Modernization had not reached the third story of the Chamber of Commerce.
There was a floor of rubberized linoleum and the walls that had once been whitewashed were streaked with dirt and the passage of time. Anne Marie walked down the corridor and stopped a moment to stare out across the roofs of Basse-Terre. The small, colonial town nestled against the side of the Souffrière. A bright sun and a cloudless sky had transformed the Caribbean Sea into a Mediterranean blue.
ARCHIVES.
Anne Marie knocked and then pushed the door open. The hinges screeched unpleasantly.
A man stood directly in front of her. He appeared surprised. “Can I help you?” Several of his teeth were a grey metal.
“La Coloniale.”
“Yes?”
“Do you have the volumes for 1940?”
“Two volumes per year.” He looked at Anne Marie carefully. Behind the glasses, the red edges of his eyelids were humid. “I suppose you’re another of these students.”
“Le juge Laveaud. I’m from the Ministry of Justice. I’ve just driven down from the university library in Pointe-à-Pitre. The chief librarian told me to contact Madame Cléopatre.”
“Madame Cléopatre.” An unpleasant laugh. “She’s on maternity leave. Perhaps I can help you.” His voice was not enthusiastic.
“I need La Coloniale for 1940.”
He nodded, put down the pair of scissors he had been holding and approached the main bookcase. “Of course,” he said. “What year?”
“1940—April and May.”
Crouching down on his spindly legs—he was wearing shorts and a pair of battered sandals—the man ran a finger along the faded volumes. “1940, first semester.” He muttered to himself. “Then here you are.” He added, “They don’t want to put in the conditioning because they want to do away with us.”
“Us?”
“Microfilm—that’s what they want. They say it’s cheaper—but I don’t see how it can be.” He hauled the book up onto the wooden counter. “All that film—it must cost a lot of money. But they go quite wild over anything they think is modern.” He shook his head, “Guadeloupe’s not America, you know.”
She took the book. “I want the volume for 1940—this is 1932.”
The spindly man held the book in both hands, turned it and studied the gold script. “You’re right, you know.” He tut-tutted. “What year do you want?”
“1940.”
“1940, you say? Bizarre.”
“What?”
“I beg your pardon, madame.”
She ducked under the hinge counter and crouched down beside the old man who was looking along the lower shelf. The dull eyes glanced at her with disapproval. His pink lips were wet. “Who are you?”
“1940, please.”
“Precisely what I’m looking for.” He sounded offended. “You’re all the same. You come barging in here—you think you own the place—you and all the friends of Madame Cléopatre. She’s not the Préfet, you know. She’s not even God Almighty, whatever she may claim to the contrary. If she thinks she can boss me about, she’s got another think coming.” He added, “She’s not going to force me into retirement.”
The volumes of La Coloniale were out of order. The 1940 edition was wedged between the 1974 handbook to South Africa and a moth-eaten copy of the Caracas telephone directory.
“This is what I’m looking for.”
The archivist said spitefully, “Then you’ve found it, haven’t you?”
Anne Marie took the bound volume and sat down at a desk at the far end of the dusty reading room. For a while the man peered at her in angry silence, then he returned to his scissors, his spineless books, and the glue-pot.
“Madame Cléopatre,” he muttered to himself.