A Hundred Suns

by Karin Tanabe

  Lucie raised her eyebrows at the word “bean,” but took the pastry in her hands. She leaned down to sniff it, gave it a lick, and then devoured it after she realized it was indeed made of sugar.

  “There aren’t beans in here!” she exclaimed to her father, eyeing the crumbs left on the plate.

  “But there are, chérie,” said Victor, pulling on her braid. “Why don’t you go to the kitchen and ask how it’s made? Then you can see the beans.”

  Lucie smiled and ran off as if she had lived in the tall yellow house for years.

  “Don’t you look beautiful,” said Victor, tilting his head back and smiling at me affectionately once Lucie was out of sight. He was reclining on the metal chaise’s black-and-white-striped cushions, smoking a cigarette. He alternated puffs with sips from his glass of white wine. On the boat journey over, I’d wondered if there would be French wine in Indochine, but that was a silly worry. The French wouldn’t have bothered colonizing a place where they couldn’t consume their own wine.

  “Glad to be off the boat?” he asked, standing to kiss me before reclining again.

  “To say the least,” I answered, my smile feeling momentarily put on. I let the corners of my mouth relax, trying to forget the journey, and took in this new image of Victor. He had changed into beige linen pants and a crisp white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and he was surveying the small but well-manicured garden, the borders aflame with hibiscus. His shirt buttons were done up only to midchest, and he had a carafe of water full of lemon wedges positioned within reach. Next to it was a small silver bell.

  “Do you think you’ll like it here?” he asked eagerly. I could tell that he certainly did. We lived well in Paris, very well, even when the economic crisis hit the country two years ago, but it was already clear that in Indochine, where costs were so low, we would no longer live like Lesages. We would finally live like Michelins.

  “I do,” I said, sensing my happiness rise to meet his as we focused on the present, not the weeks we had spent cramped together on the bobbing ship. “The house is incredible, isn’t it? Every room bright and full of light. And so much space. Lucie has her own wing on the third floor. But most of all, I like that it feels like a happy home.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette and putting his hands behind his head, the small family-crest ring he wore on his right pinkie quickly vanishing in his thick black hair. “I’m very glad we bought this house, despite those who advised me to rent it, not purchase it. ‘Rent for a year, maybe two, then decide,’ they said. They warned me that Indochine wasn’t for everyone, especially the women. But they don’t know me as well as they think, and they don’t know you at all. You were born to see the world, and so was I.” He smiled at me admiringly. “That’s what you’d say in our early days, when I’d ask you if you were homesick for America, and look at us now. I’m sure that this house, and Indochine, will be right for us. Even if no one else in my family has dared to spend time here.”

  It was true. No other Michelins had spent more than a few weeks in Indochine, even Victor’s uncles, Édouard and André, who had controlled everything in the twenties, including first buying rubber from the colony and then deciding to establish their own plantations in the French federation in 1924. They had spent over 200 million francs to acquire land in those early years. But Édouard was now seventy-four years old, André had passed in 1931, the younger generation was engaged in Clermont-Ferrand—and no one wanted to actually live in Indochine.

  When they’d considered the colony as a place to set up their own plantations, rather than buying rubber from the existing plantations in Indochine, British Malay, and the Dutch Indies, they sent two executives—non–family members—on a boat, declining to make the journey themselves.

  But in January, Victor had volunteered to come to Indochine, not just for a visit but to live. It was an idea I had planted in his head.

  He had yet to obtain a high position in the company, kept out of the headquarters in Clermont-Ferrand, working in Paris instead. He’d been frustrated for years that we still weren’t living in Clermont and needed a new approach for climbing the company ranks. Suggest a position for yourself in Indochine, I’d said one morning when Paris had surprisingly started to lose its appeal for me. I knew that there had been some significant difficulties on the plantations in the last few years, including worker strikes, even murder, mostly due to communist unrest. The Michelins had tried to stamp it out, positioning at the head of both plantations men who had been successful at keeping communism at bay among the workers in Clermont-Ferrand. But in 1930, there had been a very large strike on Phu Rieng plantation, one of the three they owned in Cochinchina, where the military had to intervene to put it to rest. Every paper in France had written about it that winter, and three years later, many still used it to highlight either the colonial or the native struggle, depending on their political persuasion. There had also been several deaths, one when a European overseer was murdered by coolies in 1927 and just this December when three coolie laborers were shot dead at Dau Tieng, the other large plantation. It was time that the family did more than observe from a distance, I’d said to Victor. I was no expert, but I had grown up on a farm. I knew that workers who had no face to put to a name could have difficulty with loyalty.

  “But there are so many others in the family trying to get to management positions,” Victor had protested, not seeing the opportunity that I was.

  “None of your uncles’ children have any interest in living in the colony,” I had reminded him. “But I think they’d let you go. And if you went, and could keep things calm for several years, I’m sure you would be rewarded. Maybe they would finally offer you a position in Clermont-Ferrand.”

  Victor had resisted at first, but he finally built up the courage to speak with his uncle Édouard. Édouard’s son Pierre had been delighted by the idea, having felt the pressure to at least visit the colony over the past few years, but having no interest in doing so. Once he had their approval, Victor became enamored with the prospect of life in Indochine. A few weeks later, he seemed convinced that he’d come up with the idea himself, which was perfectly fine with me.

  I looked at him now on our new terrace, handsome and happy as he lounged in his new kingdom. “We are only seven and a half hours in, but so far I agree. I know that it’s right for us.”

  I sat and took a sip of Victor’s wine. It tasted crisp, despite the heat. Victor also didn’t seem to remember that I had been the one who’d advised him to buy the house.

  “Good. I was sure you would feel that way,” he said. He was a man who always enjoyed feeling one step ahead of his peers, even if his wife was the one who had steered him to water. “After all, you already left your country once. Why not twice?” He took back his glass and pointed at my hair. “Did someone already tell you? About this evening?”

  “Trieu. My servant,” I clarified. “She said we would probably go to the French Officers’ Club.”

  “Yes, we are. That’s the etiquette it seems. No rest for the weary,” he said, sitting up straighter. “There was a letter waiting for me when we arrived. We are to dine with Arnaud de Fabry, a very successful financier and the head of the chamber of commerce of Hanoi.”

  I nodded, racking my brain for any familiarity with the name. “But in his note de Fabry also said there’s a chance that the governor-general will stop by to greet us. Pierre Pasquier. He’s from Marseille, but he knows my mother. I thought it would be days before we met him, so this is a welcome turn of events. But still, even if we only meet de Fabry, it’s important that we do. We need to be on very good terms with him. Not everyone who has a stake in rubber feels warmly toward us—ever since we began planting ourselves, we’ve far surpassed the competition in technology and production. Still, we need the other industries to support us. Especially in Tonkin—that’s the region we are in now, Tonkin—as this is where we recruit many of our workers.” He circled his finger ar
ound the rim of his glass. “I wonder if de Fabry has met maman?”

  “Most likely. Everyone has met your mother,” I said, moving to the edge of his chair.

  “It does seem that way,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder and standing up. “It’s a blessing and a curse. But here, I think, it will be a great blessing.”

  Victor’s mother had grown to like me much more after Lucie became a toddler. It was hard not to love Lucie and impossible to ignore that she wouldn’t be here if not for me. Still, I seldom traveled with Lucie when she went to visit Agathe, a distance we both appreciated.

  “We dine in an hour,” my husband said, pushing his sleeves higher. “Will you be ready?”

  “I’m ready now,” I said, motioning to my hair and lightly made-up face.

  Victor reached for my hand and gestured for me to stand.

  “Almost. You’ll have to change your dress. Ask Trieu what to wear. I’m sure Louise van Dampierre put her through the wringer on etiquette and dress. She’ll have an idea of what’s suitable.”

  When we’d decided to come to Indochine, Victor’s cousin Pierre, the younger son of Édouard and the new director of the company, had suggested that we reach out to the van Dampierres. Théodore van Dampierre, Pierre noted, had attended school with Édouard. They were the only good friends of the Michelins living in Indochine, Pierre had admitted. Théodore van Dampierre, who was working for the Banque de l’Indochine in Hanoi, wrote to us at once, even sending his letter by the new airmail system, which only took eleven days between the colony and Paris. A week later, we received a series of lovely letters from his wife, Louise, telling us all about life in the colony and why she’d enjoyed it so much. She even suggested that we stay for a time in their large yellow house, as they were headed back to France before we were due to arrive. She’d sent a few photographs of the home, so Victor had seen the large size of it, the many balconies and terraces, all looking like an invitation for the world to join us indoors. He was delighted with it, and I suggested that we do more than just stay there. Why not purchase the lovely place? Firmly plant roots before we arrived. Since the price of everything in the colony had fallen drastically as the depression swept France, it was a fine time to buy. Victor had jumped at the idea.

  We’d traveled down to Clermont-Ferrand to tell Édouard and Pierre in person, convinced that now that Victor had a special place in the company, we wouldn’t be imposing.

  Pierre was still getting his legs about him as director, as he had only taken over the position in September and for the worst reasons. At the end of August 1932, his older brother, Étienne, died in a plane crash. Despite being an expert airman, as many Michelins were, he’d lost control of his small airplane in dense fog and hit the ground in Saint-Genès-Champanelle, less than ten miles from the factory.

  The management said they were all excited for us to go, and I could tell it was genuine, and an utter relief for them. You can contract malaria instead of us, their eyes seemed to say. But I’d dealt with far worse in life than a bit of a fever.

  “I’m sure Louise was quite stylish,” I said, returning to thoughts of the evening ahead. “But my guess is that Trieu simply has good taste on her own.” I pictured her elegant black and white clothes, her dark hair a smooth curtain just grazing her shoulders.

  “Either way,” said Victor, letting my hand go. “She’ll know.”

  As I made my way back up the stairs, I thought about the summer I met Victor. He had been drinking cold white wine with his shirt collar open, just like tonight. And even though July in Paris was usually quite pleasant, it had been a rare heavy day, and the air felt much as it did on this September afternoon in Hanoi.

  It was a midsummer evening in 1925 when our divergent worlds collided with full force. I was sitting near the front window of Maxim’s, the fashionable café on the rue Royale, drinking a glass of champagne, something I’d never had before. I also had never been to Maxim’s but had passed it many times on my walks in the Eighth Arrondissement. I’d decided that since it was a month to the day from when I was due to leave Paris, I would spend foolishly and have a glass there. The restaurant was famous, and I wanted to tell the other teachers in the boardinghouse about places besides the usual cheap café in the Thirteenth where I dined nightly.

  Victor came in a few minutes after I did, apparently with revelry on the brain. It was just two days before Bastille Day, so drinking and merriment had already begun. But unlike me, Victor did not walk in alone. He was with three rowdy friends, and they had quite obviously been guzzling wine, perhaps worse, for hours. They ordered enough food for ten men, sampled all of it, finished none of it, then smashed a bottle of Saint-Émilion Bordeaux onto the floor with the swing of an ill-placed elbow, causing a stream of blood-colored liquid to flood the polished parquet wood. The management wanted to drag them out by their shirtsleeves, but the men bought ten bottles of wine to apologize and proceeded to put one on every table in the room, much to the delight of the patrons. When the waiter began to open mine, an expensive Chablis, I shook my head, assuring him I had no need for it, but Victor leapt to my side.

  “But you must take it,” he said, leaning down and kissing my hand. “I only bought all these to impress you.”

  “What nonsense!” I said, laughing, suddenly quite glad that I’d worn my lowest-cut dress. “You bought all these to impress the proprietor, not me.” My boldness fueled by the two glasses of champagne I had already consumed, I added: “And to keep from being tossed out on the street.”

  “Oh, did I?” he said, smiling in surprise. “You know what I think? I don’t think you’re French.” He paused to reconsider his phrasing. “I think you are not French. I don’t think … Wait. I don’t know what I think,” he concluded, sweat on his brow, his shirt askew.

  “I’m American,” I admitted, “though my mother is Québécoise. So, you’re right, not French at all.” It was something that my accent, French Canadian tinged with the drawl of the American South, gave away to most sober Frenchmen within a few words.

  “American! Then of course you can drink this,” he exclaimed. “There’s nothing to do in America but drink.”

  “Actually, you can’t drink in America anymore. Not out in the open anyway. Not since Prohibition.”

  “Which explains why a beautiful American like you came to France,” he said, motioning to the waiter to finish opening the bottle. “Who wants to drink alone? Not me. I want to drink with someone charming, like you. Good thing we’d never pass a foolish law like that here.”

  “It is a foolish law,” I admitted. Everyone in southern Virginia had just carried on making their own alcohol anyway, as they’d always done. “But American or not, I can’t drink all this.”

  “Yes, you can. If you have help.” He’d called over his friends, who all had the roguish yet polished look of rich young men with few cares in the world. After he’d persuaded me to have one glass, his light blue eyes gazing at me every time I spoke, he announced to his friends that we were abandoning them. He clasped my hand and pulled me along to the place de la Concorde, then through the Tuileries gardens, where my feet grew tired and dusty but my head, and my lips, were soon very much alive as he embraced me. I had kissed a few men before him, some handsome, but after kissing Victor Lesage, I forgot them all.

  I did not sail back to America in August as planned. I resigned from the school where I taught French to children with strong New York accents, wrote to the boardinghouse to give my few things away, and married Victor four months later, to the horror of his mother. But even Agathe Michelin Lesage couldn’t put out the flame of our newlywed bliss. Lucie was born the following year and became our light.

  But all that was far behind us now, feeling almost as far away as haunted, humid Virginia.

  THREE

  Jessie

  September 2, 1933

  I looked back at my reflection in the mirror and turned to either side. Trieu had put me in a sleeveless, tea-length white crepe dres
s, cut on the bias.

  “Are you sure this is suitable for evening?” I asked. “It seems rather casual. The length, that is.” I looked down at my bare ankles. “All the women in Paris are wearing them long again at night. I had this dress made with cocktails in mind rather than a seated dinner. It feels far too informal.”

  “It is very hot here,” Trieu said, pointing out the obvious. “Until November, the French women dress like this, even for dinner. This is the right one,” she said firmly, and this time I nodded in agreement. I studied my reflection one more time, imagining what I’d be wearing if I were still in America, if I were being strangled by the poverty threatening to engulf the world. Victor and I had spoken often about how we were touched by the financial plague, but he’d reassured me that the family would never sink. The Michelins, like their tires, were hard to pop. The little that remained of my family in Blacksburg was certainly feeling the tidal wave of poverty. Even the recessions that only hit part of America had always sprinted toward us. An image of our farmhouse and the wild, wooded land around it flashed in my mind, sending a shudder down my spine. I never wanted to go back. Even Paris felt too close.

  When Victor saw me descend the stairs to the landing, he whistled with approval. He raised his eyebrows at my hemline, but I repeated what Trieu had told me and he just nodded, leading me outside to the car. Lanh was already standing in front of it, his light gray uniform impeccably ironed and his hat set just so on his head. He did not need to ask Victor where we were going.

  In the car, Victor put his strong arm around my bare shoulders and explained that we would be driving through a local neighborhood to get to the Officers’ Club. Together, we took in the narrow pink and yellow houses with ceramic tile roofs, small terraces, and big green shutters, all pushed together. Moving in front of these tight, colorful rows were Annamites, many of the men wearing white pith helmets and the women conical straw hats or large disk-shaped ones that they tied under their chins. Around them, children bustled about, most of them barefoot. A jumble of telephone wires and streetcar wires snaked above us; below them were many storefronts with pieces of long cloth hanging in place of a formal awning, some painted with Chinese characters. And around it all was steam coming from various makeshift food stands. It could not have been more different from Paris.