Another Sun

by Timothy Williams

  Anne Marie waited. She wanted to get home. She wanted to make the meal for her family, but perhaps, she told herself, it would be better if she simply went to bed. Lemon juice, brown sugar, and a shot of rhum agricole. The best thing to do was to sweat the fever off.

  “Four hundred and sixty-three francs, madame.”

  She signed the check and gave it to the girl, whose green eyes were bloodshot from the flickering overhead light. The girl wore a pen stuck in the bun of her hair. “Identity card, please.” She took the pen from her hair and scribbled something on the back of the check.

  “Bonsoir.”

  The automatic doors slid open, and Anne Marie stepped out into the parking lot. After the chill of the supermarket, the warm air hit her like hot, wet flannel. She could feel the humidity working its way back into her clothes as she pushed the trolley over to the Honda.

  The smell of roasting chicken came from a Renault where a woman was doing brisk business.

  “You still believe he’s innocent?”

  Anne Marie spun round.

  “Hégésippe Bray’s innocent?”

  His face was hidden because of the brightness of the overhead neon, PRISUNIC in bright red lighting. The tip of the cigar glowed against the black circle of his face.

  Anne Marie swallowed. “Hégésippe Bray?” Although her hand was trembling, she managed to take the keys from her bag and unlock the car door.

  “He killed Calais, madame le juge. Trust me.”

  “The evidence is far from conclusive.”

  He approached her, the hairs on his short arms touching her skin. “You must let me help you.” He removed the shopping bags from the trolley and placed them onto the back seat of the Honda. “You need a man for this sort of thing.”

  She unclenched her teeth, afraid that she would vomit. “You’re most kind.”

  “Sure you wouldn’t care for a drink?” He gestured toward Gosier. “Sit on the veranda by the sea, sip a planter’s punch, and relax. Enjoy the evening breeze, watch the cargo ships sailing out into the night.” The bright end of the cigar flickered again as he caught his breath. “In this wretched job, we’re so busy we often forget the good things in life.” He took her by the arm.

  “I’ve got to be getting on.” Nausea was washing at the back of her throat. “My family is waiting for me, monsieur le procureur. You must let me go. Another time, perhaps.”

  “Of course,” he said, his voice strangely soft. “Got to get back to your waiting husband.” The grip on her arm remained firm. “Back to your waiting husband. The good and faithful wife.”

  “Au revoir, monsieur le procureur.”

  Although she moved forward, the man did not relinquish his grip on her arm.

  “Please excuse me.”

  “Anne Marie, if you help me, then perhaps I can help your husband.”

  She could feel the weight of the procureur’s rotund belly pushing against her. “You must agree to be helpful.” His breath was bitter.

  “I must go.”

  He was hurting her now.

  “You really are a very pretty young woman.” The cigar was only a few centimeters from her face. She could feel the heat on her cheek.

  “Attractive and very intelligent. But I don’t think you want to use your intelligence. You have so much to gain, Anne Marie—you don’t mind if I use your first name? I can help you, you see. When there’s so much at stake.”

  “You’re hurting me.” Anne Marie wrenched her arm free, and the procureur let her go. She could feel herself trembling as she climbed into the car.

  “I can help your husband,” the procureur said as he courteously closed the car door for her. “At this difficult time for you both.”

  Anne Marie almost stalled the Honda in her haste to leave the parking lot.

  64

  Van Cleef

  The lights were off, and there was no movement in the house other than the gentle tapping of the curtain against the window.

  She was out of breath after climbing the six flights of stairs. Anne Marie lowered the plastic bags to the floor, leaned against the door, and waited for her heaving chest and thumping heart to regain their normal rhythm. Then she kicked off her moccasins.

  Anne Marie went into the kitchen. When she opened the refrigerator, it cast a golden wedge of light across the beige tiles of the floor. She took the ice tray from the freezer. Its aluminum stuck to her fingers. Going to the sink, she ran water against the tray until the cubes began to work themselves free and tumble noisily into the sink. It was then that Anne Marie turned the lights on.

  She drank three glasses of iced water. She made no attempt to wipe away the water that dribbled round the edges of the glass, down her chin and onto her blouse.

  She rubbed a block of ice against the back of her hand, and soon the swollen, ugly skin was numb.

  The flat was tidy and empty. Béatrice had gone home to Le Moule. 7:15 P.M. and still her husband and her son were not back.

  She turned on the television and while she put the shopping away—a cockroach lurking behind a can of asparagus—she listened to the evening news.

  Gurion, the FR3 journalist, had been discovered on a beach near Gosier. Drugged, abducted, and then left in a metal trunk. He was now recuperating in a private clinic outside Pointe-à-Pitre. There was no anxiety concerning his health, but he would be resting for several weeks, possibly returning to mainland France.

  Surprisingly, the cold water made Anne Marie feel better, and she wondered whether she was suffering from dehydration. She undressed slowly and went upstairs to take a shower. She felt a lot less tired and as she wrapped the towel around her body she decided the couscous would be for another time. She needed to relax.

  At 8:10 P.M. she took her shower. The chill water revived her. She no longer felt sick, and her hand had miraculously ceased to itch.

  Afterward, stepping out of the bathtub, she looked at her body as she rubbed herself dry. She ran her finger along the livid scar under her belly. Perhaps it was time to give Fabrice a little brother. Yet lately her husband had not seemed very interested in that sort of thing. Anyway, they could not think about having another child until Jean Michel landed a decent job.

  She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. She had forgotten the nauseating stench of cigar and now dabbed a drop of Van Cleef and Arpels onto her wrist.

  Anne Marie went downstairs and collapsed onto the settee in front of the television.

  The American film with Steve McQueen and Yul Brynner that Jean Michel enjoyed so much. Anne Marie had seen it a couple of times before. It now failed to hold her attention. Frequently her glance went to the clock on the bookcase, next to the photograph of Fabrice.

  They were still not back at nine o’clock.

  There was an old packet of Royale Menthol cigarettes. She took a stale cigarette and started chewing at the mentholated filter.

  At 9:15 P.M., she heated a croque monsieur, and then at 9:30 P.M. precisely, the phone started to ring. She picked up the receiver before the second ring. “That you, Jean Michel?”

  “Madame Laveaud.”

  “Yes?”

  “Jacques Azaïs here. I’m calling you from the rue Gambetta. I think you’d better come down here to the police station immediately.”

  65

  Commissariat

  There was a bench by the door. It stood against the wall beneath the high metal blinds. A boy sat there. He had glistening dark skin and a bruise beneath his eye. A large woman also sat on the bench; from a cut on her cheek, blood dripped quietly onto the concrete floor. Between the boy and the woman sat a policeman who stared at his shoes. His kepi was balanced on his knee, and he was handcuffed to the boy.

  Anne Marie went to the reception counter.

  “Monsieur Azaïs, please.”

  The duty officer lowered his cup of coffee. “Who are you?”

  She showed her identity card.

  “I’ll accompany you.” He gave her a belated smile and
left his coffee on the wooden counter.

  Anne Marie followed the officer up the steps. The Commissariat was an old building and she came here as rarely as possible. Policemen—even the most intelligent—seemed to suffer from an inferiority complex before a woman from the Ministry of Justice.

  “At the end of the corridor, madame.” The duty officer saluted, turned, and went down the stairs.

  At the top of the stairs on the third floor, there was a recruiting poster. A white policeman in crisp uniform was smiling and over his face somebody had scrawled in thin letters the single word, MERDE.

  The corridor was empty and shadowless. Anne Marie had the impression of having been here before, at the same time, of doing the same thing.

  There was no sign on the door. She entered without knocking.

  “Ah, Madame Laveaud.”

  The room was gloomy. “Where’s Azaïs?”

  “He’ll be back soon.”

  “Why does he want to see me? It’s nearly eleven o’clock.”

  Dr. Bouton said, “Please sit down, madame le juge.”

  “My husband’ll be waiting for me.” They shook hands perfunctorily. “Why does Azaïs want to see me?” She kept the anxiety out of her voice. “He insisted it was important. I was about to go to bed.”

  The doctor shrugged. “Azaïs should be along any minute. He went out only an instant ago.” The light from the desk lamp bounced off the frame of his glasses.

  Anne Marie sat down and looked round the dingy office. A large desk was caught in the pool of light from the lamp. A pile of open books, an ashtray full of cigarette stubs.

  And a photograph.

  Dr. Bouton sat down in the armchair opposite her. His narrow face was in the shadows. There were filing cabinets beyond the penumbra of the desk lamp. “He wanted a place out of the way.”

  Overhead, a fan was rotating. A whispered, regular hum. She could feel the breeze of the artificial ventilation.

  “He?”

  “Azaïs’ real office is in Basse-Terre, of course.”

  “Of course,” Anne Marie repeated. She leaned forward and took the photograph from the desk. “Where did Azaïs get this?”

  Dr. Bouton shrugged. He was smiling at her from behind the glasses. The thin hands were clasped together on his lap; the small fingers formed a steeple to the church of his knuckles.

  “And why are you here, Dr. Bouton?”

  “Waiting, madame le juge. Just like you.”

  The woman stared at her from out of the past—from the past when Hégésippe Bray was still alive and still a young man. Lucien le Marc, photographe, Fort-de-France.

  “You know who this is?” Anne Marie handed him the photograph, and he took it, turning it to get more light.

  “Should I?”

  “I’d like to know how this photograph got here. It should be in my dossier.”

  “Perhaps Monsieur Azaïs’s studying the dossier.”

  “The dossier’s in my office, docteur—where I keep all my files under lock and key.”

  Dr. Bouton nudged his glasses upward onto the long forehead. “Let me have a look at your hand.” He frowned and took her left hand in his. “You really ought to do something about this before it spreads.”

  “It’s going to spread?”

  “You don’t want it going up your arms, do you, madame le juge?” He ran his fingers along the deformed, red flesh. “Urticaria.”

  “You’re a doctor of medicine?”

  “What do you think?” He was now standing up, holding his body to one side in order to get a maximum of light. “What does your general practitioner say?”

  “I haven’t seen a doctor.”

  “You must look after your health.”

  She shrugged. It was cool in the office, but sweat was forming along her forehead. “Haven’t really got the time.”

  He placed his hand on her forehead. “Too much time on your job—and not enough on yourself.” His hand was cool. Close to her, he smelled of peppermint. “Fever.”

  “I’ll take some aspirin when I get home.”

  “You ought to go to bed for a couple of days.”

  “I’ve work to do.”

  “Work can wait.”

  “Hégésippe Bray couldn’t wait. He hanged himself—and it was my fault.”

  The thin man chided her, clicking his tongue. “Do you sometimes feel nauseated?”

  She shrugged.

  He slipped his watch from his wrist and took her pulse. His eyes were on the dial. “Bray was an old man and he was going to die. Familiar smells turn your stomach?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Loss of appetite?”

  “I scarcely have time to eat.”

  “A nice healthy slow pulse. You used to be an athlete?”

  “No.”

  Dr. Bouton moved away and went round to the far side of the desk. A smile softened the austere features. He picked up the phone.

  Anne Marie let her head drop onto the leather backrest of the chair. Sleep—she needed to sleep. Her eyes burned. Steve McQueen’s dubbed voice. She thought of coolness. She thought of Europe.

  Dr. Bouton said, “You need antihistamine for that.”

  “Where’s Azaïs? I want to go home.”

  His eyes turned away from Anne Marie, and he spoke into the mouthpiece, “Which chemist is on night duty?”

  The voice scratched.

  “Put me through please.”

  For no apparent reason, tears had begun to form at the corners of Anne Marie’s eyes. “I want to go home.” The pain seemed to be drifting away, losing itself. She was tired.

  “Bring it up, then.” Dr. Bouton then gave a series of names—trade names for drugs that Anne Marie had never heard of. “Good,” he said, and hung up.

  Go home—not to the Cité Mortenol but to Sarlat-la-Canéda and the Quartier des Peches. Papa, her sister, Nassérine the maid. Among people who cared for her. Anything to get away from the heat and the humidity of Pointe-à-Pitre.

  “You will have to see a specialist, you realize.”

  She tried to open her eyes—she had closed them and now the eyelids were stuck together. Sleep between cool sheets, with Jean Michel beside her and Fabrice next door, while through the night the gentle rumble of trains pulling into the station. More tears of self-pity trickled through the closed lids.

  “At least the ointment should relieve the itching. Some pills and some suppositories. And above all, rest, madame le juge.”

  She tried to open her eyes, but the desk lamp burned her pupils. She could feel herself falling into sleep.

  “A week’s rest—and you must try to forget about your work. It’s making you ill.”

  She wanted to reply. She wanted to tell him that she must continue—not for her sake but for the sake of the old man.

  “Hégésippe Bray is dead and you can’t save him. Be reasonable, madame le juge.”

  Another tear. It ran into the hollow of her ear.

  “After all, you’ve already had a child. A boy, I believe.” Dr. Bouton was smiling. “It’s not as if this was your first pregnancy.”

  66

  97-1

  “A rifle. It’s in the boot of my car—if someone wants to go and fetch it.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, Azaïs turned, and Anne Marie thought he was going toward the reception desk.

  “I need to get home, Monsieur Azaïs. My husband’s waiting for me.”

  “You needn’t worry about your husband.”

  The woman with the cut cheek—the wound now caked with dry blood—watched Azaïs’ movement. The policeman sitting beside her continued to stare at his shoes.

  “Careful, madame le juge.” Dr. Bouton held her arm gently but firmly.

  Azaïs turned left and they went down the stairs and through a couple of swing doors. The smell of detergent was stronger than the smell of Dr. Bouton’s peppermints. Azaïs turned on the light. A short corridor, sawdust on the floor. The sound of scurrying legs—p
erhaps mice or perhaps cockroaches—moving at the approach of humans.

  “It wasn’t Bray’s gun that killed Raymond Calais. He had his own twenty-two bore—a rifle he bought recently.” She spoke toward Azaïs’ back.

  He did not turn. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the padlock on a door of packing-case wood.

  “The Indian stole it.” Her voice was unnaturally high. “Which proves that Hégésippe Bray was innocent.”

  “I wonder if you can identify this for me?” Azaïs turned on a wall switch and stepped back to let Anne Marie enter. The neon tube began to flicker until it gave off a cold, insistent light that illuminated a small, dusty room. “You didn’t recognize it on the beach at Gosier.”

  Of course she could identify it. And even if she could not, the top coat of blue paint had been peeled away from the side of the metal trunk and there stood revealed the neat letters that Anne Marie herself had stenciled:

  Monsieur et Madame Laveaud, Jean Michel,

  Rue Alsace-Lorraine, 31,

  97110 Pointe-à-Pitre,

  Guadeloupe—Antilles françaises.

  The hinges had been broken.

  For a second, Anne Marie wondered whether the Chantilly lace curtains were inside the trunk.

  67

  Casuarina

  Anne Marie knew where Jean Michel had taken Fabrice.

  The headlights sliced a yellow wedge along the road. The wind rushing through the window cut out the sounds of night. No moon and the surface of the Grand Cul-de-Sac Marin was dark as if flattened beneath a sheet of oil.

  She saw the reflection of headlamps in the driving mirror and slowed down to a steady 90 kph.

  Rain clouds rolled across the sea. Isolated drops fell onto the windscreen, and she saw the lights of Pointe-à-Pitre go out on the far side of the bay as the city was engulfed in a squall.

  Then the downpour.

  Heavy drops exploded against the windscreen and the wipers could not compete.

  With virtually no visibility, she had no choice but to stop. Outside Petit Bourg she pulled the Honda onto the forecourt of a Texaco station. She switched on the warning lights and listened to the thunderous beating of tropical rain on the car’s roof.