The wind tugged at her skirt.
“I dropped in on the estate on my way here,” Anne Marie said, blinking, dazzled by the sudden brightness of the flood lamps. She shielded her eyes with her hand. “I met the old Indian with the long hair.”
“Michel?” Armand Calais accompanied her across the gravel.
“Another alcoholic.”
“He works for you?”
“He lives on the estate.”
“I’m afraid there may be something seriously wrong with his arteries.”
Armand Calais laughed, and the bright garden lights were reflected on his even teeth. His face appeared frightening in that brief moment—there was something feral. “Michel’s been complaining about his legs for years.”
“He should see a doctor.”
“Goodness knows how many times we’ve paid for him to go to the doctor. He just takes the money, goes to see some voodoo quack, and then spends all the rest on tafia.”
“Get him insured.”
“He doesn’t want insurance.”
“He works for you, doesn’t he?”
“Never wanted to be a declared worker. For some reason Michel thinks it would be demeaning for him.”
“That’s against the law.”
“Tell him that, madame le juge. Nothing we’d like more than to get rid of him. We don’t need the garden—it’s cheaper to buy the vegetables in the supermarket. As for the animals, they’re more bother than they’re worth.” A gesture of impatience. “Michel just refuses to go. All because my father was too generous. Now Michel is there, quarrelling with everyone, and he’s going to stay there until his last breath.”
Armand Calais opened the car door for her.
“Thank you.”
“If there are any other questions, don’t hesitate to contact me. You’re nothing like my idea of a juge d’instruction.”
“Should I feel flattered?” Before he could answer, Anne Marie continued, “There’s a question that I didn’t really want to ask your mother.” Anne Marie was embarrassed. “According to reliable sources, your father.…”
“Yes?”
“Monsieur Calais had the reputation of being very fond of the company of women.”
He put his head back and laughed. “Who isn’t?” This time, his mirth appeared genuine.
“The information’s correct?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“And your mother—she didn’t object?”
“The West Indies, madame le juge.”
“What about the West Indies?”
“You’re in the Caribbean.” The smile was now attractive. “Where men are men. White, black, mulatto—under the skin, we’re all the same animal.” He hesitated. “That reputation—Papa acquired it when he was still a young man.”
“Your mother never objected?”
“Probably never knew.”
Anne Marie said coldly, “You really believe that?”
“Perhaps she preferred not to know. Most women believe what suits them.” Armand Calais shrugged. “He was a good father. And we all loved him.”
“I see.”
“Twenty, thirty years ago. When Papa was still relatively young and a bit thinner, with more hair on his head.” He shook his head. “In more recent years, I think Papa had other interests that took the place of women.”
“Men calm down with age?”
“I hope not.”
“What other interests did your father have?”
“Politics—the future of Guadeloupe.” He closed the car door. “The future of Sainte Marthe.” His hand remained on the window frame. With the bright garden lamps behind him, Armand Calais’ face was now in the shadow, and Anne Marie had the strange feeling of having met him somewhere before. A different place, a different time. “Now I have a question for you, madame le juge.”
“Yes?”
“You spoke with Michel?”
She nodded.
“Michel didn’t get irritable?”
“I don’t think I did anything to offend him.”
“He didn’t find some reason to quarrel?”
She shook her head. “He was very polite.”
“Michel doesn’t like outsiders. Unless they’re Indians like him.”
“He even cut down a coconut for me.”
“You must be careful.” He turned slightly, and she saw the gleam in Armand Calais’ eye. “Michel has a temper.”
“Not the impression I got.”
“A quick temper and a quick machete.”
Anne Marie leaned forward and switched on the engine.
“Michel once took the machete to Hégésippe Bray, you know.”