Another Sun by Timothy Williams Read Free Book Online Page B

Fabrice released her hand. He was tired, and wearily he trudged up the stairs of the Cité Mortenol. There were lifts, but they frequently broke down, caught between two floors. Only the foolhardy or the handicapped would trust them. Anne Marie was terrified of being stranded in a lift during an earthquake.
    Cité Mortenol.
    Two apartment blocks facing each other. Two cubes built on the concrete pillars of the garage, five stories high and united by a couple of stairwells. There were small shops at terrace level. The last shops were now closing—it was nearly eight o’clock—and the iron blinds were being pulled down, their metallic rattle echoing against the canyon-like walls of the apartment blocks. Teenagers were playing basketball with an impromptu hoop attached to the first floor balcony.
    Anne Marie knew that she had been lucky to get the flat. It was thanks to Freddy—one of Jean Michel’s brothers who worked in the housing department at the town hall. Without Freddy’s help, they would have been forced to stay at 31 rue Alsace-Lorraine with Mamie.
    Anne Marie was out of breath by the time she reached the top floor. Fabrice was a flight of stairs behind. As she waited, she looked up at the sky where clouds hid the moon. A white haze lay over Pointe-à-Pitre—the glow of the street lamps.
    Fabrice caught up as she was taking the keys from her handbag. He panted like a puppy. Anne Marie opened the door and Fabrice pushed past her.
    “We’re back, Papa!”
    Fabrice ran forward and kissed Jean Michel.
    Anne Marie’s husband was wearing shorts and a tanktop. He lolled on the sofa with his eyes on the television. A newspaper lay at his feet.
    “How was your day?” Anne Marie set the beach equipment on the floor and then went over to Jean Michel, bent over and kissed him lightly on the forehead. His cheeks were smooth and he smelt of bay rum.
    “I drive all the way to Basse-Terre where I wait two hours for the editor. And the bastard never turns up.” Jean Michel clicked his tongue. “He’d left a message with his secretary and the silly cow forgets to tell me.”
    “Why didn’t he turn up?”
    “He was called to the Dutch part of St. Martin—had hireda private plane to fly up there.” Again her husband clicked his tongue. “My whole day wasted.”
    “I was hoping you’d come to the beach.”
    He appeared surprised. “I told Mamie to tell you not to expect me, Anne Marie.”
    “It would’ve been nice to spend the afternoon all together.”
    “I need a job.” His brown eyes glinted as he turned back to look at the television. Then he smiled. “If it materializes, this could be the job I’ve been looking for. The man’s bringing out a magazine.”
    “And what are your chances?”
    “Pro-Giscard, pro-government, pro-status quo. With all the latest news on Guadeloupe, Martinique and French Guyana. Plus Réunion. He’s hoping to reach the West Indian market in Paris. With me doing the cultural page. They need people with journalistic experience.” He laughed. “
Le Domien
.”
    Fabrice asked, “What does Domien mean, Papa?”
    “Inhabitants of the DOM’s—the
départements d’outre-mer
.”
    “Go and get ready for bed, Fabrice.” Turning back to her husband, Anne Marie asked, “When will you know?”
    He shrugged.
    “Fabrice,” Anne Marie said, her voice suddenly stern, “I told you to get ready for bed.”
    “But.…” The fear of the evening and of the old woman had disappeared. “I haven’t eaten yet.” Fabrice had clambered onto the sofa and was now snuggling down against his father in front of the television.
    “Get ready for bed. This minute. And just for once, do as you’re told.”
    Jean Michel said, “He can sit with me for a few minutes.”
    “First he must get undressed and take a shower.”
    The young eyes looked at the television. Fabrice frowned in simulated concentration.
    “Hurry up, Fabrice.”
    “I’m clean, Maman. I was in the sea.”
    “Hurry up. You