A Hundred Suns

by Karin Tanabe

  “I’m headed to the Musée Cernuschi near Parc Monceau and thought you might like to join me.”

  “Yes, I would, of course,” I said, flattered. “It’s just that I went to buy tonight’s dinner, so I’m afraid I have meat in my bag.”

  “Here,” he said, taking it off my shoulder. “I’ll run it up to the apartment. Wait on the bridge a moment.”

  I watched him hurry across the Pont Saint-Michel and tried to picture the Musée Cernuschi. I didn’t want to admit that I had no idea what it was.

  He returned empty-handed five minutes later and nodded toward the rue de Rivoli. “It’s at least an hour’s walk up. Shall we take a taxi?”

  “Let’s walk a bit,” I said, starting across the bridge. “And when my feet give up, I will admit defeat.”

  “Even a little before then is fine,” he said, following me east.

  It wasn’t until we were crossing over the rue Royale that I admitted knowing nothing about our destination.

  “And why would you?” said Sinh kindly. “It’s certainly not the Louvre. It’s a little museum, just one man’s collection, displayed in his former home. Quite a grand one, though. And it’s all art from the Far East that he collected, or stole, on his nearly two-year sojourn there. Depends how you view that sort of thing.”

  “And how do you view that sort of thing?” I asked, indicating that I was ready for a taxi.

  “I think you can guess,” he said as one pulled up near us. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy looking at it.”

  When we entered the beautiful neoclassical-style building with two mosaics on the facade, one of Aristotle and one of Leonardo da Vinci, the first thing I saw was an enormous bronze statue of the Buddha.

  “Are you a Buddhist?” I asked Sinh, suddenly feeling quite ignorant and silly for having asked.

  “I suppose my family practices some form of Confucianism,” he said thoughtfully, not regarding it as a foolish inquiry. “As for me, I’m in the phase of asking many questions instead of adhering to one particular religion.”

  “I’ve always liked that about you,” I said. “You do ask many questions. Anne-Marie always wants to do things. But you seem to want to know why we do things.”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling, “I suppose that’s true.”

  “You’ll make a very competent lawyer one day,” I said as we walked toward a small grouping of jade items.

  “I sadly don’t think I’ll ever be able to practice law,” Sinh said, looking down at a small Japanese vase and pointing out the very faint painting of a crane on it. “My father is in the colonial government, he’s about as high up as they will let a native man climb. And all he desires in life is for me, his only son, to follow him there. We must serve our country, he believes, even if our country is no longer a country and we are really just serving France.”

  “Does he know you feel that way?” I asked.

  “No, of course not,” said Sinh, catching my eye again. “I am a loyal son in every way except right here,” he said, pointing to his head.

  “At least that stays hidden,” I replied, thinking how different Anne-Marie and Sinh looked, but how similar they were, both with fathers in the government, both rebelling against them but determined not to embarrass them.

  “When I was a student at Quoc Hoc in Hue,” said Sinh, “I had some classmates who started speaking out a bit against our teachers. Some of our teachers, this Frenchman from Lille in particular, were very harsh with us because they truly thought we were incapable of learning at the speed of French students. Because our cheeks weren’t pink, our eyes not round, it must mean our brains were different, too. This man from Lille, he would shake his head when anyone made a mistake and call us ‘les jauniers.’ The yellows.”

  “Did Khoi ever tell you that I’m from Lille?” I asked, grinning.

  “Are you? How stupid of me to say that. I hope he’s no relation,” said Sinh, putting his hand on his heart and bowing in apology.

  “No,” I said, “certainly not. My relations barely attended school, they certainly did not teach.”

  “Well, there’s a lot to learn outside of a classroom, too,” he said, gesturing at the art around us. Sinh stayed quiet as we moved on to admire some antiquities from China.

  “The boys who rebelled against that teacher from Lille, they started rebelling against the whole French system. They criticized the fact that so few young people were being educated in our country, or whatever it is you want to call it now. And that it was only boys, and a few girls, like us, who received an education. People with means that the French thought would serve them well in the future. That’s what most of our fathers were already doing. But I didn’t agree with the boys who spoke out. I was happy to get such a good education and to be deemed worthy of holding an important job one day. I was like Khoi. But here, in Paris, I met boys who did not attend schools like Quoc Hoc. I started thinking outside of myself, and my upbringing, and about the lives of the majority of my countrymen instead. Khoi and I, we are very bad examples of true Annamites. The average man is a rice farmer who can no longer afford the land his family has farmed for generations. Now I act with them in mind. And with Anne-Marie, of course. She is always on my mind, too.”

  “She does have that impact,” I said, heading up the museum’s stairs. At the top, I stopped and looked at Sinh. “Do you remember one evening, one of the first we spent together, where you helped a young French woman with her son?”

  “I think so,” said Sinh, seeming unsure.

  “The four of us were walking near your apartment in Pigalle, and a young woman’s little son suddenly ran out into the street. You darted off after him, grabbed him by the arm before he was flattened by a truck, and delivered him to his mother. But when you gave him to her, your hands brushed against hers and she flinched, jumping backward. She actually jumped. Do you remember that?”

  “Now I do,” he said thoughtfully. “She had clearly never touched the skin of a jaunier before. Maybe she thought my skin color was contagious.”

  “Yes. I thought that—that she’d never touched even the hand of an Asiatique. It could have remained very uncomfortable, but you smiled at her, and explained that you were a student here, and that you loved Paris and were thankful to be allowed to study here and then did something with your hat to make her son laugh, and we all parted five minutes later like dear old friends.”

  “Most people have good hearts,” he said thoughtfully. “They just need to be reminded that our differences are charming instead of menacing. I hope to always be charming instead of menacing, even when it comes to politics. I believe in fighting with the voice, the pen, never the sword. Unless it’s in self-defense, that is.”

  “But you accomplish that. That’s just what you do,” I said as we walked on. After a few moments of quiet, I paused in front of the large windows overlooking the park. “Just by being you, you remind the world, or at least everyone you meet, that our differences aren’t menacing. That they’re wonderful.”

  “That’s a rather thoughtful thing to say,” he said, putting his hand kindly on mine for a moment. “It’s really quite unfortunate that you’re married and that Khoi has to marry someone back in Indochine, one of these days. Even an unofficial diplomat like me can’t fix that reality.”

  “Please don’t remind me,” I said, gazing out at the beautiful city below us. “I’m so enjoying living this dream for now.”

  “I won’t remind you again. But I do have a favor to ask you,” he said, matching my gaze. “It’s a question really, since I’m so good at asking them, according to you.”

  “Please do ask,” I said, smiling again.

  “Watch over Anne-Marie for me, will you, Marcelle?” Sinh said, tilting his head back a bit. “She needs watching over. Just this morning I found her eating ice cream in her bathing costume on the couch.”

  “I’d laugh if it didn’t sound so like Anne-Marie,” I replied. “But aren’t you the one who looks over her? I feel
like she looks over me rather than the reverse. I don’t know if she would welcome the change.”

  “I do, and I’m happy to, but I have to travel home for a month. And with the journey, that means three months in total. I’ve been avoiding going home since I fell in love with that utterly delightful creature, but I can’t say no to my mother forever.”

  “I’ll watch her, of course,” I said. “If she’ll let me.”

  “I think you’ll find that she will,” he said, leaning against the window.

  Sinh sailed for Indochine two weeks after we spoke, at the end of March. He promised to write to all of us. He told us that the letters might take a month to arrive, though, so we shouldn’t worry. Two months later, we hadn’t heard anything. Khoi and I fretted. Anne-Marie was distraught.

  “Khoi, send a telegram,” Anne-Marie said to Khoi one evening when she’d joined us for dinner in Khoi’s apartment. She had clearly been with her parents, as she was wearing a dress and was also quite drunk. “To his father,” she clarified, putting her hands on Khoi’s shoulders. “He will respond to you. He must know of your family.”

  At this point, both Anne-Marie and I knew that all the important Annamites, and even many of the French in the country, were acquainted with Khoi’s father’s family, the Nguyens. It was the most common last name in the country, but they were the silk Nguyens, who had spools of thread hand-painted on the porcelain dishes in each of their homes. Khoi kept a small set of such plates in his kitchen, tucked behind his extensive whiskey supply. I’d come across them one day, and Khoi admitted that all the Nguyen family’s dishes bore this signature.

  “Contact his father? Down in Hue? I don’t know,” said Khoi, the joy of the day already drained out of it. “His father often works with the emperor, or that’s what Sinh said. I don’t think he’d deign to read a telegram from me. He might not even accept it. But I will try,” he said when Anne-Marie let out a desperate-sounding squawk. “Of course, I will. I’ll leave right now to do so,” he said, walking across the room for his hat. “Don’t worry, Anne-Marie. I’m sure Sinh hasn’t forgotten about us. Well, me, maybe,” he said, smiling. “But not you.”

  “It’s impossible,” I said, sitting next to her. “I’ve never seen two people more in love than you and Sinh.”

  “That’s only because you can’t see yourself,” she said, seeming slightly relieved. “Too bad you’re so utterly married.”

  “It is quite a pity,” I said, not disclosing that I had been thinking very often about how to get unmarried over the last year and a half.

  We didn’t receive word back from Sinh’s father for another month, a month that Anne-Marie and the two of us spent worrying and drinking in excess, both noon and night. Anne-Marie’s grades started to reflect her mental state, and her parents forced her to spend time with tutors instead of her friends.

  We saw less and less of her, so when we finally received a letter from Sinh’s father, Anne-Marie was not with us to open it. We had, in fact, not seen her for a week. Khoi ripped the letter open, walking toward me as he did, but as soon as he’d read a few lines to himself, he stopped in the center of the room, his face ashen. It was as if he’d just been handed his death notice.

  His hand barely able to hold the paper, he read on, turning the pages over. There were three in total. He walked to the kitchen, poured himself a whiskey, drank it in one gulp, then poured another and handed it to me. He watched me drink it and then started reading the letter aloud. To my surprise, the note was in French.

  Dear Monsieur Nguyen,

  I would first like to thank you for the friendship you showed my son during his years in Paris. He mentioned you in his letters many times and praised you for being not only an upstanding student, but a model representative of our people in France. I am afraid I only know your father by reputation, but I hope I have the chance to meet him, and you, in the near future and express my gratitude in person.

  Unfortunately, the good news stops there, for this letter is a letter no father should ever have to write. Your dear friend, my son, Sinh, is no longer with us.

  “What!” I said, gasping. “No.” I started shaking my head. All I could say was no. I kept repeating the word quietly as Khoi continued to read, his voice breaking.

  I never saw Sinh when he arrived back in Indochine. His boat docked at Haiphong at the end of April, and he was immediately brought into police custody. The reason, I was later told, was because he was in possession of communist literature. He had several copies of L’Humanité, a French communist publication, with him.

  “He took Anne-Marie’s writing home!” I exclaimed. “Why would he do such a thing? He should have known not to.”

  “How could he not have taken her writing?” said Khoi, letting his arm bend down for a moment. The letter dropped to the floor. “He couldn’t bring her, so he took her words instead. I’m sure he thought if anything the newspaper would be confiscated on arrival. Not that they would lead him to a death sentence.”

  Khoi bent down, gathered the pages, and kept reading.

  The police telephoned me when he was in custody and informed me of what had happened, a courtesy made only because of my position in the government. I told them to please hold him overnight and that I would come to take him in the morning. I was in Hue and it would take me that long to travel north. I asked them to keep him in custody overnight as I was very angry with him. How could the son I raised be so foolish? I was sure that a night in prison would help set him straight and put a stop to the communist filth that had taken over his mind in Paris. Perhaps you can better inform me on how he fell into such a thing when we meet.

  When I arrived in Haiphong the following day, I was informed that Sinh had died during the night. That he had started arguing with one of the officers, who told him that he would never be able to return to France again now that he was a known communist. Then, I am told, Sinh physically attacked him. Another policeman acted on an order to protect his comrade and shot Sinh. The bullet, unfortunately, found its way through his back and into his heart.

  I was able to see his body the evening I arrived and have it moved for proper burial at home. The government has been very supportive of our family as we grieve, and over the last several months, there has been a thorough investigation, which concluded that it was as they said, just a terrible accident. The policeman in question remains in the service, though I’m told his mental state is quite fragile and that he is filled with remorse.

  In most circumstances, news like this would have made it to the newspapers in France, but I asked the police for discretion during our difficult time, as I did not want Sinh’s mother to have to deal with further grief at seeing her son’s memory, and our family name, forever associated with communism. I ask that you please consider her and be equally discreet with this awful news.

  Again, we are thankful that Sinh had such a loyal friend while he was in France. It is a comfort for the whole family to know that in his final days Sinh may have been misguided, but he was happy. That came through in the many letters he sent to us and his siblings.

  We look forward to welcoming you in Hue the next time you find yourself in Indochine.

  Cao Van Quang

  “Khoi,” I managed to say between sobs when he was quiet. “How will we tell Anne-Marie?”

  Khoi shook his head, as if he couldn’t even think about such a thing yet. I continued to sob, while he remained alarmingly quiet, and an hour later, when our grief allowed us to, we tried to figure out how to tell her the awful news. In the end, the burden was lifted, and Anne-Marie came to us. She had known about Sinh’s death for several days.

  Four days before we received the news, she had finally admitted to her parents, Charles and Joséphine de la Chaume, that she was worried about an Annamite friend, and it was her anxiety about his safety that had put her in a nervous state for several months. As soon as she’d said “Annamite friend,” her father had erupted.

  He informed Anne-Marie that they kn
ew about her relationship with Sinh. That they’d known about it for six months, after a neighbor had seen Anne-Marie holding hands with an homme Asiatique, while herself dressed in men’s clothing. The neighbor had been in Pigalle to meet “a friend,” who was certainly a prostitute, which perplexed Anne-Marie’s father even further, he admitted. Not believing the neighbor, as he was sure his daughter was at that moment asleep in her apartment near the university and very much dressed as a girl, he had started following her the very next day. He soon learned that not only was she certainly having an affair with an Asiatique, she was also involved in not-so-clandestine communist activity. That she and her lover were, together. As soon as he had seen it with his own eyes, he set about doing the only thing that made sense to him. He made plans to get rid of the yellow pest.

  “That was how he said it,” Anne-Marie told us, no longer crying. Her face was just deeply filled with anger. “He framed his outrage about it all as being about communism, about how he was sure this Asiatique, this activist, had turned my head. But I could see what he was most angry about. It was that his only daughter had been ravaged by a jaune. He looked at me like I was sullied forever because I’d let Sinh inside of me.”

  Anne-Marie’s father had admitted nothing more than that they had asked for advice from their powerful Michelin cousins on how to handle “the ugly situation.” André Michelin had been particularly helpful. His answer to Charles de la Chaume had been not to worry. That these types of things took care of themselves.

  “I think it was them who took care of him,” said Anne-Marie, stone-faced. “Took care of him until he had a bullet in his heart.”

  “No,” said Khoi, shaking his head. “That can’t be it. You read the letter,” he said, looking at the sheets of paper now on the dining table. “Sinh’s father said the government did a thorough investigation.”

  “Sinh’s father is more loyal to France than to his own son!” Anne-Marie yelled. “Isn’t that apparent? He doesn’t want to lose his place in the government, his stature. He didn’t even question it when they told him that Sinh caused his own murder.”