The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe Read Free

only when you’ve stopped trying to please men they actually start to notice you. Not for your body, for your figure, for what you can do in bed—they actually notice you for what you are.” She smiled wistfully. “I was thinking about your husband only the other day, Anne Marie.”
    “My ex-husband.”
    Another sip. “How’s your son?”
    “Who were Dugain’s women?”
    “Tell me about Fabrice, Anne Marie. We were all sad when he moved on to the
lycée
.”
    Anne Marie flushed. She was about to say something bitter, but instead she chose to relax. She allowed herself to sit back in the tubular chair. “Wind surfing, most of the time. And probably about to repeat his
première scientifique
at the
lycée
. Fabrice’s pretty hopeless at school.”
    “He can’t be too hopeless if he’s in
première scientifique
. Always top of the class here. A lovely boy.”
    “English is the only thing he’s willing to put his mind to. He’s stubborn and never wants to be helped.”
    “Stubborn like his father.”
    Anne Marie looked at her hands. “If Fabrice’s not interested in something, then he just can’t be bothered.”
    “Like his father.”
    “He spends his time watching the American channels on the satellite dish. Understands everything in English—but refuses to work at school. I mustn’t complain too much—he’s very affectionate and dotes on his little sister.”
    Lucette Salondy’s face broke into a broad smile. “And Létitia?”
    “The apple of her mother’s eye.”
    The headmistress took the plastic cube and pointed to a photograph on one of its faces, a photograph taken outside the church in Pointe-à-Pitre. Children in white dresses, holding flowers and squinting into the sun. Létitia stood in the center of the group. Her dark hair hung in short, beribboned plaits. The soft brown skin of mixed parentage. She looked at the camera with her head to one side. Inquisitive, self-assured eyes. She was holding a bouquet of flowers.
    “The apple of her aunt’s eye, too. An aunt who doesn’t get to see her enough.”
    “Létitia loves church—goodness knows why. Perhaps it’s the dressing up she likes.” Anne Marie touched the cube with her finger. “I thought I was too old to have a second child, and when I found out about Létitia … It wasn’t the happiest of times. I thought about an abortion. When I now think I could’ve spent the rest of my life without Létitia …” Anne Marie looked up at the older woman. “You could’ve had children, Lucette.”
    “Instead I’ve got an entire school. Before long, you’ll be sending Létitia to us—only by then, I’ll be retired.”
    “You love this job too much to retire.”
    Somewhere a bell rang.
    “Why are you interested in Liliane Dugain, Anne Marie?”
    “It’s her husband’s death I’m interested in.”
    The headmistress folded her arms. “He killed himself—jumped from the top of a building.”
    Anne Marie remarked, “There are a lot of nasty rumors.”
    “Rumors concerning the
police judiciaire
?”
    Anne Marie gave Lucette Salondy an unblinking stare.
    “Dugain had a lot of enemies, Anne Marie.”
    “Arnaud doesn’t believe it was a suicide.”
    “Who’s Arnaud?”
    “You don’t know the
procureur
of Pointe-à-Pitre?”
    “Not his given name … It’s Arnaud?”
    The room seemed to chill suddenly. Lucette Salondy held her glass motionless in mid-air. With the other hand, she pulled the cardigan tight against her large shoulders.
    “Dugain had a mistress?”
    “You really want to know?”
    “It’s my job.”
    “Perhaps you ought to change jobs.”
    Anne Marie pointed to the poster on the wall. “There’s no republic without justice.”
    “I thought it was me who was supposed to teach philosophy.”
    “And there’s no justice without truth.”
    A laugh lubricated with white rum.
    “Never underestimate the
lycée
in Sarlat.” Anne Marie grinned with pleasure. “I won the
prix