Another Sun

by Timothy Williams

  “This attack occurs within hours of a similar attack at the International Airport Pointe-à-Pitre/Le Raizet. This would indicate, would it not, a recrudescence in violence?”

  The procureur looked directly toward the camera. “There’s never been political terrorism in Guadeloupe.”

  “There’ve been bombs, monsieur le procureur. Several months ago an attack was made on the gendarmerie at Sainte-Anne. Attempts have been made on several important citizens—not least Raymond Calais, who was found murdered a few days ago.” Gurion paused and, before the procureur could answer, hurried on, “The number one suspect, an old man, an ex-convict who was helping with the enquiries—it would appear that he, too, is dead.”

  The procureur took a deep breath. His small eyes glanced at Anne Marie. “If there is terrorism—which has yet to be proved—it’s most certainly the work of outsiders. Terrorism in Guadeloupe is an imported phenomenon. I know Guadeloupe.” He smiled toward the camera. “I was born on this island and this is where I grew up. I know my compatriots. They don’t resort to violence to solve their problems.”

  “Monsieur le procureur, the present situation is tense. Thirty percent of the population’s out of work. Sugar factories are closing down. More and more people are being forced to emigrate to France. At the same time, the number of outside civil servants coming from the Métropole steadily increases.”

  The procureur held up his hand. With the same hand, he took the cigar from his mouth. He looked at Michel Gurion. He had forgotten about the camera, which hummed softly. “Of course there are problems—no country is perfect. However, here we’re part of France where the laws of the Republic apply. Violence is no way to solve these problems.”

  “Can you be sure no Frenchman of Guadeloupe is involved in these acts?” Gurion’s face betrayed no emotion but his eyes were bright. Beneath the glasses, his nose was hooked like a bird’s.

  “Violence is never a solution.”

  “If this,” Gurion said, gesturing toward the damaged yacht, “if all this is the last of a series of terrorist attacks upon the political stability of Guadeloupe, then isn’t it quite possible Raymond Calais was murdered for political motives?”

  “I have no comment to make. The Raymond Calais affair is sub judice.”

  “How can it be sub judice, monsieur le procureur, when the principal suspect has committed suicide?”

  Again the procureur looked at Anne Marie before turning back toward the camera. “These are things I cannot discuss. However, I can assure you the entire dossier is being prepared. Being prepared with all the rigor and all the efficiency that the people of Guadeloupe have grown to expect from the judiciary.”

  And without another word, without even a perfunctory smile, the procureur turned his back on the camera.

  36

  Laurel et Hardy

  The boat seemed to slide along a cement wall.

  “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  The Italian flag fluttered limply. Two sleek hulls came into view. The catamaran cut through the green harbor water toward the far jetty.

  Gurion shrugged.

  “The procureur now thinks I betrayed him.”

  At the other table, the technician with the T-shirt laughed noisily and the other man nodded, while tapping his hand on the tabletop. His fingernails were encrusted with dirt.

  Two cans of Kronenbourg beer, one had been tipped over and the liquid had formed a small yellow puddle that absorbed the scattered crumbs. There was a plate of croissants. Both men ate with their mouths open. They were talking about an oxyacetylene torch.

  Gurion ignored them. “It doesn’t matter, madame le juge.”

  “It’s not your job that’s in jeopardy.”

  Gurion raised an eyebrow.

  “Your remarks about Hégésippe Bray—you think he didn’t see you and me arrived together?”

  “Hégésippe Bray’s death’s common knowledge.”

  “Of course it’s not.”

  “You told me nothing—nothing more than what I overheard.”

  “The procureur now thinks I got you to ask your stupid questions.”

  Gurion looked at her and gave a slow smile. The eyes were intelligent and cold. “Are you Jewish?”

  “I’m an outsider,” Anne Marie replied, not hiding her irritation. “The procureur thinks I’m interfering in something I don’t understand. Why he gave me this Bray dossier goodness only knows. He could’ve given it to Frémy—Frémy’s West Indian. And he’s a man.”

  “You are, aren’t you?”

  “A man?” Anne Marie sat back. “No such luck.”

  He pushed at the frame of his glasses. “You’re Jewish.”

  “Catholic born and baptized.” She lifted her handbag. “Or perhaps you would care to see the photograph of my first communion?”

  Gurion drank more coffee from the shallow, Duralex cup. He was smiling, and his complacency irritated Anne Marie. “Why do you think I should be Jewish?”

  One of the technicians laughed. Anne Marie did not know whether it was an obscene gesture he was making or whether he was still talking about the oxyacetylene torch.

  “The world appears to rest on your shoulders,” Gurion said. “You appear very tough, madame le juge. A bit fuzzy round the edges, perhaps, but you’re one hard lady who won’t allow anybody to fool around. You mean business—but underneath.…”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s guilt. The belief it’s your responsibility to save the world—even single-handed. Because if you don’t save the world, no one else will.” He looked at her keenly. “Madame Laveaud wants to save the world. Congratulations. And the French Empire, while she’s about it.”

  Anne Marie finished her guava juice in silence.

  “You’ve got to show you’re as good as any man—as good or better. But you’re so busy worrying, so busy being efficient and tough and responsible, that you don’t have time to step back and get things into perspective.”

  “I’m not a television journalist, Monsieur Gurion. This may surprise you, but I have responsibilities—real responsibilities. I can’t barge in and ask the procureur the first damn-fool question that comes into my scatterbrain, female head.” She could feel herself getting angry. “For you it’s easy. Like pissing, isn’t it? You can stop at the first tree you come to. But as a woman, I’ve got to think of the long-term logistics.”

  Gurion grinned.

  “While you get the bark wet, without giving it a second thought, perhaps you should think about the effects, all the possible consequences. Just for once.” She pointed at him and she was aware that she was trembling. “Say what you like. It doesn’t matter if you put the procureur’s back up—you don’t have to work with him.”

  Gurion laughed scornfully.

  “You sit there in judgment of me, complacent and cocksure. Like a father talking to a wayward daughter. Like the arrogant man you are,” Anne Marie said. Her face was now red. “Monsieur Gurion, you deliberately put me in an embarrassing situation. But please don’t worry about how I feel. The bark of the tree is wet, and you’ve got your wonderful interview on tape.” She pointed to where the equipment lay on the ground. “Now just zip up your fly, and leave me alone.”

  “The interview doesn’t do me any good.”

  “You’re damn right.”

  He smiled and the complacency had gone. “I enjoyed seeing the procureur squirm. But madame le juge, there’s as much chance of that interview going out on television as you seeing the procureur in a striptease act.”

  She clicked her tongue.

  “FR3 will show old folks’ homes in Basse-Terre. That’s what the local television is for—our France Régions 3. Or another documentary about mollusks on the coral reef. Or the new machinery from America for the sugar harvest. You expect them to talk about the real problems of Guadeloupe?”

  “I don’t watch television much.”

  “An intelligent woman. Anything that’s political—anything that really
touches upon the future of this island or questions the competence of all the good people in charge.…” He shook his head. “They’re not going to show that. No chance.” He nodded toward the two technicians. “They can clean that tape now. It’ll never get onto the airwaves.”

  The technician in the T-shirt gave Anne Marie a wink.

  “Then why embarrass me?”

  “I’ve got my dignity. I’m a journalist with a job to do—and despite everything, I’d like to be able to do it properly. You’re not the only person to feel you have a duty.”

  Anne Marie smiled. “So you’re Jewish, too?”

  “My hands are tied, my mouth gagged—but I like to pretend I’m doing my job. If only for my own self-respect. I don’t blow up planes—but I’m angry, too. You don’t have the monopoly on moral outrage, madame le juge. Seeing that fat man squirm—seeing his face unhappy because he’s being confronted with the truth—that’s my little revenge.” Gurion shrugged. “Even if it’s a complete waste of time.”

  The two technicians stood up. One said, “Patron.”

  Trousseau, who had gone off to look at the boats, now entered the terrace of the bar.

  “I shouldn’t have said those things, Monsieur Gurion.”

  He swallowed the rest of the coffee in one gulp. “Don’t apologize.” The crooked smile was genuine. “One hard lady, but underneath you’re a softie.”

  Anne Marie smiled.

  “Soft and decent.” Again the crooked smile. “You’re sure you’re not Jewish?”

  “Catholic born and baptized.” This time her laughter was genuine. “My mother sent me to the best Catholic schools. But my father’s from Oran in Algeria. He now owns a swimwear business in Sarlat. Isaac Bloch.” She gave a shrug. “Now is that a Jewish name?”

  37

  Jacques Calais

  “I never married.”

  The smile transformed Jacques Calais’ face—tanned but bloodshot, with broken veins beneath the wrinkled skin.

  Although the thin face and narrow features did not immediately recall the dead brother, there were traits that were common to both men. The same lines about the mouth, the same look of determination in the eyes.

  Anne Marie was reminded of a kind, disappointed uncle.

  “A mistake.” He shrugged. “By the time I thought I was ready for marriage, the lady in question had found another man. And had children of her own. I sold a car to one of them only a few months ago. Nice boy.” His smile died slowly. “To think he could’ve been a son of mine—him or someone like him.”

  They were sitting in his office. It was cool, and because the room had no window, it was rather dark. A metal lamp on the desk cast a small amount of light.

  “Tell me about La Belle Soeur, Monsieur Calais.”

  “What do you need to know?”

  “A strange name for your boat, isn’t it?”

  “A present to myself for my fifty-fifth birthday.”

  “An expensive present.”

  “I felt I deserved it.” He laughed without amusement. “But of course, you’re quite right. A complete waste of money.”

  “Have you seen the damage?”

  An impatient gesture. “My insurer will see to that.” Jacques Calais sat back in his swivel chair and crossed his legs. He wore dark trousers and a pair of broad American shoes. He clasped his hands together over the slight paunch beneath a leather belt. The buckle was of burnished brass and was embossed with the thick cross of the Chevrolet logo.

  “You are married, madame?”

  “Yes,” Anne Marie replied.

  “I shouldn’t have listened to my family. Before I went to America, I should’ve just gone ahead and married her. But I thought it would be possible to wait.” He sighed. “She was still very young—scarcely eighteen.”

  “You went to America?”

  “To Detroit, madame le juge.”

  “You could have stayed on the estate.”

  “Sainte Marthe?” He shook his head. “Not after Father died. I wasn’t going to be able to work with my brother. I tried it for six months and it didn’t work out.”

  “Why did you go to America?”

  “Raymond and I didn’t see eye to eye. Father had left the land to him—and anyway, it meant more to him. He liked to see himself as a man of tradition. But he could never have been a farmer—a real farmer like Papa. Raymond never had that kind of dedication.”

  “Dedication?”

  “Papa slaved for Sainte Marthe. It was his life—and in the end it was his death, too. He was getting old, and he refused to rest, despite the doctor’s injunctions. Sainte Marthe’s been in the family for centuries—and he loved it to the end. Of course, they were different times.”

  “When did your father die?”

  “Late 1940—it was at the end of the harvest. He died in the fields. He was over near L’Étang Diable. Some people say he drank the water; others say he was deliberately poisoned. Nobody here wanted to believe he died because he was a worn-out old man who’d driven himself to death. They must believe in their devils and their evil spirits. Although he was a hard man in many ways, people loved my father. Because he was just. Black, white, Indian or mulatto—it made no difference to him. Hard—but scrupulously fair.” Jacques Calais smiled at the recollection. “He pushed people, he made them work—but he also paid them a decent wage. Not like the other owners who’d never really accepted slavery was over.”

  Anne Marie looked at her hand.

  “Father made us get up at five o’clock, and during the harvest, when there was no school, he’d put us out to work with the cutters. He didn’t believe that because we were white we shouldn’t know the meaning of hard work. The Békés—the others’ll tell you the West Indians are all lazy, that they don’t want to work. You ever been in the fields? Have you ever cut cane?”

  Anne Marie shook her head.

  “It’s hell. With luck, you can work for about an hour, but then the sun comes up and there’s absolutely no shade. The sun overhead and sweat pouring down your face and into your eyes, and you can’t even see. And the handle of your machete grows slippery and it wants to jump from your hand.” He unclasped his hands—large, powerful hands—and looked at the palms. “Still have the old scars.”

  The nails were clean, Anne Marie noticed, but the sides of the fingers had the ingrained traces of engine grease.

  “The blades of the sugarcane cut your skin like glass. I hated it—the sun and the high cane all around. No breeze and the sweat and the insects that got in your eyes. Swish, swish.” He made a slicing motion with his right arm as though it held a long knife. “For hours on end. No, I wasn’t going back to that.”

  “But you worked with your brother?”

  “For six months. Without any pleasure. Raymond gave me a horse, and he expected me to ride around the fields, giving orders. The men saw me as a slave master. And Raymond complained. All my fault if the cane wasn’t getting cut fast enough. I don’t think Raymond wanted me there. He wanted me out of the way.”

  “Why?”

  “So that he could do what he pleased. And that suited me. Although I was very young, I could see the writing on the wall. Sugar was doomed. America was producing, Australia was producing—and they could afford to mechanize. That’s why I went to America. The future lay in mechanization.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “Early ’41—before America came into the war.”

  “You were in Guadeloupe for Hégésippe Bray’s trial?”

  He looked at her carefully. “Yes.”

  “And what can you tell me about that?”

  He shrugged. “Bray killed his wife. He cut her up and then he burnt her.”

  “That didn’t strike you as strange?”

  “Madame le juge,” Jacques Calais sighed, “I was born here. I grew up here. Guadeloupe’s my country—and the West Indian’s my fellow countryman. But I realize we’re worlds apart. Voodoo and black magic—they’re things you or I w
ill never understand. Why did Hégésippe Bray kill his wife?” He shook his head. “We were all sorry. My father liked Bray—and if it hadn’t been for Papa, Hégésippe Bray would have been guillotined. Instead, he was sent to French Guyana. Unfortunately, he never came back.”

  “Until last year.”

  Jacques Calais nodded.

  “You think he murdered your brother?”

  A shrug. “Hégésippe Bray was not the only person who hated Raymond.”

  “Who else hated him?”

  “That’s your job to find out.”

  “And you can help me.”

  “I know very little about my brother’s life—we tended to move in different circles.”

  “Did you like your brother?”

  He smiled sadly. “You think I murdered Raymond?”

  “You got on well with him?”

  “Our interests were different. Raymond gave less and less attention to the estate. He got involved in politics—foolishly, in my opinion. We rarely met.” He folded his hands. “But he was my brother and I loved him.”

  “How long were you in America?”

  “I did the right thing.” He gestured toward the engravings of vintage cars on the walls. Then at the model attached to an onyx ashtray on the desk. The little car was made of pewter. “I learned the automotive business. All aspects of it. Not just selling—also repair and maintenance. Father’d taught me there’s nothing to be ashamed of in working with my hands. I came back after the war. In 1946. Hard times, but there was talk of making Guadeloupe into a département. Not much money around—apart from the civil servants, and they weren’t interested in American cars. I discovered that she—that this woman—was now married. I was tempted to throw it all in, leave Guadeloupe and go to South America. To Venezuela—or perhaps Cuba. Cuba was beginning to do well—the Americans were investing at this time.” His smile showed his teeth. “By comparison, Guadeloupe was a backwater—a forgotten, colonial backwater. I wanted to get away from my family.”

  “And from the woman who couldn’t be bothered to wait for you?”

  A shrug of acquiescence.

  “But you stayed?”