The Silk Merchant's Daughter (13 page)

Soon after the night of the festival a sparkling day lifted Nicole’s spirits, with the heat tempered by a silvery breeze and a comfortable humidity. Like many Hanoians, she loved September. The cool dry weather was still bright and along the streets the trees flaunted their red and yellow leaves. The sky was a more intense blue, and the lakes glittered, greener than in the rainy weather. Large white daisies and yellow sunflowers grew on every scrap of land, but she especially loved the fragrance of milk flowers in the cool of the evening. The tiny white flowers on the tree in their garden also bloomed on a few trees lining the city streets, and there was talk of planting many more when the war with the Vietminh was won. Their blossom infused the air with a bitter-sweet fragrance and, as the wind blew, Nicole thought the fluttering white flowers looked like falling snow.

It made her feel happy and as she walked to the shop she thought of their life in Huế, recalling a day when her father had taken her beyond the usual Huế villages to a distant hamlet of bronze casters. He’d been looking for a birthday present for Sylvie. Nicole racked her brain trying to remember what he’d bought. The next day he’d taken Nicole to a silk village to show her how silk was made.

There she had seen the three stages of silk production for the first time and had fallen in love. The first stage was the cultivation of the mulberry trees. Next came the breeding of the silkworms and the extraction of the thread from the cocoons. The silkworms ate the mulberry leaves and after they had transformed into pupae they were killed by dipping them in
boiling water before the adult moths emerged. She’d felt rather sorry for the poor little pupae, bred only to produce a silk that, once the whole cocoon unravelled in the spinning, would come out as one continuous thread. After that they were cooked and eaten. The third stage, and the most exciting, was weaving the threads into cloth.

Nicole glanced at the street stalls she passed. It was market day, and everyone was milling about, picking up produce or gossiping on the corners. Feeling buoyant, she swung her arms as she walked. Everyone loved to haggle and she listened to the laughter and the sound of voices raised in friendly argument. As the day grew hotter she paused to buy a strong tea from the boy with the little teacups hanging from a bamboo pole, thinking about what she would be doing that day. She glanced up and spotted Yvette standing between two parked cars. Perhaps she’d invite the child to spend some time in the silk shop again. Yvette waved and Nicole lifted her hand to wave back.

Without warning, a deafening blast hurled debris twenty metres up in the air, before showering the street as it fell. Instead of waving at Yvette, Nicole’s hands flew to cover her ears and she was thrown back into an alleyway. Fear swept through the street: children crying and running for their mothers; people screaming and shouting; men calling out and women standing rooted to the spot in disbelief. Nicole half saw it all happen, half heard it, but as smoke thickened the air, it nevertheless became clear that two cars were still on fire. Her body felt strangely heavy as she stepped out from the alley. Another explosion rocked the street. A ferocious ball of fire erupted, followed by a rumbling, roaring sound. In a state of terror, Nicole closed her eyes against the blinding white light of the after-image.

She began to choke on the ash, but remembering Yvette,
opened her stinging eyes and stared at the burning cars – the exact place where she’d seen the child. In desperation to reach Yvette, she ran over the shards of broken glass and jagged edges of torn metal. Dogs began howling and in the noise and general panic she barely noticed a man lying on the ground, reaching out his arms to plead for help. As she passed more of the injured, Nicole hesitated, but then she saw the little girl. For a moment Nicole could not move. The smoke had cleared just enough to see, but the air around her was stifling and unbearably hot. As the horror hit her in the pit of her stomach she made a strangled sound.
Please not Yvette. Not a child who had never harmed anyone
.

Water began spreading across the street, and collecting in a pool where the road dipped. The little girl lay beside the water with her left leg crushed beneath bricks and mortar, the little puppy, Trophy, whimpering at her side. Nicole glanced around for help. Wild with fear, she began pulling at the rubble covering Yvette’s leg, breaking her nails and scratching her arms. As she released the little girl’s leg, the blood spread out on top of the pool of water, shining mirror-like.

Though the street was far from silent, the sound of French music playing on a radio could be heard drifting out from inside the bakery. Nicole fell to her knees and lifted the little girl’s head to her lap, hardly able to look at her dark eyes, but stroking her face and murmuring her name. With tears refusing to fall, Nicole rocked Yvette, wiping the child’s warm blood and the dirt from her cheeks, and attempting to sing her favourite song, the song they had always sung together on a Saturday morning in their kitchen. The blast must have killed her instantly. As Nicole’s throat became too choked to continue, she looked up and saw Yves coming towards her, the bones in his face standing out, the flesh drawn so tight he barely looked alive himself.

She glanced down at her dress where it had soaked up blood and noticed a shard of glass embedded in her hand. Now her own blood was trickling between her fingers. Yves came over and lifted Yvette. Everything went silent. He did not speak and neither did Nicole. She gulped, gritted her teeth, pulled out the glass, ripped a piece of her skirt to wrap round her hand, then picked up the puppy and stumbled after Yves into the bakery.

Yves sat down at a table with his daughter in his arms and wept.

Nicole sat opposite in a state of silent shock.

This was nothing like the black-and-white pictures in the newspapers, mainly of French victories in the remote hills and valleys of the north. This blood was red, redder than she could have imagined, and there was so much of it, the flesh torn and battered, the death real. Far too real. Time seemed to have halted, trapping Nicole in a world where a child’s life could be taken in a matter of seconds. She felt colder inside than ever before. Gradually, as the sounds of the street filtered through again, she heard voices raised in anger and became aware that something inside her had changed. The police finally arrived and the sound of their sirens rang out. That was what she would remember: a blur of sirens, people sobbing and the sickly smell of blood and burnt sugar in the street.

The police questioned her at the scene, a few simple questions. What had she witnessed? Was there any warning? That sort of thing. So she was surprised when her father summoned her into his office early the next morning, saying that the police wished to speak to her again. She trailed behind him, feeling raw and wearing only her silk dressing gown. She had wept for Yvette throughout the night and Lisa had held her close. But Nicole’s sorrow ran deep. She had loved Yvette like a sister.

As her father closed the door she tried to wipe the images from her mind, but all she could think was that nothing could justify the killing of children. Then she saw who was waiting in the smoky office: Inspector Paul Giraud took up too much space in the room as he stood with his back to the wall, legs apart, and with his arms folded in front of him. Nicole felt a knot twist in her stomach as they came face to face. He focused his watery eyes on her. She glanced at her father with raised brows.

‘Monsieur Giraud has a few questions he’d like you to answer, Nicole. That’s all.’ He had spoken kindly and with warmth in his voice.

The combination of grief and exhaustion had left her vulnerable. She took a step forward and gripped the back of an upright chair. ‘Papa, I haven’t slept at all. Can’t it wait?’ Her voice shook.

Her father looked at the floor as Giraud came to stand beside her. He smoothed down his hair, so close she felt as if he was about to pounce. She could identify every black nostril hair and smell the tobacco on his breath. Remembering what she’d seen him do, she shuddered.

‘If I can have a minute,’ Giraud said and carried on smoothing his hair. ‘An amicable chat. It has been noticed you have been spending time with a young Vietnamese man.’

His voice was low, not much louder than a murmur. She hated that. It meant she had to strain to hear and that gave him power over her. She gazed at him before replying and something in his eyes told her he had caught sight of her watching him at the brothel. The knot in her stomach grew tighter.

‘It’s not against the law, is it?’

Her father interrupted with a warning note. ‘Nicole.’

‘You know you can put your faith in me,’ Giraud said, holding out a hand. ‘You trust me and I’ll trust you, if you get my meaning.’

Nicole shook her head. ‘I haven’t been
spending time
as you put it.’

With an exaggeratedly patient sigh he continued. ‘You were seen eating ice cream with him while sitting on the front step at your shop.’

‘Is that a crime?’

‘I didn’t bring you up to behave like a common native,’ her father said, but he hadn’t spoken angrily.

‘He’s a student. I hardly know him,’ Nicole said.

‘What is his name? Or rather, what is the name he has given you?’ Giraud asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, Nicole,’ her father said. ‘We are trying to find the killers of Yvette. I know you care.’

‘Of course I care.’ She clenched her jaw so tight it hurt but really she wanted to sit down and howl. She closed her eyes. If she could just make Giraud disappear and the questions stop …

‘Well. Does he have a name?’

She hesitated. But, knowing she had no choice, opened her eyes. ‘I only know he’s called Trần.’

‘They are all called Trần or Nguyễn. Is that all you know? Think, Nicole, anything you can give us might be the clue we need. Anything at all.’

There was a pause as her father smiled at her. ‘Monsieur Giraud is not blaming you, Nicole. We know it was nothing to do with you.’

Nicole could no longer hold on to her tears and as they began to drip down her cheeks she brushed them away, furious with herself for crying in front of the odious man.

He pulled a chair out for her and smiled. ‘Why not sit, my dear? You’ll feel better.’

She did not want to sit but did as she was told, then watched
as he turned to her father. ‘Édouard, could you arrange for a glass of water, please, or maybe a lemonade.’

He could have rung the bell to request the drink, but her father left the room. As soon as he had gone Giraud’s smile faded and he wiped a hand across his brow. Now he raised his voice. ‘We have been watching young Trần.’

‘You came here just to question me about Trần?’

Giraud shook his head. ‘Yvette is our shared interest. But your young man and his conspirators are our prime suspects. You were seen with him one evening. I think we both know when. How do you explain it?’

‘Why? What does it matter anyway? He’s not my young man, he’s just a stu–’

Giraud broke in. ‘Time to tell the truth. We can do each other a favour.’

There was silence for a moment.

‘So? Tell me about it. You and him.’

‘There is no me and him.’

‘What were you doing with him? You might think I’m not on your side. But we want the same thing, don’t we?’

Nicole swallowed. Trần couldn’t have had anything to do with the atrocity. He had been so kind to Yvette. And yet he had said the city would be under siege. Had it been a warning? Not knowing how to feel, she remembered how he’d also said he would open her eyes.

‘He told me his brother had been shot by the French.’

‘Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.’

She shook her head. ‘He was nice.’

‘Anyone can be nice when they want to be. Even me.’ He laughed. ‘But you’re stepping into a world you don’t understand. Now, I help you, you help me. That’s how it works. The next time he comes to the shop, I want you to telephone this number. You do have a telephone there?’

‘The line was disconnected, but it’s all right now.’

‘So do we have a deal? You don’t need to speak, let it ring three times, put it down and do the same again once more.’

Nicole gave the slightest nod while staring at the floor. The one thing she would not tell him was that O-Lan was Trần’s cousin.

Giraud squeezed her shoulder and left his hand resting there. ‘That’s a good girl. I want us to understand each other.’

Her father came back in with a glass of lemonade.

‘Nicole has agreed,’ Giraud said, moving away to light a cigarette.

‘Are you sure about this, Giraud?’ her father said as he handed her the glass and then patted her on the shoulder. ‘I don’t want you putting my daughter in danger. I’d prefer her not to go back to the shop at all.’

‘Don’t worry. Give it a few days while the American CIA place their undercover agents in the area. We will all be keeping an eye on Nicole.’

Nicole glared at her father. ‘Who told Monsieur Giraud about me talking to Trần?’

‘Don’t be so quick to fire up, Nicole.’

‘In any case, I’m afraid we can’t reveal our sources,’ added Giraud. ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’

‘Well, as long as you can ensure her safety. I love both my girls very much.’

Nicole glanced up at her father again and saw that his eyes were moist.

For a few days Nicole did not see Trần; nor did she want to. She had thought about it carefully. And the more she thought and tried to remember everything he’d said, the more she began to believe he might have been involved in Yvette’s death. The thought horrified her. And it wasn’t only a matter of Yvette’s death either, as several other innocent people had also lost their lives – the old woman with the black enamelled teeth for one. Many others had been injured, most of whom now stood about the street talking to anyone who’d listen. Many did listen, especially the wizened old women, hair scraped back in buns, whose only joy in life was gossip. The local people could not leave it alone and Nicole, knowing they all blamed the French, was aware of a shift in the atmosphere. Because of the general increase in tension, Nicole made every effort to ensure she wore Vietnamese dress and did not draw attention.

Even though she didn’t want to speak to Trần, she knew she had to and, when she didn’t see him at the shop, she decided to walk around the lake to think. Once there, she was surprised to see the thin back of the still figure who sat gazing out across the water. She felt a flicker of fear and bit down on her knuckles to stop herself from crying out.

Yet Trần looked so defenceless. Surely he could not have been responsible for Yvette’s death? But when he twisted round, the accusation her father and Monsieur Giraud had made came storming back. She felt the heat explode in her head.

‘How could you?’ she hissed.

There was silence, her accusation hanging between them. The scene in front of her began to pulse, the green of the trees, the silvery lake, his solitary figure. It merged together and she felt dizzy. She couldn’t take one step forward. Not one step. She hesitated a moment longer but knew that she would have to speak or run.

After a few moments he sighed. ‘I knew you’d think that.’

‘They told me it was you.’

‘They?’

She stared at the ground, seeing nothing, before returning her gaze to him. ‘Giraud and my father. They laid the blame on you.’

‘You believed them? You really think that?’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘I argued with them. I told them nothing.’

‘And?’

‘Trần, did you do it?’

‘You have to ask?’ His eyes hardened and he stood up, taking a few steps towards her.

She held out her hand. ‘Don’t come any closer.’

‘Before you judge, think about it. Why would we kill our own people?’

She shook her head. ‘To discredit the French.’

He kicked at the dead leaves lying on the grass. ‘Have you considered it might be the other way round?’

There was a short pause.

‘On my mother’s life, I promise you it was not us. I would not have harmed a hair on the child’s head.’

An image of Yvette with her plaits swinging as she ran made Nicole tremble. She folded her arms across her middle and hugged herself, bending over to gaze at her feet. ‘I can’t bear it. She never harmed anyone.’

‘I can’t bear it either, Nicole.’

She lifted her head and, thinking over what he’d said, watched the birds flying across the lake. The moment went on and though she wasn’t looking at him she knew he had not moved. Eventually she turned back to him. ‘How can I believe you when everyone says it was the Vietminh who killed her? How can I trust you?’

And now he did take another step towards her. ‘Because you have my word.’

She looked at his face for signs of a lie, really looked at him. Everything about him was taut. He gazed back at her without blinking, defiant and determined. Then his face crumpled as if he too had been holding on to overwhelming sadness and only now could release a little of it. His eyes filled with tears and he looked so vulnerable it tore her apart. Yet still she never would have believed him, had she not seen her own father kill a man in cold blood. If her father could do that, what else might the French be capable of?

‘So who?’

‘The Americans, perhaps. We know the CIA have been sniffing around. We think they are in league with some key French people who are working to set up a third army in Vietnam.’

‘To fight against the Vietminh?’

‘Yes, trying to discredit us.’

There was no arguing with that. She walked up to him and, gazing right into his eyes, hoped she could hide the fact that she already knew about the third army. ‘They want me to inform on you. Let them know if I see you.’

She watched the tears appear again. Moved by his sincerity, she reached out. He was so young but already looked so frayed at the edges. She hated to see him waste his life in a hopeless cause.

‘Trần, why not forget all this? Go back to your studies. The Vietminh will never win against the French.’

He took hold of her hand and squeezed.

She felt a wave of uncertainty and, for a moment, didn’t know how to respond. Behind his strong beliefs and eagerness there was also something naive. Was he telling the truth? How could you tell? She reached for his other hand. They stood and she felt the warmth of his skin against hers. She closed her eyes and listened to the wind ripple the water. He coughed and her eyes snapped open. As he smiled, something passed between them, and she felt as if she’d known him for ever. He was like a Vietnamese brother. She couldn’t help but feel protective towards him, just as she couldn’t help loving her father, even after what he had done.

‘You promise never to lie to me?’ she said, even though she knew she would always have to lie to him about what had happened in the cellar.

He touched a palm to his heart, and then to hers. After that he took hold of her hand and led her to a secluded area of trees and shrubs. He parted the branches and they crawled through to a small clearing completely covered by the canopy of leaves.

‘I never knew this was here,’ she said as she attempted to sit, but had to double over under the low hanging branches.

‘You have to lie down here. No space to sit,’ he said. ‘Come.’

He reached out both arms to help her lie on the grass beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. There was the occasional screech of bicycles or the sound of a car. Mainly they listened to the birds and the leaves rustling in the breeze. She raised herself on one elbow and watched the pattern of the dappled sunlight on his honey-coloured skin.

‘You are not such a mystery to me as you were,’ she said. ‘I thought at first you were full of hate.’

He smiled. ‘No mystery and no hate. I want what’s right for our people.’

‘And to be dominated by another country is not right?’

‘Exactly.’

‘What if you lose? There will be terrible reprisals.’

‘There are already reprisals. Think of my brother.’

Nicole shook her head, trying to rid herself of the memory, the fringe, the gurgle, the slump of the man. The look in his eyes just before her father shot him.

There was a long silence before she spoke.

‘I used to gaze out on the moonlit Perfume River. During the war, I wasn’t supposed to open the windows but I couldn’t bear it. I felt I had to be free or I would have died.’

‘So you understand how I feel.’

She nodded. ‘It frightens me, but I think I do.’

‘Then help us.’

‘How?’

‘Promise you will not speak of this to anyone. It is dangerous.’

She breathed air drenched with the scent of earth and water, and felt roused by his vehemence, but was he blind to the truth? The French could not lose, but still it was exhilarating to feel so connected to the cause of the Vietnamese people. She knew she was betraying her family by feeling that way and, at the back of her mind, she understood she could be in very deep trouble just for being here with him.

‘We are opening up tunnels,’ he continued. ‘Through the shops in the ancient quarter.’

‘Underground?’

‘We open up the walls between the shops on the ground floor, an archway if you like, wide enough for one of us to pass through quickly. It’s a hidden network.’

‘Surely the tunnels can be seen?’

‘The owners block them from view.’

Nicole frowned. ‘You want to make holes in my walls?’

‘Yes.’

‘But what about the silk? Won’t it be stolen?’

‘Not if people understand you are with us. I will protect you. I promise.’

‘What about my family?’

‘Nicole, they are French and our enemy.’

She sat up and bent her head forward to her knees, covering her face with her hands. She didn’t want to hear. It was too brutal to think of her father and Sylvie like that and, despite everything, she still loved them.

‘I’m sorry. There is no other way.’

There was a long stretch of silence while she thought about what he’d asked her to do.

‘If you want to save your family, persuade them to leave for France,’ he said as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘It’s all you can do. The days of French rule are coming to an end.’

Trần still lay on the grass, his hands behind his head. She dropped her hands so that she could support herself as she twisted round to look at him. ‘If I join your cause I will lose my family.’

He inclined his head.

‘You seem so sure about everything.’

‘I am. Thousands of peasants have joined us. They supply food, carry arms and look after the wounded. The Vietminh army are coming closer. Have you seen the number of French tanks in the streets? They are gearing up for a final battle they cannot win.’

‘You promise you had nothing to do with Yvette’s death?’

‘Believe me.’ He raised a hand and tilted her chin towards him. ‘I won’t betray your trust. And, as I said before, the
Americans are trying to organize a third army to fight the Vietminh.’

‘The Americans hate us colonials.’

‘They hate communism even more.’

‘One question,’ she said. ‘Is the Vietminh really communist?’

‘We are nationalists, Nicole. The communist countries of China and Russia have been supporting us, and America is unhappy about that. The West has turned its back.’

Nicole thought about it and felt the divisions were false. Surely there had to be a better way of deciding the fate of a country than through violence and war. ‘Why can’t we carry on living together?’

‘You know why. We’re not free. We have our own culture and it’s completely different to the French.’

‘My father loves this country. He was even married to a Vietnamese woman, my mother.’

‘Yet he seeks to maintain French domination.’ He paused. ‘Nicole, I wish I could say enough to steer you towards the truth, but I have to leave soon for the north. I might be gone for a few weeks but I will be back.’

‘And if I choose not to help you?’

‘Then we will not see each other again. But remember your true family may not be the one you were born into. My comrades are my family now.’

She gazed at him. He looked so determined but she worried his convictions could only end in sorrow. She wanted to trace the contours of his cheek with her fingertips, the impulse so strong that he shifted slightly as if sensing it.

‘But think of this too. If you choose the French, you may not be safe at the silk shop. There may be people ready to hurt you if they suspect you know about the tunnels. And they know you and O-Lan are friends. They’d suspect her of telling you about them. You’d be putting her life at risk too.’

‘Is that blackmail?’

‘No, it’s reality. We need to get
our
country back. Whatever it takes.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘I’ll be perfectly safe as long as you tell no one that I know about the tunnels.’

‘And what will you do in return?’

‘I will not tell the police about them.’