“Sixty years of marriage, the old bastard.”
“I like your grandfather.”
“A vulture,” Jean Michel called from the bathroom. “Only interest is money. Doesn’t talk about anything else.”
“He’s still your grandfather.”
The sound of the tap running. “He never bothered about us when we were children.”
“Your father loves him enough to come back from Paris just for the diamond wedding anniversary.”
“He always exploited Papa.”
Her wedding ring lay in the empty cigar tin on the dressing table. She picked it up and tried to slide it along her finger. The itching had gone, but the skin was still swollen, and the ring would not slide over the numb flesh. Anne Marie placed the ring back in the cigar tin. “That’s no reason for not visiting him. And anyway, your mother’s expecting us to take her to the church.”
Jean Michel turned off the tap. “You know why?”
“Why what?”
“Why he’s ashamed of Papa—because Papa has dark skin.”
“Your grandfather’s always been very nice to me.”
“A vulture—and as deaf as a post. That old man smiles and nods—but he hasn’t heard a word you’ve said. Ask him about his health, and he complains about the price of tomatoes.”
“I don’t blame him complaining about the price of tomatoes at twenty-eight francs the kilo.”
It was Sunday morning.
Anne Marie felt relaxed. Her skin had been toned up by a chill shower. Her hand did not hurt—just a slight feeling of nausea in her stomach.
“Only a few more years on God’s Earth—and all he cares about is the price of tomatoes.”
Anne Marie stared at herself in the mirror. “Why did you marry me, Jean Michel?”
“Eh?”
She raised her voice. “What did you want to marry me for?”
“We’ve been into this before.”
“Tell me.”
“For your mind,” he called from the bathroom.
“You didn’t find me attractive?”
“What?”
“You didn’t find me beautiful? Like the girl with the headscarf that looked like Pascale Petit?”
There was no reply. Only the sound of the shower being turned on and her husband’s tuneless whistle.
In Paris, Jean Michel used to have an old Panhard coupé, and in the afternoons, the car could be seen cruising up and down the Boulevard St. Michel, along the rue de l’Odéon and as far as the rue Monsieur le Prince and the Luxembourg Gardens. The roof was always down, despite the chill spring weather of Paris, and the back seat was packed tight with grinning friends from Martinique and Guadeloupe, with bright teeth and short hair and American Army raincoats. Invariably sitting beside Jean Michel was a girl, with skin of alabaster and a scarf round her head like the actress Pascale Petit.
Anne Marie put a few finishing touches to her nails then studied herself in the mirror.
More white hairs. She ran one of her outstretched fingers along the line of her jaw and wondered whether these were the first signs of a double chin. Her eyes looked back at her. There was an expression of quiet resignation on her face.
Jean Michel made her jump. He was standing behind her, dripping wet and quite naked.
Anne Marie said, “I hope Béatrice’s gone.”
“She might learn something.”
“You’re making pools of water on the floor that the poor girl cleaned yesterday.”
He smelled of toothpaste and the faint, sulphuric odor of shaving powder. He placed his chin on the top of her head, and they looked at each other in the mirror.
“Be sensible, Jean Michel. We’re in a hurry and I’ve got to get Fabrice ready.” In the same breath, Anne Marie asked, “Why did you marry me? You could’ve married the princess from the Cameroon. She had a better body than me—and now you’d be a tribal chief with lots of little children running between your legs.”
He smiled. His body was warm against her back. “Perhaps I want something else running between my legs.”
“Why did you marry me, Jean Michel?”
He stroked her hair. “My princess.”
“You’re sopping wet, you’re ruining my hair, and you’re ruining one of the few decent dresses that I own.” Anne Marie grinned into the mirror. “What’s your dear mother going to say when she sees the princess turning up in church dressed like a scarecrow?”