The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe by Timothy Williams Page A

landowners brought coolies in from India after slavery was abolished. Indians tend to marry among themselves—or with a white, if they get the chance. That’s why Trousseau married his French woman.”
    “Not because he loved her?”
    Lafitte smiled mirthlessly. “That’s why he’s now divorced.”
    “Divorced? Monsieur Trousseau never told me that.”
    Lafitte took a long, deep breath on the Bastos cigarette before throwing the stub away. “Trousseau keeps his cards close to his chest.”
    “Most men do.”
    Lafitte raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth simultaneously. “You don’t have many illusions,
madame le juge
.”
    “I was married for twelve years.”
    “Judging from the photo, Vaton wasn’t sexy—despite what Trousseau might say. White, black or brown—Desterres can pick and choose. He’s got money. He can find better than Vaton any day.”
    “You can’t know what she was like in bed.”
    “Once you put the lights out,
madame le juge
, all women are the same in bed.”
    “You don’t have many illusions either.”
    “When you get to my age …”
    They crossed the road. A Polo coupé went past and hooted. Beside the middle aged driver sat a black girl, straightened hair blowing in the wind. Bright lipstick, bright teeth. Lafitte put one hand to his shield his eyes and with the other, he waved. “The sly old bastard.”
    “Who?”
    “Jean Claude Pichon gets them all,” Lafitte said admiringly. “Pichon used to be with Renseignements.”
    “You don’t think Desterres’s guilty?”
    “He’s got enough money and enough power to get what he wants.”
    Anne Marie glanced at him. “You don’t have a great deal of esteem for women.”
    “Because I say women are attracted by money and power?” They had come to the rue Vatable and had to step past a couple of women who were selling bananas and mangoes from their curbside stall. Their huge chests battled with stretching, grubby T-shirts. The women shared an ancient weighing machine and jabbered in a falling English patois.
“Nice Dominica lime, darlin’.”
    “I am a realist and I have unlimited esteem for the power of money.”
    Anne Marie said, “Desterres’s twice been accused of rape.”
    For a fleeting moment, Lafitte looked her in the eye. “I wouldn’t take those rape things too seriously. Could’ve been a girl trying to get even, trying to get her own back for promises Desterres had reneged on. To get a girl into your bed, you’ve got to promise her a white wedding—even if she’s already got a kid.”
    “A misogynist.”
    “Misogynist? Desterres is a fornicator. He can afford to be—he’s got money and he’s not married. I’d love to be a misogynist like him.”
    “You really do sound like a misogynist, Monsieur Lafitte. You don’t much like women, do you?”
    “Why do you say that? I’ve always respected you. I’ve always admired you,
madame le juge
.”
    “You don’t like women, you don’t like blacks, you don’t like Indians. It’s hard to see just who does meet with the Lafitte seal of approval.” He did not reply as he walked along beside her. With his hands in his pockets, the case tucked beneath his arm, he stared at the sidewalk that had begun to give off steam in the morning heat.
    “Is there anybody you actually like, Monsieur Lafitte?”
    Silence.
    “Well?”
    “Are you interrogating me,
madame le juge
?”
    “Anybody who meets with your approval?”
    “I admire you.”
    “Apart from me.”
    “My wife is West Indian.”
    “Your wife?”
    He nodded, still not looking at her.
    Anne Marie smiled, visibly softening. “We’ve worked together on and off for nearly ten years, Monsieur Lafitte—and I always thought you were a bachelor. You’ve not once mentioned your wife.”
    “I keep my private life and my job separate.”
    “You must introduce us.”
    “A girl from Sainte-Anne.”
    “Black?”
    He grinned. “After a while, you don’t notice.”
    “Even if you don’t turn