Michel held the coconut out for Anne Marie. “Drink.”
The juice was sweet and refreshing. She tipped her head backward, and holding the green coconut between her hands, she let the juice run into her mouth. A few drops ran down her chin.
Michel cut another coconut for himself. Then he took a bottle from his pocket. He cast away some of the coconut milk and poured liquid from the bottle into the coconut. “Better,” he said with conviction and gave her a wolfish grin.
“You were here the day that Calais was murdered?”
He wiped his lips, drank and softly belched. “I live here.” He nodded toward a wooden shack on the far side of the orchard. “I’m always here.”
“You saw Bray that day?”
He took another swig. “Coconut milk’s good for a man, particularly at my age.”
“You saw Hégésippe Bray?”
“Good for a woman, too.” He held out the bottle of rum and grinned. “Good for her mother’s milk.” Michel glanced toward her breasts and nodded encouragingly.
“Who came to see Hégésippe Bray on Sunday?”
“Are you from the police?”
“I am a judge.”
“Michel doesn’t poke his nose into other people’s business.”
“What did Bray do last Sunday?”
“Michel told everything to the white men.”
“Everything?”
A neat stroke of the machete and he sliced the coconut into two halves. With a chip of hard fiber, he began scraping at the soft pulp. His eyes were hidden by the brim of the hat. “Michel saw nothing.”
“You heard the sound of a gun?”
Silence.
“Michel, did you hear Hégésippe Bray’s gun?”
“He killed a bird.”
“When?”
“A blackbird.”
“When?”
“He often shoots at the pigeons and the blackbirds. They eat his seeds.”
“When?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Nothing else?”
“There were shots. But I didn’t give up what I was doing just to go and look. I’m a busy man. Michel doesn’t interfere into other people’s business.”
“What were you doing on Sunday?”
“You will get me the green pills, won’t you?”
“Where were you on Sunday?”
“Working.”
“All day?”
Michel nodded and the long hair moved on his shoulders.
“But it was Sunday.”
“Monsieur Calais expects me to work.”
“There were no visitors?”
The orchard was at the back of the villa, and they were out of the wind. Anne Marie caught the warm odor of the pigsty. Dusk became night; the breadfruit and mango trees stood silent.
“I saw no visitors.” Michel stood up.
“Hégésippe Bray’s not the only person to hate Calais.” Anne Marie turned and walked out of the garden, her shoes distant, autonomous animals lost in the thick grass.
The Indian walked beside her, wiping his lips and his wide grin now parallel with the rim of the old hat. “Monsieur Calais’s a bastard.”
The moon was rising above the hill on the far side of the valley.
A toad, alerted by Anne Marie’s footfall, hopped nervously away.
“Monsieur Calais deserved to die.”
27
Madame Calais
Madame Calais was leaning forward, her hand on Anne Marie’s shoulder. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Anne Marie must have dozed off.
“Marcia said you wish to speak with me.”
Anne Marie came awake with a start and pushed herself out of the armchair. She got to her feet.
The two women shook hands. Madame Calais’ hand was thin, and Anne Marie felt the angular bones of her knuckles.
“It was about your husband.”
“Of course.” Madame Calais was wearing a black dress and black shoes. A gold necklace lay on the skin of her neck.
“Madame Laveaud. I am the juge d’instruction.”
“I was about to have tea. Or perhaps you would care for something stronger.” With an outstretched arm, Madame Calais invited Anne Marie to follow her into the main part of the house. They went down the steps, and Anne Marie found herself in a long corridor. The smell of wax polish, the distant sound of frogs.
“I always have tea at this time. The heat of the day’s over and it is time to relax. Sometimes, with my husband, I take.…” She corrected herself, “Sometimes we had cocktails but really I prefer tea. Darjeeling or lapsang. I have it sent specially from London. Fortnum and Mason’s. Do you know that shop? Very good.” She gave a little laugh. “When it comes to tea, I am afraid I am a bit of a snob. Aren’t I, Marcia?”
The maid who was walking silently behind them, said, “Yes, madame.”
They stepped out onto a balcony. Wooden balustrades protected it from the garden. There was a lamp and several low chairs about a white table.
“Please sit down.”
A dog, probably a Labrador, was curled on the floor. He looked up at Anne Marie with melancholy eyes.
Madame Calais tapped the animal’s broad head. “We call him Forty Percent.”
Anne Marie sat down opposite her. “A strange name.”
“All civil servants in Guadeloupe receive an additional forty percent weighting to their salaries.”
“Life can be very expensive.”
“The métropolitains working for the government have the expense of coming out to Guadeloupe, of equipping a new home. But for the local civil servants, the forty percent is an unnecessary expense. For the postman and the primary school teacher—what need do they have of an inflated salary?” She shrugged. “France is a big, bountiful bosom, full of milk. And France continues to pay. So now you’ve got an island of people who don’t do anything. But they get fat salaries for sitting in their offices.” She nudged the dog with her foot. “Like him—fat and lazy. Sleep all day and then expect to be fed. And only the very best will do.” Madame Calais turned to Marcia who stood waiting, neat with her feet together and her hands behind her back. “A nice pot of tea, chérie. And perhaps there are some biscuits.”
“Yes, madame.” Marcia hurried away on her prim legs.
Madame Calais smoothed the folds of her black dress over her knees. Then, leaning forward, she whispered, “From Saint Lucia. They work better and they’re honest. The people from Guadeloupe nowadays—they’ve all become thieves.”
“Your husband disapproved of the immigrants.”
She nodded. “The Dominicans—many are marijuana addicts. But the people from Saint Lucia—of course Raymond had nothing against them. Good workers. They don’t ask for exorbitant rates, and like the Haitians, they’re reliable.”
There were bright lights at the far end of the garden, a hedge of oleander and a wire fence. Anne Marie could hear—beyond the relentless threnody of the frogs—the rhythmic bounce of a tennis ball as it hit a racket. Through the hedge, she saw a man and a woman, their white clothes standing out against the deep red surface of the illuminated court.
Madame Calais followed her glance. “My son, Armand.” There was the dull thud of the tennis ball and then light, girlish laughter. “And his wife. Armand, I am quite sure, would love to meet you.” The light from the lamp threw the older woman’s face into shadow and gave her deep, dark eyes. “Please don’t think I hate all civil servants. It’s just that sometimes I have the impression it’s the civil servants with their money who’ve spoiled this département. Guadeloupe, you know, used to be so lovely. So innocent.”
She fell silent.
The scent of mahogany wafted from the garden. The irregular rhythm of tennis balls being struck.
“Nearly half past six.” Madame Calais glanced at her gold watch. “I do love this time of day. For Raymond, it was sacrosanct. He’d always make an effort to get home by nightfall.” A smile. “A time w
hen we could be together and talk. For a moment, when I heard your car in the driveway.…” She shrugged and looked away.
“I’m sorry.”
After some time, Marcia came back carrying a tray and a service of bone china.
“Raymond was so alive, so dynamic.”
Marcia poured the tea from a willow pattern pot and handed a matching cup to Anne Marie.
“So hard to believe Raymond’s never coming back. Dead and gone for good now. My husband was always doing something. Even when he was away in Martinique or in Paris and I was here alone, I could feel his presence. It was something physical. We formed a happy couple. You know, when a man and a woman’ve been together for so many years, certain things.…” She raised her hands and let the sentence hang unfinished.
Marcia placed the pot on the low table and disappeared in silence.
“Afternoon tea,” Madame Calais said, using the English words, “It was a rite. Me with my pot of tea and my saccharine tablets. An irony, isn’t it, that we could own so much sugar and I can’t allow myself a spoonful.” She tapped her waist. “I have my figure—or what’s left of it—to think about. Raymond said I was quite mad. Drank more punch than was perhaps good for him. But I always think a man’s not a man unless he has … well, a big body. I don’t say corpulent but.…” She hesitated. “At least substantial.” She held her cup with the small finger pointing into the air. “A biscuit, mademoiselle?”
“I must watch my line, too.”
“But you are absolutely lovely as you are. Lovely eyes. And such a nice smile. Like my daughter-in-law.”
Anne Marie smiled and took a biscuit.
“Shortbread,” Madame Calais said. “If I love afternoon tea, it is the English in me.”
The biscuit was stale. “You’re English?”
Madame Calais took a sip of tea. “Part French, part English, part everything. A lot of us are. It goes back to the Revolution.”
“The French Revolution?”
“I grew up in Barbados. And I speak French because I had a French nanny. My family has close contacts with all the cousins and uncles who live in the various islands of the Caribbean. A lot of them returned to Guadeloupe after the French Revolution. When I was a child, in the days before there was all this flying, I used to come up to Guadeloupe with my sister. We used to stay with cousins who had a small coffee plantation near Basse-Terre. In the hills. In those days, the people were very simple and very good. I’m talking about before the war. People were so kind. There was none of this racial hostility. I’m afraid we imported that from the Americans—they are such racists, the Americans. The people here, they didn’t have much, but they were satisfied with their lot in life. More tea?”
Anne Marie shook her head.
“The métropolitains here think that all the local whites are terrible, that we treat the blacks like dirt. It is not true, you know. Not now—things have changed. Thirty, forty years ago, perhaps. To be quite honest, I never really liked the Békés when I first came here. A very closed circle and I was shocked by the way they—my own relatives—treated their servants. In Barbados—and being part French—I’d always liked to think the French were a bit better than the English. The English have given tea to the world—and we’re all a lot better for it. But the French have given their marvelous civilization. And human rights.”
Anne Marie nodded.
“You have got to understand the Békés—and to do that, you must understand psychology.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Treat the local people as equals—and they don’t like it. They want you—that’s the point—they want you to be white, and they want you to be in a position of authority. Because they don’t want to make decisions for themselves, they’re afraid. Now there’s all this wonderful talk about equality—and really, the people of Guadeloupe don’t want that at all. The people from France—not you, but the civil servants, the people who come for a couple of years to make a pile of money—they think they understand everything, and they criticize. They criticize the Békés, and they say we despise the blacks. It’s just not true. We’re all God’s children, aren’t we? It’s not the color of our skin that’s going to change anything—certainly not in His eyes. Try to understand. We have different traditions—and all this talk of equality is very dangerous.”
Anne Marie finished her tea.
“The worst are the mulattos. They know everything. They think they’re ready. They’ve studied and they’ve been educated—but of course, they’re still African. Despite their nice clothes and the way they try to ape us.”
“I find that I can’t distinguish between skin colors.”
“It was the mulattos who killed my husband.”
“The mulattos killed Raymond Calais?”
“They’re jealous, that’s what they are, these mulatto revolutionaries.” She stopped. “They killed him,” Madame Calais repeated and then she started to cry. The skin of her face began to crumple, bright tears ballooned from the corners of her eyes. She put down the cup and saucer and took a handkerchief from where she had tucked it under her sleeve. The crying grew noisier.
Forty Percent raised his head.
28
Pol Pot
The Labrador followed her and sniffed at her feet.
Anne Marie looked out into the night. The air was cool.
“I’m sorry.”
Anne Marie turned.
“I’m sorry—but as you see, after forty years together.…” Again, Madame Calais began to tremble. “Raymond was so alive.”
“Why do you accuse the MANG?” Anne Marie asked gently. “No one has claimed responsibility for his murder.”
There was pain in her eyes, and for the first time, Anne Marie noticed the scars of plastic surgery running behind her ear. “They’re scared—scared they’ll get caught.”
“Normally MANG claims its involvement.”
With the handkerchief she wiped at the damp tracks on her cheeks. “The MANG hated everything Raymond Calais stood for.” Madame Calais attempted a smile. “You mustn’t believe everything you hear about my husband. There are a lot of people who were jealous of him—and who wanted to harm him. They say cruel things and many lies. I know my husband and I know.…” She faltered. “I loved him for forty years, and I know what he was really like. A good man—a very good man.”
Anne Marie’s hand had started to itch. “Why would MANG want to kill your husband?”
The short lines about the mouth hardened. “Raymond loved France—that’s why.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Calais family’s been involved in cane sugar ever since the first plants were brought from India, more than three hundred years ago. Sugar was in Raymond’s blood—but he realized it was now a thing of the past. Successive governments have seen to that—by increasing labor costs, by insisting upon social security for the cane cutters and all the crippling expenses—while at the same time favoring cheap sugar from the Ivory Coast and the other countries in Africa. Raymond felt he had to fight his battle; that’s why he had to go into politics. Raymond had the courage of his convictions. He saw sugar was dying—this island’s only real source of wealth—and he had to speak out. How is this département supposed to stay alive? Without sugar there can be no alternative. We need France. But the mulattos.…” She shrugged. “The independence people—what do they care about the future? They’re all Marxists, aren’t they? They seek power for themselves—they want to see Guadeloupe go the way of Cambodia—or Cuba—so that they can play at being Fidel Castro, smoking cigars and talking politics while the rest of the people slave and starve.” She lifted the lid and peered into the teapot. “It was for this island, it was for these people, that Raymond went into politics. White, black, Indian—my husband saw the need to protect them all from the so-called educated classes. Believe me, mademoiselle.…”
“Madame,” Anne Marie corrected her.
“Independence,” Madame Calais snorted. “That’
s what they want, the Marxists—but independence from France will bring nothing but poverty.” A bright smile. “You don’t wear a ring. You look so young to be married.”
Anne Marie held out her hand, “I’ve got an allergy—the ring only seems to make it worse.” She added, “I’ve been married for nearly eight years.”
“You must see a doctor—you must see Dr. Lebon. He’s very good.” She passed a hand over the waves of her tinted hair. “Raymond had none of the viciousness of the—of the MANG people.”
“Where did he get his money from?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did your husband enter politics for financial reasons?”
Madame Calais folded her arms before answering. “It cost him money. It didn’t bring him any money.”
“Your husband maintained he was not a wealthy man. Yet he owned racing horses.”
“Madame le juge, the Calais family’s been here for three hundred years—the Calais family’s not poor.”
“Sugar’s a dying industry.”
“My husband owned a lot of land.”
“Some of which he sold off.”
“Better than letting it lie unused.” Madame Calais no longer smiled. “The soil is not always fertile.”
“And the land that Hégésippe Bray has claimed?”
The two women looked at each other. Madame Calais smoothed the material of her dress. “I should prefer to talk about this at another time.”
“You knew Hégésippe Bray before he was arrested and sent to the penal colony in Cayenne?”
“Of course.” She raised her hands. “He used to work on the estate. He was very close to my father-in-law.”
“You know why he was sent away?”
“We all loved Hégésippe Bray.”
“Why did they send him to Cayenne?”
“He murdered his wife. It was very sad. A good man, a man of his word. A different generation.”
“Why did he murder his wife?”
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