‘Shall we have another go at it?’ Nicole said.
O-Lan stood and gave her a sweet smile.
This is good, Nicole thought. If I can hold on to the positive things in my life, perhaps the awful images from the night of the shooting will eventually fade. She paused in her thoughts. What about Mark? She would just have to try to reconcile herself to what she now knew about him.
On a slow day in the shop Nicole decided to rearrange the stock in order of colour categories, starting with the cooler blues and greens and working her way through to the oranges, reds and magentas. The colours spoke to her. Blue and lilac for their days in Huế. Red for her anger and yellow for the warmth of the garden in summer. She liked to lose herself in the silks, wrap herself up in them and pretend to be one of the emperor’s women; the time, long gone, when life must have been so simple. As she stroked the silk, the feel of it comforted her.
She had been wondering about visiting the village where the silk was woven from threads produced by families who lived there. Though much of the Duval silk still came from near to Huế, it would be great to find a local provider too. She knew all about the different qualities and thicknesses of silk and how the thread mattered, varying from so fine it was almost invisible to thick and inferior, which was used for the lesser fabrics bought for everyday.
Just as she was mulling this over, a voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘So, you are still here?’
She spun round then felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at the gap between his front teeth. Surely he was the young Vietnamese man, O-Lan’s cousin Trần, who’d been killed in the hotel cellar?
‘You can’t be … I thought you were –’
‘Dead? You thought I was dead?’
‘I … I mean, I …’ Profoundly shocked, Nicole swallowed rapidly.
‘So you know about the shooting?’
She rubbed the back of her neck. ‘I don’t know anything.’
She hadn’t meant to use such a haughty tone of voice and regretted it the moment he moved a couple of paces closer. She stepped back beside the desk and cast around for what to say. He came right up and, placing his hands on her shoulders, stood too close. As he wasn’t much taller than her their eyes were on a level. She had no option but to look at him, though his eyes bored right into hers. How was she to hold his gaze without giving herself away?
He snorted. ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ she said as sharply as she dared, though all she could see in her mind’s eye was the dead man. She tried hard to hold eye contact, but the stinging in her eyes meant she couldn’t stop blinking.
He narrowed his gaze. ‘Something wrong with your eyes?’
She heard the sound of wheels from beyond the shop door, the squeal of brakes, a door opening and slamming shut again. Her instinct was to escape his grip and run from the shop.
‘So?’
He continued to look at her steadily, and when he increased the pressure on her shoulders she felt as if he could see right into her mind. She thought quickly. ‘I hadn’t seen you around, and one of the neighbours must have said you’d gone back to your village.’
‘Is that so?’
Her palms began to sweat. She nodded but knew it had sounded lame.
He gave her a sarcastic sort of a smile. ‘And which neighbour would that have been?’
‘I don’t remember. Maybe it was your cousin O-Lan.’
He grabbed her left arm and twisted it behind her back. His body, pressed too tightly against hers, felt taut and raw; she could smell peppered onions and vinegar on his breath.
She clenched her jaw, trying to stop herself from crying out. ‘Please don’t hurt me. I don’t know anything.’
‘And yet you looked so shocked to see me.’
He let her go. She cleared her throat, but her body felt too stiff, the muscles tense. She tried to read his eyes, and thought carefully before she spoke again. Saying the wrong thing now might cost her dearly.
‘Why are you here?’ she finally said.
He hung his head for a moment but when he looked up again his eyes were blazing. He slammed the desk with the palm of his left hand. ‘We thought my brother had gone back to the silk village where we are all from, but nobody had seen him there. His motorbike is still here with a full tank of petrol. He keeps it in a shed at the back of O-Lan’s shop and we couldn’t understand why he’d left it behind.’
‘You have a brother?’
‘His body was found by the river. I’ve just had to tell O-Lan. The animals were devouring his corpse, but it was clear he had been shot in the chest. He looked like me. People used to call us the twins, though he was taller. You’re telling me you know nothing about it?’
She looked at the floor and then up at Trần. ‘I –’
‘The French shot him in the chest.’
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, but how do you know it was the French?’
He frowned. ‘Who else? My brother had a police record for nationalist agitation, so they would hardly have shot him, would they?’
‘He must have committed a crime. Was he in the Maison Centrale?’
His frown lines deepened. ‘You mean Hoa Lo.’
‘Is that what you call the prison?’
He nodded. ‘Hell’s Hole.’
‘I know what it means.’
‘My brother was not there, as far as we know.’
Nicole took a deep breath and saw, behind the menace, a look of pain. ‘I’m so sorry, but I don’t understand why you think I’d know anything about it.’
‘Your reaction when you saw me.’
‘I’ve explained that. It was only surprise.’ She paused. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Find out who killed him.’
She lowered her eyes to the counter. ‘Of course.’
He shook his head. ‘He was a good man. We think it might have been in retaliation for the murder of a French official, something he did not do.’
She searched for a way to change the subject. ‘Why are the Vietminh challenging us again? I thought the fighting would be over by now.’
‘This is war. It will never be over until we win. Your entire economy is built on the export of our raw materials.’
‘But what about the mission civilisatrice? The French mean to increase the wealth of the country.’
The man spat on the floor. ‘To the glory of France!’
Nicole knew that was not entirely fair. The French had tried to educate people as well and develop the country in other ways.
‘You know what happened when the Japanese came?’ he said.
‘A bit.’
‘They tolerated you French, while we starved.’
He had hissed the last few words and alarm rose up in her again. She shook her head and thought about backing towards the door. She had heard stories about how the Japanese had requisitioned the stocks of rice, and how a terrible famine had ensued. She’d heard that Vietnamese corpses had been piled up in the streets of Hanoi, and left to rot, but hadn’t known if it was true.
Nicole bit her lip. ‘You call me French. I’m half Vietnamese. And anyway, when they lost the war, the Japanese shot French people.’
She glanced at the door as he rolled a cigarette and then took out a packet of matches. If she could just keep him talking.
‘We had our own country to ourselves, but you French came back with the help of your allies. The destruction was terrible here in the ancient quarter and the Cité Universitaire area.’
He stopped speaking and gazed at the floor. In the silence, Nicole thought hard. There was no doubt he believed everything he was saying, but her father wouldn’t have shot Trần’s brother for no reason.
He lit the cigarette. ‘Tell me. Why is your family in Hanoi now?’
She shrugged and started to fold some silk she’d left on the counter.
‘Your father has an important position. I think you might be able to help me,’ he said, then drew deeply on his ciga
rette.
She frowned, uncertain where this was leading.
‘This city will be under siege before long. And you could help us.’
‘Why would I?’
‘You said it. You’re half Vietnamese, aren’t you?’
When he looked into her eyes, she noted they were as dark as her own.
‘Don’t you want to know more? I can show you things. Come with me tomorrow after you close up. I’ll meet you on the corner.’
She nodded slowly, pretending to think it over. ‘How do you know I won’t tell my father?’
He narrowed his eyes and smiled. ‘Something tells me you will not, little métisse.’
That evening she left the shop late, hoping to avoid seeing O-Lan. Trần wasn’t dead but his brother was; of course, he had been O-Lan’s cousin too.
Back home she had hoped to slip up to her bedroom so she could deal with her mixed feelings alone, but her father met her in the hall.
‘Ah, there you are, chérie,’ he said, brisk but friendly, holding out a hand.
She had no choice but to follow him through to their main sitting room, where she found Sylvie smiling up at Mark, who was standing a short distance away behind the curved art-deco sofa. Sylvie reached out a hand to Mark. The fact that Mark did not take her sister’s hand was neither here nor there. The gesture alone was enough.
‘As you know, Mark has been doing a bit of business with Sylvie,’ her father said. ‘A pretty substantial order for silk as it happens.’
Nerves jangling at hearing her father’s lie, Nicole sat as far away as she could, on a stiff-backed chair beside the hearth. The room was overflowing with Sylvie’s favourite yellow roses and their sickly-sweet scent made Nicole feel nauseous. She glanced at Mark and he gave her the same wide smile that once would have lit up her day. She turned away without responding, but felt as if her heart had been torn apart; it filled her with a sense of absolute futility and she couldn’t look at him again. Instead she forced herself to focus on the mantelpiece where a collection of blue-and-white fifteenth-century Vietnamese pottery was displayed.
The room, like many of the others, had a strong Indochinese feel. The floor was laid with glazed tiles decorated with the fleur-de-lis motif, covered only in the centre by an antique Vietnamese rug. The lamps had been lit, lending the room a cosy feel, although Nicole felt anything but cosy. She gazed out now at the darkening sky beyond the two large windows. The monsoon was not over and the rain had started up again. She listened to it pouring from the eaves and splashing on to the verandah below and longed to run outside to stand beneath the downpour so that the water might wash her pain away.
‘I wanted you all here,’ their father said, ‘because rumours are circulating. Whatever you might hear, there is absolutely no evidence the Vietminh are getting any closer to Hanoi. There is no threat from them. I want to reassure you all.’
Sylvie smiled. ‘So life goes on as usual.’
‘Indeed it does.’
Nicole noticed Mark nodding vigorously. He caught her eye and attempted a smile again but she twisted her head away. The unpalatable truth remained: they had all been in that cell beneath the hotel; they had all been involved in Trần’s brother’s murder.
For a few moments, Nicole wished things could go back to the way they had been. She had always loved her sister, despite their problems, but the image of Sylvie with Mark came racing back and she felt herself stiffen. Sylvie had the looks, she had the business – and now, it seemed, she had the man.
‘I’ve heard the city will be under siege,’ she said to break the silence and to halt the rumpus going on inside her.
‘Where did you hear that, Nicole?’ her father said.
She shrugged.
‘It’s nonsense,’ Sylvie said. ‘Didn’t you hear Papa?’
‘I wasn’t speaking to you,’ Nicole said.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t be so childish.’
Ignoring the extent to which her sister’s words grated, Nicole turned to her father. ‘How bad was the famine here during the world war?’
‘For the French, not too bad at all.’
‘For the Vietnamese, I meant.’
Her father stuck out his chin. ‘Terrible, I’m afraid.’
‘They say the corpses were piled up in the streets.’
‘Yes.’
‘So don’t you think they might have a reason to hold a grudge against us?’
‘The world war is long over, chérie. We have to look to the future and build a stronger and better French Indochina.’
Nicole raised her brows but didn’t say anything more. She looked at her father’s hands – the hands of a murderer – and didn’t know how she could ever love him again. And yet in a baffling way she did still love him. She reminded herself that trust was different from love. So what about Mark? Why had he been so loving and friendly to her when all the time it was Sylvie he really wanted? She had asked nothing of him and he had promised her nothing, yet she was sure there had been the makings of something. She had felt it. He had felt it. There had seemed to have been a million possibilities but now nothing. It didn’t make sense.
She thought of the murder again and tried to make excuses: he hadn’t known what was going to happen; he was an unwilling witness; he’d been forced to be present. But every time she got to the point where she pictured him kissing her sister, she couldn’t stop seeing the young man’s head rolling forward with his fringe flopping down, and she couldn’t stop hearing the ghastly tormenting gurgle repeating inside her own head. Mark with her sister and the young man’s head, for ever linked.
How could she ever care for him now? As the hurt came back in a wave, her body was ablaze and she felt her eyes burn. She would not cry in front of any of them. She got to her feet, then stepped stiffly across the room, accidentally knocking a glass vase of yellow roses to the floor. She heard it shatter but did not stop. In the hall she gasped for air and wrapped her arms across her middle. She heard raised voices in the room behind her and then Mark came out to the hall.
‘Nicole, what is it? Why are you so upset?’
She felt too choked to speak, or even look at him, and kept her face turned away. He reached out and touched her arm.
She shrugged him off and managed to find her voice. ‘Don’t touch me.’
‘Have I done something?’
She faced him now. ‘You tell me.’
‘Well, I think I must have. Won’t you tell me what it is? Or is this something to do with your mother? It’s her birthday soon, isn’t it?’
‘My mother?’
‘Sylvie told me more about her death. I’m so sorry.’ He paused and seemed to be choosing his words. She noticed the sadness in his eyes as he put his hands in his pockets and shook his head. ‘Of course, you know my mother died too. It affected my whole life. So, you see, I do understand.’
‘You understand nothing.’ She stared at him as he shifted uneasily beneath her angry gaze. ‘Your mother did not die while giving birth to you. Whereas my mother did die giving birth … to me. And that’s something I have never been allowed to forget.’
‘Nicole.’ He held out a hand to her, but she took a step away and then escaped upstairs.
13
Nicole couldn’t get the night of the ball out of her head. It came back in flashes, waking her from her sleep: the man’s head, his fringe, the gurgle – a sound like no other – and that awful slump of his body. Over and over. It was bad enough that the high night-time temperatures of August meant sleep evaded her anyway. But without the release of sleep, how was she to find a way to put it behind her? She waved her arms to fend it off but she wanted to scream: Not again. Please not again. In fact, she must have fallen asleep and screamed out loud because she woke herself up. Sylvie came into her room looking worried, her pale lips pressed tightly together.
Nicole flinched as her sister sat on the bed.
‘Are you all right?’ Sylvie asked, putting an arm loosely roun
d Nicole’s shoulder. ‘It’s the middle of the night. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘You don’t look too great yourself.’
Nicole stared at her sister’s hands. She had nice hands, long fingers, delicate nails, like a musician. Nicole hid her own hands under the bedcovers. But she couldn’t hide the fear or the dread. And the worst, above all, was the creeping doubt. The way it slid inside you until suddenly it hung around you, fully formed, an albatross that would weigh down your shoulders and steal your peace of mind for ever.
Who could she trust?
She looked at her sister’s face. ‘How do you survive this life?’
Sylvie gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Not as easily as you might think.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean you aren’t the only one to have bad dreams. I have my own nightmares. My own troubles.’
Nicole noticed her sister’s hands were shaking slightly. ‘Tell me about them,’ she said, longing for the silent understanding some sisters seemed to enjoy.
Sylvie sat motionless for a moment. ‘There’s nothing to say. I’m just being morbid.’
But she had spoken mechanically and Nicole groaned as the awful images came to life again. Was that why Sylvie was feeling morbid? Did she see the same awful thing when she closed her eyes at night?
‘Would you like some warm milk with a dash of brandy?’
Nicole was touched by the act of kindness but there was one thing she had to ask. ‘Are you seeing Mark now?’
‘You know I am.’
The next morning, as the first sharp rays of daylight pierced the darkness, Nicole climbed out of bed, quiet as a mouse, placing both feet carefully on the floor to avoid the loose floorboard under her rug. She pushed open the window then leant on the railings that curled and twisted around the back of the house. Despite her sadness she watched the birds fly about the place, and the early sunlight sparkling on the ponds, and breathed in deeply. Already warm, it would be a humid day, but at least the rain seemed to be holding off. She pulled on loose cotton trousers and a matching top, then went down to the kitchen.
The Silk Merchant’s Daughter Page 9