It had been a long time since Anne Marie had done any real cooking for Jean Michel and Fabrice. Nothing more demanding than an omelet, an opened can of Paris mushrooms, and a salad.
She took a basket and walked the length of the open refrigerators. Vapor rose in wispy clouds.
Jean Michel would be back before 7 P.M., and tomorrow being Wednesday, they would be in no hurry to go to bed. Anne Marie smiled contentedly. For once they could all sit down together, turn off the television, and eat. She would make couscous.
She started looking for a packet of frozen lamb.
Despite the chill air of the supermarket, Anne Marie had started to sweat.
Butter, oil, Mediterranean spices.
She studied the shelves, looking for something that would go well with the meal. Bordeaux, Chablis, Côtes du Rhone. There was everything. She smiled when she saw the display, ten bottles deep, of Algerian wine.
Anne Marie no longer missed Algeria. But sometimes she thought about Maman, who had died before the long, painful journey to France, Sarlat, and a new life.
She placed a bottle of Bordeaux in the wire trolley.
There was salami—hanging in wrinkled old sausages from a shelf near the refrigerator. It smelled good—a smell of Europe. Again Anne Marie ran a hand along her forehead. She was feverish. A germ she must have picked up somewhere—or perhaps a cold caused by the wet shoes at the funeral.
The rice crackled beneath the soles of her Mephisto moccasins.
Two men were transferring bags of rice from a wooden trolley onto the lower shelves. One of the bags had slipped from their grasp and burst open. Rice was scattered across the red tiles. The jute bag lay like a dead child.
“I’m looking for couscous.”
The men were wearing overalls over naked chests. One man looked up and studied Anne Marie carefully before replying, “Over there.” The gesture was vague.
Couscous with lamb and a spiced sauce. Followed by banana flambé.
She found the couscous between the sugar and the bags of imported flour.
“Like a good housewife, doing her shopping?”
She was crouching, and she had been too busy comparing prices to have noticed the man. She looked up in surprise and saw him smiling benignly.
He was wearing white tennis shorts that were too tight; the cotton shirt swelled above the leather belt. He was smoking a cigar.
“Like you, monsieur le procureur.”
“My good wife’s away in Florida, and so I’ve got to look after myself.” He raised his shoulders and the thick lips broke into a smile. “We should pool our resources, madame le juge.”
Anne Marie stood up and they shook hands.
“Very pleased to see you,” the procureur said. “Been a bit worried about you, I must admit.” He took the cigar from his mouth. “Not so much that I can’t sleep, but lately I’ve been getting the feeling you’re not happy with your work, madame le juge.”
His trolley was full of bathroom articles. Nivea cream, talcum powder, shampoo, razor blades. And incongruously, several packs of Corsaire beer.
“Perhaps this isn’t the best place to discuss my professional or personal problems.”
He grinned and placed the cigar back in his mouth. Moving to Anne Marie’s side, the procureur took her by the arm. “Come, finish your shopping, and then we can go for a drink.”
The neon lighting of the supermarket flattened his face.
“I’ve got to get home, I’m afraid. It’s very kind of you, of course. It’s just that the family’s waiting for me.”
The procureur raised an eyebrow. “You do the cooking?”
For a moment, the round face seemed to swim before Anne Marie’s eyes. “Sometimes.”
“I see you’re a very capable woman.”
“Many, many women just as capable as me.…” She smiled, and crouching down, took a packet of couscous.
“An excellent cook, I’m sure. You must invite me around one evening.”
“It’d be a pleasure. You can meet my husband.”
They moved forward together.
Anne Marie felt hot. Sweat on the back of her neck. At the same time, the smell of the procureur’s cigar caught in her nostrils. Like an angry sea, her stomach began to lurch.
“I’d be delighted to see him again, madame le juge. Has he found a job yet?”
She shook her head.
“A shame. An intelligent man. I met him a couple of times when I did evening classes at the Vizioz Institute. In those days, the university was next to the Palais de Justice.” The procureur added, “Should’ve stuck to law, like you.”
“My husband likes writing.”
“Trouble is there’s no work here.”
“Jean Michel’s thinking of doing a novel.”
The cigar smoke was making her eyes water. Anne Marie pushed toward the row of cash registers, hoping that the procureur would go off to finish his shopping alone.
He remained resolutely at her side, his damp hand on her forearm.
“A novel—that’s an interesting idea.”
“The mineral water.” She tried to keep the note of desperation out of her voice. “I forgot the mineral water—do excuse me.” She turned, wrenched her arm from his grip, and, in an inelegant, fast walk, moved back to the far end of the supermarket. She held the back of her hand to her lips. The skin throbbed sullenly and now her eyes were watering freely.
The smell of the floor polish that a girl with a microphone was trying to promote made Anne Marie feel giddy.
She stared at the bottles in their plastic crates. Evian, Vichy, and a couple of bottles of the local Matouba water. Her heart thumped angrily. She moved slowly, trying to kill time. She waited. One minute. Two minutes.
Peeping down between the aisle of dairy products and the steaming refrigerators, her watering eyes sought the procureur but the plump man in the tennis clothes had disappeared.
The feeling of sickness, the tinge of cigar smoke on her nostrils slowly ebbed away. Anne Marie had begun to tremble.
Another two minutes before she moved toward the crêpes imported from Finistère. She picked up a packet. She also took a tin of Quality Street.
Waiting.
She wanted to go home. The presence of the procureur—even when dressed normally and not in the bulging, obscene tennis wear, even without the foul cigar—made her feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and vulnerable.
She made her way back to where she had left the trolley at the checkout register. She had overloaded her arms with articles to buy and her arms now ached from the weight of the mineral water.
At the checkout, she looked along the lines of customers. The procureur had gone, thank God.
The goods tumbled from her arms into the trolley. Anne Marie took her place in the queue. In front of her, a little boy played with a plastic car while his mother scolded him in resentful Creole.
Anne Marie waited. She wanted to get home. She wanted to make the meal for her family, but perhaps, she told herself, it would be better if she simply went to bed. Lemon juice, brown sugar, and a shot of rhum agricole. The best thing to do was to sweat the fever off.
“Four hundred and sixty-three francs, madame.”
She signed the check and gave it to the girl, whose green eyes were bloodshot from the flickering overhead light. The girl wore a pen stuck in the bun of her hair. “Identity card, please.” She took the pen from her hair and scribbled something on the back of the check.
“Bonsoir.”
The automatic doors slid open, and Anne Marie stepped out into the parking lot. After the chill of the supermarket, the warm air hit her like hot, wet flannel. She could feel the humidity working its way back into her clothes as she pushed the trolley over to the Honda.
The smell of roasting chicken came from a Renault where a woman was doing brisk business.
“You still believe he’s innocent?”
Anne Marie spun round.
“Hégésippe Bray’s innocent?”
His face was hidden because of the brightness of the overhead neon, PRISUNIC in bright red lighting. The tip of the cigar glowed against the black circle of his face.
Anne Marie swallowed. “Hégésippe Bray?” Although her hand was trembling, she managed to take the keys from her bag and unlock the car door.
“He killed Calais, madame le juge. Trust me.”
“The evidence is far from conclusive.”
He approached her, the hairs on his short arms touching her skin. “You must let me help you.” He removed the shopping bags from the trolley and placed them onto the back seat of the Honda. “You need a man for this sort of thing.”
She unclenched her teeth, afraid that she would vomit. “You’re most kind.”
“Sure you wouldn’t care for a drink?” He gestured toward Gosier. “Sit on the veranda by the sea, sip a planter’s punch, and relax. Enjoy the evening breeze, watch the cargo ships sailing out into the night.” The bright end of the cigar flickered again as he caught his breath. “In this wretched job, we’re so busy we often forget the good things in life.” He took her by the arm.
“I’ve got to be getting on.” Nausea was washing at the back of her throat. “My family is waiting for me, monsieur le procureur. You must let me go. Another time, perhaps.”
“Of course,” he said, his voice strangely soft. “Got to get back to your waiting husband.” The grip on her arm remained firm. “Back to your waiting husband. The good and faithful wife.”
“Au revoir, monsieur le procureur.”
Although she moved forward, the man did not relinquish his grip on her arm.
“Please excuse me.”
“Anne Marie, if you help me, then perhaps I can help your husband.”
She could feel the weight of the procureur’s rotund belly pushing against her. “You must agree to be helpful.” His breath was bitter.
“I must go.”
He was hurting her now.
“You really are a very pretty young woman.” The cigar was only a few centimeters from her face. She could feel the heat on her cheek.
“Attractive and very intelligent. But I don’t think you want to use your intelligence. You have so much to gain, Anne Marie—you don’t mind if I use your first name? I can help you, you see. When there’s so much at stake.”
“You’re hurting me.” Anne Marie wrenched her arm free, and the procureur let her go. She could feel herself trembling as she climbed into the car.
“I can help your husband,” the procureur said as he courteously closed the car door for her. “At this difficult time for you both.”
Anne Marie almost stalled the Honda in her haste to leave the parking lot.