The Silk Merchant’s Daughter

by Dinah Jefferies

  How long she had been standing there when Mark appeared in the distance, she didn’t know. It was all too easy to lose track of time when you felt a bit lost inside yourself. In a state of anxious expectancy she stiffened, then glanced up as a group of birds wheeled across the sky. She had to create the impression she didn’t care about him, but couldn’t admit how much she needed to prove it to herself.

  She heard him call her name.

  ‘Hello, Mark,’ she said, twisting back and trying for a light-hearted tone.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Passing by.’ She smiled and made a fist behind her back, digging her nails into the fleshy part of her hand.

  He leant against the wall. ‘You’re looking very pretty.’

  ‘Am I?’

  He wore a dark blue suit that made his eyes seem even brighter, but there was something different about him, something vulnerable that touched her deeply. His eyes looked tired with dark shadows beneath them and she wanted to reach out and comfort him.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said and smiled.

  Nicole raised her brows. ‘That isn’t my fault. Has Sylvie still not told you why you haven’t seen me?’

  ‘Told me what?’

  She hesitated. It entered her mind that she could just come out with it; tell him she’d seen him kiss Sylvie. Pride stopped her and, though his eyes seemed to be full of questions, she couldn’t allow herself to be drawn back to that night. ‘It doesn’t matter … I have the main part in the show now. Simone has been taken ill.’

  ‘I knew you had talent,’ he said and smiled warmly.

  ‘Would you come? To the opening performance, I mean.’

  She had blurted it out without thinking and stared into his bright blue eyes trying to halt the redness she could feel starting to burn her cheeks. Neither of them spoke but stood completely still, gazing at each other. She saw a flicker of something and felt sure his feelings for her were reflected in his eyes. It seemed as if there was something he wanted to say. She felt tears warm the back of her lids and longed to touch him, but forced herself to remain where she was.

  ‘Would you like to go for a drink?’ he said finally.

  She didn’t reply and the silence grew uncomfortable.

  ‘So?’ He held out his hand but she didn’t take it.

  He was still staring at her, expecting a response. She forced a smile and he took it as acquiescence.

  He walked with his hands in his trouser pockets, so close that she bumped against him from time to time. He kicked an empty cigarette packet to the kerb and she longed desperately to feel him close again, but also felt driven to edge away.

  ‘Isn’t Hanoi wonderful now?’ he was saying. ‘I thought that heat would never end.’

  ‘Don’t be taken in. It’s not over yet.’

  They reached a bar with tables set outside on the pavement. ‘Will this do?’

  She nodded and he pulled out a chair for her. ‘I’ll have white wine,’ she said.

  He went inside and a few minutes later came out with a glass of wine for her and a beer for himself, then lit a cigarette and blew the smoke upwards.

  ‘I’d love to come to the show. Maybe it would be nice if your father and Sylvie came too.’

  She stole a look at his eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t you want them to see how good you are?’

  She shrugged. She wanted to be normal with him, the way they had been before, but what she had seen had changed everything. No matter what he said now, the damage was done and they were awkward with each other. Moreover, now that he seemed so ill at ease, she wondered if his previous nonchalance had been assumed. She hated not being able to read him clearly any more. She too felt artificial, as if she was playing the part of Nicole and not being her.

  ‘What happened, Nicole? Between us?’

  She could hardly believe her ears as he continued to gaze at her, a vein pulsing in his temple, his eyes seeming so clear and honest.

  ‘You’re seeing Sylvie,’ she eventually managed to say, her voice sounding strained.

  He frowned. ‘Of course. Now and then. Perhaps she never told you that we dated when she was in the States?’

  ‘Perhaps you never told me.’

  ‘It was just a few times, nothing serious, and then, when she was ill, I helped her out.’

  ‘Ill? Sylvie was ill? She never said.’

  ‘It was a long time ago. My business with your sister now is silk.’

  ‘I know that’s not all it is.’ She lowered her voice and was going to tell him about seeing him kiss Sylvie but at the last moment changed her mind. The curtain that had come down between them meant that she couldn’t. Just couldn’t. It would make her sound so young and childish.

  He frowned and reached out for her, taking her hand in his and turning it palm upwards, then tracing the lines with his fingertips. He looked terribly miserable and she wanted to take his face in her hands and kiss away the sadness. But even though his touch electrified her, she pulled her hand back.

  ‘I know about the work you’re doing to fund a third army.’

  ‘She told you?’

  Nicole nodded and drank her wine in one gulp. ‘So you’re in intelligence?’

  He frowned and said nothing, the two lines between his brows deepening. A delicious fragrance of roses came from a woman passer-by. The scent reminded Nicole of the ball and she felt herself empty of everything but pain. For a moment she felt glued to her chair but she couldn’t stand the torment of being so close to him any more and eventually forced herself up.

  ‘Well, I have to go. Nice to see you, Mark,’ she said, and with her mind in turmoil she fled.

  Just round the corner she leant against a wall and allowed herself to breathe more freely. She closed her eyes, annoyed with herself for still caring so much. But why was he making out he wasn’t seeing Sylvie? An intelligence officer would be well trained in deception and she didn’t know what to believe. A memory of her sister as a child came back and the tears Nicole had been holding in welled up. They’d been in the garden. Sylvie was showing a friend the latest photos she’d stuck into the family album, while Nicole was on the swing singing to herself.

  Apart from the cloud of insects buzzing around flowering bushes and ripe peach trees, it had been quiet. On the opposite side of the Perfume River, Vietnamese children were flying kites, their paper dragons and painted fish soaring above the haze. It was January, dry and pleasant, and cake-baking day in the Duval house, so Lisa had been busy and they had been left to their own devices. A large-billed crow had stirred the air as it landed near the swing, slapping its wings against Nicole’s leg. She’d swiped at it, then watched as it screeched – caa-haa-caa – and rose to the highest branch of the pipal tree to stand guard with another shiny crow. It had been the most perfect day.

  ‘You look lovely, but have you seen Nicole?’ Sylvie’s friend had said, laughing loudly as she pointed at a page in the album. ‘She looks so ugly.’

  Sylvie had laughed too and had then turned to Nicole. ‘You don’t photograph at all well, do you, Nicole?’

  Nicole had jumped off the swing and come to look. She cringed when she saw the worst photo Sylvie could have picked. The dress was a hand-me-down, her hair looked as if it needed washing and she had the most awful toothy grin on her face. Sylvie, meanwhile, looked perfect.

  ‘Why did you put that one in? Weren’t there any better ones?’

  Sylvie shrugged. ‘I didn’t think you’d care. You don’t usually care what you look like.’

  Afterwards Nicole had felt so hurt and angry she hadn’t known how to deal with it. The truth was she’d always felt as if there was some invisible line she would always fall short of. She desperately cared about how she looked and constantly worried about how other people saw her. So she had sneaked into Sylvie’s room and taken her sister’s favourite doll. Then she’d cut off all the doll’s hair and drowned her in the Perfume River.

  15

&
nbsp; The next day Nicole’s head hurt like hell when she opened the shop – too much brandy pilfered from her father’s cellar the night before – and though she had discovered alcohol did help her forget, it also made her feel more maudlin. She swept the floor, polished the furniture and was about to start on the windows when she spotted Yves with his daughter Yvette walking past on the other side. Yvette grinned and they came on over, narrowly missing a vagrant chicken running between their legs.

  ‘I looked for you earlier,’ he said, ‘but the shop was closed.’

  ‘Did you need me?’

  ‘I was going to ask if you could keep Yvette with you for a few hours. I’m off to the hospital.’

  ‘Nothing serious?’

  ‘A check-up. It doesn’t matter now. She’s coming with me.’

  Not wanting to miss the chance to spend a day with a child whose straightforward happiness was so infectious, Nicole shook her head.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Let her stay here,’ she said. ‘If we’re not too busy I’ll teach her how to cut silk.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Here’s the key to the cafe, if you wouldn’t mind fetching Trophy.’

  Nicole held out a hand to the little girl and after they’d waved Yves off, they collected Trophy and took him through to the back, then began to wash the shop windows. It was a lovely day with the smell of lime in the air, a clear blue sky and a breeze so fresh it didn’t matter when more of the water soaked the girls’ clothing than went on the glass. And afterwards it was perfect to sit on the step to dry off and watch the world go by.

  As the air thickened with the smell of lunch, their attention was drawn to the spot where a small group of dancers was assembling at the painted gates of a temple. Beside them a man wearing a gold outfit sat on the pavement with a drum. As he began to play, the dancers swayed slightly, gradually building up to a spinning movement. Another group of women began to sing. The serenity and sensuousness of the dancers was tantalizing. Enthralled by the scene, Yvette gripped Nicole’s hand and squeezed.

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember your mama?’ Nicole whispered in her ear.

  ‘No.’

  Yvette’s mother had been a Vietnamese dancer of great beauty, but during the war she had attracted the attention of a Japanese commandant and that had been her downfall. He had become enraptured by the complexity of the siren-like dancer who, at the same time, embodied utter purity, and had requisitioned her to dance only for him. Except it was never only dancing.

  They continued to watch until the dance was over.

  ‘Shall we cut some silk now?’ Nicole said. ‘I’ve got the biggest shears you’ve ever seen. What colour shall we have?’

  ‘Cream, please.’

  Before they could get on with the lesson a stream of customers came in. One of Nicole’s favourite customers was among them, an old, heavily lined woman with only a few teeth remaining who bought silk for her granddaughters. Despite what must have been a hard life, her eyes still sparkled and she always had a smile for Nicole.

  When the shop was quiet again, and once Yvette was standing safely on a stool in order to see, Nicole began to unroll the fabric. It was of the highest quality and, shot through with gold, it shimmered as the sun caught the threads. After she had it laid flat on some fine paper she covered it with another sheet of paper.

  ‘What’s that for?’ asked Yvette.

  ‘If you cut silk between paper the silk behaves like the paper and it’s much easier to cut. First we’ll cut one metre for you to take home, and then I have to cut and parcel up eight metres for Sylvie. She asked for it ages ago but I just kept forgetting.’

  ‘It’s a lot.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  Yvette hesitated before she spoke, but looked up at Nicole with shining eyes. ‘When I’m grown up, could I work here with you?’

  Nicole was touched and gave the child’s thin shoulders a squeeze. Sometimes Yvette felt more like a sister than Sylvie ever did. ‘Not with your father in the bakery?’

  ‘Maybe both?’ Clearly still thinking about it, Yvette giggled. ‘Don’t tell him, but I like silk better.’

  With heads bent, the girls worked on the task, Nicole explaining how silk helped to retain heat in cold weather and got rid of excess heat in hot weather.

  ‘Silk is strong too,’ Nicole said. ‘Finer than human hair, yet as strong as an iron wire.’

  ‘I love it,’ the child said. ‘The way it shines.’

  Nicole was enchanted by Yvette’s obvious interest and only the shop bell broke their concentration.

  ‘Hello,’ Trần said. ‘Two little métisses working hard, I see.’

  Nicole looked up and bristled. ‘I wish you wouldn’t call me that.’

  He laughed. ‘Sorry, young French mademoiselle!’ With a wide sweep of his right arm he bowed and she couldn’t help but smile. He looked different. In fact, each time she saw him he looked different as he melted in and out of her world. Today he looked like a student.

  He held out a hand to help Yvette down from the stool. ‘What do you say to some ice cream?’

  Yvette’s eyes lit up and she glanced at Nicole.

  Nicole nodded and he started to leave the shop with Yvette in tow.

  ‘No, leave the child. Get the ice cream and bring it here.’

  He looked at her with a slight frown. ‘You really don’t trust me, do you?’

  ‘Is there any reason I should?’

  He shrugged and released Yvette’s hand. As he left the shop Nicole noticed the purple birthmark again. Too hot for a neck scarf, it was almost entirely visible. She doubted if he would come back with ice cream, but he did, and the three of them sat on the step to eat it, along with O-Lan. Nicole had mango and passion fruit sorbet and the others had a mix of chocolate and coffee. Afterwards they sang a couple of Vietnamese songs. Trần joined in and Yvette hummed. He was so sweet with Yvette that, despite his extreme views, Nicole couldn’t help liking him.

  After a while O-Lan went back indoors and Yvette slipped through to the courtyard to release Trophy for a few minutes.

  Trần turned to Nicole. ‘Have you thought about it?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Helping us.’

  ‘You think you can buy my allegiance with ice cream?’

  He laughed. ‘No, little one, but you do know you are living with a false sense of security? The war of resistance will only grow stronger now we have the peasants on our side.’

  ‘I thought you were one!’

  ‘I am, but I was lucky enough to receive an education paid for by my uncle, and now I am using my brain.’

  ‘Was your brother killed because he really did assassinate that French official? Or was he a smuggler?’

  ‘There is no evidence he assassinated that man and he was no smuggler. But as I said before, we do believe that, as a known agitator, he was killed in revenge for the assassination. For show, if you like.’

  ‘How was he known?’

  ‘There are spies on both sides. We too have to gather information on French military operations, as well as American interventions.’

  She pulled a face. ‘You must be mad if you think I can help.’

  ‘You have an American friend.’

  ‘I think the word you’re looking for is had. Anyway, he’s only a silk merchant and wouldn’t know anything.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  Nicole looked away. ‘As I said, he is no longer my friend. Not that I’d spy for you anyway.’

  ‘Bắt cá hai tay. You cannot run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. There will come a day when you will have to choose whether you are French or Vietnamese.’

  She narrowed her eyes and scrutinized his face. ‘You seem very sure, but I am both. I can’t change that.’

  ‘A matter of time. You must have seen the condition the workers live in? The sanitation? The poverty? Does it not fill you with dismay?’

  He sa
id no more as he got up to leave, but it wasn’t hard to imagine.

  ‘One of these days I shall open your eyes still further,’ he said.

  After he left Nicole slipped upstairs and pulled out the little embroidered purse she had found on her first day working at the shop. She hugged it to her chest as she waited for Yvette. Whenever she was sad or low, or even just a bit unsure of herself, having the little purse in her hands always made her feel better. And, right now, Trần confused her. Even with his black hair slicked back and the beginnings of a moustache, there was still something raw and unfinished about him. She couldn’t deny that his full lips and burning dark eyes were attractive, and there was something exciting about his youthful idealism. But it was the passion she saw in him that truly inspired, even if it was all nonsense.

  16

  The day Sylvie came to the shop to pick up the silk, Nicole had left the front door open to air the place while folding off-cuts into little squares to be sold.

  ‘I’m between meetings so I haven’t got long,’ Sylvie said, looking smart in a simple white shift dress, with a little feathered hat, grey crocodile-skin shoes and wrist-length gloves. She peeled one off to run her fingertips along the counter. ‘You’re keeping it clean.’

  ‘It has to be clean to cut the silk.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Nicole felt drab in comparison to her sister and wished she hadn’t worn her oldest Vietnamese work clothes. She carried on folding. ‘Is there anything else?’

  As Sylvie glanced around, Nicole noticed that her sister was jittery, not her usual cool self. ‘I’ll need to look at the figures to get the whole picture, but I can see the shop’s looking good. In fact, you’ve made it beautiful.’

  Nicole stopped folding and gazed at her sister. ‘Thank you.’