The boat seemed to slide along a cement wall.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
The Italian flag fluttered limply. Two sleek hulls came into view. The catamaran cut through the green harbor water toward the far jetty.
Gurion shrugged.
“The procureur now thinks I betrayed him.”
At the other table, the technician with the T-shirt laughed noisily and the other man nodded, while tapping his hand on the tabletop. His fingernails were encrusted with dirt.
Two cans of Kronenbourg beer, one had been tipped over and the liquid had formed a small yellow puddle that absorbed the scattered crumbs. There was a plate of croissants. Both men ate with their mouths open. They were talking about an oxyacetylene torch.
Gurion ignored them. “It doesn’t matter, madame le juge.”
“It’s not your job that’s in jeopardy.”
Gurion raised an eyebrow.
“Your remarks about Hégésippe Bray—you think he didn’t see you and me arrived together?”
“Hégésippe Bray’s death’s common knowledge.”
“Of course it’s not.”
“You told me nothing—nothing more than what I overheard.”
“The procureur now thinks I got you to ask your stupid questions.”
Gurion looked at her and gave a slow smile. The eyes were intelligent and cold. “Are you Jewish?”
“I’m an outsider,” Anne Marie replied, not hiding her irritation. “The procureur thinks I’m interfering in something I don’t understand. Why he gave me this Bray dossier goodness only knows. He could’ve given it to Frémy—Frémy’s West Indian. And he’s a man.”
“You are, aren’t you?”
“A man?” Anne Marie sat back. “No such luck.”
He pushed at the frame of his glasses. “You’re Jewish.”
“Catholic born and baptized.” She lifted her handbag. “Or perhaps you would care to see the photograph of my first communion?”
Gurion drank more coffee from the shallow, Duralex cup. He was smiling, and his complacency irritated Anne Marie. “Why do you think I should be Jewish?”
One of the technicians laughed. Anne Marie did not know whether it was an obscene gesture he was making or whether he was still talking about the oxyacetylene torch.
“The world appears to rest on your shoulders,” Gurion said. “You appear very tough, madame le juge. A bit fuzzy round the edges, perhaps, but you’re one hard lady who won’t allow anybody to fool around. You mean business—but underneath.…”
“Yes?”
“There’s guilt. The belief it’s your responsibility to save the world—even single-handed. Because if you don’t save the world, no one else will.” He looked at her keenly. “Madame Laveaud wants to save the world. Congratulations. And the French Empire, while she’s about it.”
Anne Marie finished her guava juice in silence.
“You’ve got to show you’re as good as any man—as good or better. But you’re so busy worrying, so busy being efficient and tough and responsible, that you don’t have time to step back and get things into perspective.”
“I’m not a television journalist, Monsieur Gurion. This may surprise you, but I have responsibilities—real responsibilities. I can’t barge in and ask the procureur the first damn-fool question that comes into my scatterbrain, female head.” She could feel herself getting angry. “For you it’s easy. Like pissing, isn’t it? You can stop at the first tree you come to. But as a woman, I’ve got to think of the long-term logistics.”
Gurion grinned.
“While you get the bark wet, without giving it a second thought, perhaps you should think about the effects, all the possible consequences. Just for once.” She pointed at him and she was aware that she was trembling. “Say what you like. It doesn’t matter if you put the procureur’s back up—you don’t have to work with him.”
Gurion laughed scornfully.
“You sit there in judgment of me, complacent and cocksure. Like a father talking to a wayward daughter. Like the arrogant man you are,” Anne Marie said. Her face was now red. “Monsieur Gurion, you deliberately put me in an embarrassing situation. But please don’t worry about how I feel. The bark of the tree is wet, and you’ve got your wonderful interview on tape.” She pointed to where the equipment lay on the ground. “Now just zip up your fly, and leave me alone.”
“The interview doesn’t do me any good.”
“You’re damn right.”
He smiled and the complacency had gone. “I enjoyed seeing the procureur squirm. But madame le juge, there’s as much chance of that interview going out on television as you seeing the procureur in a striptease act.”
She clicked her tongue.
“FR3 will show old folks’ homes in Basse-Terre. That’s what the local television is for—our France Régions 3. Or another documentary about mollusks on the coral reef. Or the new machinery from America for the sugar harvest. You expect them to talk about the real problems of Guadeloupe?”
“I don’t watch television much.”
“An intelligent woman. Anything that’s political—anything that really touches upon the future of this island or questions the competence of all the good people in charge.…” He shook his head. “They’re not going to show that. No chance.” He nodded toward the two technicians. “They can clean that tape now. It’ll never get onto the airwaves.”
The technician in the T-shirt gave Anne Marie a wink.
“Then why embarrass me?”
“I’ve got my dignity. I’m a journalist with a job to do—and despite everything, I’d like to be able to do it properly. You’re not the only person to feel you have a duty.”
Anne Marie smiled. “So you’re Jewish, too?”
“My hands are tied, my mouth gagged—but I like to pretend I’m doing my job. If only for my own self-respect. I don’t blow up planes—but I’m angry, too. You don’t have the monopoly on moral outrage, madame le juge. Seeing that fat man squirm—seeing his face unhappy because he’s being confronted with the truth—that’s my little revenge.” Gurion shrugged. “Even if it’s a complete waste of time.”
The two technicians stood up. One said, “Patron.”
Trousseau, who had gone off to look at the boats, now entered the terrace of the bar.
“I shouldn’t have said those things, Monsieur Gurion.”
He swallowed the rest of the coffee in one gulp. “Don’t apologize.” The crooked smile was genuine. “One hard lady, but underneath you’re a softie.”
Anne Marie smiled.
“Soft and decent.” Again the crooked smile. “You’re sure you’re not Jewish?”
“Catholic born and baptized.” This time her laughter was genuine. “My mother sent me to the best Catholic schools. But my father’s from Oran in Algeria. He now owns a swimwear business in Sarlat. Isaac Bloch.” She gave a shrug. “Now is that a Jewish name?”