The Silk Merchant’s Daughter

by Dinah Jefferies

  ‘Did my father ever love me?’ she asked. Words she’d never before been able to say out loud.

  ‘He tried to. I believe that.’

  ‘Tried.’

  ‘I’m sure that eventually he did love you in his way. When he married he had no way of knowing how things would go between them. He had a position to maintain and his marriage didn’t help matters. Of course, your presence was a constant reminder. And now men like Giraud are no friend to your father.’

  Until now her family had mattered most to Nicole, or at least finding a way to feel part of it had mattered most. But now the French life and the identity she could never have was gone, and in a way it freed her. She’d always hoped that better things were round the corner; hoped that one day her father and sister would love her as much as she loved them. Now she let go of that hope. Her French world was slipping away, and to know that gave her power. She had lived among them but was not one of them and didn’t have to remain trapped in their world any longer. Apart from Lisa, there was nothing left for her here. She had thought she couldn’t bear to leave but now, whatever might lie ahead, it would be a relief to go. She would do it for her mother, if nothing else, and she silenced the little voice in her head telling her that Sylvie had only been a young child too.

  23

  When Nicole woke her cheeks were wet. All she could remember from her dream was a golden pagoda surrounded by bright blue butterflies, and the smell of incense in the air. But then she remembered hearing Trần’s voice. With one day left before she was due to meet him, she needed a lucky break.

  The image of a maid in bed with her father while her mother was pregnant had tormented her for two days and when Lisa came up with her breakfast tray, Nicole told her she had been terribly sick into her chamber pot all night. In fact, as soon as she felt Lisa would have the boiler stoked up, she’d stuck two fingers down her throat, and then soaked a facecloth in the hot water from her handbasin. Angry and determined, she’d kept on rewarming it and plastering it to her head for half an hour.

  Faced with the overpowering smell in the room, Lisa felt her forehead. ‘You do seem a bit hot. Why not try to eat something nice now?’

  ‘I couldn’t. I need air, Lisa. I’m sure I’d feel better.’

  The cook stood with her hands on her hips and frowned. ‘I promised your father.’

  ‘Please let me come down to the kitchen. Keep the door locked, just open the pantry window. It’s so small, nobody could get out through there. Anyway, I feel much too ill to go anywhere, even if I could.’

  While Lisa thought about it, Nicole stared at the floor, willing the cook to give in. She got up and glanced in the mirror. Excellent. Her eyes glittered and her skin looked mottled.

  ‘Oh, Lisa,’ she said, and held out a hand to steady herself against the wall. ‘I feel so dizzy.’

  The cook seemed to decide. ‘Well, I’ve had enough of this shameful state of affairs. You’re right. You do need air and maybe something to eat. Here, let me get a wrap for you.’

  While Lisa’s back was turned, Nicole quickly slid open the drawer of her bedside table and rooted around for her shop keys. Though they had taken her house keys, they hadn’t taken those, and at the shop there was another set of house keys. Even if she was caught and brought back, as long as she was able to conceal the house keys, she’d still be able to get out again. She located the keys, and pocketed them along with a nail file.

  ‘Here we are,’ Lisa said and handed Nicole a shawl, once belonging to her mother.

  Nicole took it. Nobody knew she had found it hidden away in an old trunk of her mother’s belongings in one of the stable rooms at the back of the house in Huế. It seemed like a good omen. Her mother would be with her. She took it from Lisa and didn’t allow any emotion to show.

  ‘What if someone sees?’ Nicole whispered as they paused at the top of the stairs.

  ‘There’s only you and me here.’

  Nicole looked around. ‘But the policeman. Isn’t he on guard?’

  Lisa grinned and gave her a little push. ‘Don’t worry about him. He’s a lazy sod. Half the time he nips off home.’

  Nicole pulled a face. ‘Giraud won’t be happy.’

  ‘Our Mr Giraud has got bigger fish to fry at the moment.’

  ‘What fish?’

  ‘Let’s just say there are some ugly rumours circulating about him.’

  In the kitchen Nicole faltered at the sight of the familiar red floor and the walls lined with white brick-shaped tiles, and wished she didn’t have to trick the woman who’d been such a good and loyal friend. Nicole glanced at the row of copper pots hanging from the bar attached to the ceiling, but avoided looking at the arch leading through to the glass doors of the conservatory. She had missed this so much.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to lock you in,’ Lisa was saying. ‘But I’m hoping to tempt you with a lovely soupe au vin blanc I’ve got on the go.’

  ‘I feel too sick to eat.’

  ‘You make yourself comfortable near the window and I’ll brew you up a nice tisane instead. Any particular flavour?’

  ‘I couldn’t drink a thing.’

  ‘Well, I’ll keep you company, shall I?’ Lisa settled her ample body on the chair next to Nicole’s. ‘Things have been pretty strange around here this last week, I can tell you.’

  Nicole pretended disinterest but knew Lisa loved a gossip. She also knew one of the conservatory windows had a faulty catch.

  ‘Mighty strange.’ Lisa gave her a mischievous smile. ‘You’ll never guess what I overheard yesterday.’

  Nicole shook her head. ‘I don’t suppose I will.’

  ‘Two of those army types were here and I heard them talking in the hall about Giraud. He’s been found in a compromising situation.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He’s been siphoning American money to fund the movement and maintenance of North African prostitutes for the French army.’

  Nicole thought about it and wondered if the black woman she’d seen her father with was one of them.

  ‘I heard them say the women are from Constantine, the Ouled-Naïl tribe. Beautiful, I’m told.’

  Nicole didn’t speak.

  ‘The army reckon to be heading north using civilian pilots and planes too. American ones. And between you and me, I heard they were expecting to send fifty thousand troops. What do you make of that!’

  A shaft of light fell across the cook’s face, showing up the wrinkles round her eyes and the skin beginning to loosen at the base of her cheeks. When had she become so much older? It felt wrong to cause Lisa more sorrow and Nicole felt ashamed. Startled by the strength of her own feeling, she paused. Perhaps, after all, she should not go? Lisa deserved better than this, but when Nicole thought of what her father had done – what choice did she have?

  She shook her head. ‘Lisa, I feel terrible. Maybe I will have that tisane. Anything fresh from the garden would do.’

  ‘Sorry, chérie. Here’s me chattering on and you at death’s door. Wait while I get my scissors and nip out the back. I know just the thing.’ She looked a bit embarrassed. ‘You know I’ll have to lock the door.’

  While Lisa was gathering herbs, Nicole tiptoed into the conservatory after her, making sure the cook was on the other side of the garden before identifying the window with the faulty catch. She heard a sound and, ready to panic, glanced round with a guilty start, but it was just someone in the next-door garden. She turned back to the window, knowing exactly how to loosen it with her nail file. She did so quickly, then crouched down to undo the bolt at the bottom. She eased it open, giving thanks for French windows. Then, as the panic was replaced by a burst of energy, she slipped out and made for the wall at the back of the garden. Recalling how many times Lisa had shielded her, she halted for a moment. Deeply sorry for the trouble it would cause Lisa, she felt distraught to think they might never see each other again. Then she thought of Mark. Despite everything, she did not dare consider how she’d feel if she were n
ever to see him again. But as for her father – after what Lisa had told her, how could she allow herself to care? She shinned up the wall and scrambled over the top, the feeling of relief spilling over as she escaped.

  24

  The shop was the first place they’d look for her, so Nicole quelled the bubbling sense of euphoria at being free, and got on with what she had to do. She glanced around at all the things she’d made and done. It was hard being in her shop again and knowing she had to leave it behind. Despite an intense feeling of loss, she worked rapidly, picking up the house keys, binding up her hair, and then changing into Vietnamese dress. In the little bathroom at the back she quickly splashed her face while holding on to her nerve.

  At the last minute she dashed upstairs and pulled out the antique purse; her little emblem of the past. It made her feel connected. Should she take it in her bundle? She hesitated for only a moment and then slipped it in. While she had the purse with her the ancestors would keep her safe. On an impulse she also slid in the only photograph she had of Mark. She longed to stay in the shop and wait for Trần there, but it wasn’t safe.

  It would be tricky to spend the day waiting, but she knew the back alleys leading to the lake and, more importantly, the hidden spot where she had lain with Trần beneath the trees and bushes. She’d wait there and come back through the alleys later.

  So she spent the day hiding by the lake and, in the late afternoon, at the time the shops would be shutting up, she covered her head with a scarf and came back to find Trần. Fewer people were about than usual – a warning sign that the street might be under surveillance – so she slid into a dark alley opposite her shop. Frightened that Trần might have been caught, she poked her head out to look, but when a couple of French officers passed by she ducked back into the shadows. She had no idea how long she’d have to wait. An old lady peered up the alley as she passed and Nicole stepped further back, concealing herself in a doorway.

  When she saw O-Lan come out of her own shop, Nicole held back for a moment but couldn’t restrain herself. As she watched her friend peer through the window of the silk shop, she pulled the scarf further over her face and slipped across.

  O-Lan turned round, smiling when she saw Nicole. ‘Where have you been? The shop has been closed for a week. I’ve missed you. Were you ill?’

  Nicole shook her head, took O-Lan by the arm and drew her across the street. ‘Can we talk in the alley?’

  ‘Why don’t we go inside your shop?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  They quickly crossed the street and passed into the shadows.

  O-Lan held Nicole’s arm. ‘What’s going on?’

  Nicole couldn’t keep the eagerness from her voice. ‘I’m going north with Trần.’

  O-Lan’s face fell.

  ‘Why do you look like that? I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘Trần is passionate, idealistic and –’

  ‘A good man,’ Nicole interrupted.

  ‘Yes, but …’

  There was a pause.

  O-Lan clasped her hands together and Nicole was taken aback by the look of solemnity in her friend’s eyes. ‘The party is everything to him. He will sacrifice you if you get in the way.’

  Nicole shook her head. ‘He’d never do that.’

  ‘You are too trusting.’

  ‘But I thought you sympathized with the Vietminh?’

  ‘I never said that.’ O-Lan’s tone was dismissive, her eyes full of reproach.

  ‘So whose side are you on?’

  ‘Nicole, I haven’t taken sides. I love my family. And I don’t care whether they are with the Vietminh or supporting the French.’

  ‘But wouldn’t you hide Trần if he was on the run?’

  O-Lan looked upset. ‘I hope it will never come to that. Please, Nicole, do not go. Look at your lovely shop. It is the prettiest in the whole of Silk Street. What will happen to it?’

  ‘I’ve thought of that.’

  O-Lan gripped her hand. ‘And? Are you not tempted to stay?’

  Nicole felt a twinge of regret. ‘It’s not that I want to leave.’

  ‘Please don’t then.’ O-Lan paused and reached out to her. ‘And what about your father and Sylvie? I know you’ve had problems but you love them. They are not your enemy.’

  ‘If not them, then who?’ Nicole shook her head. ‘Lisa told me what happened when I was born and I can’t forgive them. I don’t belong with them. Even if I stayed, for my shop, I’d still have to deal with Sylvie, and I’d have to see my father and Mark – I just can’t.’

  ‘So you’re running away?’

  Nicole shook her head. ‘No. I’m going to help a worthy cause.’

  O-Lan shot her a disappointed look, tears shining in her eyes. ‘You are wrong. You persuade yourself, Nicole, but it’s not the truth. You don’t even know who the enemy is. It’s not good enough.’

  ‘Come on, don’t be so down.’ Nicole smiled at her friend. ‘I don’t want to fall out with you.’

  O-Lan stared at Nicole and didn’t smile back.

  ‘Well, there it is,’ Nicole said. ‘You’d better go back inside. Trần will be here any moment now.’

  O-Lan took both Nicole’s hands in her own. ‘Be safe, Nicole, and if you ever need me I will be here.’

  Nicole’s eyes were damp and she felt uncertain as O-Lan walked away. Was her friend right? She had spoken so vehemently and it was frightening to think it might never be safe to return. But then she pictured her father in bed with another woman while her mother had been so vulnerable. Haunted by the image, the pain of it came rushing back, strengthening her resolve.

  Suddenly someone had a hand over her mouth.

  Certain it was one of Giraud’s men, Nicole froze. She heard a low chuckle and spun round, relief flooding through her when she saw it was Trần. His eyes were sparkling and he seemed very excited. They grinned at each other and she nearly laughed out loud. His eyes grew wide as he motioned for her to follow him but not speak. She’d already guessed not to walk beside him. Once they were away from the shop, he whispered the plan. They would walk to where they’d mount one of the buses used only by the Vietnamese.

  An hour later they were squashed together on a bus heading out along the Red River Delta, where steam rose in waves from the surface of the water and the smell of rotting fish swept in through the open window. Nicole tried to close it but, rusted and jammed, there was no chance. She tried to think of anything but fish and, as the roar of the few cars faded, she felt a shiver run through her. As the landscape became more distinctly rural, she gazed out at the sampans and junks moving past riverbanks flanked by plum trees. A dozen or so geese flew by in formation, their slow measured honking a contrast to the harsh squawking seabirds.

  Further on, and away from the river, the bus trundled past shabby hamlets where naked children played in the dust. She fell into a doze until, eventually, they came to a halt at a jumble of huts protected by a bamboo hedge. How peaceful, she thought, until a shrill bird’s cry broke the silence.

  ‘We are here,’ Trần said as he rose from his seat. He smiled and she noticed that streak of childlike enthusiasm again. He lowered his voice and brought his mouth to her ear. ‘And your name must be Vietnamese. You must now be Linh.’

  She grinned. ‘Spring. I like it.’

  She followed him off the bus, then looked about at the houses, not much more than huts or shacks, with pointed roofs of plaited bamboo. A few people trudged down the paths, dressed in brown or dull green, their shoulder poles clicking as they transported vegetables and rice from one place to another. Swallows flew above, swooping and diving endlessly.

  ‘This way,’ he said and pointed to a small track between two huts. As he did so she felt as if he were pointing towards the future.

  This was a fresh beginning, just as her new name suggested. She had high hopes of finally feeling she belonged, and at the same time it would be a chance to prove herself.

  They skirted one-room
ed huts built on stilts, where the smoke from cooking fires hung in the air. They dodged crowing roosters and chickens who, standing their ground, barely noticed them, though the various dogs on chains set off a terrible racket, barking and straining to get free. Despite that, Nicole thought again how unexpectedly peaceful it was. Naked babies slept on mats, young children ran about between the tethered goats and vegetable plots, while the older ones, sitting on the compacted earth, played stones or shot at birds with catapults. One or two stood up to call out to Trần, but watched Nicole with hungry eyes.

  It felt unfamiliar and for a moment she had a little flicker of regret, feeling the absence of something, but it was quickly dispelled.

  The village was a labyrinth. Washing hung from lines of string suspended across the courtyards, and the plots were packed with fruit trees and pumpkins. She glanced into the few huts not built on stilts, noticing the earth floor and glassless windows.

  ‘They must get cold,’ she said and glanced at Trần. He had stopped to speak to an old man with parched skin, who seemed burdened by something as he spoke.

  Trần bowed then shook the man’s hand and turned back to her. ‘It is cold at night.’

  Nicole noticed a menacing eye painted on one of the huts.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s an American idea.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘They know the villagers are scared of vampires and ghosts, so they get the French to paint an eye on a hut facing the home of a suspected terrorist.’

  ‘I still don’t get it.’

  ‘The villagers think it’s the eye of their ancestors, and will no longer support or hide the suspect. But we have our ways and means. This is a war of resistance.’

  They went a little further out, trekking along a narrow path between luminous rice fields where herons pecked and boys lay asleep on the backs of water buffalos. After a short distance they seemed to head back in a semicircle to a different part of the village, where a kite hovered high in the sky. Trần paused and, shading his eyes, looked up at it, then carried on walking, only stopping when they reached a large two-storey house, adjacent to an orchard on the edge of the village.