Another Sun (5 page)

“Why does he not live with you?”

“Only normal Hégésippe should want to live at Sainte Marthe—away from the noise of the cars. There he’s happy—with his goats and his garden. It is quiet. That’s where he grew up. Don’t you understand that in prison, locked away in jail, without the sky and the sugar fields and his animals, Hégésippe Bray’d go mad?” Again the handsome face looked at her, “You will kill him.”

Anne Marie asked, “How old are you?”

“You are very indiscreet.”

“Did you ever meet your uncle before?”

“I’m not that old.” A dry laugh and again he jangled the keys. “
Maman
’d already left for France when Hégésippe was sent to French Guyana. Papa’d been called up into the navy and Mother followed him. That’s why I was born at Le Havre in 1940. We didn’t get back to Guadeloupe until 1946, until after the war. Though I never met him, in a way, Hégésippe Bray was a father to me. Maman idolized Hégésippe. Like a husband.”

“Hégésippe Bray murdered his own wife.”

“Hégésippe Bray’s a good man.” The shoulders sagged beneath the fabric of the shirt. “Even if he’s always had a bad temper.”

“Nice morning in school?”

Fabrice climbed into the car, threw his bag onto the back seat, kissed his mother and collapsed into the passenger seat. “I’m hungry.”

Anne Marie moved the Honda back into the traffic. “What did you do this morning?”

“Nothing much.” Then he grabbed her arm. “Maman, how long would it take to get to the moon?”

“To the moon?”

“If I walked all the way?”

She looked in the driving mirror. “Depends how fast you can walk.”

“Very fast.”

It was difficult to keep up with Fabrice. He talked rapidly and Anne Marie was concentrating on the traffic. She drove back into town, around Place de la Victoire, and parked on the rue Alsace-Lorraine. Fabrice yanked up the satchel with its battered stickers of
Obélix
and
Sainval Vecteur
. He jumped out before her.

“Look before you cross the road!”

Anne Marie locked the car, followed her son across the road. She pushed open the iron door of number 31, and the bolt scraped against the stone tiles. Grateful to be out of the sunshine,
Anne Marie went up the stairs. There were a couple of poisoned cockroaches on their backs, kicking their legs as they slowly died.

Fabrice had already started eating. He grinned at his mother over a full spoon. His satchel lay on the plastic table cloth.

“Have you washed your hands, Fabrice?”

“Yes, Maman.”

She gave him a stern look. “Go and wash your hands, Fabrice. This minute.”

He shrugged, slid from the chair and went to the corner sink. His trousers had been clean that morning; now the corduroy was thick with dry mud. He washed his hands, but his eyes remained on her, and he smiled. She handed him the towel, and theatrically he threw his arms about Anne Marie’s neck and gave her a kiss that smelled of boiled bananas. “I love you, Maman.” He left a patch of dampness on the back of her neck and returned to his lunch. “But I did wash my hands, I swear.”

Mamie was in the kitchen. She was standing over the cooker. She brushed a wisp of grey hair from her eyes and leaned backward so that her daughter-in-law could kiss her.

“Hello, Mamie.”

“Good evening,
chérie
.”

Instinctively Anne Marie looked at her watch; it was a little after midday.

“Hungry?”

“Been eating all morning, Mamie.”

The radio was playing local music, loud and repetitive.
Doukoun-aw dou
.

“You must eat some meat—it’s good for you.”

“I’m really not very hungry.”

The older woman was pushing at slices of steak that cooked in a flat, aluminum pan. For a brief moment, the two women looked at each other in silence.

“Anne Marie, you must eat.”

“I’m taking Fabrice to the beach this afternoon.”

Mamie prodded the meat and the sliced garlic. “Fabrice can stay with me—he’s no trouble.”

“I’ve taken the afternoon off specially. Jean Michel said he would come.”

“Jean Michel was here about half an hour ago. He said he’d try to join you, but he could not make any promises.”

The battered transistor radio, the dial dusty and held together with a piece of black adhesive tape, stood on the window sill. It emitted noisy cadence and lyrics of sexual innuendo. “
Machiné ka machiné
.” Outside, the sun danced on the open patio and the spotless white sheets drying on the line.

“He knows I want him to come.”

“He might have found a job.”

“We hardly see each other anymore.” Anne Marie could feel tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. “I so much wanted him to keep this afternoon free. For Fabrice’s sake. I told Jean Michel that this morning. The job can wait—at least for another day.”

“Poor boy, he’s been looking for a job ever since you both got back from France.”

“Fabrice needs to spend time with his parents.”

“Then you should keep more regular hours, Anne Marie.”

“I can’t dictate the hours. I can’t tell people when it suits me for them to get murdered.” Anne Marie had raised her voice. “That’s why this afternoon’s so important. For once I am free.”

“For once Jean Michel’s busy.”

“It could have waited another day, this wretched job of his.”

“My son didn’t think so.”

“But his wife did.”

“Jean Michel is a man,” Mamie said as she turned off the gas. She also turned off the bronze knob of the gas bottle. “It’s not right that a wife should give orders just because a man’s out of work.” She shrugged and placed the meat onto a large, chipped plate. Quietly, she added, “A man must have his self-respect.”

Anne Marie did not reply, but blinked away a hot tear.

They entered Morne-à-l’Eau. The flamboyants were not in blossom; pods hung idly against the empty branches.

Anne Marie parked near the main square.

“Wait in the car.”

“I don’t like it when you leave me alone.” Fabrice pouted in self pity. “You always take ages.”

“I’ll only be a minute.”

“You always say that.”

“If Papa had come to the beach with us, you would be in bed by now.”

Fabrice retorted, “Papa always takes me with him.”

“Papa doesn’t have to ask people a lot of questions. He’s not a magistrate.”

“When we went to see Auntie, I was as quiet as a mouse.”

“Auntie?” Anne Marie asked, but chose not to wait for a reply.

“If you come with me you must be quiet as a mouse.”

Fabrice nodded sagely. “I promise.”

Stone benches, a fountain and elegant lampposts that could have graced any provincial French town. Evening was falling. The lights had been turned on, their tinted blue gaining in intensity against the encroaching darkness. As Anne Marie climbed out of the car, she caught the wafting odor of ylang-ylang.

Fabrice clambered out beside her. There was still sand in his hair. He grinned happily.

She tried not to smile and for a moment stood quite still, breathing in the luxurious scent. She was happy to be where she was. Then the scent was lost to the smell of car fumes and the evening cooking from a nearby restaurant.

Music came from a record store—a hut whose walls had been painted red, green and yellow. A boy with an army beret and Rastafarian locks was swaying to the rhythm. The whites of his eyes caught the light of the street lamps. A toothless girl stood beside him. She was pregnant. Orange peel, little islands of intense whiteness, lay on the sidewalk.

“Madame Suez-Panama, please.”

The policeman wore a kepi. He looked at Anne Marie with watery eyes and hesitated before speaking. His breath was tinged with rum. The directions he gave her were long, unclear and unhelpful.

Anne Marie thanked him and went down the side street that led toward the market. The smell of rotting fruit was strong here and the air was humid. Her body was damp with perspiration.

“I’m looking for Madame Suez-Panama’s house.”

A man in besmirched overalls and a peaked cap—the peak the wrong way and pointing down his neck—stared at Anne Marie and Fabrice from the far side of the road. A monkey wrench peeked from the pocket on the side of his leg.

“I’m looking for Madame Suez-Panama,” Anne Marie repeated, squeezing her son’s hand in hers.

The man pointed. He gave a large grin and automatically she smiled.

The man winked at Fabrice.

The house was on the far side of the market. It was colonial in style, part brick and part wood. A rusting enamel advertisement for Alsace potash—a stork standing on one leg—was smeared with the black and grey stains of frequent rain.

Anne Marie entered the doorway and found herself in a cool hall.

“Anybody home?”

Wooden steps and a wrought iron banister led upward through the planks of the ceiling. The steps were steep and creaked unhappily as Anne Marie started to climb. Fabrice followed her, his hand clutching hers.

Anne Marie climbed the last stair, slightly out of breath, with Fabrice close against her leg.

A large room.

A feeble breath of air rustled at the hanging potted plant. A smell of moth balls and kerosene. Circles of light came through the half-closed blinds, cast by the street lamps.

“What do you want?”

Startled, Anne Marie spun round.

The white head was lower than the backrest of the wicker armchair.

“Who are you?”

The woman was dressed in a cotton nightdress. There was a scarf about her neck and a blanket over her knees and chest. Slippers on her feet.

“I’m sorry.”

“What do you want?”

“I am looking for Madame Suez-Panama.”

The voice was peevish. “I am Madame Suez-Panama.”

Anne Marie moved forward. “I am Madame Laveaud.” She held out her hand but the old woman kept her arms beneath the blanket.

“I spoke to Marcel this morning and he suggested I speak to you. He says you rarely leave the house and I happened to be passing through Morne-à-l’Eau.” Anne Marie spoke apologetically. “I have just come from the beach with my son.…” She added foolishly, “It is Wednesday today.”

The woman said nothing.

“I thought I could drop by for a few words with you.”

The leaves of the potted plant rustled. A cat walked over the planks of the wooden floor. Fabrice was silent, his body pressed against Anne Marie’s leg.

“About Hégésippe Bray. I am the juge d’instruction. I have the responsibility of preparing the enquiry.”

“What enquiry?”

“The murder of Raymond Calais.” Anne Marie coughed. “I should really have asked you to come to Pointe-à-Pitre. I’ve already seen Monsieur Suez-Panama. And since I was passing through Morne-à-l’Eau.…” Again she coughed. “There are a few questions that I should like to ask about your brother—about your half-brother.”

“Hégésippe will die if he’s kept in prison.”

“I have come to see you personally here because there are certain things that I need to know, Madame Suez-Panama.”

“Raymond Calais was an evil man.”

“Did your half-brother kill him?”

“Of course not.”

“Then who did?”

“I am not a policeman.”

“It would appear Hégésippe Bray had a motive.”

“A lot of people had a motive.” A harsh, rasping voice. “Raymond Calais deserved to die.”

“If Hégésippe Bray didn’t shoot Monsieur Calais, why weren’t there any finger prints?”

“Why have you arrested him?”

“Monsieur Bray has not been arrested. He’s merely helping us by answering a few questions.”

“If he hasn’t been arrested, why isn’t he free? Why can’t he go back to Sainte Marthe?”

“I hope to be able to send him there very shortly.”

“Headstrong.”

There was a long silence and then the woman sighed. “Even when he was young, Hégésippe was headstrong. Like all men. Proud and so sure he could look after himself. Never wanted help from others. Never sought our advice. A fool like all the rest of them.” The old woman sat back and the rocking chair creaked. “An innocent fool—and a good one. Good to his mother and
good to me. We were the only women Hégésippe ever really loved—and Mother and I were certainly the only ones who ever really loved him … loved him as he deserved to be loved.” She sighed again, the cold voice now less unsympathetic. “Hégésippe sent money from the trenches so that I could go to school. The
certificat d’études
and then my job as a teacher—I’d never have had all that without Hégésippe.” The chair creaked. “Always so kind—but that never stopped him from being a fool.” She clicked her tongue. “The woman from Martinique—he should never have had anything to do with her. At his age. Scheming and evil. All she ever wanted was his money.”

“What money?”

“She wanted the money from the land. The land he’d bought from Calais.”

“The same land that Raymond Calais took?”

Madame Suez-Panama retorted, “Just because Raymond Calais took it doesn’t mean Hégésippe murdered him.”

“Your half-brother was sent to French Guyana. Why did you never stop Raymond Calais from taking your half-brother’s land?”

A short, bitter laugh. “By the time I returned here in 1946, it was already too late. Raymond Calais had taken everything. There was nothing that I could do. What proof did I have? Me against a powerful
Béké
?”

Fabrice had buried his face into Anne Marie’s side. She ran her hand through the hair thick with sea salt.

“I went to see him, you know.”

“Who?”

“It must have been last year. Calais never liked me—but I managed to get him to agree to giving back some of the land. Not everything—Raymond Calais was very careful. But that’s how Hégésippe got the hut at Sainte Marthe.”

Car beams danced on the low wooden ceiling. Anne Marie noticed a single flex and a light bulb hung from the crossbeam. Hanging in parallel were two sticky rolls of flypaper.

“Who was the woman from Martinique?”

Madame Suez-Panama did not reply. The thin lips were tightly drawn.