The Silk Merchant’s Daughter

by Dinah Jefferies

  The hall clock chimed. Then silence.

  The silhouette of a man appeared in the doorway. Lit from behind by the moonlight, his face remained in darkness. He took a step towards her.

  The armour, built during her escape from the north, fell away, and with fear ringing in her ears, she waited.

  The man did not move again. Silence for a moment, then the sound of a car’s tyres outside. Nothing more.

  At the precise moment her candle revealed the glint of a gun in his hand, she spoke. ‘Who are you?’

  He cleared his throat. Such an ordinary sound, but all the more terrifying because of that. Surely she hadn’t come this far for it to end now?

  ‘Nicole, is that you?’ he said.

  ‘Mark?’

  As he came forward she dropped the bottle. She heard it smash on the floor, her legs gave way, and a moment later she was barely aware of being carried upstairs to her father’s old bedroom.

  As the hours passed, Mark took care of her, bathing her feet and legs and treating her cuts with disinfectant. He was infinitely gentle, albeit a little distant, bringing food and water and changing her sweat-drenched sheets. He brought her a commode and even took care of that. As she drifted, she was too tired and too ill to feel embarrassed. She lay in a bed that smelt of lavender, with him sitting in a chair beside her. When she was able to sit up and ask what had happened, he said he didn’t know. He’d had to go to America and when he’d come back, the day before she herself had arrived, the house had been empty. He explained that before he left he’d heard she had run away with a Vietnamese man. Sylvie had told him.

  ‘That was exactly what I worried might happen,’ he said.

  ‘What? That I’d run away with another man?’

  He didn’t meet her eyes. ‘This isn’t a joke, Nicole. God knows what you thought you were doing or what you got yourself into while you were with him. He’s a terrorist.’

  ‘Does anyone know you’re here?’ she asked, ignoring his comment because the same could be applied to Mark. Nobody knew what he’d been doing and she was well aware of the ongoing atrocities on both sides.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve been using the back door via the garden. I’ve kept everything as it was. All the windows are boarded on the outside and I don’t open the shutters or curtains.’

  ‘How did you get into the house?’

  ‘Sylvie had given me a key.’

  ‘Nobody else has a key?’

  ‘Not that I know.’

  She gulped back a sob. ‘What has happened to my family?’

  ‘I’m trying to find out. It may be that Sylvie and your father simply packed up and left.’

  She stared up at his bright blue eyes, hoping he wasn’t concealing anything. ‘I wish I could know for sure. I let my father down. I wanted to get back at them.’

  He sighed. ‘It’s been hard for everyone. Nobody knows what’s right any more.’

  She nodded and the silence that followed seemed to spill over, making further talk redundant.

  ‘I’d like to have a bath,’ she eventually said and, feeling utterly soiled, examined her broken nails and dirt-ingrained hands. ‘I must smell terrible.’

  He smiled. ‘Pretty ripe, but there’s no fuel for the boiler so no hot water.’

  ‘Oh. I had hoped.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Deeply touched by his kindness, it brought tears to her eyes.

  While he was gone she drifted again, but plagued by dreadful dreams, she was shaking by the time he returned. He dropped the box he’d been carrying, came over and took her in his arms, then stroked her back while she cried.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asked when she stopped crying. ‘I mean, back in Hanoi?’

  ‘I still have a job to do.’

  A long pause followed during which he stared at the floor. When he looked up again she saw his face had changed and he was smiling.

  ‘I have something for you.’

  ‘In the box?’

  ‘Yes. A portable gas cylinder and burner. It won’t make the water piping hot, but at least it will take the chill off. I’ll get it ready.’

  She caught hold of his arm. ‘You were never going to propose to Sylvie, were you?’

  ‘No,’ he said without a moment’s hesitation. ‘I told you before. Sylvie and I were not together.’

  ‘She asked me to cut eight metres of cream silk. She never really explained what it was for but I always thought she intended it for her wedding dress.’

  During the following week, Mark only left the house at night, leaving her alone in a strange candlelit world. She didn’t ask where he went, knowing he probably wouldn’t be at liberty to say. By day he kept her company, reading to her and ensuring she was comfortable.

  One morning she woke to find him sitting beside her bed with a tray balanced on his knee.

  She blinked herself awake. ‘Oh my lord! Coffee?’

  He nodded. ‘I used the last of the gas. And there’s fresh baguette with butter and jam.’

  ‘How did you know I’ve been dreaming of it?’

  ‘Talking in your sleep.’

  ‘Do you watch me sleep?’

  He looked embarrassed. ‘No, but I do come in sometimes to make sure you’re still breathing.’

  ‘Just like a baby.’

  He laughed but she’d seen his eyes darken. ‘We must do nothing to arouse Giraud’s suspicion. You do understand, don’t you? He will consider you a danger to the French.’

  ‘I’m not a terrorist.’

  ‘You never knew their plans?’

  ‘I was just a singer.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how much I hope that’s true.’

  He had been watching her sleep. The thought of it comforted her and she wished she could see the sun’s winter rays fall on his face. In the gloom of the house he looked pale. She reached out and turned his face towards her.

  ‘You have stubble,’ she said.

  He covered her hand with his own. ‘So, coffee?’

  She noticed two mugs and two plates. ‘Are you having breakfast with me?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well, get under the eiderdown.’ She patted the space beside her. ‘The house is freezing.’

  He removed his shoes and did as she asked.

  They ate in companionable silence. Nicole, having regained her appetite, ate ravenously, dripping butter and jam on to the sheet.

  ‘What a mess you are,’ he said and, one hand resting on her thigh, wiped her mouth with a tea towel. He was so close she could feel his warm breath on her cheeks, but then he withdrew.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘A bit of shut-eye for me now and then I’ll be off again.’

  She stared into her empty coffee cup, the sudden loneliness biting painfully. ‘Do you think you might help me back to my old room? I’m longing for some natural light. The windows aren’t boarded up on that floor.’

  ‘I’ll need to find some sheets. The beds up there have been stripped.’

  ‘I’ll feel better surrounded by my old things.’

  Once the bed had been made up, he helped her up the stairs. At the sight of her room bathed in flawless light and looking so lovely, she couldn’t control her tears.

  ‘Don’t you like it? I tidied up a bit.’

  She shook her head, unable to communicate the flood of mixed feelings.

  ‘Well, into bed with you. I’ve put a candle beside the bed for when it gets dark. But make sure you keep the curtains and blackout blinds closed so the light can’t be seen.’

  ‘Might someone notice if my curtains are open by day but closed at night?’

  ‘I think the pipal tree will pretty much block the view. Don’t open any window overlooking the street at the front.’

  ‘Will you be back?’

  ‘Not for a bit.’

  She reached for his hand. ‘Please don’t go.’

  ‘Nicole, believe me, I don’t want to leave, but I have no choice. I’ll bring you
some food to last and, as long as you’re okay to reach the bathroom unaided, you’ll manage. But please take into account how ill you’ve been. Rest is what you need, so stay up here and keep quiet. We want the place to seem abandoned. Like I said, it’s okay to open the window a little but only when it’s dark.’

  After he had gone she lay back on the bed and thought of how she had never told anyone what she’d seen on the night of the ball; not Sylvie, not Trần, not Mark. It weighed heavily on her mind while he wasn’t there. She knew the near starvation of her journey south and the months of hardship with the theatre troupe had weakened her, but unable to lie still for long, she walked up and down on the landing to regain some strength in her legs, then carefully wandered around the house. In the gloom she explored the rooms and, thinking of her family, ran her palms over their few remaining belongings, as if she might conjure their presence through contact with the things they had loved: Sylvie’s beautiful screens, her father’s oak desk, Lisa’s old chair. She was surprised the furniture hadn’t been packed up and shipped back to France, but perhaps Sylvie was intending to come back after all. So many memories haunted the rooms. Would she ever see any of them again? She went into the little aquamarine bathroom she had often dreamt about while she’d been away and opened Sylvie’s cabinet. One jar of face cream and a bottle of perfume inside. No pills. She picked the glass bottle up, sniffed it, and felt so lonely that tears began to form.

  Back in her room, she knelt beside her old bookcase and ran her fingers over the spines of all her favourite books. She pulled one out and sniffed, did the same with three more, and finally fished out her all-time favourite childhood book: Little Women. It reminded her of their old life in Huế, where she’d first read it, and all the memories attached to their old home came racing back. She flicked the pages and was surprised to see an envelope fall out. Had she left an unfinished letter in there? But no, this one was sealed. She slid a finger under the flap and tore open the envelope, then unfolded a single sheet of paper.

  Chérie,

  I don’t know where you have been or whether you will ever read this, though I know you are the only one who’ll ever be likely to look in that particular book. So if you are reading this now, it means you are alive and have come home. See, I do notice what you do. I always have. More than you know.

  We waited for you as long as we felt able, but times have changed in Hanoi and eventually we could wait no longer. Papa made sure he had fulfilled his obligations to the government, but it’s hard to know who to trust and he made the difficult decision to leave without telling many.

  I have accompanied Papa to Paris to help settle him in. He hasn’t been at all well since he had his stroke. (Perhaps you don’t even know about that?) We managed to sell Maison Duval on Paul Bert, though only for a fraction of its true worth. Still, it was enough to purchase a small apartment in the Marais area of Paris, Rue des Archives. Papa still has some stocks and shares so he will be fine, if not wealthy. I know it is not the most salubrious of districts, but Papa needs the money to live.

  After you left he was distraught and blamed himself. He spent three months sending out people to try and find you. I don’t say this to worry you, but he was so frightened by what you might have done, he decided the only thing to do was to leave before things got worse. Had we left it longer, and with his poor health, it might have become impossible to go. We left in quite a hurry. Giraud was sniffing around on a daily basis and I no longer trusted him. However, I don’t believe the scaremongering about the war either, and I shall return either to wind up our affairs and pack up the rest of our belongings or to continue running what we have left.

  Papa wrote to you when we arrived in Paris. Did you receive that letter? In the meantime, if you ever do read this, look after the silk shop in the ancient quarter if you can. A local girl has been running it while you’ve been away. Your old neighbour, O-Lan. I’m not sure where her sympathies lie, but there was nobody else to do it. I don’t think she’d cheat us. Her own shop was flooded and her goods have all been destroyed. You can keep her on or dismiss her as you wish. It may be a few months before I get back.

  By the way, Lisa has gone to live with her sister, Alice Brochard, in the Languedoc.

  Now I want you to do me a favour. The decision to go was made as soon as we’d sold our store and, though I wanted to explain, I didn’t see Mark before I left. He had gone to America but promised he’d return to Hanoi as soon as he could. If you see him please would you tell him that I will be coming back.

  Thank you, chérie. I hope you are safe. You may not believe it but I do worry about you.

  Your sister, Sylvie

  Nicole read the letter twice before slipping it back inside the book. She wanted to forget she’d ever seen it but even as she stuffed the book back on the shelf, knew she could not. She was intensely relieved her father and Lisa were safe, but how did she feel about Sylvie?

  That night she left her window open a fraction, enough for a hint of damp air to drift in. Hearing the footsteps of people passing by, she wondered who they were in a vague sort of a way, the faceless ones who had remained. Maybe soldiers on their way to war? Meanwhile, her sister’s letter played on her mind. Would Sylvie really return to Hanoi?

  In the pale grey light of dawn Nicole dared to peer out before closing the window for the day. Everywhere was quiet. In a way, she feared the silence and longed to hear music or the laughter of her family. When happy times came back to her, she cried; but worse by far than her sorrow over bygone times was the thought of what she’d seen Trần do at the camp. Assaulted by the memory, she crawled into bed, but it was impossible to close her eyes without it all coming back. Though he had helped her escape, she felt frightened that he was no longer such a sweet, impassioned man. As the simple pleasures of a warm kitchen were denied her, she curled up against the wall for comfort. How she wished she had not gone with Trần, had not seen what she’d seen. She kept picturing his dark eyes as he sent the woman and child to their certain deaths.

  When she heard banging at the front door that night, she lay awake in fear, her thoughts spinning. The same thing happened a couple more times during the next day.

  The second night it happened, she lay in bed and focused on her breathing, forcing herself not to give in to her fear. One palm on her ribs, the other on her belly, she encouraged her breath to settle. She must not panic, but if this was Giraud still coming after her, she would not be safe while Mark was away. As the minutes ticked by she trembled; if only Mark would come back. He’d divert the policeman. When the banging on the door stopped and no other alarming sounds followed, she listened to the pipes, the creaks, the scurrying in the attic and, despite her fear, must have fallen asleep.

  But, suddenly, startlingly, she was wide awake once more.

  ‘Nicole?’

  She heard her name again.

  ‘Nicole?’

  As she recognized his voice a feeling of warmth surged through her. Her instinct was to leap out of bed, but she felt so stiff and cramped that she couldn’t move. She shook her head and at last the tears fell.

  Mark crouched down beside her bed. ‘Come on.’

  She gulped and sat up. With her face close to his, she comforted herself with the sweet, salty smell of him.

  ‘Will you stay with me now?’ she said after the tears had gone.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. He stroked her forehead and turned to pull up a chair.

  It was impossible to hide her need. ‘I mean in my bed. Can you hold me? Please, Mark.’

  Still trembling, she told him about the thumping on the front door. He stroked her face and the feel of his hands on her skin made her want him so much more. What an awful moment to be this close, with him looking after her as if she was a baby.

  ‘I …’ she began.

  ‘I’m here now,’ he said as he climbed in with her.

  She rested her head on his shoulder and she longed to tell him she loved him. Loved him. Loved him. And t
hat she always had. The sadness was that she could not. He had been kind to her. Just kind.

  But then he pulled away so that he could look at her. ‘You feel so fragile, I’m scared that the slightest puff of wind might blow you away.’

  ‘I’ll be all right. It’s just that when I close my eyes, everything comes racing back.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And then I get really scared.’

  ‘I wish I could be here all the time.’

  He stroked her cheek and the tenderness in his eyes as he smiled made her spirits gallop. ‘Even frail as you are, you’re very lovely.’

  Then he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. She closed her eyes and, savouring the taste of salt on his lips, gave herself fully to this long-awaited moment.

  28

  Nicole asked Mark to sit with her. He had done no more than kiss her the night before and she was starting to feel as if she’d imagined it. Self-conscious about her dry, cracked lips, she licked them as he pulled up a chair. The window was only slightly ajar but in the hush of the room it was enough to hear the rustle of leaves outside. A very green tree, the pipal was extremely large, maybe even a hundred feet tall, with a pale trunk about ten feet wide and branches exploding outwards from the centre. It had always been Nicole’s favourite. Best of all was when her father had constructed a rope ladder up to a little platform where she and Sylvie had spied on the world below. It had seemed so high at the time, though it was probably only two or three metres up in reality. She shook her head; she could not let nostalgia cloud her thinking.

  ‘Shall I get your blanket?’ Mark asked and began to rise.

  She waved him down and then began, attempting a neutral tone as she spoke. ‘While you were away I found a letter hidden in one of my books.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘I didn’t know what it was at first.’ She looked away, couldn’t bear to see what might be in his eyes when she spoke again. ‘It was from Sylvie.’

  He seemed to hesitate and she glanced at him. ‘That’s wonderful,’ he said, but she couldn’t read his expression. She carried on to say that her sister was safe in Paris. And that Lisa was living with her sister, Alice Brochard, in the Languedoc.