Fabrice was holding her hand as they came up the stairs in the Cité Mortenol.
“Maman, you’re wearing new shoes.”
New shoes and a matching Céline handbag. Impulse shopping in Basse-Terre, an expensive boutique in the Cours Nolivos. “I ruined my best pair in the rain this morning.”
“Wish I had money.”
“When you’re grown up, you’ll have as much money as you want.”
It had ceased to rain in Pointe-à-Pitre, and the evening air was cool. The sun had gone down behind the penciled line of the mountains to the west.
“I thought Papa was coming to fetch me.”
“Papa’s looking for a new job.”
“He’s always looking for a job.”
“It’s not easy, Fabrice.”
“You’ve got one.”
“It’s easier for me.”
“Because you’re white?”
Anne Marie laughed. “Because I’m a civil servant—and there’s always work for a civil servant.”
“I want to be a civil servant when I grow up—or help children cross the road outside school.”
They were on the last flight of steps, and Fabrice was out of breath from the effort of keeping up with his mother. The satchel bumped against his back. “Are you cleverer than Papa?”
“Of course not.” She added, “We’re just different, Papa and I.”
“The girls at school are cleverer than the boys—they’re good at spelling and irregular verbs.” He turned up his nose. “But I don’t like girls—except Cécile.”
“She’s pretty?”
“Cécile is the cleverest girl in the class. She’s white.”
“The color of your skin doesn’t affect your intelligence. A lot of white people are very stupid.”
“Jews are clever.”
“Who told you that?”
“Our mistress says Jews are very clever—but that they use their cleverness to cheat poor people. Hey, what’s that?” He let go of her hand and ran up the last steps. The sound of his feet echoed against the stair wall.
“Don’t make such a noise.”
“Hey, look. It’s a box—Maman, it’s a box.”
“Don’t touch it—Fabrice, don’t touch it.”
He stood back, suddenly frightened and his eyes wide open.
It was too late.
Somebody had left the box in front of the apartment door.
Accidentally, Fabrice had knocked off the lid.
Anne Marie crouched down and gingerly she looked into the box. She looked at the dark, black object.
R.I.P.
A coffin. A small coffin made from black cardboard.
“What does it say, Maman? What does it say?”
FABRICE LAVEAUD, 1973–1980 Requiescat in pace.
Anne Marie stood up. With a trembling hand, she searched for the door key in her new handbag.
She felt sick.