Another Sun by Timothy Williams Page B

boots with lace holes but no laces. The tongues of his boots flapped against the ankles. The man had a strange walk, as if afraid to set his heels firmly against the ground. One hand held the rifle. In the other, he held several ropes to which the goats were tethered.
    “I want to talk with you,” Anne Marie shouted against the wind.
    If the man heard her, he gave no sign. He did not turn, but continued walking downhill, past a rusting cauldron.
    “I am from the police.”
    She saw the head nod, and the man lifted the rifle in a sign ofrecognition. He disappeared over the brow of the hill. The goats bleated, and the man reassured them with animal-like sounds. His voice was carried by the wind.
    Soon the sun would be setting. The blue of the sky was washed with red.
    Anne Marie stepped round the car and went up the concrete steps that led to the villa. A squat building, a flat roof and a large, iron door that had not been open in months. The villa was surrounded by a broad, open veranda made of concrete. Grass had begun to grow along the winding cracks of the surface.
    Anne Marie crossed the veranda and peered through the grimy glass of the closed shutters. The wall was still warm with retained heat. The wind whistled along the isolated electricity cable that sagged from successive poles. The wind also pulled at her hair, blowing strands into her eyes.
    Through the glass, she could see the interior was dingy. Armchairs of wood, a dusty table, a crucifix on the far wall and a large dresser, with a dreary parade of bottles of rum and liquor. An ancient television cabinet.
    “Madame?”
    Anne Marie swung round.
    A thin nose, dark matte skin, narrow lips and a broad forehead. In a different context, he might have been a teacher or a priest. He was wearing a battered hat, made of soiled cloth, with several haloes of sweat along the band and a large brim that partly hid his eyes. Long, scraggy hair, streaked a greasy black and grey, lay upon the shoulders of a khaki shirt. Thin chest and long, slender arms.
    “Who are you?”
    He raised his head slightly. A smile ran along the protruding, toothless jaw. Glinting dark eyes.
    “Who are you?” Anne Marie asked again. She stepped back.
    In one hand, dangling loosely at his side, was a long machete—the type of machete for cutting cane. The edge had been sharpened to a scarred silver.

25
Tetanus
    “I live here.”
    “This is Monsieur Calais’ villa.”
    An affirmative nod. “I work for him.”
    “Calais is dead.”
    The smile disappeared but the narrow head continued to nod. “Dead,” he repeated sadly.
    An idiot. Anne Marie glanced at the machete.
    As suddenly as it had disappeared, the smile returned. He shrugged lopsidedly. “I work here.”
    “Work?”
    “I look after the animals. The goats that belong to Monsieur Calais. And several cows. And chickens. And the pig. I have to feed them.” Beneath the sagging brim the eyes clouded. “I’m going to lose my job? She won’t let me keep my job?”
    “Who?”
    The odor of rum was heavy on his breath. “She can’t get rid of me, you know.”
    “Who?”
    He moved toward Anne Marie. “I’ve always worked here—Madame Calais knows that.”
    “I never said Madame Calais wanted to get rid of you.” Anne Marie’s eyes remained on the machete.
    The tip of the blade tapped against the cement. “A thousand francs—even the Haitians ask for more. A thousand francs a month—it’s not a lot to ask for.” The machete went from one hand to the other. Then all grievance disappeared and he held out his hand. “My name is Michel.”
    “Madame Laveaud, juge d’instruction.”
    Michel looked at her admiringly. They shook hands.
    “Would you like an avocado pear?”
    Anne Marie remarked, “A thousand francs is certainly not a lot of money.”
    “A thousand francs and a place to sleep—next to the pig.” His skin was unwrinkled and the texture smooth, though he was well into middle age. His features were Indian. “I