by Karin Tanabe
“Yes, that’s it,” she said, triumphant. “A dossier from him.”
“That’s impossible,” I said, thinking of the countless hours I had spent in that man’s office.
“It’s not impossible,” she said. “As you said, money can make anything happen. She purchased it.”
“When?” I croaked out.
“I don’t know. Before you arrived. Before I started to work in this house.”
“You only worked for Louise for a short time. Did you come just for this? Just to poison me and get me to return to France?”
“Something like that,” she said, keeping her eyes averted. “It’s what my brother would have wanted.”
She looked out at the lake, and I followed her gaze.
“You have the best view of it from here,” I said after a moment’s silence.
“One of the perks of living in the attic,” she said. “The only one.”
“How long have you lived here, Trieu?” I asked. “In the yellow house.”
“Four months before you arrived,” she said without looking at me.
“So Marcelle was plotting all this for that long?”
“I don’t know,” she said, still speaking at the wall.
“Trieu, you do know.”
“It’s been far more than four months,” she said finally.
“But we only had six months’ notice that we were coming to the colony.”
“You do understand that Michelin is more than you and your heartless husband, right? You are just little spokes that make the tires spin. Marcelle has hated Michelin long before she ever heard you were coming to the colony. She’s hated you since Cao Van Sinh died. Since your family ordered his death.”
“Who is Sinh Cao?” I said, growing more confused.
“Why don’t you ask your husband,” she said, her chin raised again. “He knows. His cousin Anne-Marie de la Chaume was in love with him. And she was Marcelle’s very best friend. Marcelle and Khoi, everything they have done in Indochine, all of it has been for them.”
Anne-Marie de la Chaume and Cao Van Sinh. I had never heard those names before.
“I’ll ask Victor,” I said earnestly. “I will. But what I don’t understand, and need you, not Victor, to answer, is how Marcelle tricked Louise van Dampierre into hiring you?”
“Tricked!” she exclaimed, turning to me with an incredulous look on her face. “Louise van Dampierre was Marcelle’s closest friend in the colony. It was easy to get me into this house.”
“That poison. That ky nham. Is it also in Marcelle’s house?” I asked.
“I doubt it.”
“Put it there,” I said, pointing to her dresser. “Now.”
She opened the bottom drawer and took out a small cotton bag.
“I thought it would be silk,” I said, grabbing it from her hand. I moved it between my fingers and then handed it back to her. “Marcelle’s. Now,” I ordered. “If she’s home, find a way to get her out.”
“She’s not home,” said Trieu.
“Where is she, then?” I said.
“Where she always is.”
“At Khoi’s palace.”
Trieu nodded and put the cotton bag in her pocket.
“Did she break my ring?” I said, the bag jogging my memory and pitching me back to my nightmare on the boat. “Did she smash my emerald ring when I was on the Nguyens’ boat?”
“I don’t know,” said Trieu.
“Well, I do,” I said, making for the door.
“She knows about the men,” Trieu called after me as my hand turned the doorknob. “On the list in Haiphong. She knows you killed them, and so do I.”
“I didn’t kill them,” I said without looking at her.
“But you didn’t save them, either. That’s the same thing.”
I turned toward her slowly.
“You don’t know what happens on those plantations,” she said.
“I do. Like you said, I was there. I spent several days,” I countered.
She shook her head and laughed, clearly laughing at me.
“You saw what you imagine is the worst of it, but death is not the cruelest fate. It’s the daily abuse, physical and psychological, that kills most of the men—and women. You glimpsed the face of death, but you didn’t see the everyday sins.”
I thought of my own family, the piling on of constant abuse that was far more damaging than the more occasional blow to the head, and didn’t reply.
“Before he died, my brother told me everything. In the fields, in the hospitals, in their dormitories, women are touched constantly. Defiled. Their children don’t go to school. They can’t read. They never see their parents. The ones who are Lucie’s age speak like babies. As for the men, they’re nothing but mules for you, for the Michelins. They die like rodents, but with less mercy than a trap. Maybe you didn’t bother to look past what your husband showed you, but you should have. I’ve observed you closely these past months, even if you didn’t bother to look at me. You’re not one of these French idiots. You have intuition. You could have seen what was right in front of you. You just didn’t care to look.”
“Trieu, I’m sorry. I understand your hatred for that overseer. For the whole Michelin family. If I were—”
“For Michelin! How self-centered can you possibly be?” she said, stepping closer to me. “Actually, don’t bother with an answer. I’ve seen it for myself.”
It was awful to think about having been watched with such judgment all these months. It was almost as nauseating as the rest of her actions. Suddenly, the beautiful yellow house that I so adored felt like it was a glass house, completely transparent.
“That man, that company, killed my brother,” she spat out. “But my world has been much bigger than that for years. I don’t just hide inside like you and think about myself all day. I think about my people, my country. Because this is my country. Not yours.”
“Trieu, I’m not even—”
“Yes, I know. You’re not even French. You can be whatever it is that you are, but I am Annamite. I am Northern. And I am going to help lead this country when we finally rid it of the foreign pest. Rid it of you.”
“You and the communist party.”
“Yes,” she said with pride. “It is a place for women. And I suppose the party really has your family to thank for my loyalty. You all brutally killed my brother and I learned to control my anger through political agitation.”
“And aren’t you lucky to have Marcelle’s money to pay your dues,” I countered, leaning back on the wall.
“I am lucky,” she said quietly. “And as she is far more generous than your husband, I’m doing much more than paying my dues. You believed my life was a simple one. I was just a peasant sweeping your floors and powdering your nose. But I am so much more. Our cells are multiplying, and some of that is thanks to me. Your simple servant girl.”
I looked at her beautiful face, and suddenly felt a strange pang that I would never see it again.
“Trieu. Is that your real name?” I asked.
“No,” she said, glaring at me.
“What is it, then?”
“It’s Hoa,” she said proudly. “Like the flower.”
I nodded, closing the door quietly behind me.
THIRTY-FOUR
Jessie
November 20, 1933
I looked up at Khoi’s dazzling white house and blinked. It was truly a storybook place, especially in the late-afternoon light. Lanh had driven off, as I’d asked him to. When I felt brave enough, I started to knock on the front door. Loudly.
No one came, but Trieu had said she was sure Marcelle was there. She had to be watching me.
I went around the side of the house, remembering the large doors in the back.
I stopped when I saw the chair where I’d been sitting with the indigène woman the night of Khoi’s party. The blood on her arms, her bare skin, it had all seemed so real to me. But it wasn’t.
The back doors weren’t open,
but they were made of glass. I would be impossible to ignore.
Suddenly, I thought about how many opportunities there had been to poison me. Trieu, of course, had access to me every day, and I’d grown very fond of the morning tea she served me, but there was also Marcelle. I thought of the cigarettes she had handed me when we’d been together, the opium we’d smoked prepared by Khoi’s servants. Trieu certainly had not acted alone.
I heard a sound that broke my reverie. Marcelle was at the glass doors, looking out at me. She slowly opened them and stepped out but didn’t approach me. I ran to her before she could go back inside.
“I’m sorry to come here,” I said, panting, my eyes moving rapidly back and forth. “I’m just so sick. I’m … I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Come,” she said, gesturing to the pool, which was still uncovered despite the recent cooler temperatures. “Lie back here,” she said, sitting down on one of the chaise longues. “You’ll feel better.”
I shook my head, kicked off my shoes, and sat by the pool, putting my bare feet in the water.
She looked at me oddly, then sat next to me, keeping her body away from the edge. She leaned back on her arms and watched me. I wish I knew the last things she’d said to me as a friend. But I never would. After today, I would never see her again.
“I was out of town, and I, I’m not sure why but I started to feel so ill. I didn’t know where to go.” I threw myself to the ground and swatted at the sky.
“Are you feeling any better?” she said, eyeing me cautiously. “This isn’t the same illness that you had at Khoi’s little get-together, is it?”
How rich. A party with hundreds of dollars’ worth of champagne and piles of steamed lobsters and imported caviar was a “little get-together.” Some communist sympathizer she was.
“I don’t feel any better,” I said, putting my hands on either side of my head. I pushed them against my skull and then started hitting my head, hard. “It’s here. It’s all here. It’s a mess. And I just don’t know why.” I started to shake.
“Do you need a doctor?” she said as I met her gaze. Her voice was full of concern, but her eyes were laughing at me. I could finally see it. All this time, what I’d taken for joy, for mirth, for a sparkling personality, was actually muffled laughter, at my expense.
No longer.
“No,” I said, my expression abruptly hardening, my voice suddenly clear. “You know, I do feel better. I actually feel fine.” I placed my hands in my lap and smiled.
She startled, trying and failing to hide her surprise at my quick turn for the better.
“You look rather shocked, Marcelle. Does my sudden burst of good health surprise you?”
“Well, you seemed so sick,” she sputtered, trying to stand. I reached out, put my hand on her shoulder, and pushed her back down forcefully.
“I have seemed sick, haven’t I?” I said, moving closer to her, so that our legs were almost touching. “Practically the whole time we’ve known each other. I sure have felt sick. Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know,” she said coolly, reaching for my hand on her shoulder and lifting it off. I let her. She was starting to understand. “Some people just don’t take to Indochine. The heat, the food, the lifestyle, or lack of lifestyle, it’s just not for everyone.”
“But especially not for me,” I hissed. “Because before you even met us, you hated me and Victor. And you were plotting my demise with confidential medical files. Because you are crafty and devious and rotten to the core.” I got even closer to her. “You’re an utter bitch, Marcelle,” I whispered.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, staring straight in front of her. “You really seem quite ill. Perhaps I should call a doctor. You have a history of outbursts, after all. Why, just a few days ago dozens of people saw you ranting and raving about a bleeding woman. Maybe it’s reason enough to send you back to Switzerland. The Prangins Clinic, wasn’t it? Though we do have our own facilities for that sort of thing here. Insanity, that is. I’m sure you’ll find them very comfortable.”
“I never said Prangins,” I replied, glaring at her.
“Of course you didn’t,” she said lightly. “And neither did I. All it took was the mere mention of Switzerland, but my goodness, didn’t you squirm. It was wonderful to watch you, Jessie, it really was. I wish I’d been there when Red smashed your ring on the boat, just like I asked him to. Good old Red, a faithful dog that one. He said you squirmed then, too, despite being out of your mind. I’m sorry I missed it, but I’ve played the scene over in my mind many times, as I’m sure you’ve played over in yours the scene of those dead men at Dau Tieng.”
“You’re right,” I said, my anger with myself competing with my anger toward her. “I have.”
“You’re a broken person, Jessie,” she said, shaking her head at me. “I don’t know how you can just sit by and sip champagne married to that devil of a man. It’s no wonder you’re going crazy.”
“I’m not crazy,” I said, staring at her. “You and Trieu—I’m sorry, Hoa. You and Hoa have tried to convince me otherwise, but I’m not. My mother-in-law tried to make me think so in Paris, even convinced her son to support her, but that didn’t work, either.”
“You were mad enough—or perhaps just stupid enough—not to see that you had a communist leader in your own home.”
“You put her in my home!”
“No,” she said firmly. “You put her there. Your little company, that family, the one you so desperately wanted to be a part of. Besides, you were broken years ago, weren’t you? By your parents. Your father. How often were the beatings again? Near daily, once you were older? He only hit the babies about once a week, is that right? Is your brother Peter still blind from it? Half mad, too, yes?”
I stared at Marcelle, my mind white with anger. I had never talked about my childhood with anyone but my siblings and that doctor. Each time I shared those pieces of my past, I had to fight to remember I was safe now, that I had escaped. And now Marcelle knew. Probably Trieu. Certainly Khoi. I hated her. I hated her with more passion than I’d felt for any human besides my parents.
“But the worst of it,” she said, leaning in and whispering, “was the baby. What was she called, again? Oh, never mind, I remember. Eleanor. Baby Eleanor. She wasn’t quite right at birth, was she? Mongolism? Was that why your father drowned her in the lake? I can’t imagine what it was like for you to watch her die. You were the one who telephoned the police, right? And testified against your own father. I was able to find a little newspaper clipping from that, too. From your hometown periodical, of all things. As I said, I was in America years ago. I still have many friends there. But you never had many friends, did you? Who would want to be friends with such a damaged little girl? With a Holland? Even her own mother never loved her. But maybe that was due to madness, too. There’s mental illness around every corner with you.”
I felt the tears forming, but I would not let them fall.
“‘Complicit.’ Isn’t that what you said on the stand?” she said softly. “She never hugged you. Never comforted you. Encouraged him, you said.”
I stared at her hateful face. Like Trieu—Hoa. A woman I once found so beautiful, turned hideous.
“But then that woman found her way to Paris. Dorothy, wasn’t it?” she spat out. “Like a little country chicken swimming over to France to deliver Victor the news. The truth about the trash he’d married. How much does he know, Jessie? Does he know that your parents are alive? You told that doctor that he doesn’t. He doesn’t know your mother is a muttering lunatic, a pariah in your hometown, and he can’t possibly know about your father. I’d keep that a secret, too. Does he know how much of his money you send to that gaggle of siblings?”
“Who are Sinh and Anne-Marie?” I asked, pinching my eyes closed again.
“Just two more people whose lives the Michelins ruined. That’s what it seems like you were put on earth to do, doesn’t it? Ruin lives a
nd deceive people. Build a life based on lies. You know, Caroline was right. To achieve all this,” she said, smirking, “you really must be quite gifted in the sexual arts.”
She paused, then lifted her hand as if to slap me in the face. When I flinched, she started to laugh. And at that moment, I cracked.
I lunged at her and grabbed her by her neck, as forcefully as I could, squeezed with all the muscle I had, and pulled her with me into the swimming pool, holding her head underwater.
Marcelle was much taller than me, and certainly stronger, but I had the element of surprise on my side.
She thrashed her arms and legs, trying to find her footing, trying to grab my arms to free herself, but she was already getting weak from the lack of oxygen. The next thing to go was the muscles in her neck. She had tried to push her head out, to break through my hands, but that bobbing motion was weakening.
I watched as her thrashing died down, as her movements started to slow. No one would blame me for her death. It was the easiest crime a person could commit. All I had to say was that I was hallucinating, under the influence of a psychotic that Marcelle herself had administered to me. When the police checked, it would be all over her home.
After a few minutes, Marcelle’s legs were no longer moving, and her dark hair was floating out around her head, which had become quite easy to hold now that it was barely moving. Her hair looked like a beautiful black halo, swaying in the water like algae.
How long had I been holding her down? Five minutes? Longer? I instinctively looked down at my watch, but my arms were still submerged in water. A person could stay underwater for quite a long time and still live. Fifteen minutes. But after ten minutes, brain damage was very likely. It was something I’d thought about for years—ever since Eleanor had died. I watched as Marcelle’s arms went limp, barely able to move. And then a strand of her hair came apart from the mass, stroking the side of my hand. I jumped. The thick strands, the dark color, it felt just like Lucie’s. And even more like Eleanor’s. I immediately let go, lifted her head out of the water, and pulled her partway up the concrete pool steps. When she was securely above water, I looked at her, her beautiful face still. I shook her shoulders, and she gasped for air and started to cough violently.