The Silk Merchant's Daughter (10 page)

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.

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 round 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.

Lisa was up, of course. Always up before the rest of them. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I was wondering what you’d like for supper?’

‘So early?’

‘I have to get to market. Coffee?’

Nicole took the mug of scalding coffee, wrapping her hands round it for comfort. ‘I might not be here for supper.’

As Lisa opened the back door, the sound of birdsong filled the kitchen. Nicole poked her head out to look. The sun shone and the garden, in all its different shades of green, seemed to be in continuous motion. The leaves rustled in the breeze, the branches creaked as they swayed and the flowers that had survived the rain were bright and cheerful. No one could brood for ever and, bursting with renewed life, the garden gladdened her. Sylvie was with Mark. She just had to put it behind her.

Lisa pulled up a chair, brushing her greying hair from her eyes. ‘I hope you’re going somewhere nice. You look rather pale.’

‘Just a nightmare.’

‘Not the one about drowning in the river?’

‘No.’

Lisa frowned. ‘Darling girl, is something the matter? You haven’t looked yourself lately.’

Nicole shook her head. She couldn’t tell Lisa. It wouldn’t be fair. Anyway, wasn’t it time she left the horror of that night behind? She tried to think of something cheerful instead.

‘Tell you what,’ she said as she sat down, ‘I’d love an apple tart for dessert. Will you save me some if I don’t make supper in time?’

Lisa grinned and reached out a hand. ‘There will be a Nicole-sized piece in the larder. With whipped cream?’

Nicole felt the warmth of Lisa’s hand, and squeezed. ‘Yes please.’

The kitchen went silent.

Nicole sniffed. ‘Isn’t that burnt cheese?’

Lisa jumped up. ‘Oh lordy! The Camembert for breakfast …’

Nicole grinned. The smell always brought back one of
Nicole’s favourite things – baking Camembert with Lisa in the kitchen in Huế. ‘You should have told me. I’d have helped you make it.’

‘Burn it more like,’ Lisa said as she flapped about.

Nicole raised her eyebrows. ‘I rather think you’ve managed that on your own.’

When Nicole was little, Lisa would first score the fat round cheese, popping in some tips of rosemary before slipping it into the oven. Then she’d cut up the bread into bite-sized pieces. Nicole would wait patiently, her excitement building, until the point came when she was allowed to strip two woody sprigs of rosemary and thread the pieces of bread on to them. She’d drizzle on olive oil and sprinkle on salt, then Lisa would put them in the oven with the Camembert. They’d eat at the kitchen table with the window open, so they could smell the Perfume River, just the two of them. The taste when you dipped the squares of bread into the oozing Camembert! Divine. Baked Camembert, rosemary and the salty river: her favourite smell still.

She reached out to touch Lisa’s hand again. ‘I love you.’

‘Get off with you, girl.’

Nicole felt weary from constantly fending off the gnats infesting the shop. Despite the large ceiling fan moving the air, it remained humid. On days like this Nicole felt so listless she hardly knew what to do with herself. She burned a stick of incense, wishfully thinking it might freshen the air.

Beyond the shop window a woman trader she knew signalled with a cake in her hands. Nicole couldn’t resist sugar and went out.

As she ate the cake she thought about Trần. She had decided she couldn’t meet him under any circumstances, and yet she couldn’t help but wonder what he wanted to show her. She
knew it wasn’t a good idea; she needed to forget, and going with him would only bring it all back. She definitely wouldn’t go. It’d be a big mistake. There. Decision made. So why at closing time was she slipping on a silk jacket and heading out in the opposite direction from home?

He was a little late but when he arrived he held out a hand. ‘I knew you’d come.’

She shook his hand. ‘You knew more than I did.’

He laughed. ‘Must be my charm.’

He seemed in a friendly frame of mind, but she remained watchful as they walked through crowded streets, dodging women packing up their goods in lidded baskets and shaking their heads when traders offered crispy doughnuts and tiny cups of orange tea. She was curious. It was as simple as that. Yet when they reached the alleys where, but for a few shadowy figures, they were alone, her anxiety caught up with her. She hadn’t felt he might be planning to hurt her, but if he had wanted to, they seemed to be heading where darkness would conceal it. She stopped walking.

Intimidated by the increasing gloom, she tried for a breezy tone of voice. ‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind.’

He took hold of her by the elbow. ‘Too late now.’

She heard someone coming down the street behind them and spun round, but it was only an old Vietnamese man scurrying along with an uneven step. The man turned off.

‘Why are there no people here?’

He didn’t reply.

‘I said –’

He interrupted. ‘I heard you.’

She glanced around.

‘Just come with me.’

‘I want to go home.’

‘When the time is right.’

She tried to pull away. ‘I want to go now.’

He stopped walking and looked at her. ‘I shall not hurt you.’

Her neck muscles tensed as it sank home that a man with his political convictions was a dangerous companion for a girl from a French family. Certain sections of the ancient quarter, known to be hotbeds of Vietnamese unrest, concealed many dissenters. Why had she thought she could trust him?

‘I shall not hurt you,’ he said again, and this time something warm in his voice reassured her. ‘Don’t be afraid. You will get home safely. All in good time.’

They passed under the light from an upstairs window and she glanced at him. Her feelings towards him were an odd combination of curiosity and nervousness, but when he gave her a wide smile she saw honesty in his eyes and felt better.

‘You can have confidence in me, Nicole.’

‘What is your full name?’

‘As you know, my family name is Trần. That will suffice for now.’

As they walked on she felt rather thrilled to be out at night in a part of town she didn’t know. She heard voices as they turned into a narrow street where every shop window glowed with red and yellow lanterns. She sniffed. A sickly-sweet smell laced the air.

‘Opium,’ he said.

She frowned.

‘As you see, beneath the social glitter of French Hanoi there is an underbelly.’

‘I had heard.’

‘The French encourage it through a state monopoly of the opium trade.’

They passed a spot where a few Vietnamese men stood outside eyeing up the scantily dressed Vietnamese girls, their bodies draped around French officers in white uniform. Nicole
hung back lest one of the French might recognize her, but the group left the pavement and entered the building.

‘Are they going dancing?’

He grimaced. ‘Not exactly.’

‘You’re not taking me dancing, are you?’

‘I don’t dance.’

She looked at his serious face. ‘I can believe that. Don’t you do anything for fun?’

He didn’t say anything, but she registered that he had almost smiled.

The street led to another with even seedier bars, and an increasingly overpowering smell of opium.

‘Come,’ he said as he came to a halt at the entrance of one.

She hesitated as all her father’s horror stories of girls being taken came rushing back. She’d believed it had been an invention, his way of controlling her: now she wasn’t so sure.

They went in and Trần led her down narrow stairs and along a corridor to the back where he pushed open a heavy door. She gasped at the heady smell in the room, which was clouded with blue smoke, silent but for soft music playing in the background.

‘It’s a
fumerie
,’ he said.

At first she could barely see in the dimly lit room, but once her eyes adjusted she noticed little pools of diffused light radiating from oil lamps dotted about. The clientele, mainly Vietnamese, lay on slatted wooden daybeds, covered in matting, with a leather roll under their heads. Their dull and torpid eyes revealed everything. Nicole watched a bare-footed Vietnamese girl sitting in a semi-squat at the side of one of the recumbent figures. The paraphernalia of addiction lay on a low table beside her: long black opium pipes, a bamboo pot and a silver-handled needle. She picked up the needle and twisted it with a spinning movement, working the resin close to the heat of an oil lamp.

Trần nodded at another woman who appeared to be in charge and she pointed at an archway. Aware of her vulnerability, Nicole clutched hold of his arm.

‘Can’t we leave?’

‘This is only part of what I want you to see.’

Nerves on edge, she walked on.

Beyond the archway, a wide corridor stretched ahead, carpeted in ruby red, with large cubicles lining either side, heavy brocade curtains separating each one, and stinking of synthetic perfume, a smell that seemed to have impregnated the walls. Nicole held her nose and glanced around. One of the curtains was only half closed and she averted her eyes, not wanting to see what might be inside. The place was dark, not merely from a lack of abundant lighting; she could feel the dread and darkness in her bones.

‘Please,’ she whispered as she drew back. ‘No more.’

‘Don’t chicken out now.’

She shook her head.

‘It won’t take long.’

They moved on to where the smell altered. Now it was alcohol. She took another step forward and glanced into a cubicle where the curtain remained wide open. A man and a woman appeared to be sleeping on a velvet-covered couch, with a large grey cat sitting on a shelf above them. Was this all? … But there were other sounds from the cubicles further along and she knew it was not. She glanced at one, stepped forward, opened up a gap in the curtain and, feeling her flesh crawl, swiftly withdrew.

They continued to pass along the corridor and then she followed him up a narrow staircase and into a small room. He closed the door quietly and smiled. Only a low tasselled lamp lit the room and there was a cloying smell of incense and oil.

With a finger to his lips he signalled she should come over
to where a velvet curtain hung right across the wall. From beyond the curtain she heard laughter and the voices of men speaking in French. Trần signalled again. The floor creaked as she walked across. She froze, paralysed with fear, then when nothing happened, drew a little closer.

‘Some like to watch,’ he whispered, and pointed to a chink in the curtain.

Nicole looked through the small gap at a large room furnished in dark wood, where a naked young Vietnamese girl lay on a bed covered in silk. Nicole gazed at the girl’s deadpan face and wanted to shout at her to run, though truly she knew the girl would have nowhere to go. Three officers seemed to be taking it in turns with another girl while passing round a bottle of brandy. One of the men slapped the girl’s behind and, as he bent her over, she was forced to take another man’s privates in her mouth. Nicole stifled her disgust, but accidentally pulled the curtain open a touch. She shuddered when the man looked up. She couldn’t be certain if he’d seen her because, with closed eyes, his face spasmed and his thick-lipped mouth fell open: the key person who should have been policing the city – Daniel Giraud’s father.