A Hundred Suns

by Karin Tanabe

  Trieu watched as I rested my chin against my chest, trying to get the ceiling to cease spinning. “Lanh said he was a communist. A very active one. Running a large underground cell. That he’d been imprisoned before.”

  “Is that a death sentence?” I asked, lifting my head. “Talking about something like that?”

  “Of course,” she said. She looked at me as I lay there still holding the cup but not drinking from it. She sat on the edge of the bed and mimed tipping it back, encouraging me to try it. I took a small gulp. It was hot and bitter, as I’d expected, but not unpalatable.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, handing her the cup when I had emptied it. “Why should it be a death sentence?”

  “Identifying as a communist isn’t a death sentence. But being an active communist is. Being vocal, trying to turn other men into communists, too. Especially young men. That there are certainly consequences for. We are all aware of it.”

  “Is that what he was doing?” I asked, thinking about the problems that had occurred on our plantations in the last six years.

  “I think so. He’s been in the newspapers before. I don’t know that much about it, but the police are perhaps more fearful of communists now because the party unified three years ago and is more threatening. The French and the emperor in Annam, Bao Dai, they aren’t happy either.”

  “The French like the emperor very much, no?”

  “Yes, they do. He is practically French himself. He went to your country when he was nine years old and has spent most of his life there. Everything he does is in agreement with the French. Some say that that’s why they continue to allow him, the Nguyen dynasty, to keep some power.” She turned the empty cup around in her hand, then placed it on my nightstand. “More than a third of the country has that last name. Nguyen. Almost none of them are related to the emperor.”

  “Do you like being French?” I asked Trieu, watching as she fussed around quietly with my blankets and sheets. “Living in a protectorate that feels controlled by the French, I mean. Do you mind that?”

  “I enjoy it,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “I attended a very good school here. With financial assistance, of course. I speak two languages now, rather well, I think. I have a nice job. If my education had been left in the hands of my people, I would not have received one. You French care more about the education of girls than we do. Much more.”

  “I certainly do,” I said.

  “Today was very unfortunate. Lanh is embarrassed that he wasn’t there to help you earlier.”

  “It wasn’t at all his fault,” I said.

  “Still, we all want you to recover quickly. And you shouldn’t worry too much about politics,” she said. “It’s not good for the stomach.”

  “I’ll try not to,” I said honestly.

  “Just don’t become a communist,” Trieu said, smiling.

  “Sound advice,” I replied, starting to find my strength.

  “You have a visitor downstairs,” Trieu said when she’d finished smoothing the bed. “A woman named Marcelle de Fabry. I told her she shouldn’t wait, that I wasn’t sure how long you would be resting, but she insisted. Would you like to see her, or shall I send her off?”

  “Marcelle is here?” I said, surprised. I knew I looked and felt a mess, but seeing her could shift my day for the better. Put today’s unwelcome episode behind me.

  “It was nice of her to stay,” I said, pushing my covers back. “I hope she wasn’t waiting long.”

  “An hour or so,” said Trieu. “Lucie was here for a short time and spoke to her. She was very polite. And we’ve given her plenty to eat.”

  “Oh, good. Then yes, please send Madame de Fabry upstairs,” I said, feeling more stable and refreshed already. “But please give me my hairbrush and dressing gown first.”

  Trieu helped me cover up and arranged my hair herself.

  “I’ll bring her here then. Your friend,” she said, and left.

  * * *

  After an hour of gossiping, with Marcelle doing her best to cheer me up, she walked over to look at the photographs on the table that Trieu had rearranged, her elegant green silk dress flowing around her. She ran her hand over the frames, then picked up the one of Lucie. “I’m so happy that I met your daughter,” she said. “She’s a very polite child. And such a beauty. She looks like Victor, doesn’t she? The lovely hair, and the cheekbones already so prominent. Striking on such a young child.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, watching as she studied the picture. “I’m glad you were able to meet her, too. And that she was polite. Sadly, the only thing Lucie inherited from me are my dark eyes. Pity, considering Victor’s.”

  “Oh, she’ll survive,” said Marcelle, fluttering her lashes over her own hazel ones.

  “That picture was taken last year,” I said. “She was photographed by Henri Cartier-Bresson, a good friend of Victor’s mother, when we were on a trip to Marseille. He had just returned from the Ivory Coast and was recuperating from something or other. But he was good company. He’s quite in demand in Paris now. The photo was a present from Victor’s mother to Lucie for her seventh birthday, not long before we left for Indochine. It should really be in her room, but I’m very fond of it.”

  “I see why,” Marcelle said. “And looks change. Perhaps she will look more like you in her next portrait.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, leaning back on the bed, the strange memories of the morning receding. Marcelle was light and witty, two things that Victor wasn’t particularly. He was thoughtful and smart, which I appreciated, but I needed a counterbalance every now and then.

  “Do you and Victor plan to have more children?” Marcelle asked brightly.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, feeling a flash of panic, as I always did when asked that question. “Perhaps. But we are happy just with Lucie at the moment.”

  “But you said you’re thirty-one, didn’t you? Is there much time left?” she asked, turning toward me.

  “I hope so,” I said, my rote answer.

  “Was it difficult for you to have your daughter?” Marcelle pursued, turning around to put the picture back. “Is that why you only have one?”

  “No, with Lucie, we had no problem conceiving,” I said. Marcelle turned back around and looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to go on. I didn’t.

  “That’s good to hear,” she said after a moment’s pause. “I’ve heard some terrifying stories of giving birth. And then after birth, when the doctors and nurses are gone—I’ve been told that can be even worse.”

  “After birth?” I said, my stomach lurching.

  Marcelle nodded and came to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning back on her hands, her thin arms rigid behind her, as if we were two young girls gossiping in boarding school.

  “My mother had problems after the birth of her first child, my oldest sister,” she said. “She explained to me when I married Arnaud that things can be difficult once a baby is born. How a woman can lose a bit of herself, start to feel more sadness than usual. In the worst instances, a mother’s sanity can completely go. There was a horrible story last summer that was even printed in the newspapers here. A woman in Lyon killed her two-week-old baby, strangled her when she wouldn’t stop crying. Infanticide, they called it. Do you remember that?”

  I shook my head no. “Did it happen to your mother? Some sort of difficulty like that?” I asked, my voice too soft, overcompensating for the level of panic I suddenly felt. This was a very different feeling from the emotion of the morning.

  “Not to that extreme, but she did feel an overwhelming sadness,” Marcelle said breezily. “That’s what she called it. But it happened only with her first child, my sister Alice, and only for a month or so. Of course, she had four more of us after Alice, poor lamb, so that probably affected her sanity permanently. But you just have the one, and she seems quite manageable, so no wonder you’re doing fine.”

  “Yes, thankfully,” I said, trying my best to smile. “I am the oldest of eigh
t, so I am in no hurry to have a large family.”

  “I can imagine,” said Marcelle, looking at me and smiling sweetly.

  I moved my thumb to my index finger, but my ring wasn’t on. I reached up and touched my ears. My earrings had been taken out, too. Trieu must have removed everything while I was asleep. I glanced quickly at my nightstand and saw that she had placed all the jewelry there on a little porcelain tray. I grabbed the ring and put it on my finger, feeling Marcelle’s eyes on me.

  “I don’t like to take it off,” I said, putting the small earrings on, too. “I will have to explain that to Trieu. My servant.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Marcelle. “All these servants need a bit more training when there’s a new family. Even if they were very good with the last.”

  I put my hands under the covers and sat back again.

  “I’m sure you are a wonderful mother to Lucie,” said Marcelle, looking at the picture again. “And if you did decide to have another child, and something ever did go wrong for you, the world is very modern now. We have something to help fix everything these days, don’t we? Even women’s trouble like that.”

  “Indeed,” I said, looking at the way she was running her thumb rhythmically over the bedspread as she spoke. It was very much like how I was touching my ring under the covers.

  “I don’t know what kind of care is available here in Indochine,” Marcelle went on. “I imagine most local women simply have to deal with these realities in a primitive way. But for us French—or almost French,” she said, grinning, “things are better. My mother is very well-informed on these developments, as she is constantly pressing me to have a baby, even though I’m so far away now. My sister Alice worried when she had her first son, because of the way our mother suffered. There was talk of sending her to Switzerland, just to be safe. Leaders in such care, she said. And that’s not so far from France, is it?”

  She stood up and stretched, glancing at the portrait of Lucie again. “Anyway, I don’t know why I’ve been going on so much. I suppose I always enjoy talking about such things with women who already have children, as I consider taking the plunge myself. I will be thirty in two short years, after all. How terrifying. I remember when I turned twenty, it rattled me. And back then I was sure that thirty meant that a woman was practically deceased. Turns out we still look all right at this advanced age, don’t we?” She turned back to me and smiled. “Anyway, I’m sure Victor would want you to return to Paris if you were to become pregnant again. He seems very protective of you. You’re quite lucky.”

  “Switzerland?” I asked after too long a pause. I knew it was too long. I shouldn’t have said anything. I should just have nodded and changed the subject. But I wasn’t myself, I was a shaken version of me, and it tumbled out. Three syllables fell out of my mouth, and as soon as they did, I knew it was a mistake.

  “Oh, yes,” Marcelle said, her expression turning sunnier. “You know the Swiss. So advanced with medicines and therapies. We should probably all be giving birth there, instead of under a bush in Indochine.”

  “It’s a different experience for everyone, I imagine, but I love being a mother,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to keep my voice steady. “And I’m sure when the time comes, you will, too. Even if you have to give birth under a bush,” I added, forcing a smile. If there was a moment not to show how rattled I was, it was now.

  Marcelle went to close the window, saying something about the heat. As she did, she changed the subject, telling me a funny story of her early courting days with Arnaud in Paris.

  I watched her carefully as she walked around my room, pulling the curtains closed, giving them several tugs so no light shone through, chatting easily as she did.

  Something in her carriage, her very upright posture, her tense arms as she pulled that material, struck me as confident. Too confident. Too rigid. Her body was different than it was the night we spent laughing together at the club. Her thumb, moving back and forth as if to the beat of a song as she sat next to me, had been a hint, but now, with the way she moved her shoulders, her legs, the quickness of her voice as she spoke, it suddenly became obvious.

  She knew.

  When Marcelle turned back, her posture had changed. The tension in her body was gone. She’d ridden the wave of adrenaline and managed to beat it down in a matter of seconds.

  “I should be off,” she said, straightening her dress. “I don’t want to keep you up. That is, if you really are feeling better. You are, aren’t you?”

  “Much,” I said, smiling, the corners of my mouth strained. “I’m so lucky you decided to call on me today. You helped me take my mind off the difficult morning.”

  “I think we’re rather lucky that we found each other,” she said, coming to kiss my cheek. “Send a note over when you’re fully recovered. We will go to the club and wreak havoc. Perhaps we can stow away and spend the night. Find out what really happens between the restricted hours of two and seven in the morning.”

  “I would love that,” I said, managing a laugh.

  After Marcelle had left, I counted backward from one hundred, slowly, trying to calm myself, waiting to hear the click of the front door. As soon as I did, I rang for Trieu, who appeared in the doorway seconds later.

  “I need to speak to Victor, at once,” I said. “Please send Lanh to find him. He must be done with the governor-general by now. He may have already left for the plantations, but I hope he hasn’t.”

  She nodded, two strands of her hair out of place. She caught me looking at them and tucked them behind her ears. “I’m sorry, madame, the hallway windows are open and the wind is picking up.”

  “Of course,” I said, instinctively trying to glance outside to see how windy it was, but all my curtains were drawn. “Just please fetch Victor quickly. I’m afraid I’m feeling ill again.”

  When Victor rushed into the bedroom an hour later, he took off his suit, draped it over a chair, and lay down in bed next to me, even though it was the middle of the afternoon.

  “I had no idea that the policeman I—you—were supposed to meet would be bringing a dead communist with him,” he said apologetically. “I suppose I don’t know how things are done here just yet. I would never have sent you if I knew—”

  “It’s not that,” I said, leaning into him, my weak voice almost disappearing before it reached his ear. And it wasn’t. Everything that had happened on the street this morning was practically forgotten.

  I pushed back the covers and stood up, gesturing for Victor to follow me. Together, we walked into the bathroom and I pulled the door shut. I turned the water on in the tub, which came out in a loud rush, and looked at my husband, finally letting the tears fill my eyes. I cupped my hand over my mouth to stop the sound of myself screaming. He reached for me, his face flush with concern, holding me up, and I moved my hands over his right ear instead.

  “Marcelle de Fabry knows about Switzerland,” I whispered, my hands shaking. “She knows.”

  SIX

  Marcelle

  September 5, 1933

  Switzerland. It had been foolish for me to say anything, but I couldn’t help myself. I’ve always been impulsive. These days that was a dangerous thing to be, but there it was—there I was—unable to keep control when it was most important to do just that.

  I poured myself a glass of water from a crystal pitcher and looked out at the brick terrace where I was sitting. Our home was much smaller than the Lesages’ enormous one. The van Dampierres had five children; for them the large house on Rue de la Chaux made sense. For the Lesages, it was absurd. The Lesages. The Michelin Lesages. I leaned back in my chair and smiled, thinking about the way the muscles in her neck had tensed as I’d let it slip. Switzerland. I had almost laughed when I uttered it the first time but had managed to suppress the urge, smiling idiotically instead, though she didn’t seem to notice, too caught up in her own distress as soon as I pronounced the word.

  It was ill-considered. Stupid, really, but I had to do something to sm
ash her smugness, and that certainly did the trick. There she was lying in her palatial bedroom, propped up in her bed like a little marquise, emeralds strewn by her side, her blond hair, far too long for her age, arranged around her face like a halo. As soon as I walked into the room, I wanted to rip out those smooth golden tresses. But instead I said the one thing that I knew would shake her to her core, and that was even better.

  Months before Jessie set one little foot in Indochine, I knew about Switzerland. I knew about every dark period of her life, but I knew that one incident had disturbed her like none of the others. That it still had the power to shake her.

  Money was the grease that kept my world in Indochine on track, and six months ago, money helped me get inside the mind of Jessie Lesage. A picture of the Lesages had run in La Revue Franco-Annamite, the French colonials’ newspaper of choice, when it was announced that Victor would be coming to Indochine for an indefinite period, the first in his family to bother setting foot in the colony for more than a few days. A real honor for us all. I immediately clipped it out and sent it to the best private investigator in Paris. He was a quiet but thorough man, I was told, someone that a former neighbor of ours had used when she was sure her husband was having not only an affair but an affair with a man. He had been.

  I needed to find out everything I could about Victor and Jessie Lesage, I’d written to the investigator. Payment would be generous.

  A month later, he’d responded. Victor Lesage was interesting by birth, but seemed to be scandal-free of late, having given up a rather fast lifestyle after he married. His parents were divorced, and his father, a bit of an eccentric, perhaps even a bit mad, lived in Marseille. But it didn’t much matter since his mother was the Michelin, anyway. Victor, he said, was just a cog in the family company, though. Not remarkable, not unremarkable, just there. After tailing him and speaking with the utmost discretion to old school friends, the investigator found no traces of affairs, money mishandling, gambling, homosexuality, illness, drug use, or anything else untoward. But he still requested a large sum of money because what he’d found out about Jessie was worth it, he stated. He’d been able to track down a doctor she’d been seeing weekly for the last seven years. “Weekly,” he’d underlined. The doctor was a psychiatrist, and the investigator had managed to pay him in exchange for Jessie’s files, including her medical history. It was “an abundance of riches,” he’d written.