Maître Legrand, who nodded. “A bottle of mineral water and some fruit juice, perhaps, if there is any—but none of that awful imported stuff. And for me a cup of coffee, Platon. A cup of very strong coffee.”

  The head nodded obediently and disappeared.

  “Poor Platon’s filling in while the prison director is in France, and he’s not too happy to be chased out of his office—and it’s air conditioned.” The smile faded as the procureur took another cigar from the small packet. “You really must sit down, madame le juge. You seem to think this is a confrontation. We’re not in a court of law, I assure you.” He placed the cigar in his mouth and lit it. His lips were moist and flecked with a couple of shreds of tobacco. He watched the sinuous movement of the rising spirals of smoke. “A human life lost for nothing. After all those years in the wilderness. I understand how you feel, madame—and in your position, I’d be behaving just like you.”

  Anne Marie lowered herself into a canvas armchair.

  21

  Sin of Omission

  “Enquiry?”

  “Into the death of Hégésippe Bray. There shall be an enquiry, monsieur le procureur.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s no call for any enquiry,” the man said, raising one shoulder, “as I see it.”

  Silence—broken only by the steady hum of the air conditioner.

  Smoke formed grey curlicues that danced toward the ceiling.

  He added, “Unless there’s reason to suspect foul play.”

  Maître Legrand nodded. “An open and shut case of suicide.”

  “Bray’d lost all desire to live,” the procureur said. “That doesn’t excuse the guard. He should’ve kept his eyes open—he’d been warned. Nor does it excuse Platon. Platon’s standing in for Rinaldo who’s in France for a conference on security in prisons, of all things.” He removed the cigar from his mouth and looked at the smoldering tip. “Rinaldo won’t get back from Rouen until the end of next week. Which puts us all in a nasty situation—at just the wrong time. First the murder of Raymond Calais. Even if very few people regret his departure, the fact remains he was murdered. Murdered in an overseas département. And now this.” He raised his hands. “Just to make things more intolerable.”

  The door opened. A man in uniform entered to place a tray on the desk and distribute the drinks.

  The cold water chilled Anne Marie’s teeth. She realized with grim satisfaction that she had forgotten about her itching hand.

  Maître Legrand held a glass of passion fruit juice, and as she raised it, the corner of her mouth moved upwards, causing the freckled cheeks to wrinkle.

  “Nobody’s going to like it.” The procureur drank his coffee in two gulps. He winced, brushed the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, then replaced the damp tip of his cigar in his mouth. “Nobody other than the political troublemakers.” The procureur smiled at Anne Marie. “Try and understand what’s at stake.”

  “Justice.”

  Maître Legrand gave a little laugh.

  “Bray was not involved in Calais’ death. There’s no real evidence. The gendarmerie have based their case on hearsay—on the threats of an old man who’d drunk too much.”

  “And his gun?”

  “There’s no proof he pulled the trigger,” Anne Marie said.

  “Who else knew Bray had a gun?”

  “It’d been my intention to liberate Bray within the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Pity then you didn’t.” The procureur sucked thoughtfully on the cigar. “Who, in your opinion, killed him? If you’re so sure it wasn’t Bray, you must tell me who killed Raymond Calais.”

  Anne Marie turned from the procureur to Dr. Bouton to Maître Legrand. They were looking at her attentively.

  Anne Marie shrugged.

  “You must have your theories, madame le juge.”

  “I don’t know who killed Calais.”

  “Could it have been Hégésippe Bray?”

  “It could’ve been anybody.” Anne Marie glanced at the Creole calendar that Trousseau was still staring at. September 1980 and she had just turned thirty-four. “It could’ve been anyone at all.”

  “Precisely what I was afraid of.” The procureur took a last suck on the cigar. “A decisive lie can at times be a lot better than a hesitant truth.”

  “Not in a democracy.”

  He stubbed out the cigar. “We should never have allowed the man to die. Platon and Rinaldo of course’ll be able to shift the blame. They’ll show that the real responsibility’s in Paris. Not enough money—they’re understaffed.” He paused. “I feel just as bitter as you do, madame le juge. After all Hégésippe Bray had to go through—a life of exile for some crime committed years ago—at a time when in other parts of the world, men were slaughtering each other by the million.” His eyes did not blink, but held her glance. “A sin of omission. Worse still, from my point of view, a sin of organization. However.…” The procureur took a deep breath. “However, we’ve no choice but to make use of this death, unfortunate and distasteful though it may be. Political use.” A few threads of dying smoke managed to writhe upward from the ashtray. “A little payoff for all our pains.”

  Trousseau coughed.

  “Hégésippe Bray killed Calais—or he didn’t. Either way, both he and Raymond Calais are now gone. And there’s no way of bringing them back.” He paused. “If it wasn’t Bray who killed Calais, there can only be one alternative.”

  Maître Legrand said
, “Mouvement d’action des nationalistes guadeloupéens.”

  22

  Renseignements Généraux

  The procureur laughed, genuinely amused. “Guadeloupe is a powder keg—and Paris is terrified of the smallest spark, at the slightest hint of terrorist activity. As soon as Raymond Calais was found dead—within an hour of my getting back from Sainte Anne—Paris was screaming down the phone.”

  “There’s no reason to assume Calais was assassinated for political motives. That was his own theory. It suited him. Calais liked the idea of martyrdom—but that doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  “Guadeloupe’s little more than a colony—or at least, that’s how it appears to other nations in the Caribbean.”

  Maître Legrand said, “Nations such as Cuba.”

  The procureur went on, “You see, madame le juge, Paris’s terrified by the prospect of unrest here. They still haven’t forgotten the riots of ’67, and the last thing Paris wants—that Giscard wants—is bad press. There is no surer way of catching the international headlines than with killings. Political stability—that’s all that France asks for. Next May, France votes for a president, and Guadeloupe votes, too. Terrorist activity—particularly a political killing—is extremely dangerous and unwelcome. Other countries start to ask questions, and a spot in the Atlantic suddenly becomes a suppurating abscess. People want to know how an old slave island with an African population can be part of the French Republic. In the United Nations, the decolonization committee starts braying—and the corrupt governments of South America can divert attention from their own problems by denouncing France’s intolerable colonialism.”

  Trousseau yawned.

  “And here, there is the danger of an immediate radicalization. Like in ’67. Everything becomes either black or white. Either you’re for France—or you’re against her. That, madame le juge, can bring about a very nasty backlash.”

  “Situations can be manipulated,” Maître Legrand added.

  “Paris wanted to send their own men, madame le juge.” The procureur lowered his head. “I informed Paris you’d been given the dossier, and that I had complete faith in your competence. I said there was no need to send any of their own men, but there are people in Paris who consider Calais a very important man. People who are far from happy about this turn of events.”

  “Their own men?” Anne Marie asked. “Whose own men?”

  “If Raymond Calais’s murder’s political—he was, let’s not forget, a member of the Conseil Général—it’s no longer under the jurisdiction of the parquet—under my jurisdiction. The integrity of the State’s threatened, and the affair becomes the responsibility of the Cour de Sûreté de l’Etat. Paris wanted to know whether they should send men.” A slow smile. “Detectives who are specialized in crimes that affect the integrity of the State. Political crimes.” The smile was soon replaced by a frown that wrinkled the procureur’s features. “You know the Cour de Sûreté has its own investigating magistrates?”

  “Three of them.”

  “Some people believe the Cour de Sûreté de l’Etat should be abolished. Including Monsieur Mitterand and his Socialist friends.” Maître Legrand adopted the tone of a lawyer addressing the bar. “The existence of a specialized court—and a court that can be convened in camera—goes against the Republican ideal of equal justice for everyone.” She tapped her hair. “Regrettably, these same people forget the Republic has a long tradition of unrest—at home and in the colonies. A long tradition of turmoil and political violence.” She folded her arms. “Such a court is a necessity.”

  The procureur nodded. “It’d be best for everyone concerned to wrap up the Hégésippe Bray affair here and now—without outside interference.”

  The perfume and the tobacco smoke were oppressive, despite the chill air. Anne Marie poured another glass of water from the Evian bottle. “Wrap it up in what way?”

  “Either that or have it taken out of your hands.”

  “You want me to say Hégésippe Bray murdered Calais?”

  The procureur and Anne Marie looked at each other in silence.

  “Why not, madame?”

  “It’s not my job to attribute guilt where it’s politically suitable—where you, monsieur le procureur, believe it’s politically suitable.”

  Maître Legrand moved her shoulders to face Anne Marie. “Madame le juge, how long have you been in Guadeloupe?”

  “Since August last year.”

  “In that time—just over a year—do you think you have learned all you need to know about Guadeloupe?”

  Anne Marie could feel anger pricking at the corners of her eyes.

  “Answer the question, madame le juge.” The procureur leaned forward and his hand touched hers. “Please.”

  “How long I’ve lived here cannot affect my appreciation of justice. Justice does not differ from one country to another.”

  The procureur held up his hand. “You’re European—a very attractive woman—and very intelligent and dynamic.”

  “You’re most kind.”

  “But you didn’t grow up here,” Maître Legrand said. “Although you have a husband who is from Guadeloupe—whom I had the pleasure of teaching at the university—there are certain things that happen here in this département—things you really don’t understand.”

  “We’re a strange people, and in its funny way, Guadeloupe’s a world of its own, with its own peculiar mix of cultures—of Amerindian, African and European.” The procureur plucked at the inside of his wrist. “My skin is pale as you can see, but in my veins, I have the blood of a slave.” He laughed. “I never worked on a plantation or toiled in the fields of cane. I also have French blood—but my origins are in Africa, where my forebears were snatched away so they could toil in a white man’s land. Africa’s where I am from—but it is not where I am going.” He tapped the armrest of his chair. “My future is with France. Guadeloupe and France have more than three hundred years of shared history—so why should we want to go back on our past? We’re what our history has made us. Inextricably, France and her Caribbean islands are tied together. We’re married, for better or for worse.” A soft smile. “It is a marriage that works.”

  Maître Legrand nodded.

  “Madame le juge, here in Guadeloupe we speak French, and we admire the French people—because we are the same people, with the same culture and the same civilized heritage.” He held up his finger. “Don’t smile. These are things which I believe sincerely—not only with my reason but also in my heart. There are so many things that cannot be forgotten. The men from this island who died in the Great War. And in the second war, too, we rallied to the flag, we rallied to de Gaulle.” The procureur lowered his voice. “In thanks, when the last Nazi enemy had been defeated, the last outsider chased from the soil of France, the French people, in a genuine gratitude, transformed this old sugar colony into a département. An overseas département.”

  23

  Algeria

  Once, Anne Marie had seen a young Arab—fourteen or fifteen years old—in the middle of Boulevard Foch. It must have been in 1957, a year before Papa decided to leave Algeria for good. The boy had unfurled a French flag smeared with excrement. Then, relying on the protection of his young age, he had soaked it in petrol and set it alight.

  On a nearby balcony, a Frenchman had taken a gun and had shot the boy through the head. Anne Marie could recall the sound of the man’s laughter. She could remember the headless child lying on the road.

  It was perhaps that dead boy which made Anne Marie decide she would one day become a lawyer, that she would fight to protect the weak.

  “Madame le juge, I don’t want the future of my island to be jeopardized.”

  “You’re asking me to manipulate the course of justice simply because France and Guadeloupe share a common heritage?”

  Maître Legrand shook her head. “Monsieur le procureur wouldn’t ask anyone to manipulate the course of justice.”

  “Good.”

  “H
e’s merely asking you to be reasonable.”

  “I can accept no interference into the course of my enquiry.”

  “Madame Laveaud,”—the procureur allowed a sigh to escape, his breath bitter with the smell of coffee—“you seem to forget the old man’s dead.”

  Anne Marie wondered whether she was going to cry. Anger, frustration, and a sense of guilt. And the smell of the woman’s perfume getting more sickening by the minute. Anne Marie needed to leave. To breathe fresh air. She said, almost in desperation, “Hégésippe Bray’s dead because he’s been killed.”

  A sharp flash of anger: then the procureur’s eyes softened as he brought his emotion under control. “If Raymond Calais was just a man—an ordinary man—and if we were in France and not in this tropical island, I’d be glad to witness your indignation. Unfortunately, madame le juge, we’re not in France but in Guadeloupe, where the situation’s critical. We belong to France—but there are times when that lifeline is very delicate and it can easily be snapped. Which,” he said, prodding a finger in the air, “could be fatal for all of us who live here.”

  “People in Guadeloupe should see France as a source of justice.”

  “Without France there is nothing. Sugar’s a dead industry, and without outside aid, there’d be nothing for us to live on. No work. My compatriots have no delusions; they know the wealth of this island comes from the mainland—the money that pays your salary and mine. My compatriots don’t want independence. They want Guadeloupe to remain a part of France—and they want France to remain what she’s always been—a good and wise friend. Like a wife.”

  Anne Marie drank her third glass of water.

  “We can’t allow the MANG that kind of liberty. MANG wants terrorism for its backlash. For the way it’ll divide this island into two rival factions—opposing, fighting factions. Which is precisely what you and I don’t want several months before the elections. If this island is to progress, to develop, Guadeloupe can only progress within the framework of the French Republic. Democratically. By denigrating the police and the system of justice, you’re playing into their hands—into the hands of the people who’re willing to risk everything for some utopian independence.”