At that moment a man came over with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He spoke in a foreign language that Mark understood. He drew out his lighter, snapped it open and offered the flame to the other man before replying. A stream of what sounded like Russian then followed as Mark took control. Though Mark remained cool, the other man seemed to argue – or at least his voice was raised – but eventually he shrugged and walked away. Whatever it had been about, it looked like Mark had won the argument.
‘Well,’ Nicole said when the man was out of earshot, ‘you speak Russian? What was that about?’
‘It wasn’t important.’ Mark paused. ‘My mother was Russian. White Russian. Her father was a university professor and when he and his wife were killed during the revolution, my mother fled the Bolsheviks for America.’
‘But your father is American?’
‘Yes. She married him soon after arriving in America and they had me straight away.’
Something about his tone prevented her from asking more. ‘So how long are you here for?’ she said, and twisted a lock of her hair round a finger.
‘As long as it takes.’
The waiter appeared carrying a silver tray with a white pot of jasmine-scented tea and matching cups and saucers. She narrowed her eyes and glanced at Mark’s hands as he thanked the man. They were not elegant office hands, but big hands accustomed to physical work.
It went quiet between them and once they’d finished their tea he sighed, checked his watch, then gazed at her, the skin around his eyes crinkling. ‘I’ve really enjoyed seeing you, Nicole Duval. You’re like a burst of fresh air.’
She pushed herself back in her seat and found she couldn’t meet his eyes. They seemed to see right into her, and she didn’t want to give herself away. Would a man like him ever be interested in her? When she did glance up she saw him straightening his tie and running a hand over his hair.
‘Leaving already?’
He nodded. ‘Sorry. I have a business engagement and I’m already late. It was great to see you again. If you’re sure you’re fully recovered I’ll call you a taxi.’
She laughed. ‘Do you know, I’d forgotten all about those boys.’
‘If you like we could meet again, for coffee?’
‘I like.’
‘Morning coffee in three days’ time? Shall we say nine thirty? Let’s meet at the fountain outside the hotel.’
4
Nicole stood gazing at the swirling colour of a market in the Vietnamese quarter. It was easy to wander into the heart of the ancient streets, laced together by alleys aromatic with the smell of ginger and charcoal. She watched women traders shouting out their wares in shrill voices, their socks, shawls and cotton reels displayed on trolleys covered with straw and tarpaulin, while the men sat cross-legged on low stools, rolling dice on the pavement. Canaries sang in bamboo cages hanging from canopies outside narrow shops and the sun lit up particles of dust, making the air shimmer.
Despite all that, Nicole felt a little heavy-hearted. After the Japanese left at the end of the Second World War and Ho Chi Minh proclaimed Vietnam independent, a Vietnamese government had briefly been in power. But the French had fought back and, supported by Britain and America, regained their Indochinese empire. The silk shop had been closed all that time and it remained shut now, but she had decided to look it over anyway. She knew most girls of eighteen would be glad of a shop of their own to manage, but she’d been hoping, and had been given to believe, there would be so much more. She couldn’t help feeling disappointed and hurt by the favouritism.
The history of the French in Indochina since they’d established their colonies in the nineteenth century had been drummed into Nicole all her life; they had elevated the country with their mission civilisatrice, their civilizing mission, building roads, schools, hospitals. But because Nicole had inherited her Vietnamese mother’s looks, she looked too Vietnamese to fully belong with the French, and too French to belong with the Vietnamese. Before the war it hadn’t mattered, but now, with so much suspicion in the air, it did. She searched the eyes of the young Vietnamese girls, whose conical hats bobbed up and down as they sold fried onions and broth, and saw herself in their bland but pretty faces. A high-pitched squealing came from behind. She twisted round to see a piglet running free from its makeshift pen. The creature scuttled across the street, past a row of chickens in cages and between the legs of traders and shoppers alike. The birds started squawking and flapping and a woman shrieked as she raced after her pig. Nicole watched the little drama play out and smiled. It might not be so bad to be based here. There was something happening all the time and it would never be boring.
Deeper into the old quarter the undulating rooftops of the narrow houses crowded together like drunken dominoes. She liked the thirty-six ancient streets, each devoted to selling one single thing: hats in Hang Non, copper plates and trays in Hang Dong, silk fabric on Hang Gai where the silk dyers lived, known to the French as Rue de la Soie.
She bought a sticky bun flavoured with coconut from a stall in Hang Duong, chewed it slowly, and carried on until she arrived at the oldest of their family’s three Hanoi shops. She sat down on the step. It was midday in May and, apart from the humidity, the exuberance of a sunny day had now infected the place. There was laughter, the sound of a radio playing discordant music, and the constant movement of people, bicycles and animals mingling together as the fragrance of lotus flowers drifted in the air. Her spirits lifted.
A young woman, not much more than a girl, who sold silk thread with her mother, came out from the shop next door. She was tiny, delicately pretty, her plaited hair hanging down her back in one thick rope. ‘Hello,’ the girl said. ‘Is the shop yours?’
Nicole stood and gave a little bow. ‘It is mine now, yes.’
‘Will it open again soon? It is not good to leave it empty so long.’
Nicole glanced at the bales of fading fabrics still displayed in the upstairs window that, without a blind, kept an eye on the outside world. ‘Maybe.’
‘My name is O-Lan,’ the girl said. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
Nicole hesitated but the girl was beaming at her and waiting for a reply. ‘Thank you. I’d love one. Can I just take a look inside and then come over after that?’
Nicole watched the silk birds twirling in the window of the shop and pictured the place bursting with racks of shiny new fabric, fresh upstairs curtains billowing in the breeze. The girl next door was friendly and although the silk shop itself looked a little shabby it didn’t seem as bad as she’d expected. Much to her surprise, she was enjoying herself.
Once inside the shop she switched on the lights, then tugged on the front blinds. They rolled up with a snap, releasing clouds of dust. She held her nose, hurrying through the tube-like ground floor to the doors at the back, to throw them open. In the inner courtyard beyond the doors, she pulled at some of the yellow blooms of creeper populating most of the courtyard walls and obscuring part of the upper windows. The courtyard, open to the sky, was inhabited by a dozen cats who lay sleeping on the flagstones, soaking up the sun’s warmth. Cats kept vermin down. The extinguished earthen oven, the broken pots on a bench and the well in the middle of the yard signalled the courtyard had been used as an outdoor kitchen. She took a quick look at a basic bathroom on the left and, accessed via the courtyard, an indoor kitchen and the servants’ rooms beyond, currently in darkness. When she spotted a door at the back of the kitchen storeroom, she unbolted it and saw it led to a narrow alleyway. She glanced back at the main building where an exterior staircase curled up to the next floor, and saw that O-Lan had orange and red hoa cuc, chrysanthemum, growing in pots on her balcony. She made a mental note to buy some plants.
5
After a disturbed night, Nicole was woken far too early by the recurring dream. Only this time it wasn’t a clammy nightmare. This time it happened on a windless day, when the lilac mist lay suspended over the river like an endless ocean. She had felt as if she was sinking ben
eath the surface of a lavender-coloured pool; above her the sunlight shimmered on the water growing ever stronger until the yellow globe of the sun filled the entire horizon. The key was not to struggle. The worst thing about the dream was the awful smell of fish and the fact that, for a second, Sylvie was in the dream too. It left Nicole feeling unsettled and that remained, even after the dream ended. They say you never die in a dream but, if you do, it means you won’t wake up – so death, even in a dream, will always remain a mystery.
The day they’d left Huế to come to live in Hanoi had been one of those glorious bright blue days with a cool wind blowing down from China, and not the least bit muggy. Nicole had glanced at the icy morning water of the Perfume River that divided Huế and, despite everything, knew how much she’d miss their home on the southern tree-lined riverside.
No river to gaze at here in Hanoi, but the banyan and frangipani trees blew about in the breeze, the rain had gone, and with the sun settling over the garden, the peacocks next door were sleeping. She slipped down the stairs and found Lisa, who habitually rose at five to stoke the boiler. Today it was sluggish, unwilling to cooperate, and the room had filled with smoke. Lisa wiped the hair from her eyes, leaving smudges of coal dust on her face as she knelt beside it.
‘Damn the old bastard!’
Nicole laughed. ‘Are you talking about father?’
Lisa straightened up and rubbed her back. ‘Course not. It’s this bloody monster!’
‘Language,’ Nicole said as she opened the back door to let out the smoke.
‘Why you up so early, little flower?’
‘Couldn’t sleep.’
Lisa carried on stoking and finally the heat began to build. She stood with her hands on her hips, still in an attitude of exasperation. ‘Now that’s done, I’ll put on the coffee. So, any news?’
Nicole shrugged. Every time she thought about the unfairness of her father’s decision, it brought her close to tears. ‘I’ve been given the old silk shop, that’s all.’
Lisa clucked and muttered, then, with wide sweeping movements, wiped the table as she spoke. ‘Well, I suppose we all have to start somewhere. Now sit.’
Nicole pulled up a chair. ‘Except for Sylvie. She’s been handed the whole lot on a plate, and she doesn’t even know as much about silk as I do. Why is he so unfair?’
Lisa puffed out her cheeks and tucked the wisps of straggling hair behind her ears. ‘Some things are … I don’t know, but after your mother died –’
Nicole interrupted. ‘He blames me, doesn’t he?’
‘Not any more.’
‘But he did?’
Lisa hesitated, as if there was something she wasn’t ready to divulge. ‘Darling girl, it was all so long ago. Why not look to the future? Prove to him you can do well.’
‘I went to see the old shop.’
Lisa drew a sharp breath.
‘What?’
‘Well, there has been talk of a bomb going off in the old quarter. I just hope it’s safe there.’
‘Are the Vietminh close to Hanoi?’
‘Probably not. You know what gossip is like.’
There was a brief lull.
‘Shall I do your shoulders?’
Nicole nodded and Lisa came round to stand behind her, beginning to massage the knots away. ‘Up to you to put the life back into the shop then.’
‘I suppose. I did quite like it there.’
Lisa stopped rubbing and Nicole twisted round to look up at her. Something flickered across the cook’s face and Nicole noticed her eyes were moist.
‘I’ve always loved you, little one.’ Lisa hesitated again. ‘I know it’s been difficult.’
Nicole felt a lump forming in her throat.
Lisa sighed. ‘I think your father has his own guilt to bear and maybe sometimes he takes it out on you.’
‘Why would he feel guilty?’
Lisa shook her head. ‘Nicole, don’t be too hard on your sister. She suffered too. Don’t let that cool exterior fool you … And I’ve done my best to make up for what happened.’
‘What happened in Huế wasn’t your fault.’
‘You have to make the best of it, my love. Come on, come here.’ She held her arms out wide and Nicole got up and went to her.
With Lisa’s arms embracing her, Nicole couldn’t halt the flood of tears. Lisa patted her back and, when Nicole drew apart to wipe her cheeks, the cook smiled. ‘There, that’s better. A good cry never did anyone any harm. It’s not as bad as you think.’
‘Really?’
‘You know this might still turn out for the best.’
Sylvie’s bedroom was painted the palest shade of yellow, with white rugs and pale brocade drapes at the window. That evening Nicole tapped at the door, went in and sat down on her sister’s satin bedspread.
Nicole sniffed as a light breeze from the garden blew in the mingled scent of smoke and mown grass. The room was still sunny and only the sound of a branch brushing the outside wall interrupted the silence. Sylvie had already changed into white silk pyjamas and smoothed down the curtain of wavy auburn hair she’d been growing for years, proud that it now reached her waist, without a split end in sight. As she began writing in her journal over by the dressing table at the window, Nicole gazed at the neat row of books on the bookshelf, the glass ornaments on the shelf above Sylvie’s bed and the yellow and white roses on her dressing table, then she unwrapped a toffee and sucked on it. Her sister’s room was sacrosanct, with a precise place for everything; if you valued your life, you didn’t touch.
‘I had tea with Mark Jenson yesterday,’ Nicole said. ‘At the hotel. There were officers and music.’
‘I’m concentrating.’
‘I rather like Mark. Doesn’t he have the most amazing blue eyes?’
Sylvie bent her head and paused before she spoke. ‘Isn’t he a bit old?’
Nicole looked up at the ceiling. Was he too old? She turned to look at Sylvie again. ‘What do you write about?’
‘Are you bored, Nicole?’ Sylvie closed the leather-bound journal and began filing her nails.
Nicole envied her sister’s perfect nails, each one filed to the exact same curve. Her own split too easily, but with the summer ball fast coming up – the first Nicole would go to – she had to attend to them.
‘What are you going to wear to the ball?’ she asked.
‘My secret.’
Nicole decided to wait until her sister was out and then search the room.
‘I know what you’re thinking and it’s not in here!’
Nicole laughed. ‘When did you become a mind reader?’
Sylvie shook her head and gazed at her sister, her hazel eyes a perfect mirror. ‘You wear your heart on your sleeve. You’re too transparent.’
Sylvie was the exact opposite. The two of them couldn’t have been more different. You never knew what Sylvie was thinking or feeling.
‘Have you never felt the impulse to rush into the street and dance naked under the stars?’ Nicole said.
Sylvie laughed. ‘Have you?’
Nicole stared at her sister. Why did she always look so calm? While Sylvie seemed barely aware of the unfairness of their current situation, Nicole was consumed by it.
‘Tell me why Papa gave you the entire business.’
Sylvie shook a bottle of pink nail varnish and began to paint her nails. ‘You know why. He’s focusing on his governmental work.’
‘And you know what that is?’
Sylvie looked up again and Nicole watched a single drop of nail polish drip on to the floor. Sylvie took out a tissue and wiped the polish away. She spotted Nicole’s toffee paper, crouched down to pick it up and threw it in the bin.
‘So?’ Nicole said again.
‘Chérie, I don’t know any more about it than you.’ Sylvie continued painting her nails. ‘What I want to know is are you going to accept the offer of the silk shop or not? Because if you are we need to organize some protection there.’
&
nbsp; ‘Protection?’
‘Just a precaution.’
Nicole gazed at her sister’s impassive features and took in the perfect symmetry of her face. Everyone envied Sylvie’s flawless complexion and chiselled cheekbones; she was the girl who had everything. Sylvie seemed to be studying Nicole’s face too, but then lowered her eyes and finished the final nail.
Suffocating black clouds gathered over the city the next day and time hung heavy. Nicole could hardly wait for the following morning when she would meet Mark and she wandered about the house and garden in a state of suspense. She wanted to talk to her father about the shop, but he seemed more distant than usual; when Nicole felt she could wait no longer, she walked into his office expecting him to be alone. Unfortunately she’d interrupted a visit from a high-ranking Vietnamese mandarin just as he was speaking about an underground network in Haiphong.
‘Well? What do you want now?’ her father snapped. ‘This is a private conversation.’
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ she said, feeling embarrassed. ‘I only wanted to say I will accept the offer of the shop.’
‘All right. Talk to Sylvie about it.’
The words ‘French puppet’ rang in her head as she backed out of the room. They had been daubed in red on their neighbour Madame Hoi’s garden wall more than once. Could it be her father who was the puppet master? She was surprised when he seemed to change his mind and followed her out to the hall, closing the office door behind him.
‘I had a phone call complaining about you,’ he said in a lowered voice, ‘and I must say I am not impressed.’
‘What complaint?’ She ran over all the things she’d done that her father could reasonably object to.
‘It concerns Daniel Giraud. Apparently you pulled a knife on him the day before yesterday. What on earth were you doing with a knife?’
She felt herself grow hot. The little sod hadn’t wasted any time snitching. She tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘That is not what happened. He had the knife. Look, I’ve still got the cut on my cheek! It wasn’t me.’
The Silk Merchant’s Daughter Page 3