The Silk Merchant’s Daughter

by Dinah Jefferies

  She gazed at the floor while her heart somersaulted. Then something happened inside her, like a wire wrapped tightly round her had suddenly loosened its grip. She hadn’t known if he would come back. Still loving him with a feral intensity, she could no more turn him away than stop living. As he dropped to his knees beside her, she leant forward and allowed him to wrap his arms round her.

  ‘You are wonderful, Nicole. Never doubt it. And we’ll face every difficulty together.’

  She nodded. ‘What you said before, about me having problems with Sylvie. It wasn’t true. I always loved her, but she –’

  ‘I know. Listen, I told you I had Lisa’s address. Well, I found a phone number too and managed to call her. She told me the whole truth about what happened when you were born.’

  Nicole smiled. ‘Is she all right?’

  He nodded and glanced at the floor before continuing. ‘Look … there is one thing I still have to say. I was working undercover with Sylvie.’

  ‘But I already knew that. The third army, remember?’

  ‘I just wondered if that might have been why you came to the wrong conclusion about my relationship with her.’

  Nicole shook her head. ‘She made sure I came to that conclusion.’

  ‘And I was working with your father.’

  ‘I realized that too but I never knew why.’

  ‘He was made head of the anti-terrorism unit.’

  Trying to understand, but feeling puzzled, she frowned and searched his face.

  Mark held her gaze. ‘I assumed you must have guessed.’

  ‘I knew that officially he was working for the government, but that’s all.’

  ‘A front. His reputation was excellent and he was a skilled negotiator. I didn’t enjoy the subterfuge of posing as a silk merchant, especially with you, but having a job where you need more than one passport can be like that.’

  ‘So what about my sister? You did kiss her. I saw you, the night of the ball, down in the wine cellar.’

  He looked shocked. ‘You saw? Is that why everything changed?’

  She nodded. ‘Partly.’ Was this the time to speak of the shooting? The time at last for honesty?

  ‘But there was nothing to see. It was just a peck on the cheek. I was only trying to comfort her and that evening –’

  She felt dizzy as the smell of blood came back to her. ‘I know what happened.’

  He looked baffled and the lines between his brows deepened. ‘She told you?’

  ‘No, she only told me you were raising funds to support a third party in Vietnam.’ She paused. ‘I saw my father shoot Trần’s brother.’

  He puffed out his cheeks then blew out his breath. ‘Dear God, I had no idea. But how?’

  ‘I came looking for you. The peephole hadn’t been blacked out.’

  ‘That evening was too much for Sylvie. She was emotionally taut, brittle, and I could see the shock in her.’

  ‘It was horrible, truly horrible.’

  He nodded. ‘It was. But there’s something else I want to say. Whatever you think you saw, it wasn’t a real kiss. And even in America, whatever she may have led you to believe, we were never intimate.’

  Nicole was so relieved she felt instantly better.

  ‘But your sister! Some time after the ball, she vanished for a few days to frighten us – your father and me, I mean.’

  ‘Emotional blackmail?’

  ‘I think your father put it about that she had needed a break. She knew it wasn’t going anywhere between us, but Sylvie is a lot more troubled than people realize. By the time your father cottoned on, he’d already given her the business. When you told me she wasn’t coming back, to be honest, I only felt relief. She’d been a complete headache to work with.’

  Nicole shook her head. How had she known so little about her own sister?

  The room was now in darkness, but she could tell he was genuine. They remained quiet for a few minutes and she listened to his breathing, only faintly hearing the sounds in the street. His rhythm changed and she became acutely aware that he was holding back a sob. It cut right through her. The father of her child.

  ‘Oh, Mark.’

  His tears shook her. She leant towards him and he held her in the dark. She smelt his hair, and felt the warmth of his body. ‘I thought I might have lost you,’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It will be all right.’

  These were extraordinary times. People changed. Behaved out of character. The danger brought out the shadows inside them as well as the courage, and she knew only too well that sometimes people had to do things they didn’t want to do.

  ‘I promise, I will never do anything to hurt you again,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry too. I should have trusted you and told you the truth. I lied because I loved you and I was scared you might want Sylvie and not me. I was frightened I’d lose you.’

  ‘What fools we are,’ he said. ‘You will never lose me.’

  She felt herself relax. Hearing the sound of children laughing outside, she got to her feet to glance out of the window before turning on another lamp. Mark’s face was lit on one side by the glow and she looked at the dips and hollows. He was so dear to her now.

  ‘Have you heard anything of Giraud?’ she asked.

  ‘He has his hands full. His son Daniel died running from a sniper while in a village just north of Hanoi.’

  At the mention of death she shivered. ‘How awful. I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Giraud is a wreck. Drinking heavily. Plus he’s trying to cope with the influx of refugees coming in from the outlying districts. Not doing too well.’

  She nodded. ‘I thought the streets were busy.’

  ‘It’s the higher-ranking Vietnamese who supported the French. They think their days are numbered and are looking for ways to get to Saigon.’

  ‘Maybe we could go there?’

  ‘Maybe. Are you hungry?’

  They went down to the outdoor kitchen and as Mark sliced and began to fry some onions, Nicole thought about what he’d said. People were so complicated. Never wholly good or wholly bad. Look at Trần, or even Giraud, now half mad with grief.

  ‘We might be in danger if Trần comes back here,’ she said. ‘He isn’t a bad man, not really, but now I’m showing …’

  Mark twisted round to look at her. ‘Have you heard something?’

  ‘O-Lan had a letter from him. She was the one who suggested I should go to France.’

  ‘Can you trust her?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. She says he won’t be back for a while yet.’ But although Nicole had defended Trần, she had seen how cruel he could be and the thought of seeing him scared her.

  ‘I have to go away, but when I get back we’ll think about getting you to France. How does that sound?’

  She felt the tears springing up. ‘Please don’t go again.’

  He came across and held her in his arms. ‘I must. You know I must. This is war. Now that the Vietminh have gained so much ground here, the plan is to set up operations down south. I’ll have to be in Saigon and, as I said before, eventually Russia.’

  She pulled away and held him at arm’s length. ‘I hate the thought of Russia. Will you be safe?’

  ‘I can’t pretend it’s not dangerous. The Russians are supporting the Vietminh, providing weapons and so on. We need to know what else they’re doing. And who they’re hiding.’

  She hung her head and tried to brush the tears away.

  ‘Don’t worry, if you decide against France I have friends in America who’ll help.’ He tilted her head up and kissed her damp cheeks. ‘I won’t be too long this time, although I may be gone for months later on. But we’ll have sorted something out for you long before then.’

  She looked into his eyes and prayed it would all happen as he said.

  ‘But if you need to leave suddenly, before I’ve organized a place for you, then go to France and leave an address at the American embassy in Paris. Or
better still, go to Lisa. She’s in Narbonne, Rue des Arts, near the canal.’ He pulled out a scrap of paper. ‘This is the address. I’ll wire you some money.’

  ‘I need to go back to the house to see if I can find the baby clothes that Lisa packed away.’

  ‘Well, do it soon and then stay put here until I’m back. Shouldn’t be gone more than a week or two.’

  She recalled the way she’d found the courage to make that terrible journey south completely alone, even though it had almost killed her. The next journey might be to France, and Lisa, and maybe sooner rather than later. She hoped it wouldn’t be without Mark.

  ‘Whatever happens, I will never abandon you. Don’t ever forget. Not for as long as I live.’

  And there it was, the spectre of death again.

  Nicole loved Vietnam with all her being; it was where she’d been born and where she’d lived all of her life. It would be hard to leave a place so deeply imprinted in her blood. She loved Mark too, and hated the thought of leaving without even knowing where he was. But even as she thought that, a far worse fear uncurled inside her. She would find a way to push through the dark days ahead and it didn’t really matter where he was going. What mattered was that he returned to her.

  ‘Come back safe, Mark,’ she said and reached for him again. ‘Just come back.’

  4

  * * *

  THE SMELL OF FISH

  October 1953 to May 1954

  32

  After dressing in clean French clothing, Nicole slid the hooks of some pretty pearl earrings through her lobes. With the rain over, the fresh weather had arrived, but had not as yet reached the pinnacle of heat. Outside, the street was swarming after the recent downpour, as if everybody had rushed out for air, and now bicycles, cyclos and pedestrians narrowly missed each other.

  She was out testing the water to see if it was safe to return to their villa in the French quarter to look for baby clothes. She passed a pagoda, busy with people carrying suitcases, and was able to melt in with the crowd. But as she reached the crossroads at the end of Silk Street, she saw the area was crawling with French officers, so returned quickly to the shop without looking back.

  By late afternoon things seemed back to normal. In the street outside the shop, Nicole stood holding a large canvas bag with wide straps and leather buckles. As she waited to hail a cyclo to take her home, she glanced back at the window where the silk lay folded in rows of magenta, yellow, emerald and sky blue. So bright. Like a sweet shop, she thought. There had been good times at her little shop, despite everything, but now she had to think ahead. At any other time she might have been able to bring up her child in the Vietnamese quarter, but with the Vietminh and Trần possibly drawing closer, she had to accept the danger she was in. Huế might not be any safer, and she’d seen for herself what the camps were like. She put the bag down on the kerb then with both hands eased her backache, pressing hard into the points of pain.

  As the sky turned indigo she surveyed the street and, raising a hand, shaded her eyes from the low sunlight. A couple of men stood in a shadowy alley opposite smoking and relaxing; next door a mother was bathing her child in a tub on the pavement and an old woman was gathering up her possessions ready to pack them away in a wide basket for the next day. A few shops were already shuttered and others were following. The toothless man who sold boiled peanuts had left. As a young woman passed by, Nicole caught a trace of musky perfume. From a window nearby, the monotonous sound of singing reached her, and for a moment or two Nicole sang along. As she watched a lone cyclo approaching from between the line of distant trees, a wave of sadness swept through her and she had to accept how much she would miss all this if she was forced to leave. And yet, against her better judgement, she still harboured the hope that things might turn out all right.

  Drunk on the aroma of charcoal and ginger, Nicole felt dreamy and particularly languid. Even the thought of Sylvie’s return didn’t bother her. Something to do with her pregnancy, she thought, as she closed her eyes to absorb the atmosphere. Mark loved her and that was all that mattered. She opened her eyes as the cyclo came closer, bent down to pick up her bag, saw one of the straps had unbuckled and spent a moment doing it up again. She didn’t notice the two men slip across from the alleyway opposite, but when she looked up she saw they were now a metre away.

  The cyclo pulled to a stop and a passenger stepped out. She gasped as Giraud straightened up and turned his watery eyes on her. She twisted round in panic but saw the men now stood either side of her, hemming her in.

  Giraud cleared his throat. ‘Nicole Duval. You are under arrest. You will be taken to the Maison Centrale where you will remain until you are tried.’

  She attempted to maintain eye contact with him. ‘For what? Tried for what?’

  He laughed and puffed out his chest. The laugh had been scornful, revealing his world-weary state of mind. ‘You broke your house arrest and, far worse, you are a traitor to France.’

  ‘How long have you known I was here?’

  ‘Let’s just say you have been under surveillance.’

  Terror-stricken, she blinked rapidly, glancing around for a means of escape. When she saw there was none she noticed the self-satisfied look on his face. ‘Why now? Can’t you see I’m expecting a baby? I’m five months pregnant.’

  He grinned and she saw his teeth were stained. ‘I always thought you a Viet whore.’

  ‘This baby is nothing to do with the Vietminh.’

  ‘Tell it to the judge.’

  She squared her shoulders as they clipped the handcuffs round her wrists. She was not going to cry in front of this odious man, but as fear crept through her, everything she’d ever heard about Hoa Lo prison came racing back to her. As she climbed into the cyclo with him she was visibly shaking.

  For the first twenty-four hours she kept her spirits up, even though the rumours about the formidable Maison Centrale had not been exaggerated. It reeked of rancid fat by night and rotten fish by day. With only a small round porthole for light and the daytime air hot and humid, she felt suffocated. A hundred times her heart began to race. She had to fight the brawling going on in her mind, and when not in a state of panic, the tedium drove her crazy. If only she had gone to France when O-Lan had first suggested it.

  She was held in a cage, her wrists loosely chained to the wall and her ankles shackled to a fixed metal bar on the floor on a level with her concrete bunk. The French guards brought in a tin can of water at the start of the day, though they delighted in spilling it. Everyone else in the women’s wing was Vietnamese. She tried to speak to the skeletal glassy-eyed person held in the next cage, but the woman spat on the ground and turned her head away.

  It wasn’t her first experience of appalling colonial brutality but it had never been this personal before. By the second day in the stagnant cell her back ached and she longed to move to ease the pain. Her bladder stretched to bursting with the effort of trying to maintain control, but with the frequency of pregnancy she couldn’t always reach the bucket in time. She was forced to relieve herself where she lay. Her throat was so dry she feared the dehydration would harm her baby.

  Why did this have to happen now while Mark was away? If he had been there she felt sure he’d have found some way to get her out, on health grounds if nothing else. Thoughts of his touch comforted her a little, but with growing terror she knew that if he didn’t get back to Hanoi soon she’d be tried and executed and her baby would die with her. In a state of utter dread she called out to the guards until her face was streaming with tears. By the time her skin had become hot and clammy and her vision had blurred, a kinder guard brought her an extra jarful of water. She gulped it down. Frightened that the morbid conditions might hurt her baby, she steeled herself to think of better times, and when twists of doubt took hold, she pleaded with God to be saved.

  But if it wasn’t her fears tormenting her, it was the thought of food. The prisoners were fed one small bowl of thin brown-rice gruel twice a day. She
began imagining her favourite food. Poached eggs floating on a spinach soup, grilled corn and delicious patisseries. Most of all she craved a café au lait made with condensed milk.

  When night fell the urban chill took over from the heat of day and the cats started screeching and fighting until the small hours. Damp seeped into her bones and she twisted and turned on the cold concrete in an effort to find some way to rest that did not hurt. Every time she thought she had achieved it, if only for five minutes, she could not sleep for the sound of scuttling creatures and the harsh glare from a warden’s lamp.

  After five days, she was taken to a small airless room and told she would be questioned. The minutes ticked by as she waited with her hands still cuffed. Her skin itched, especially at the top of her back, where she couldn’t reach to scratch. The minutes turned into hours. The itch became intolerable. To try to distract herself, she stared up at the small square of daylight at the window, and tried to imagine what was going on out there, but the more her skin itched the more she wanted to scratch. It went on until, completely maddened, she called for a guard.

  The guard did not come; instead Giraud walked in, with a smug look on his face. Paralysed with fear, she watched as he sat on a stool, fat legs spread open with his crotch on display. He said little while he smoked a Gauloise Bleue. The stink of it in the confines of the room made her feel sick. She bowed her head to escape the smell, and the heavy curtain of her hair concealed her face. She felt safer when he couldn’t see the disgust in her eyes, and she couldn’t see what was in his.

  ‘So,’ he said finally. His voice was unusually grating as if he had swallowed gravel and some of it still clung to his throat. ‘What can you tell us?’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’ She lifted her head and stared at the window again. But now the light appeared to throb, swelling and shrinking so much it seemed to make the room hum.

  He moved his stool closer and bent towards her, then put a hand out to hold her by the chin. She squirmed beneath his grip but, compelled to look at him, she couldn’t avoid seeing his dark nostril hair, nor could she turn from his odour, stale with the smell of yesterday’s alcohol. The sense of his own importance shone in his eyes. She shuddered and a feeling of dread welled up inside her. She had pitied him for the loss of his son but he was utterly pitiless.