A Hundred Suns

by Karin Tanabe

  “It does seem a bit like a vacation,” I said, feeling my tired body bend under her hands. “The palm trees on the way in were a sight to see. As is all of this.” I allowed myself a glance over my shoulder toward the dimly lit dining room, which despite the shadows was alive and buzzing with conversation.

  “I’ll never tire of it,” Marcelle said. She looked up into the last rays of sun and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she leaned in and whispered, “You know, I’m from somewhere exotic, too.”

  “Are you? Where?” I asked curiously.

  “Lille,” she said, laughing. “It’s exotic to Arnaud. He doesn’t know that our country extends past Paris. He thinks that Italy borders the Thirteenth Arrondissement.”

  “Were you in Paris before coming here?” I asked, enjoying Marcelle’s animated manner.

  “I was in Paris. But Arnaud was in Burma,” she said, pushing the hair from her forehead. There was no way to avoid sweating if you were sitting outside, but Marcelle didn’t seem to mind. “The government sent him there to deal with some financial nonsense. Burma is British, as you know, but the French can’t escape a few economic entanglements.”

  “You didn’t follow him to Burma?” I asked.

  “No, I didn’t,” she said, catching her husband’s eye and smiling at him. “I was scared of such a faraway place at the time. I was young, and there are almost no French there. Especially French women.”

  “But you came here,” I said, looking around us.

  “Yes, because it’s the crown jewel in our colonial empire. And in so many ways it’s just an extension of France,” she said, following my gaze.

  “I don’t quite see it like that. Yet,” I admitted.

  “You’ve been here mere minutes. You’ll see. It’s even better than France,” Marcelle said. “I have quite a few local friends. I don’t live in this little colonial castle like so many of the wives do. And I don’t just brush off the people here as useless mites—that’s short for ‘Annamites,’ or the natives, as many like to say. You’ve seen a map of the colony, I presume? Annam, Tonkin, Cochinchina, Cambodia, and Laos all broke apart when the French colonized the region formally in 1887, though we forgot to grab Laos until ’93. Some of the regions are considered protectorates, some simple colonies. Annam, where the emperor rules, or where we let him think he does, is a protectorate, and that’s where the term ‘Annamite’ comes from. And ‘mite.’ But really, it’s not a very nice term.”

  “Enough of that history lesson,” said Arnaud. “Let’s ask the mites for more champagne,” he said, grinning at his wife, who rolled her eyes and turned back to me.

  I nodded, thinking of all the reading I had done about the colony before we’d come over. I was trying to come up with an intelligent response when Marcelle leaned in close and whispered again, as if it were quite normal for us to share secrets: “But all that is just geography. If you want to see the real Indochine, just tag along with me. I would be happy to show it to you.”

  “I would like that very much,” I replied.

  “Stick close to my wife,” said Arnaud, again interrupting our little tête-à-tête. “She knows this city like a native now. I shouldn’t let her run so free,” he said, looking to Victor. “But she’s much happier when uncaged.”

  “You didn’t marry a housecat, I’m afraid,” said Marcelle, laughing.

  “Jessie would love a tour guide,” said Victor. “We have both been trying to learn about the colony since we decided to come over six months ago, so we are quite familiar with the geography. We even took language lessons.”

  “Did you?” said Marcelle. “How fascinating. I’ve been here so long, and I still don’t speak it well. Difficult language.”

  “Jessie was a teacher,” said Victor. “She eats up knowledge.”

  “How lovely for you,” said Marcelle, not unkindly. “And lucky for Victor to have a clever wife.”

  After the fish salad, we dined on three more courses—trout in jelly, leg of lamb, and profiteroles with crème anglaise, all taken with too much wine and champagne.

  When we had finished, sipping strong coffees to temper the alcohol, Arnaud gripped Victor’s arm. “You’re wanted for billiards, my man. Are you any good? Everyone would like to know, because if you’re not, they are ready to take your money, what’s left of it, anyway. The rubber men were more fun to play with before ’28, when the economy was booming, but we know you’re not flat broke yet. The government has been handing you money left and right. All the planters, but especially the Michelin machine, n’est-ce pas? Loans from the Banque de l’Indochine that they never expect you to pay back. Not to mention those lenient tax rates. Simple rice farmers have higher taxes than Michelin et Cie.”

  Victor opened his mouth to protest, but Arnaud had strong ties to the government and knew of what he spoke. I could see him recalibrate.

  “We appreciate all the support the state has given us since we decided to start planting ourselves. Because really, what is good for Michelin is even better for the state,” said Victor confidently. “For France. If we win, the colony wins, and the country. We invested 200 million francs here before 1925 alone, and the number has just gone up. Even if our rates are low, that’s still quite a lot of money paid in taxes. Which is fine. An honor even. That’s always how we’ve viewed things. Country first, then Michelin.”

  “Of course, of course. Your success is our success,” said Arnaud, pulling his elbows off the table. “I understand the Michelin strategy. You’ve now taken ownership of your product from start to finish. You’ve always been innovators. The pneumatic tire has changed the world. And my wife is a fan of those guides of yours. She was in France, anyway.”

  “Yes,” said Marcelle, smiling kindly. “It’s a brilliant idea. Arnaud has always been fond of driving in circles. Who knew a simple road map and a few restaurant recommendations could save him? And me.”

  “You women don’t understand the roads,” he said, winking at his wife. “Too bad about Étienne, though,” Arnaud said, addressing Victor again. “Had great potential. But at least he was able to put a bit of a mark on the company’s actions out here. To help direct your plantations from afar. The other planters were less than thrilled to lose your business—I still hear about it. You really need to join the Union of Rubber Planters, by the way, even if your family has refused in the past—you are wise enough to do what is most lucrative.”

  I nodded along. I knew how proud Victor was that Michelin was still able to make a profit in a difficult economy.

  “It wasn’t just the potential profits that motivated us,” he said. “It was the quality of the rubber. We’d been receiving subpar rubber from the planters here for years. Surely you know that, from your union. But with our methods, our research, that will cease to be an issue in a few years’ time.”

  I nodded my head politely and noticed that Marcelle’s eyes were starting to glaze over.

  “Come. Let’s talk of other things,” said Arnaud, glancing at his wife. “We’re boring the women. In fact, we should leave them to their own devices so that Marcelle can say all the scandalous things she reserves for the company of the fairer sex. So, billiards?” he said, glancing behind him at where I guessed the room was. “Are you halfway decent?”

  I looked at Victor, who had the gleam in his eye that I recognized from his nights out in Paris with his friends. He thrived on competition. And like most boys who grew up rich and bored, he was unbeatable at billiards.

  “It’s been a while, but I do play a little,” said Victor, standing up. “You’ll just have to remind me which end of the cue to use.” He winked at me and brushed his hand across my bare arm as he walked out.

  Marcelle and I watched the men go, pushed aside our coffee cups, and finished off the champagne.

  “Freedom, finally,” said Marcelle, smiling. She pulled out a cigarette from a handsome silver case, placed it between her fingers, and offered it to me. “It’s my last, but please,” she said. I declin
ed, and she shrugged, placing it between her lips. It was immediately lit by a waiter. “I love Arnaud dearly, but it’s almost strange to have him around as much as he has been lately. Usually he loses himself in his work. Most men do here, I’m afraid, and I’m sure Victor will have no choice but to follow suit. He’s to work down in Cochinchina? At both plantations?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know how often,” I replied. “We hope he can do much of his work from Hanoi.”

  “I don’t think so, my dear,” said Marcelle, after she exhaled a small stream of smoke. “The plantations are a two-day train-and-car journey away. And that’s just to Saigon. He will have to motor on again from there. So you’ll find yourself alone, and here, quite often, I’m afraid.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, though Victor had promised that he would split his time evenly between Hanoi and the plantations in the south.

  “Victor must have been spending most of his time in Clermont-Ferrand before you left? Though maybe it wasn’t so noticeable. Being alone in Paris as a pretty young woman is never a bad thing. Feels more like a gift, really.”

  “He didn’t, actually,” I said, hesitating slightly. I knew Victor wouldn’t want me to reveal how far he’d been kept from the operations in Clermont-Ferrand all these years. “He worked closely with his uncle André in Paris, so he never worked outside of the capital.”

  “Of course. We all knew of André Michelin. Was he really Victor’s direct uncle? He and Édouard?”

  “Not exactly, but André especially treated Victor like he was. And he really let Victor become his right-hand man,” I said, embellishing a bit for my husband’s sake.

  “It’s quite smart of Victor to have taken on that role,” said Marcelle kindly. “You would be much less glamorous if he’d forced you to spend your pretty years in Clermont-Ferrand. I’ve never been taken with L’Auvergne. All those mountains. Isn’t there a volcano, too?”

  “There is,” I said, smiling back, grateful she didn’t question my explanation further.

  “How savage,” she whispered. She took another pull on the cigarette and blew the smoke into the night sky. “Nice of Victor not to put the family in Saigon. There are many of us there, too, but it’s much more fun in Hanoi because the government is here, which means the wives are here. It makes it feel much more like home. And of course, we have the club. They have one, too, the Cercle des Officiers, and I’m sure Victor will spend much time there when he goes. They also have Le Cercle Sportif Saigonnais. It’s another chosen meeting place of the French elite. But it’s so sports-oriented. The men are always sweating, and not in the way you want them to. Not from huffing and puffing in the bedroom, which is the acceptable kind of sweating, of course. It’s just … well, it’s simply not this place. Neither is.”

  “If you love it so much here, I’m sure I will, too,” I said, trying not to show how surprised I was by her colorful references.

  “Of course you will.” Marcelle gestured behind her and suggested we move to the bar.

  “It’s a delightful room,” she said as our heels clicked on the wooden floor. “But darker. Better for deception. Besides, we can parade you around properly there. The women in the dining room all look as if they have nothing better to do than count their sun freckles, but I know they are all dying to meet the beautiful American—Canadian American—who swept Victor Lesage off his feet. At least they are staring at us as if they are.”

  “I doubt they know Victor,” I said as I followed her.

  “Perhaps not, but they certainly know of him. Your imminent arrival made many of the papers here. Don’t worry, the picture they ran was quite flattering. And sometimes just knowing someone through a photo and a few words is more fun. More cause to speculate and invent stories about him, and you. Try not to be too nice. They’ll be disappointed.” She grinned as we passed the last of the dining tables.

  As we walked into a smaller room, dominated by a long wooden bar and stiff straw fans spinning overhead, Marcelle surveyed a small group of people, some men but mostly women in pale-colored or white and ivory gowns, with more skin showing than I imagine they would have dared in Paris. They were standing by the open windows, their bodies close together as if they always moved as a pack. They glanced at Marcelle, but they stared at me.

  Marcelle leaned into me as if we were old friends and put her hand on my arm. When we turned away from them, she whispered, “They’re friendlier than they look, the wives. But on first meeting, alcohol will help.”

  “Alcohol always helps,” I murmured.

  We had drinks presented to us before we even reached the bar.

  “How convenient,” said Marcelle, taking a long sip of a lavender-colored cocktail. “I know the French think we invented hospitality, and many other things, but the Annamites have us beat when it comes to service.”

  “The staff here is very attentive,” I said, draining the cocktail. “Our staff at the house are lovely, too. Or they seem to be thus far. I’d look all wrong tonight if my servant Trieu hadn’t dressed me. There’s a fashion all its own out here, isn’t there?”

  Marcelle nodded. “A lot of white. We are like ghosts floating around this place. And thank goodness for servants, they often do know what’s best for us. You’re in the big yellow house. Number 131 rue de la Chaux, right?”

  I gave a slight nod, still taking in the crowd around us.

  “Your staff worked for the van Dampierres then, so they must be the best. I’m sure they were well trained when the van Dampierres inherited them, but you can bet that it was Louise who perfected their skills.”

  “Were you friends with them? Théodore and Louise?” I asked, hoping to learn a bit more about the family that came before us.

  “I’d say friendly more than friends,” said Marcelle, swirling the ice cubes in her drink, her diamond bracelets clinking against the tall glass. “But they are family friends of yours, or of the Michelins, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. Well, Victor and I have never met them, but they are close friends of Édouard’s. Théodore van Dampierre attended the same school as him, though a decade later.”

  “Must be quite the school to produce Édouard and Théodore, who was practically the head of the Banque de l’Indochine.”

  “Indeed,” I replied, starting to suspect how important the bank was in the colony.

  “He was quite an animated man, considering his rather serious job,” said Marcelle pensively. “And Louise, she was lovely. Very elegant, very popular among the older wives. She certainly ruled that set. A smart woman, too. Did a bit of charity work when she was here, with orphans. There are so many. Mixed-race children mostly. Abandoned little things. She was known for that, and for being part of a less wild crowd here. Elegant woman, but staid. Quite religious, I think. And because of that, I heard that she didn’t take well to certain things. And her husband, as kind as he was, he took to them too well.” She raised her eyebrows at me and leaned against the bar, which we had sauntered over to.

  “What sort of things?” I asked, leaning like Marcelle. She seemed like the kind of person who expected emulation, and I was happy to go along.

  “Those sorts of things,” said Marcelle, whispering again. She nodded over my shoulder. In a corner was a Frenchman who looked well over forty. He had a young native woman, a waitress, backed up against a wall, his body trapping hers in the shadows.

  Before I could register what was happening to the indigène girl, a woman appeared beside me, her eyes on Marcelle.

  “I didn’t know you were here,” she exclaimed. She was a striking woman with alabaster skin and light red hair that tucked delicately in toward her chin. I wondered how she was able to keep her skin so white despite the constant sunshine.

  “Caroline,” said Marcelle, jutting out her chin to kiss the woman on each cheek. “Where else would I be on a Saturday evening?”

  “I’ve heard your social life doesn’t have borders, ma chère,” the woman responded playfully, rapping her painted nails against
her perfectly curved hip.

  “One shouldn’t listen to all the rumors,” said Marcelle. Caroline shrugged and smiled at me.

  She had a stunning face, and a plunging, amply filled-out décolletage that I was sure she’d relied on for years. I returned her smile and tried to forget the image of the girl pressed against the wall. I hoped she had escaped.

  “You’re Victor’s American wife,” Caroline said. “Aren’t you pretty.” From the way she said it, I understood that it wasn’t a compliment.

  “Thank you. But compared to French women, I always feel very plain,” I replied honestly. “We just can’t quite keep up in America.”

  Allowing a trace of a satisfaction to show, she dismissed my comment politely.

  “Did you arrive today? You must have. And then you’re dragged out to the jungle on your first night in Hanoi.”

  “I don’t mind,” I lied.

  “No, of course you don’t,” Caroline replied coolly. “Besides, this place is lovely, even if it’s a world apart from Paris. Though I imagine Paris was quite different from wherever you grew up.”

  “Hanoi is very different. But I’m finding it fascinating,” I said, pretending I didn’t hear her last phrase.

  “That it is,” she said, exhaling and dropping her cigarette in a nearby ashtray. “I was dining casually downstairs, otherwise I would have met you as soon as you walked in. I’ve known Victor for years. He just poked his head out of the men’s wing to say hello to me, in fact. Quite sweet of him.”

  He had? He had interrupted his billiard game to see this woman, but had not bothered to check on me? Even after that show of affection when we’d first sat down? I bit back my annoyance and smiled.

  “Oh?” I said. Victor hadn’t mentioned knowing any women in Hanoi, especially not one who looked like Caroline. “You and Victor are acquainted?”