département.”
23
Algeria
Once, Anne Marie had seen a young Arab—fourteen or fifteen years old—in the middle of Boulevard Foch. It must have been in 1957, a year before Papa decided to leave Algeria for good. The boy had unfurled a French flag smeared with excrement. Then, relying on the protection of his young age, he had soaked it in petrol and set it alight.
On a nearby balcony, a Frenchman had taken a gun and had shot the boy through the head. Anne Marie could recall the sound of the man’s laughter. She could remember the headless child lying on the road.
It was perhaps that dead boy which made Anne Marie decide she would one day become a lawyer, that she would fight to protect the weak.
“Madame le juge, I don’t want the future of my island to be jeopardized.”
“You’re asking me to manipulate the course of justice simply because France and Guadeloupe share a common heritage?”
Maître Legrand shook her head. “Monsieur le procureur wouldn’t ask anyone to manipulate the course of justice.”
“Good.”
“He’s merely asking you to be reasonable.”
“I can accept no interference into the course of my enquiry.”
“Madame Laveaud,”—the
procureur
allowed a sigh to escape, his breath bitter with the smell of coffee—“you seem to forget the old man’s dead.”
Anne Marie wondered whether she was going to cry. Anger, frustration, and a sense of guilt. And the smell of the woman’s perfume getting more sickening by the minute. Anne Marie needed to leave. To breathe fresh air. She said, almost in desperation, “Hégésippe Bray’s dead because he’s been killed.”
A sharp flash of anger: then the procureur’s eyes softened as he brought his emotion under control. “If Raymond Calais was just a man—an ordinary man—and if we were in France and not in this tropical island, I’d be glad to witness your indignation. Unfortunately, madame le juge, we’re not in France but in Guadeloupe, where the situation’s critical. We belong to France—but there are times when that lifeline is very delicate and it can easily be snapped. Which,” he said, prodding a finger in the air, “could be fatal for all of us who live here.”
“People in Guadeloupe should see France as a source of justice.”
“Without France there is nothing. Sugar’s a dead industry, and without outside aid, there’d be nothing for us to live on. No work. My compatriots have no delusions; they know the wealth of this island comes from the mainland—the money that pays your salary and mine. My compatriots don’t want independence. They want Guadeloupe to remain a part of France—and they want France to remain what she’s always been—a good and wise friend. Like a wife.”
Anne Marie drank her third glass of water.
“We can’t allow the MANG that kind of liberty. MANG wants terrorism for its backlash. For the way it’ll divide this island into two rival factions—opposing, fighting factions. Which is precisely what you and I don’t want several months before the elections. If this island is to progress, to develop, Guadeloupe can only progress within the framework of the French Republic. Democratically.By denigrating the police and the system of justice, you’re playing into their hands—into the hands of the people who’re willing to risk everything for some utopian independence.”
“You’re asking me to attribute to Hégésippe Bray the murder of Raymond Calais just for the sake of all the good, hard-working people out there?” She gestured to beyond the window.
“They’re Frenchmen.”
“Liberty and equality—that’s what the French Republic stands for—and if it doesn’t stand for those things in the département of Guadeloupe, then the independentists are probably right. Your kind of republic is not a republic at all.”
Maître Legrand tilted her head. “Are you a Communist, madame le juge?”
Anne Marie stood up and moved toward the door. Trousseau joined her.
“You
23
Algeria
Once, Anne Marie had seen a young Arab—fourteen or fifteen years old—in the middle of Boulevard Foch. It must have been in 1957, a year before Papa decided to leave Algeria for good. The boy had unfurled a French flag smeared with excrement. Then, relying on the protection of his young age, he had soaked it in petrol and set it alight.
On a nearby balcony, a Frenchman had taken a gun and had shot the boy through the head. Anne Marie could recall the sound of the man’s laughter. She could remember the headless child lying on the road.
It was perhaps that dead boy which made Anne Marie decide she would one day become a lawyer, that she would fight to protect the weak.
“Madame le juge, I don’t want the future of my island to be jeopardized.”
“You’re asking me to manipulate the course of justice simply because France and Guadeloupe share a common heritage?”
Maître Legrand shook her head. “Monsieur le procureur wouldn’t ask anyone to manipulate the course of justice.”
“Good.”
“He’s merely asking you to be reasonable.”
“I can accept no interference into the course of my enquiry.”
“Madame Laveaud,”—the
procureur
allowed a sigh to escape, his breath bitter with the smell of coffee—“you seem to forget the old man’s dead.”
Anne Marie wondered whether she was going to cry. Anger, frustration, and a sense of guilt. And the smell of the woman’s perfume getting more sickening by the minute. Anne Marie needed to leave. To breathe fresh air. She said, almost in desperation, “Hégésippe Bray’s dead because he’s been killed.”
A sharp flash of anger: then the procureur’s eyes softened as he brought his emotion under control. “If Raymond Calais was just a man—an ordinary man—and if we were in France and not in this tropical island, I’d be glad to witness your indignation. Unfortunately, madame le juge, we’re not in France but in Guadeloupe, where the situation’s critical. We belong to France—but there are times when that lifeline is very delicate and it can easily be snapped. Which,” he said, prodding a finger in the air, “could be fatal for all of us who live here.”
“People in Guadeloupe should see France as a source of justice.”
“Without France there is nothing. Sugar’s a dead industry, and without outside aid, there’d be nothing for us to live on. No work. My compatriots have no delusions; they know the wealth of this island comes from the mainland—the money that pays your salary and mine. My compatriots don’t want independence. They want Guadeloupe to remain a part of France—and they want France to remain what she’s always been—a good and wise friend. Like a wife.”
Anne Marie drank her third glass of water.
“We can’t allow the MANG that kind of liberty. MANG wants terrorism for its backlash. For the way it’ll divide this island into two rival factions—opposing, fighting factions. Which is precisely what you and I don’t want several months before the elections. If this island is to progress, to develop, Guadeloupe can only progress within the framework of the French Republic. Democratically.By denigrating the police and the system of justice, you’re playing into their hands—into the hands of the people who’re willing to risk everything for some utopian independence.”
“You’re asking me to attribute to Hégésippe Bray the murder of Raymond Calais just for the sake of all the good, hard-working people out there?” She gestured to beyond the window.
“They’re Frenchmen.”
“Liberty and equality—that’s what the French Republic stands for—and if it doesn’t stand for those things in the département of Guadeloupe, then the independentists are probably right. Your kind of republic is not a republic at all.”
Maître Legrand tilted her head. “Are you a Communist, madame le juge?”
Anne Marie stood up and moved toward the door. Trousseau joined her.
“You
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