Another Sun Read Online Free Page B

the girl.
    At this time of the morning, the Pâtisserie Prudence—the letters in red and white paint above the entrance—was hot despite the large revolving fan that stood on the refrigerator. Paper napkins fluttered on the bamboo tables when they were caught in the artificial breeze.
    “Any fresh juice, mademoiselle?” Anne Marie enquired.
    The girl shook her head. A crescent of starched cotton was pinned into her hair. The hair had been straightened but a couple of unruly strands rose from behind the white cotton. She wore pink lipstick. She held an order pad in one hand, a pencil in the other. She did not look at Anne Marie or Trousseau but stared out into the street as if fascinated by the padlocked bicycle.
    Then she shrugged. “Only cane juice.”
    Anne Marie said, “Two glasses, please, with ice and a slice of lime. And a couple of cakes.”
    The girl nodded and moved away, scarcely lifting her feet. The rubber sandals flapped against the floor. Her dark legs were badlyblemished. Anne Marie turned to Trousseau. “There is never any fresh juice.”
    “It’s all imported. Madame le juge, if you want fresh juice—real fresh fruit juice—you must come out and visit me in the country. Guava, passion fruit, bananas, pineapple, star apple, custard fruit.” He gave a short laugh of pride. “I grow them all.”
    A few minutes later the girl placed the drinks on the table.
    “Visit me. Bring your husband and come to Trois-Rivières.”
    The girl left a piece of paper, torn from her pad, beneath the plate and returned to her stool behind the counter, where she continued to stare at the mid-morning sunshine and the bicycle.
    “I thought you lived in Pointe-à-Pitre, Monsieur Trousseau.”
    “On the weekends, I go down to Trois-Rivières. I like to work in the garden.” His face suddenly darkened, and he spoke with unwarranted vehemence, as if in answer to a personal attack. “I’m an Indian, madame le juge. I am not like the blacks. I’m not ashamed to work with my hands, to get them dirty turning the soil. For me, slavery is nothing to be ashamed of. The blacks don’t want to get their hands dirty. They don’t want to work in the fields because they think it’s beneath their dignity. That’s why they all come flocking to Pointe-à-Pitre.” He added, “Just because I have a black man’s name and because my skin is dark, madame le juge, don’t think I’m afraid of hard work.”
    She gave him a broad, friendly smile. “Would you care for some
doukoun
cake?”
    “You whites think we’re all the same. The only thing that counts for you is the color of our skin.” He stroked his moustache. His eyes seemed unnaturally large. “I’ve worked in France, madame le juge, and I own a flat in the Seventeenth Arrondissement. Not in the suburbs of Paris where all the Arabs and the foreigners hang out. In the Seventeenth Arrondissement. One of my daughters goes to boarding school in Saint-Germain-en-Laye. You think I have to stay in Guadeloupe?”
    Anne Marie said nothing.
    Trousseau picked up his glass and drank. “If France is forced into giving independence to Guadeloupe, believe me, I’m going to be on the first plane out. If ever the MANG.…”
    The girl at the counter turned her head.
    “If ever the independence people, the
Mouvement d’Action des Nationalistes Guadeloupéens
, get their way, please don’t worry about me. I don’t give a damn.” He laughed through his nose; his voice was angry. “Like Haiti, with Papa Doc and
Tontons Macoutes
running around with machine guns—that’s what this island’ll be like.” He pointed at Anne Marie. “You think my family will want to stay on here when the French move out?”
    Anne Marie wiped her fingers on the paper serviette.
    “You know my wife is a highly respected tax inspector? And you know she is white?” The accusatory eyes looked at Anne Marie, waiting for an answer. “Highly respected.”
    Anne Marie rubbed at the back of her hand, then