The Silk Merchant's Daughter (5 page)

He drew out a packet of matches and, inhaling deeply, lit a cigarette.

‘What is your name?’

‘You may call me Trần.’

‘Well, Trần, if that is your name, I want you to go before I call the police.’

‘You will soon be needing me.’ He grinned, showing the gap in his teeth again. ‘The Vietminh are already here in Hanoi.’

‘You know nothing about it. You’re just an overgrown buffalo boy!’

He flicked his fringe away from his eyes and bowed before walking to the other side of the street.

Though longing to get back home for her bath, she ducked back inside and kept watch for a little while, looking through the slats of the blind. A convoy of military cars went by, a rare sight in the old quarter, though it seemed more of the French army were arriving in the city now. Across the street a grandmother dragged a protesting child out to a bathtub she’d prepared on the narrow pavement. She dumped the child in the water and began to scrub its thin back. Nicole grinned.
Here in the old quarter, life was lived outside. She liked that. It felt open and honest. A tea boy approached, his bamboo pole balanced across his shoulders; along its length tiny tin cups, pipes and teapots rattled a tune as they swung. The young Vietnamese man, Trần, paused to speak to him. This was her chance. She slid out of the shop, quickly locked the door and slipped away.

Round the corner she passed an old Vietnamese woman who was airing her views for all the world to hear.

‘They don’t care, the French,’ the woman was saying.

Nicole slowed her pace.

‘My neighbour says there’s been a bomb,’ a younger woman said. ‘Not far from you. Got it from the doughnut pedlar. Did you hear it?’

‘No, but my nephew said everyone round his way was talking about it.’

The other person lowered her voice. Nicole couldn’t catch it all but made out that they both believed the Vietminh were closer to Hanoi than anyone suspected, just as the young man had said.

And they’d spoken of a bomb. Again. Her father had told her there had been no bomb, had even shown her the newspaper denying it. She felt suddenly nervous. Even though many were still loyal to the French, she hated not knowing who to trust. Now overhearing this conversation, it worried her to think that the situation might be worse than anyone in her family was willing to admit.

As Mark and Nicole passed the large ponds around the banks of the lake, she pointed out the sea of fragrant pink and white lotus flowers coating their surface. Climbing out of the rickshaw, her worries about the ancient quarter evaporated and she suddenly felt so happy that her fear of being in a small boat faded a little. A blind beggar man, squatting on the bank, took no notice of them, but after a few minutes of searching they identified the man in charge of boats, smoking and drinking coffee at the water’s edge beside a wooden jetty. He glanced pointedly at his watch when Mark made his request, only agreeing when offered a few extra dollars.

The sun was still warm and as she’d forgotten her hat Mark lent her his straw boater. He had on a crisp white shirt that seemed to make his skin glow, and she wore a kingfisher-blue shirtwaister.

‘Maybe high heels weren’t such a good idea,’ she said and laughed nervously as the boatman passed her a cushion. She made herself comfortable. ‘I should have worn pumps.’

Mark laughed. ‘You’re fine.’

Once he’d climbed in, he rolled up his shirtsleeves and took hold of the oars. The boat slid away from the jetty. As he rowed, Nicole watched the sun catch the gold hairs on his forearms. His outdoor upbringing had made him muscular and, remembering how quickly he’d responded to danger when he’d grabbed Daniel Giraud by the throat, she could see he would never be destined for an ordinary office job. Nor was he a man you’d ever want to cross. She wondered if that bothered
her. You’d need to know, she thought, before committing yourself to wanting him as much as she felt she already did. She smiled to herself. As if there was any choice.

When they reached the centre of the lake he stopped rowing and smiled at her. ‘Happy?’

She nodded and watched the surface of the lake blur into a mix of pink and gold. ‘They don’t usually let you on the lake so late in the day.’

‘I wanted us to be out here together, even if only for a few minutes. I used to swim to the middle of our lake at sunset when I was a kid.’

‘How romantic.’

He grinned. ‘Not sure I thought that when I was twelve.’

‘So why did you do it?’

‘I know I don’t always express myself in the way I’d like to, but it was like being in another world. After my mother died I felt locked up inside and it was only on the lake I could feel close to her.’

The lake and air shimmered as the light continued to change from pale yellow to a deep seductive pink. And he was right, the everyday world of Hanoi seemed to have disappeared, its sound muted and distant; now all she heard was the gentle lapping of the water and the sound of evening birds as they swooped and dived. The trees around the lake were dark and shadowy and it might have seemed lonely had she not been with him. She soaked in every detail and her nerves dissolved in the simple peace of this luminous world. Then, feeling in complete harmony with the lake, the trees, the birds and, best of all, with Mark, she felt herself let go.

Despite the mention of his mother he seemed to be in complete control – possession even – of the boat, the lake, and also the evening itself. As he smiled at her, his face, bathed in the fading light of the setting sun, added to the romantic mood of
the setting. Then, for some reason, she felt a twinge of apprehension.

‘I don’t want to leave,’ she said. ‘But maybe we should head back before the light fails.’

‘Don’t worry. There’s time. Would you take the oars for a moment? I’ve got my camera and want to just take a shot of you.’

He handed over the oars, then took out his camera from a small bag. Although he seemed perfectly balanced as he stood up, a real surge of anxiety gripped her. The fear of water had never really left her since the awful time when she and Sylvie had taken a boat out alone on the Perfume River.

‘You don’t need to row. I just want to catch you looking as if you are rowing. Can you lean forward?’

‘You think I can’t row?’ She laughed. ‘I can row.’

She made a sudden movement as if to row. It shook the boat and it rocked. Mark lost his footing, sat down abruptly and, in the sudden confusion, she reached out to him and dropped the oar over the edge. She felt embarrassed and stupid.

‘Now that’s novel,’ he said and laughed.

‘Sorry!’

With just one oar they could only go round in circles. Mark attempted to summon the boatman, but without success. He stood up again, intending to kneel at the edge, then lean over to try and catch hold of the lost oar, now caught up in a lotus blossom. But still with the camera in one hand, he moved too quickly; the boat rocked, he lost his balance and in a flash tipped over the edge and into the water. For a moment her blood ran cold and she screamed, but it quickly became clear he was safe. As he climbed back in, she began to laugh. She watched him as he shook his head to remove the water from his hair.

‘Hey! That’s me you’re splashing,’ she said as he did it again.

His white shirt was soaked and almost transparent and she could see every line of his arms and chest. Her throat felt full and she swallowed; she had never felt a longing so total that it made her heart race and her breath shorten like this. For a few seconds they stared at each other, neither able to speak, it seemed. She pulled her gaze away, suddenly embarrassed by the intimacy.

She spotted that he’d dropped the camera inside the boat, and not in the lake, so she picked it up and took a photo of him dripping with water, smiling as she did so. Then they waited, but as the sun sank into the horizon the boatman still hadn’t appeared. She felt safe with Mark but shivered when she remembered the cold darkness of the river the time she had fallen in.

‘So?’ she said. ‘What now?’

He shrugged. ‘That water is freezing!’

‘Serves you right for showing off!’

She spotted a point of light on the lake then heard the sound of oars being dragged through water. They both twisted round to look. The supposedly blind beggar was rowing out with a spare oar.

The top floor bathroom was shared by the sisters. Painted white and tiled in shiny aquamarine, one side was in perfect order and the other was littered with pins, clips, hairbands and pots of face cream. A large art-deco mirror covered one wall, the floor was tiled in black and white, and if you looked out of the window you gazed down on tropical fronds.

Sylvie had insisted they have two separate bamboo storage cupboards so their belongings wouldn’t get muddled, and Nicole rarely bothered to glance in her sister’s. This time, while she filled the bathtub, she ran her fingers over the contents of Sylvie’s shelves: Super-Rich All Purpose Crème, Cleansing Oil and Skin Lotion – all three Estée Lauder – were
on the bottom shelf, with various shampoos and soaps on the shelf above. Among the pretty perfume bottles on the top shelf was Sylvie’s favourite, Coeur Joie, a Nina Ricci fragrance. Nicole, shorter than Sylvie, needed to stand on the tips of her toes to reach. She managed to safely slide the bottle forward and, after she removed the stopper, dabbed it behind her ears. But when she slid it back in, she felt something else. She pulled a small box out and opened it. Inside were two bottles of pills, one labelled Benzedrine and the other Dexedrine, both with Sylvie’s name on the labels. But why was Sylvie taking pills? As far as Nicole knew, these were both amphetamines. She felt suddenly anxious. Was her sister unwell?

She put them back, then lay in the lovely hot water to soak and think of Mark. The unfamiliar feelings crowded her thoughts. She felt happy and excited at the same time. Most of all she felt thrilled that by taking her out on the lake he had shared something private and special with her. And now, as she soaped her skin, she felt like a woman who was falling in love but who couldn’t quite believe it was happening.

She had finished towelling her hair and was absently picking at the paint coming adrift from the door frame, still thinking of Mark, when there was a tap at the door and Sylvie came in.

‘What is it?’ Nicole said.

Sylvie walked over to the square of darkness at the window. ‘Shall I close the shutters? I don’t like a black window. Makes me think of death.’

Nicole shrugged, but understood. It was like when you saw the moon reflected in the water and all your life felt upside down. And sometimes she didn’t look out at the blackness, for fear the ghosts at the bottom of the garden would hide behind the trees, and the rustles would not be the leaves and the wind at all, but the voices of the dead.

‘Afraid the ghosts will get you?’ she said.

‘There are no ghosts.’

‘You’re the one who told me about the bodies. Buried by the Japanese, you said.’

‘Bodies are not the same as ghosts.’

Nicole laughed and began combing her damp hair. ‘You have no imagination.’

‘Well, we know that the Japs shot French people at the end of the war. It stands to reason some might be buried here.’

After closing the shutters Sylvie turned her back on the window and seemed to be thinking as she glanced around. She handed Nicole a white towelling gown and shot her a smile. ‘Let’s go through to your room.’

Nicole had tidied up the piles of books on the floor, but her glass beads hung in random strings from a hook on her dressing table, and a topless red lipstick had been left to dry up in an open drawer. A little pot of powder lay where it had fallen into the handbasin and a few items of clothing lay in a jumble on the floor near her bed.

Sylvie picked up the pot and a cloud of powder flew in her face, making her sneeze.

Nicole grinned.

Sylvie wiped the powder from her face with her fingers. ‘Very funny … Anyway, I wanted to talk about the shop. We have to think of your future.’

Nicole pulled a face. ‘Like marrying a nice Vietnamese man?’

‘Papa didn’t mean that.’

Nicole studied her sister’s face and wanted to tell her about going out on the lake with Mark, but something made her change her mind. ‘You always know how to cope with Papa, don’t you?’ she said instead.

Sylvie blushed slightly and had the grace to smile. ‘About the shop. You do realize that if you make a go of it you’ll be able to earn a good income? You are serious about it, aren’t you?’

‘Of course. I’ve already begun the cleaning.’

‘And will you try to finish your studies too?’

Nicole shook her head. ‘I don’t see how I can if I’m running the shop.’

‘True. Better to focus on the shop. Papa will understand that.’

‘I’m looking forward to it. But, Sylvie, why are you taking pills? I came across them in the bathroom.’

Sylvie frowned. ‘You were nosing in my cupboard?’

‘But what are they for? Are you ill?’

Sylvie seemed to hesitate. ‘Just headaches and tiredness.’

Nicole nodded. Since seeing Mark again the unfairness of the division of the business no longer seemed to matter so much and she felt for her sister. ‘It’s not surprising. You’re taking on a lot.’

She watched the breeze from the open window lift the muslin curtains, shifting the air in the room. ‘What’s happening to the house in Huế?’ she asked. ‘Are we selling?’

‘Papa has appointed a submanager to operate the buying there. He’ll live in the house.’

‘Well, I’m determined to make the shop a success.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘Do you know about the assassination in the bamboo grove?’ Nicole said.

Sylvie nodded. ‘And the possibility of more to come. Still, I suppose the Vietminh could shoot somebody here if they had a mind.’

When Nicole couldn’t sleep again that night she opened the shutters and braved the ghosts. The moon was full but the garden was surprisingly peaceful, with every leaf and every blade of grass glowing like silver. It smelt woody out there and the air was thick and syrupy. She thought about what the
young man had said to her at the shop:
You will soon be needing me
. Surely he’d been lying? Nobody believed they would lose against the Vietminh – the French army far outnumbered the rebels. Everyone said so. But a small voice echoed in her head – what if everyone was wrong? She’d heard her father talking about an underground network in the port of Haiphong. In contrast to the 570 kilometres they’d driven from Huế to Hanoi, Haiphong was less than a hundred kilometres away. What if the Vietminh were already in Hanoi in larger numbers than anyone imagined?
Ân đền oán trẚ
– An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. What if the world they all lived in was about to change for ever? She shook her head. For all she complained about her father and Sylvie, she didn’t want to lose them. And if the worst happened, who would care about the little silk shop or a young mixed-race girl with hopes of success, and maybe even love?