A Hundred Suns

by Karin Tanabe

  “I knew him as a child,” she said, reaching for one of the lavender drinks on a waiter’s tray, “but my family moved to Marseille when I was fourteen. A terrible time to be pulled out of Paris. I still haven’t quite recovered from the shock.”

  “I see. Well, being a child in Paris must have been lovely. And with Victor, too. As a friend,” I said, babbling on. I had no idea what to say. Why hadn’t Victor mentioned her?

  “It has been years since our paths crossed, which is no surprise, as I imagine he’s spent much of his time during the last decade in Clermont-Ferrand.”

  “I’m sure he was happy to see a familiar face,” I managed to say, my own face frozen in a put-on smile.

  “It’s a small world, our community in Indochine,” Marcelle jumped in, clearly trying to shift the conversation.

  “Isn’t it, though,” Caroline replied. Something about her tone made it clear that it wasn’t my community yet. “But to be quite honest, I never thought a real Michelin would ever make it over here. They don’t seem too concerned about the press they’ve received since that incident in December. I suppose why would you if the money is still good.”

  “They do care, quite a bit. That is why—” I started, but Caroline spoke right over me.

  “What surprised me even more than his swimming over to the colony was to hear that he’d been married off. I never would have expected Victor Lesage to be married, and with a child already. I heard he was such a womanizer in Paris. That no girl stayed on his arm for more than a week. I thought he’d be a bachelor until fifty, at least.” Leaning in and lowering her voice, she whispered, “Tell me, dear, how did you tame him? You must be exquisite where it counts. Is that something they teach you in America? The sexual arts?”

  “Caroline!” Marcelle exclaimed, pushing in front of me. “How many of these purple cocktails have you had? Have you gone mad? You don’t even know this poor woman.”

  “It’s just talk, Marcelle,” said Caroline, laughing and taking a step back. “No reason to run to her rescue. She’s a Lesage, isn’t she? I’m sure she can handle herself perfectly well.”

  Marcelle took me by the arm and turned to pull me away, but I stayed where I was, staring at Caroline.

  “People change,” I said flatly, thankful for Marcelle but not willing to let this horrible woman’s first impression of me be that of some meek wife.

  “Not the people I know,” Caroline countered. “Not his set.”

  “Enough, chérie. You’re boring me,” Marcelle said to Caroline. “You’re going to make Jessie think that all the French women in Indochine are beasts like you. Scurry on, please, so I can introduce her to someone less intoxicated.”

  “I’m not intox—” Caroline fought back, but Marcelle had already pushed past her.

  “What a way to begin your time here! I’m terribly sorry about that,” she exclaimed once we were on the other side of the room. “I’m pretty sure she’s on a boat back to France in three months, so don’t even worry about her. She just thinks she’s the prettiest French woman in Hanoi, and she clearly doesn’t want any competition as she finishes out her spell here.”

  “I’m quite sure you’re the prettiest woman in Hanoi,” I said, reaching for a much-needed drink. “And thank you for coming to my rescue. Frankly, I’m in shock. Why would Victor forget to tell me that he knew a woman like her?”

  “I’m sure he was in no hurry to bring that up,” said Marcelle, grinning. She pushed the thin straps of her dress higher onto her shoulders and stood a little straighter. “And thank you for the compliment. I’m attractive in a way that looks nice in pictures, magazines. I was modeling a bit for Lanvin and Patou when I met Arnaud. Striking in front of a camera, but perhaps a bit too thin in real life. Caroline and you, you are beautiful in real life.”

  “I’m not sure that Indochine is real life,” I said, looking around us.

  “You’re right about that,” she said, opening her cigarette case again. She saw that it was empty, snapped the case shut, and grabbed my arm. “Listen, were you serious about what you said at dinner? That you wanted to see the real Indochine?”

  “Yes, I was,” I said, starting to smile again. “I didn’t come here to pretend I was still in France.”

  “Come, then,” she said excitedly. She glanced at the people around us and then leaned in close to me. “Do you want to see the men’s wing? There’s a service hallway we can sneak through. You have to peek at least once.” She dropped her voice even lower. “Why not now?”

  “But won’t we get in terrible trouble if they catch us?” I whispered back, looking around instinctively. “Embarrass our husbands?”

  “Yes. If we got caught. Which we won’t. Or most likely won’t. Come! The risk is half the fun.”

  Before I could answer, she pulled me out of the cocktail room and down the hallway. Something told me not to let go.

  “This is it, here,” she said as we reached a nearly invisible door in the white wall, a tiny latch barely discernible in the center molding. A boy eyed us as Marcelle leaned against it, and she quickly reached into her little purse and slipped a few coins into his hand.

  With only a few workers at the end of the hallway, she hissed, “Don’t just gawk at them! Come on!” and pulled me through.

  My pulse rising, I stood close to her as she shut the door behind us, trying to adjust my eyes to the dark.

  “They use this corridor for formal functions, the types of to-dos where the staff are supposed to look as if they emerge from the walls,” she explained.

  “Do they have to carry trays of champagne in the dark?” I asked, holding on to her shoulder.

  “They do, but they’re used to it. They’ve got black eyes that can see in the dark.”

  “How convenient.”

  “The bedrooms are farther down, but the billiard room is just a few paces from here. It’s the first room in the men’s wing. Come, let’s see if our husbands are up to no good.”

  Despite what that wretched Caroline had said, Victor hadn’t been “up to no good” since before we were married. He had changed. Marriage had changed him. Becoming a father even more so. And I doubted that an hour in a billiard room would reverse that.

  Marcelle paused and put her ear to the wall. “Yes,” she said, reaching down to feel for a latch. “It’s just here.”

  She placed her ear to the wall again, and when there was laughter loud enough for both of us to hear it, she flicked the latch and pressed the door the tiniest bit open.

  I peeked in over her shoulder, staying back far enough so that if one of us tumbled in, it would be her. The room was beautiful, done out in a tropical dark wood that resembled mahogany. There were bookshelves lined with books, but all had light gray dust jackets on them, the titles written in cursive on the spines in brown ink. There was a large billiard table in the middle, and rattan chairs and couches with cream-colored cushions lined the walls. The table might have looked out of place if the felt was green, but it had been covered in gray instead, a light, handsome gray that matched the soft surroundings. It all had the look of an eternal summer, which, compared to Paris, Indochine was. I spotted Victor, cue in hand, waiting to take his shot. In his other hand was a tall glass of water, which meant that he definitely wanted to win.

  I looked for Arnaud, but before I could spot him, I saw a young native woman perched on one of the couches in the far corner. She was leaning against a man at least twice her age who looked like so many of the men in the room—tan and utterly carefree. He seemed far more interested in her than in the billiards.

  “That’s the girl from the bar,” I whispered, taking a step back. “Is she allowed in here?”

  “Allowed?” Marcelle said, pulling the door shut again as we spoke. “I’m sure she’s encouraged. Didn’t the women in Paris warn you about anything?”

  I thought of my friends in Paris, all the right kind of women who said and did the correct things. They were, in Victor’s eyes, my close friends, but be
cause I started life as a girl not saying or doing the right things, I never allowed myself to become truly close to any, growing even warier of them when I learned that they’d all been handpicked as companions for me by his mother. Perhaps with someone like Marcelle, someone who clearly did not care about etiquette or rules, I could find true friendship.

  “The women I knew in Paris?” I replied. “They warned me about malaria.”

  “Right, malaria…” she said, her voice trailing off. “It is a bothersome infection. But not as bothersome as syphilis. Come, our husbands seem focused on the game. How boring. Let’s go to the bedrooms. If you think this is scandalous, I’m sure worse is going on there. And it’s not even midnight.”

  We crept farther down the hidden passage and turned a corner. In this section, a bare bulb hung from the ceiling, illuminating the numbers written on the unpainted walls.

  “Now, you push one of the doors open. It won’t bite. Just be sure to do it slowly, and as soon as you see a sliver of light, stop.”

  I pushed the first one open and stopped prematurely. Marcelle pushed it the rest of the way, stopping as soon as we could see light. She peeked in and came back immediately. “Empty,” she whispered. The second room was, too. But when I pushed the third door open, we were flooded with light, and more than just moonlight. I pulled my hand back as if I’d touched a hot stove.

  “Just look quickly and then pull it shut,” Marcelle whispered excitedly. I leaned in, suddenly feeling the way I had with my sisters growing up, enjoying the silliness that could be had when our brothers disappeared. I put my eye to the door and pulled back, slapping my hand over my face to keep from laughing out loud.

  “What, what?” Marcelle pushed me out of the way, looked in, too, then fell back against the wall laughing. “Come, quickly, shut it. Let’s go. We’re certainly not going to outdo that.”

  We ran toward the hidden service entrance, both trying to suppress our laughter.

  Room three was occupied by a portly man, completely naked and sunburned, lying on his back on the bed, his genitals fully exposed and one very formal shoe still on. Our eyes watered with laughter as we headed back to the kitchen. Marcelle peered out, and when she saw there was again no one but staff, she opened the door fully and pulled me out by the hand. She closed the door with her slender hip, then put her head on my shoulder, convulsing with laughter. “That was the vice-ministre des colonies!” she said, barely able to get the words out.

  “The deputy minister of the colonies?” I said, pulling away from her. “No!”

  “Yes! He’s here visiting from France. We attended a reception with him just last night. My goodness, I can never look at him the same way again. Do you think he always sleeps with one shoe on or just when he is very intoxicated?”

  “We don’t even know that he was,” I said, laughing again. “Maybe that’s his normal nightly routine.”

  Marcelle put her hand on my arm. “Come, Jessie Lesage. We are going to have far too much fun together, that’s obvious. Let’s get a strong drink before our husbands force us home.”

  Victor came to fetch me an hour later, and my heart was still full, my cheeks aching from laughter.

  I had never met a woman like Marcelle. If anyone was going to convince me to relax the boundaries I always seemed to set around my friendships, it was her, I was already sure of it.

  I grabbed Victor’s hand joyfully, and he kissed the inside of my wrist as we slipped out of the building. Nuzzled in the back seat of the Delahaye, I fell asleep against him before we’d even left the grounds of the club. When we arrived home, we went straight upstairs and collapsed into bed, a pile of sweat, alcohol, and exhaustion. We found just enough energy to make love in the heat, quietly, not yet sure of what the walls did and didn’t keep out.

  “Did you enjoy our rite of passage?” Victor asked as he turned onto his side and closed his eyes.

  I thought of Caroline. Of the biting things she’d said. Then I thought of running behind the walls with Marcelle, and I grinned. “I did,” I said. “I had a wonderful time with Marcelle. She’s rather intoxicating. So is the club. The whole world here, really.”

  “I agree,” said Victor. “Aren’t we lucky that it’s our world now?”

  FOUR

  Jessie

  September 4, 1933

  When I woke up, I wasn’t surprised to find an empty space where Victor had been. I knew he was due to leave at sunrise, but the bed in Indochine seemed bigger than ours in Paris, and suddenly I felt very much alone.

  At the end of the bed was a tray with breakfast on it, a real French breakfast of fruit, croissants, and strong black coffee, which I devoured, placing my silverware on the plate silently when I’d finished. Victor had taught me how to put down my cutlery without a clink, as if we were eating with feathers, and now I did it that way even when I was alone. It was one of the many things Victor had had to teach me when we were married, but to his delight, and mine, I was a quick study.

  I pushed the covers off my legs. All the linens on the bed were white, as was the mosquito net covering it and the curtains on the two French doors. I looked down at my nightgown, cotton with delicate silk edging. It seemed to have been made to match. It was a welcome gift from Trieu, who said it was too hot in Indochine to sleep in anything else. She was right again. I gathered the skirt and stared out at the sweeping city view. I knew I shouldn’t step onto the front balcony in my nightgown, so I let my eyes take in the buildings from bed—the mismatched rooftops and shutters closed to block the sun, the slice of the lake we could see from our perch, and the white masses of milk flowers that seemed to have blossomed overnight. In the bright morning light, I could see farther than the evening before, past the smart avenues to the east of Hoan Kiem Lake and into the crowded local neighborhoods far west of it. I stood, wrapping myself in my blue silk dressing gown, the same one I had worn after Victor and I made love. We’d spent the next day in a haze of exhaustion, the weight of our journey and our night at the Officers’ Club hitting us, but now, on this Monday morning, as the city woke up below me, I felt well in my skin again. I opened the door to the balcony and tried to spot Hanoi’s landmarks, ones I had read about in travel books on the boat journey over—St. Joseph’s Cathedral, the Hotel Métropole—but I was distracted by the lovely view of the opera house, which was just at the end of our street.

  I had just glimpsed a rowboat bobbing in the lake when I felt myself gripping the iron railing. It had been on the boat journey from France that things had turned difficult. On a rainy afternoon, alone in our cabin, I had accidentally picked up Victor’s papers, documents penned by Michelin management. What I saw had tainted the journey over, but I was determined not to let it wedge itself inside me for good. They were just notes on the past, Victor said when he’d found me reading. He was going to Indochine to change things.

  I gave up looking for landmarks when I grew distracted by the morning’s noises, including the sound of Lucie pushing open my door, still sleepy-eyed in her pink nightgown. She wandered in, looking a little off balance, Cam behind her.

  “My Lucie!” I said, tying the belt of my dressing gown in a loose knot and meeting her by the door. I had barely seen her the day before as she had slept on and off for hours. I leaned down and kissed her warm cheek. She still smelled like the same Lucie, even in a new country full of different air, different odors. “Are you hungry? You must be. I just ate, but I’ll make you anything you like if we can find the ingredients. What would you like to have for breakfast, ma chérie?”

  “Oh, madame,” said Cam, putting her hands on Lucie’s bare arms. “You do not have to worry about Lucie’s meals. The cook will take care of them. We should have informed you yesterday.”

  “Thank you, Cam, but I don’t mind,” I said, placing a hand protectively on Lucie as well. “I like spending time with my daughter in the kitchen.”

  “But the lady of the house is never in the kitchen,” said Cam. She smiled at me and respectfully rem
oved her hands from Lucie.

  “Oh,” I replied, feeling embarrassed. Cam was, of course, only doing what she was trained to do. They all were. “If that’s the way it’s done here, then of course. I will stay out of the kitchen and just join her for breakfast on the terrace.”

  “If you would like to,” said Cam politely. “But don’t you have many things to do today?”

  I thought for a minute, fiddling with the watch Victor had given me before we left Paris, a new model called a Reverso. The jeweler had told him that no other modern wristwatch kept time as well. On the back of the watch face, Victor had had engraved a simple image of an orange, a nod to my maiden name, Holland. The watch was novel in that it could flip around to show the orange, not the time, a feature that also protected the face.

  “No,” I said to Cam, glancing down at the watch, which, now that I had no appointments or visits with friends or family, seemed more like jewelry than something I depended on. “I don’t have anything to do today. I suppose I’ll just explore this little neighborhood of ours. I can’t really learn too much about it from up here, can I?”

  Trieu slipped in the door, surely having heard our voices, to start getting me dressed. Cam played with Lucie and her doll at the foot of the bed as Trieu helped me into my undergarments, and I watched them while standing in my slip, Lucie dissolving into giggles as Cam pretended that the doll was doing somersaults.

  When my dress was on and Trieu was brushing my hair back, pinning it out of my face, Cam put the doll in Lucie’s arms and turned and looked at me with curiosity. “Did you cook the meals when you lived in France?” she asked, drawing a quick reprimand in Annamese from Trieu.

  “Sometimes,” I said, not bothered by the question. “I’ve always enjoyed cooking. We had help, but I often just did it myself.”

  “I didn’t know the French knew how to cook anything,” said Cam.

  “I’m not French, remember, Cam,” I said. “Where I’m from, we cook.”

  I thought of my mother, who, despite having lived in two different countries and being fluent in two languages, had never known anything but an impoverished rural life. Her father had grown tobacco on their farm in Joliette, near the St. Lawrence River, fifty miles north of Montreal. But when his crops failed, he moved the family to a warmer climate, finding work on a large tobacco farm in Mount Airy, North Carolina, near the Virginia border. It was there that she’d met my father, whose people also worked that land. Together, they attempted to farm their own land in Virginia. It was hard for me to picture my mother doing anything but working. All through my childhood, until my siblings and I were old enough to help, she killed chickens herself, cutting off their heads with as much emotion as she exhibited when plucking a weed. She would de-feather the birds, butcher them, and fry them for all her hungry children, keeping the heads and feet for stock and the feathers to stuff pillows with. As I grew older, and she grew more exhausted with each succeeding pregnancy, that duty fell to me. I did not miss that kind of cooking one bit.