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“A man must have his self-respect.”
    Anne Marie did not reply, but blinked away a hot tear.

10
Morne-à-l’Eau
    They entered Morne-à-l’Eau. The flamboyants were not in blossom; pods hung idly against the empty branches.
    Anne Marie parked near the main square.
    “Wait in the car.”
    “I don’t like it when you leave me alone.” Fabrice pouted in self pity. “You always take ages.”
    “I’ll only be a minute.”
    “You always say that.”
    “If Papa had come to the beach with us, you would be in bed by now.”
    Fabrice retorted, “Papa always takes me with him.”
    “Papa doesn’t have to ask people a lot of questions. He’s not a magistrate.”
    “When we went to see Auntie, I was as quiet as a mouse.”
    “Auntie?” Anne Marie asked, but chose not to wait for a reply.
    “If you come with me you must be quiet as a mouse.”
    Fabrice nodded sagely. “I promise.”
    Stone benches, a fountain and elegant lampposts that could have graced any provincial French town. Evening was falling. The lights had been turned on, their tinted blue gaining in intensity against the encroaching darkness. As Anne Marie climbed out of the car, she caught the wafting odor of ylang-ylang.
    Fabrice clambered out beside her. There was still sand in his hair. He grinned happily.
    She tried not to smile and for a moment stood quite still, breathing in the luxurious scent. She was happy to be where she was. Then the scent was lost to the smell of car fumes and the evening cooking from a nearby restaurant.
    Music came from a record store—a hut whose walls had been painted red, green and yellow. A boy with an army beret and Rastafarian locks was swaying to the rhythm. The whites of his eyes caught the light of the street lamps. A toothless girl stood beside him. She was pregnant. Orange peel, little islands of intense whiteness, lay on the sidewalk.
    “Madame Suez-Panama, please.”
    The policeman wore a kepi. He looked at Anne Marie with watery eyes and hesitated before speaking. His breath was tinged with rum. The directions he gave her were long, unclear and unhelpful.
    Anne Marie thanked him and went down the side street that led toward the market. The smell of rotting fruit was strong here and the air was humid. Her body was damp with perspiration.
    “I’m looking for Madame Suez-Panama’s house.”
    A man in besmirched overalls and a peaked cap—the peak the wrong way and pointing down his neck—stared at Anne Marie and Fabrice from the far side of the road. A monkey wrench peeked from the pocket on the side of his leg.
    “I’m looking for Madame Suez-Panama,” Anne Marie repeated, squeezing her son’s hand in hers.
    The man pointed. He gave a large grin and automatically she smiled.
    The man winked at Fabrice.
    The house was on the far side of the market. It was colonial in style, part brick and part wood. A rusting enamel advertisement for Alsace potash—a stork standing on one leg—was smeared with the black and grey stains of frequent rain.
    Anne Marie entered the doorway and found herself in a cool hall.
    “Anybody home?”
    Wooden steps and a wrought iron banister led upward through the planks of the ceiling. The steps were steep and creaked unhappily as Anne Marie started to climb. Fabrice followed her, his hand clutching hers.
    Anne Marie climbed the last stair, slightly out of breath, with Fabrice close against her leg.
    A large room.
    A feeble breath of air rustled at the hanging potted plant. A smell of moth balls and kerosene. Circles of light came through the half-closed blinds, cast by the street lamps.
    “What do you want?”
    Startled, Anne Marie spun round.

11
Witch
    The white head was lower than the backrest of the wicker armchair.
    “Who are you?”
    The woman was dressed in a cotton nightdress. There was a scarf about her neck and a blanket over her knees and chest. Slippers on her feet.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “What do you want?”
    “I am looking for Madame Suez-Panama.”
    The voice