by Karin Tanabe
“Did you tell her what to do with the names?” I’d asked Paul in a panic. “Did you suggest they kill them all?”
“No. No!” he’d replied. “I was told to give them to her and that she would deliver them safely to Victor. I didn’t even know she was his wife when we met.”
“It sounds like Victor Lesage then delivered those men a death sentence.”
Paul had looked away from me and I’d felt very sorry for him in that moment, something I thought I would never be able to feel for Sinh’s killer. This time it was he, not Victor, who had started the death march.
“I can find out more,” he’d said. “I need to.”
This morning it was Paul who contacted me.
“Ten known communists died. All from complications with malaria, Michelin is saying.”
When I relayed what Paul had found out to Khoi, he’d slammed the window that he was closing in the living room so hard that he shattered the pane.
“Marcelle,” he’d said, shaking the glass off his fingers. “I know you’ve been acting without me. Seeking your revenge in ways I would never agree to.”
“Perhaps,” I said cautiously, thinking of what I knew about Jessie that Khoi didn’t.
“You’ll get no more fights from me,” he said, brushing the glass from the windowsill with his sleeve. “Do whatever you see fit. Push them both off a cliff at this point for all I care.”
“Happily,” I’d responded.
Khoi headed to the kitchen for the bird’s nest soup, to taste the prized delicacy before it was served, and I walked to the living room door. I opened it and paused, breathing in the aroma of women’s perfumes. I wanted to take a moment to watch the guests before toppling back into the evening.
On such occasions, the house seemed even more awe-inspiring than the everyday version I had come to know, because it was filled not just with life but also with palpable envy. How, all the French wondered—some of them audibly—could a mite have so much more than they did? Then, after consuming glass after glass of the mite’s expensive champagne, they would have a change of heart and decide that instead of envying him, they should be applauding themselves, because obviously it was they, the French saviors, who had made this simple native man’s success possible. I had heard this particular mental progression from many of Khoi’s guests over the years. But they were wrong. It was despite the French that the Nguyens had succeeded. Everything they had was despite us.
I looked past the other guests in their colorful finery to where Jessie and Victor were seated on a deco couch recently shipped in from Paris. The upholstery was a deep blue cotton velvet, the cushions resting on glossy Macassar ebony wood. They had sunk comfortably into its depths and were busy sipping Veuve Clicquot and nibbling on the foie gras being passed to them every few minutes by Khoi’s pretty female servants. This evening, each servant wore an ao of buttle green, the signature color of Lua Nguyen Thanh.
Khoi had once told me that the secret to the color was that everyone thought it was emerald green, but it was actually bottle green. “As in, the exact color of a bottle of rice wine,” he’d said. “It’s just on silk, so it looks a little darker, giving it the richness of emerald with the hint of something familiar. It’s a secret mix of the elegant and the everyday.” The result was the best color green ever produced.
With their hair uniformly cut in a bunt, chin-length bob, set off by a single waved lock, the servants looked nearly identical. The silk-factory dolls, Khoi had once called them. “It’s ridiculous,” he’d said the first time I attended one of his parties. “But my father likes them to be half servants, half models for Nguyen silk. And it works. Every female guest commissions something before she leaves. Even the French ones.”
Khoi joined me a few minutes later, surprised to see me still by the door. I glanced at him but looked quickly back to the Lesages, sensing Victor’s eyes on us. I hadn’t seen him since the night we’d met in September, and in only two and a half months he seemed changed. His face still wore that imperious look, but also a shadow of fatigue. He looked older, not as fresh as he had that evening at the club. Perhaps ordering men’s deaths was taking its toll.
Jessie was not seated near me for the meal, but after we’d finished and everyone was adjourning to the sitting rooms or the outdoor terrace, she rushed up to me and took my arm. I could tell she was drunk.
I lit myself a cigarette and handed her one, too. She hesitated a moment and then began to smoke.
“Marcelle,” she cooed as we strolled outside. “This place. I assumed Khoi was well-off after seeing his boat, but this is something else altogether. It must be three times the size of our house.”
“Oh, no,” I said, inhaling deeply. “It can’t be more than double the size.” I looked at her, barely able to get the cigarette to her mouth. “I’m sorry I haven’t seen you since that boat trip. I hope all the nonsense that went on that night didn’t leave you disgusted with us.” We sat in planter’s chairs, and I inched mine closer to her, draping my arm behind her.
“Of course not,” she said breezily. “I suppose that’s just how things are here. In the Orient.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” I said.
“Red didn’t come tonight,” she said loudly, her words slurred.
“Red?” I replied, suppressing a grin. “Of course not. I thought it would be impertinent to invite him. What with your husband here and all. Would you like me to telephone him now? Shall I invite him to join us?”
“No, please don’t,” she said quickly. “I was just expecting him. You seem to always be with him.”
“I’m seldom with him,” I countered. “Where I always am is here.”
“That’s bold of you,” she said, looking around at the mixed group. “To host a party with your lover.” She rubbed her eyes, as if she couldn’t quite believe what was in front of her.
“Is it?” I said, noting the mascara that she’d smudged. “I suppose. But life must be lived boldly in the colony if one is to survive. If I were to sit at home, lamenting Arnaud while he jumped in and out of other women’s beds, I wouldn’t make it here. Khoi is my life vest.”
“And one with a palace,” said Jessie. “That’s convenient.”
I looked back at the house. Every light was on, and against the night sky, it was at its most transfixing.
“I like it best like this,” I said, admiring it for the thousandth time.
“So do I,” she replied, “and I’ve only seen it this once.”
I looked at her, her body sprawled awkwardly, her dress moving up her thighs. I had never seen her so intoxicated. “And I liked that bird-spit soup more than I thought I would,” she added.
“Bird’s nest,” I said, unable to suppress a laugh. “But bird’s spit is actually more accurate, since it’s made from the saliva of swiftlets. Very good for your health.”
She nodded, tried to sit up straighter, but fell off the end of the chair.
“Too much champagne,” she said, closing her eyes as she lay where she’d fallen.
I stood and helped her up, leaning her back again.
“It’s no wonder I don’t see you at the club so much anymore,” she said.
“I have been here quite a bit,” I admitted.
“The Officers’ Club,” she said, slurring her words. “We women all go there on our first night in Indochine.”
“Yes, we do,” I said. I should have had a servant fetch her some water, but I was enjoying observing her loss of control too much.
“I’d like to spend time with you there again,” she said. She opened her eyes and looked at me, her expression suddenly thoughtful. “You know what I’ve been thinking about? The day I met you. How we were scampering around behind the walls together at the club. To be honest, that was the most fun I’ve had in Hanoi.”
I stared at her, her beautiful face tilted back at an unnatural angle. I thought of what I knew about her childhood. Of her parents, and how hard she’d had to work to rid herself of them. I hadn
’t grown up with much more than she had, but I’d had good, loving parents who were determined to give me a better life.
Perhaps I could say one truthful thing to her on a night that was devoted to secrets.
“It was fun, wasn’t it?” I said. I reached out and touched her hand. “It’s amazing we kept quiet after seeing that minister,” I said, smiling at the memory.
“He was so fat,” said Jessie. “And so naked.”
We dissolved into laughter, and I poured us two more glasses of champagne.
“There’s really a lot to amuse us spoiled French women in Indochine,” I said. She was practically swaying when I handed her the glass. She certainly wouldn’t remember this conversation the next day. “It’s just that sometimes life gets in the way here.” I watched her as I said it.
“Is that what you call it?” she said, her eyes trying to focus on my face in the dim lantern light.
“Yes. Life. Real life. Because even though Indochine can feel like one long vacation, it’s not, is it? What happens here is just as important as what goes on in France or America.”
“I think so, too,” she said, closing her eyes. “But I like it here much more than in America.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said, exhaling my cigarette smoke into the black sky.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Jessie
November 16, 1933
“Did you say something?” I said, turning to the young native woman sitting next to me. Her name was Binh Tieu and her husband had made money in rice, she’d mentioned earlier. Or maybe it was coal. She smiled at me, her mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear her very well, so I leaned back and stared at her animated face. Khoi’s native friends were so different from the locals I saw in the streets, through the Delahaye’s windows. These people had lovely features and beautiful clothes and spoke unaccented French, unlike me. Eight years in France, and I still didn’t sound like a Parisian.
I was still in the same chair where I’d been talking to Marcelle, but I couldn’t remember whether that was just five minutes ago or an hour. The sky was still pitch black. It was hard to keep track of time when the sun disappeared. I remembered asking Marcelle about Red, but I couldn’t remember if he was at Khoi’s party or not. Perhaps that was why I was still sitting outside. To avoid him. I looked away from the pretty woman and saw a flash of light in the sky. It seemed too low to be lightning.
“I’m sorry,” I said, leaning toward her. “What did you say?” Binh was wearing a short-haired fur jacket over her silver dress, even though it was a warm evening. I reached out to touch it but pulled my fingers away as soon as they brushed it. The pelt of the dead animal felt exactly like Lucie’s hair when it needed to be combed. “I think I drank too much,” I said, balling my hand up into a fist in my lap. “I need some air.” I stood up to walk outside, then realized I was already there. “I’m sorry. How embarrassing,” I said, falling back down on the chair.
“No need to be embarrassed, my dear,” she said. “All we do in Indochine is drink too much. Keeps the malaria away.”
“Does it? I haven’t come down with malaria yet, so I suppose it works.” I put my hands on my stomach, which felt like a churning car engine. “I feel utterly rotten,” I said, the lightning flashing near us again. “I think I’m going to be sick. I need to move inside.”
“Why don’t you put your feet in the pool for a while?” she suggested. “The water is freezing. It will sober you right up.”
She swirled her drink, which was dark and on ice, and pointed. Lanterns lined both sides of the long, rectangular pool, their tiny candles producing surprisingly large flames.
I contemplated the pool for a moment, but knew I was too drunk to walk over to it without stumbling.
“I can’t—” I said, turning back to her and gasping when I saw a flash of exposed skin. “What are you doing?” I hissed, reaching for the woman’s arm. She had taken off her coat and was unzipping the back of her dress. As she reached her right arm behind her, I saw blood dripping down her forearm. A stream of blood.
“You’re bleeding!” I exclaimed, trying to get to her, to help her, but my body felt so heavy, I could hardly move. When I managed to stand, I collapsed onto her chair, but I immediately felt that my feet were bare.
I glanced down and saw I’d kicked off my shoes. I looked at the tops of my feet and screamed, leaping up with legs that felt detached from my body. My feet were covered in tiny black ants.
“We have to move from here,” I shouted. The blood had dripped from the woman’s arms to her dress, which was only half on.
She was crying. Her black hair, so elegantly styled when I’d sat down, was plastered to her cheeks with tears and sweat.
“I’ll get my husband,” I said, trying to put her dress back over her bare shoulders. “I’ll find him!” I assured her as she pulled away from me.
“Jessie!” I heard her scream back at me, her arms around my shoulders. “Jessie!” she screamed again. She was shaking me and trying to detach me, begging me to stop.
“Jessie!” I heard a man’s voice yell. I stopped moving and looked up. Behind me, grabbing for me, was Victor.
“Jessie,” he repeated, more quietly. “What are you doing to this woman? Are you all right?
“I am so terribly sorry, madame,” I heard Victor say as his hand on my shoulder got firmer.
“Victor,” I said, trying to make out his face in the dark. “You have to help her. Help Binh. She’s bleeding!”
“What are you talking about?” He sounded terrified. “You’re screaming. We could hear you in the house. And then I rush out to the terrace to see what is going on, and you’re attacking this woman! What’s wrong?” He gripped my arms. “Are you drunk? Are you sick?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I reached out for him, although I couldn’t see him well. But I could feel his hands on my body and his anger rolling over me.
“We need to leave,” he said. “Everyone is still there, staring at us.” He looked toward the terrace, and I tried to follow his gaze, but all I saw was a sea of color.
“I’ll say you’re very ill,” he said tightly. “We’ll go around the side of the house, not through it. You can give your apologies another day.” He let go of me a moment and turned to the Indochinese woman.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did she hurt you?”
“She’s bleeding!” I called out. “And she was taking off her dress.”
“I’m fine,” I heard her say. “Just help your wife.”
I felt Victor’s hands go around my waist, hoisting me off the chair. Then I didn’t feel anything else at all.
TWENTY-NINE
Jessie
November 17, 1933
“Victor, for the hundredth time, I am sure she needed help,” I said, throwing myself back on my pillows. “I was trying to help her! I’m sorry I embarrassed you. I’m sorry I embarrassed myself. But I am sure she was bleeding. Not just a tiny cut, it was gushing down her arms.”
“You’re still not understanding,” said Victor, his voice rising. “That’s the problem. I don’t care about the embarrassment, Jessie. We’ve lived through worse, haven’t we?”
I looked at him and didn’t answer.
“What I’m concerned about is you. This … psychotic episode that you had. And how you attacked that woman, just like—” He paused and looked at me very seriously. “Just like … before. It’s as if you and the reality we are living in just splintered.”
“I don’t know. But I believed that she desperately needed my help. I remember seeing blood.” I heard my voice cracking.
“I don’t know what to think,” he said. He sat slumped, as if exhausted. “You’ve been healthy for so long, and now this. I just don’t understand it.”
He would be far more terrified if he knew how many times I’d experienced gaps in my memory since we’d been in Indochine. My mind had felt unsteady almost since we’d arrived.
“I’m the one who’s scared,�
�� I said, closing my eyes. I willed my brain to remember the events at Khoi’s house. Attacking that woman, who in fact was not bleeding or half naked, according to Victor. Yet I knew what I’d seen.
I had a strong recollection of eating dinner at a massive, dark red lacquered table and talking to someone about bird’s nest soup. Another Annamite woman, perhaps, but not Binh. I remembered the taste of the soup, like seawater. The slippery texture. How the liquid seemed to coat my tongue even after I’d swallowed it. Someone near me had explained that it took over a month to make that soup and that it included bird droppings as well as saliva. That I hadn’t forgotten. And I could picture the large house illuminated like a palace floating in the countryside. But nothing was as vibrant as my conversation with Binh.
Past that, I had very little memory of coming home, or of the nightmares Victor claimed I’d had. I’d woken up four hours ago as my stomach lurched violently. I blamed the alcohol and the exotic soup. Victor blamed my mind.
My stomach was still in knots, and my skin was hot and prickling as Victor spoke. I picked at my itching hand, willing the skin to just fall off.
“I want to fix you, Jessie,” he said, his usually impeccably coiffed hair falling in his face, his blue eyes looking lighter than usual, as if my behavior was causing his blood to drain. “I do not want you to suffer the same fate as others,” he said. He meant his father. “But I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m sure I’ll feel better soon,” I said, trying to find some optimism.
“No,” Victor said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but there’s now a doctor downstairs to see you—”
“Victor, no!” I said, the tears immediately welling up in my eyes. “You know I—”
“I’ve waited hours to call her here,” he said loudly. “She’s been ready to see you since early this morning, but I wanted you calm before she did. This feels like the right time.”
“I’m certainly not calm now!” I shouted back. I could not see a doctor. I knew what kind of doctor Victor had called. She would want to do a lot more than check my pulse and have me swallow an aspirin.