by Karin Tanabe
During my first week in Paris, the Michelin name popped up in the newspapers several times. It was the summer of 1925, not long after the family had acquired its first acres in Indochine. According to reports in Le Figaro, they had their eyes on even more land in the Orient, with plans to plant rubber trees on a massive scale. The family, it was said, had wealth already through their tire production—it was the height of the automobile boom—but Indochine provided great potential for more, as the Michelins were very technologically advanced, far ahead of the planters they’d been buying from for years to make their tires in Clermont-Ferrand. And it was abundantly clear by the mid-twenties that rubber was destined to become white gold for the colony.
The reporter had been kind enough to mention all the members of the family who were not yet married and had even managed to pull a few sentences from Victor. When asked whom in his prominent family he admired the most, he’d said Thérèse Michelin, the wife of his uncle Édouard, who had been a teacher before she married. Victor had called her “the most curious person I know.” After reading that, and seeing a picture of Victor in the same newspaper, one that confirmed that he was not only wise but exceedingly handsome, I knew whom I had to go after.
I began by turning into the kind of woman Victor admired, and soon I knew where Victor ate lunch. I knew the route his driver took to his office. I knew where he had his hair cut and the names and measurements of all the girls he took out for dinner. And when the moment felt right, a moment that coincided precisely with my running out of money, I went into Maxim’s and made quite sure that Victor fell in love with me.
I was living in a tiny chambre de bonne near the place d’Italie. The room had a leaky roof and a toilet far down the attic hallway that somehow managed to be ice-cold in summer. If I could play my hand right, I would not be living there much longer. Luckily, Victor fell for me like ripe fruit.
“Jessie?” Marcelle said, nudging me. “You haven’t fallen asleep, have you?”
“Not quite,” I said, pushing my mind back to the present.
“Thinking about Victor?”
“I was actually,” I said, smiling.
“I guessed so,” she said. “You had a dreamy sort of look on your face, one where you had to be thinking about a man. He’s in the south, though, right? He mentioned he had to go soon when we met at the club.”
“Yes, he is. And he hasn’t informed me when he’ll return. I hope it’s not too long, but I suppose I understand if it is.”
“His first trip there, I imagine it might be,” she said. “But I’ll keep you busy here. Come,” she said, shaking the water out of her ear. “Let’s stop swimming for a bit. My muscles feel too well exercised. I need to abuse them again with the consumption of morning alcohol.” She got out, wrapped herself in her towel, and bent her knees so that her long, slender legs formed a bridge on the chair.
“Will Victor sleep on the plantations?” Marcelle asked, turning her head toward me and pushing her wet hair from her face.
“Yes, he will,” I said, still surprised by his decision myself. “He said that’s one of the most important things for him to do. To be seen by everyone. The managers, the overseers, the junior overseers, the coolies themselves. To make it feel like someone from the family really cares about the community.”
“I suppose after that unfortunate incident last year that that’s for the best,” she replied thoughtfully.
“He is very committed to preventing anything like that from happening again. The deaths of those men, it was horrible. He has to stay abreast of any rising unrest, any communist activity. It’s been hard for the company to keep such a thing out. But I’m sure it’s been hard for everyone. Arnaud must speak of it, too.”
“Of course. The chamber discusses it regularly. It’s been a problem in the mines, and in the factories, too,” said Marcelle breezily. “But of course, it’s a problem in France as well,” she noted. “All over Europe.”
“Less so at the factories in Clermont-Ferrand, Victor says. There is a real company loyalty there. And diversions, too. They have many sports and leisure activities to engage in after working hours. It’s something that the company has recently implemented here as well, and according to the overseers, the groups are thriving.”
“How lovely,” said Marcelle, smiling. “It can’t be all work and no play. What kind of activities do the workers get up to now?”
“All sorts of things,” I said, trying to remember what Victor had said on the ship over. “Renovation theater, Annamese opera, soccer. They even play teams from other plantations. It sounds a little silly, I know,” I added, thinking about how I’d pulled a face when Victor told me the coolies were spending their leisure time singing Hat Tuong, a type of opera. “But I think sometimes people drawn to communism are just desperate for community. Poverty can be so isolating. Then they are sold the notion that everything will be shared, that they won’t be wanting anymore, but what they don’t realize is that it simply doesn’t work. They’ll be enslaved to the state, and in the end, they won’t have any freedom left.”
“You seem to know quite a bit about it,” said Marcelle, rapt.
“Before coming here, we had to educate ourselves about it. I suppose I didn’t have to, but I’ve always been a reader.”
“Me, too,” said Marcelle. “In recent years anyway, after I stopped being a human coat hanger.”
I smiled at the thought. “Poor people the world over are susceptible to the kind of rhetoric that the communists espouse. But what the far left doesn’t tell them is how much better their lives are because of things like the French mission civilisatrice. Some French, I know, say it’s a burden on the Europeans to have to bring social reforms, teachings on new industries, fresh political ideas, religion, and even modern thinking about women to the colonies. But I think it’s wonderful that the French can help change lives. Look at Indochine now. The hospitals are better, their transportation is faster, even the life expectancy for natives is longer since the French have come.” I thought about the care that I received at home in Virginia. I only remembered ever seeing a doctor once, and it was after I had broken my arm when I was eight and would not stop crying. My father had finally admitted that the doctor’s bill would be less painful than the sound of me wailing. On the Michelin plantations, Victor had told me, everyone, families included, received free medical care.
“But the worst part is,” I said, thinking back to the only thing that proved true sustenance to me in my youth, “if you take away a person’s dreams about what they might be able to achieve with personal and economic freedom, then the light inside them will die. They won’t have the hunger to better their lives, or their family’s future. I didn’t have it easy as a child, but at least I had the chance of something better. I value that over everything. The coolies working on the plantations now, they have that, I imagine,” I said, surprised that I was going on as I was, but Marcelle seemed riveted. “That’s why they come south, I think. To make more money than they can in the north and then take it home to their families. That want for something more is an innate human quality, whether you are a coolie in Indochine or a poor girl in Virginia. I know, just as well as the men working for Michelin, how heartening dreams of a better future can be.”
“I admire you, very much,” said Marcelle, smiling. “I know we’ve just met, but we share a similar trait, don’t we?”
“I think we probably share many,” I said affectionately.
“I don’t doubt it,” she said. “But I’m thinking that at the end of the day, we could do many things to help ourselves, but to ultimately ensure our economic freedom, we had to marry well. That is the plight of women the world over.”
“It is,” I said. “But at least we had freedom of movement. We were able to have careers and move out of our hometowns and meet men of worth. We were able to dream about our futures and then execute on our dreams.” I let my mind wander back to Victor. “What would my world be if I hadn’t had the opportun
ity to better my lot in life? I want the men in Indochine, and the women, to have that, whether they work for Michelin or not,” I said, feeling rather emboldened.
“Sometimes I really think I’m the dullest person in Indochine,” Marcelle said with a half smile.
“You! You’re—”
“Intellectually,” she said, interrupting me. “I know I’m not dull, say, in conversation, but I never went to university. I barely finished lycée. My mother was happy to have me run off to Paris to model instead of attending classes, as she thought it would help me marry well. Annoyingly, she was right,” she said, grinning.
“Come,” she said, standing up. “You wild lady capitalist. We will only be able to better ourselves, and our positions in life, if we eat something. Starving women simply do not get ahead. Unless you’re a fashion model. Then that actually does help quite a bit. Even if the magazines insist that with these new silhouettes we’re allowed to have breasts again.”
“I don’t think the fashion world is in my future,” I said, smiling. I very much appreciated Marcelle’s self-deprecating nature. This morning, she seemed far away from the kind of person who would use something menacing against me.
“Let’s go have breakfast then,” she declared. “If we ask nicely, they will make us local food.”
“I like local food,” I replied as she started fussing with her hairpins. “I had my driver, Lanh, take me to a native restaurant last week, as all my cook prepares is French food. He ordered everything and it was delicious. Flavorful.” She nodded and assured me that my cook could make her own food very well, but that most likely no French woman ever asked her to serve it.
When her hair was restored, she sat up, and I watched as her back curled erect, her vertebrae just apparent, indenting her bronzed skin.
“We can change here.” Marcelle pointed to the small pool house a bit set off down another path. “Did you give your bag to the girl when you came down?”
“Lanh did,” I said, thinking how I’d barely noticed him handing it to a young woman.
“Good. They will have hung your dress here,” she said, gathering her things and heading over.
Dressed and with our still-damp hair pinned up under cloche hats, we made our way back up to the clubhouse in our flat day shoes.
“Do you like it better at this hour?” she asked. “The club?”
“I love it at this hour,” I said, looking out at the lavender planted to the east of the building.
“Just like Provence,” she said, following my gaze. “A slice of home for all the homesick colonials. But don’t worry. That will never be you.”
She had no idea how right she was. I might have started my time in the colony in a shaky way, but I was very grateful to be here. I had heard other women say that their friendships helped bring out the best in them. I had never felt that way before, but in the company of Marcelle, I was starting to understand the sentiment.
When we were upstairs, I turned toward the dining room, but Marcelle caught my arm.
“First, to the bar,” she said. We waltzed in, and I offered a faint smile to the four other women seated inside. I sat with my back to the bar, and we ordered two highballs, which arrived ice-cold. I had planned on drinking nothing. I wanted to stay sharp, observant, but Marcelle’s vivacity had already worn me down. Suddenly, it all felt very silly, my paranoia. I enjoyed laughing with her, speaking frankly with her. I was relieved that I could now do so without analyzing the intonation of her every word.
“To a morning of self-betterment, to discovering our similarities. And, of course, to freedom,” Marcelle said, clinking her glass against mine. “And also, to making it all the way to this evening after drinking these.”
“Strong,” I said, taking a sip, trying to stifle a cough, which turned into a laugh.
Marcelle smiled, and when we were seated comfortably, she launched into a tale of the first time she’d come to the club—like me, on the day she arrived in Hanoi. She was describing herself as pale and terrified when she’d driven up the palm-tree-lined road, before stopping midsentence and breaking into a bright smile.
“He would be here,” she said, looking past me. “I bet he slept here.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Red, of course,” she said, raising her eyebrows.
Cautiously, I turned and followed her gaze. A man with unkempt blond hair was sitting at the bar, his back to us.
“Red,” Marcelle called loudly, causing the man to pivot in his seat. He looked from her to me and gave us an easy smile. Immediately, something about him unnerved me.
“Marcelle de Fabry,” he said, rising and walking over to us. I noticed a mound of light chest hair creeping out of his white shirt, which was unbuttoned at the collar and tucked into his beige chambray pants.
He took Marcelle’s hand in his and kissed it.
“I’m happy to see you,” he drawled. “I thought it was going to be a dull morning, but no longer.”
“It’s almost afternoon, Red,” she said. “Did you just wake up?”
“Something like that,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re the color of a sunset. In fact, you are red,” she said, looking at his deeply tanned, slightly burned skin. “Sandalwood and turmeric. Mix it and apply. Then you’ll look less lobster, more European.”
“Did you get that recipe from a Tamil coolie?” said Red, looking down at his arms. “We used to do that in Burma.”
“You should do it again here,” she said, touching his skin. He grabbed her hand, squeezed it tightly, and then turned to me when he dropped it.
“We haven’t met, have we?” he asked, blazing holes into me with his dark blue eyes. They were nothing like Victor’s nearly translucent ones, beautiful by their absence of color. This man’s were like a storm brewing in daylight.
“Or have we?” he asked, when I didn’t answer right away.
It bothered me the way he phrased it. As if I weren’t memorable. But I didn’t like that it bothered me.
“We haven’t,” I said coolly, reaching out and shaking his hand.
“No kiss?” he said, looking down at our interlocked hands and grinning. “You can’t be French.”
“I’m American,” I said, dropping his hand. “And French women don’t kiss strangers. Neither do Americans.”
“But I’m not a stranger. I know Marcelle very well. We go back years, don’t we? To the wild days?” He looked at her, earning an eye roll. “Oh well,” he continued, leaning down and kissing both my cheeks. “I’m British, so we should really be speaking English, but Marcelle here barely knows a word of our barbaric language, so we won’t. For now.”
For a moment we locked eyes but said nothing. When I felt my skin prick, I blinked and said, “Do the British kiss in greeting?”
“Est-ce qu’on fait la bise?” he repeated in his low voice. “Oh, no. We British aren’t allowed to kiss at all. We even marry without kissing first. Then we make love to each other through a hole in the sheet. A rigid people, aren’t we?” He looked at Marcelle, who nodded her agreement.
“Though you’re about as rigid as spaghetti,” she added.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.
“Cooked spaghetti,” she clarified.
“I still haven’t been told your name,” he said, looking at me again.
“I’m Jessie Lesage,” I offered. “I’m—”
“You’re Victor’s wife,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if the crackle in his voice was excitement or disapproval. “I should have guessed from your pretty face. I’ve heard about you.” He leaned in and said in a loud whisper, “The French women hate you.”
“They do not!” Marcelle interrupted him. “I adore her.”
“You adore everyone,” he said good-naturedly. He turned back to me. “Women are just given to jealousy. Especially here. But pay no mind. I’ll like you perfectly well, I can already tell.”
“That’s reassuring,” I said, my he
art beating quickly.
“Will you join us for lunch, Red?” Marcelle asked, gesturing to the three empty chairs at our table. “Or do you have a railroad to build?” She turned to me. “Red is trying to help our government complete the rail line down the coast. As it stands now, when we travel to Saigon, there’s a big hole between Tourane and Nha Trang, forcing us to drive in the middle of an already horribly long train journey. But they should have it done, with Red involved, in about two thousand years, isn’t that right, Red?”
“Three,” he replied, smiling. “And no, thank you, I’m still recovering from last night. This seems to be helping, though.” He raised his hand to show the cocktail he was holding. I hadn’t even noticed the small glass, as I had only looked at his face.
“Suit yourself, but at least sit for a little, please,” said Marcelle. “I need to say hello to Madame Clerc, who just came in. Her son is on his way here. He was no better than a criminal in Paris, but in Indochine they are going to make him the king or something like that. You know how it is here. Anyway, Arnaud would have my head if I didn’t say hello. You’ll keep Jessie company while I do, won’t you, Red? You two can speak your funny little language to each other.”
“If I must,” he said, winking at me and sinking into the chair beside me.
“Jessie Lesage,” he said, allowing a hint of a smile. “How did a pretty little American girl like you get caught up with these big bad Michelins?” he said, switching to English.
“Big and bad?” I replied lightly, trying not to show offense. “We are big, perhaps, but bad, certainly not. We, my husband’s family, are as committed to the success of the colony as those in the railroad business are, I gather.”
