A Hundred Suns

by Karin Tanabe

  “Liar!” Marcelle replied, laughing. “You’re thinking about Red.”

  “I’m not,” I said, shifting on the seat. I glanced up at the rearview mirror, afraid that Lanh had heard us. Of course he had.

  “I don’t believe you,” Marcelle said mischievously. “And look, you’re already flustered. Relax, I’ll tell you everything I know about him.”

  I should have stopped her, especially with Lanh listening, but I didn’t. I was curious. I looked ahead and said nothing, waiting for her to go on.

  “Red,” she said in a singsong voice. “Well, his real name is Hugh Redvers, which is much too proper for a man like him. That’s why in Indochine, he is always just called Red.”

  “Convenient,” I said, still not meeting her eye.

  “I think he would prefer to hear you say ‘mysterious,’” she purred, leaning into me, forcing me to turn in her direction.

  “I’ll try to remember that,” I said.

  “Yes, do,” she said, practically grinning. “What else? He loves listening to American jazz music, especially Duke Ellington. The Duke, he calls him. He has an enormous phonograph, which he had sent all the way from America. If you ever make it into his apartment, I’m sure he’ll show you,” she added in a whisper.

  I turned scarlet, and she started to laugh, inching away from me.

  “All right, all right,” she said, putting her hands up in mock surrender. “Look, I’ll just tell you these things, and you can do what you want with the information. So, besides jazz, and beautiful women, he likes a very spicy noodle soup called bun rieu cua. He consumes it at an alarming rate. I think he believes it makes him more virile, but I’m surprised it hasn’t caused him to breathe fire. He drinks room-temperature water with no ice, even on the hottest days, something he picked up from a Chinese woman he was bedding for a few months, and yet he takes those Pegu cocktails of his ice-cold. A man of mystery.”

  She grinned, warming to her theme.

  “He barely works, which is why those train tracks down the coast still aren’t finished. He smokes opium nearly every day, drives a dark green MG with plenty of room for another person in the front seat. And when he’s not in Hanoi, he’s traveling the Mekong Delta on some adventure for lost men who never want to be found.”

  She stretched her left arm along the top of the back seat, letting it hover just over my shoulders.

  “What else? Oh, yes, this is probably the most important point. Every single woman who comes to Hanoi between the ages of fifteen and fifty falls in love with him at first sight, so don’t feel too guilty. He never wants to be married, but he really does enjoy being loved. Or at least lusted after.”

  “I don’t feel guilty at all,” I replied. “I don’t fall in love with strangers. I’m in love with Victor.”

  “Aren’t you lucky,” she said breezily.

  “So Red will be there, and Khoi,” I said, pronouncing his name just as Marcelle had. “Who else?”

  “You don’t care who else,” said Marcelle, still smiling. “But you’re sweet to ask. Don’t worry, you’ll like everyone. Very pleasant people. As for Red, I asked Khoi to put you in adjoining rooms for the night. Only a few hanging silk drapes will be separating you, and those can be removed with a flick of the wrist.” She slapped my arm lightly.

  “You didn’t!” I exclaimed, waiting for Lanh to tap the brakes out of shock, but the ride remained smooth. Lanh, I had learned, was unflappable and discreet. He had never mentioned his sister, not even a thank-you in passing, just as I’d requested.

  “Oh, Jessie, what a terrible prude you are,” Marcelle said, taking my hand. “There are no adjoining rooms, don’t worry. Besides, I’m sure you have a chastity belt of some sort in that large valise of yours. Or maybe you have it on now. Is it uncomfortable?” she teased. I didn’t answer. “Every woman falls under Red’s spell for a little when they arrive,” she continued. “Your reaction is normal. Maybe you’ve even walked past his charming little place on la rue Jacquin hoping for a glimpse of him.”

  “I’ve done nothing of the sort,” I answered, not admitting that I had looked up his address in the telephone book. “Besides, by your description, he sounds like a fantasy concocted by some bored women.”

  “Red? No. He’s better than that. And what French woman in Hanoi is bored?”

  I shrugged and reached back to fix a hairpin.

  “I don’t mean to tease you,” said Marcelle. “The myth only lives because he is so charming. Humorous and quick-witted. The best party guest one could ask for. You’ll see. But he’s a bachelor for life, that one.”

  “And I’m married,” I said as the pin I was adjusting stabbed me in the scalp.

  “Yes,” said Marcelle evenly. “I know.”

  After a few minutes of silence, she grabbed my shoulder and pointed out the window behind me. “Look!” she said as I turned my head.

  We had been driving by the water for some time, but when Lanh slowed the car after Marcelle raised her voice, I saw the boat. It was a beautiful wooden structure, painted white, unlike the other boats around it, which were made of unpainted dark wood. The white boat had three sails of bright orange cloth, open and flapping wildly against the blue sky, like emblems of an endless summer. There were three levels and a deck and white wooden railings that encircled every level to meet at the prow, where a long wooden spar stuck straight out.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” said Marcelle, following my gaze.

  “Pretty? It’s magnificent,” I said. “What does Khoi do again? Is he the emperor?”

  “No, darling. The emperor is in Annam. His name is Bao Dai, and he isn’t even twenty years old yet. Khoi’s family owns most of the silk industry in this country. Everything soft that you touch was originally chewing on his mulberry trees.”

  “Seems lucrative,” I said as Lanh opened the car door for me.

  “For now,” Marcelle said before following me out.

  “The party has arrived!” a man’s voice sang out. It was definitely Red. I saw him waving at us from the deck. A half dozen others stood nearby, but I could barely make out their faces.

  “In force!” Marcelle shouted back.

  Red cupped his ear and shook his head, indicating that he couldn’t hear and instead waved us toward him.

  The sparkling blue waters of Ha Long Bay played with the light, the sun bouncing off it in undulating lines and shapes as we made our way onto a wide plank to reach the boat.

  “This is breathtaking,” I said as Red took my hand. He gripped it tightly and held it until someone else approached us.

  “I’m glad you like it,” said a strikingly handsome Annamite who took my bag from Lanh and handed it to a boy behind him. His jaw was square, and his cheekbones, just prominent enough, were so perfectly placed that they looked almost painted on. I could see right away why Arnaud was a mere companion for Marcelle now. “It’s called a junk,” he went on. “A term that comes from the Javanese word for ‘boat.’” He reached for both my hands, shaking them and bowing his head as he did. “I’m Nguyen Khoi,” he said. “And you’re Jessie Lesage. Marcelle is so fond of you. We’re very glad that you could join us. In Indochine and on this little boat.”

  “It’s marvelous,” I said, nodding good-bye to Lanh, then stepping on board. The floor of the deck was dark wood, the narrow planks buffed to a shine.

  “I’m quite fond of it, too, Madame Lesage,” he said as another boy came to collect my shoes. Khoi explained that no high heels were allowed as they dented the wood and instead gave me a pair of navy-blue silk slippers to wear. They were my exact size.

  “Jessie, please,” I said to Khoi.

  “Jessie, then,” he said, indicating the deck. “Come, Jessie, I will introduce you to our friends.”

  I walked behind Khoi and Marcelle as we made our way up the stairs to the sundeck. Marcelle’s white dress was very pretty against the backdrop of the orange sails and the wooden boat, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off of Khoi’s clothes
. His jacket, cut in a Western fashion and paired with wide-legged white trousers and a white jersey shirt, was made from the loveliest light blue silk I’d ever seen.

  “That fabric, your jacket, is beautiful,” I couldn’t help saying as we stopped for Marcelle to rearrange her hat, which the breeze wanted to blow off. “I’ve never seen silk quite like that.” It was true. It looked almost like linen, or cotton, with no sheen to it, but up close it was unmistakably silk.

  “Thank you,” Khoi said, looking down at his sleeves and smiling. “It was made especially for me. A gift from my father on my thirtieth birthday. I shouldn’t wear it out, especially with the water spraying into the boat on occasion, but I don’t believe in keeping beautiful things in boxes. And now that it’s nearly November, it’s finally cool enough to wear something like this.”

  “I agree, about beautiful things. We must enjoy what we have,” I said, looking around at the boat. There seemed no doubt that Khoi was a man who enjoyed what he had, and he clearly had a lot.

  “Yes. Although I would be rather devastated if anything happened to the jacket, so I’m forced to change for dinner. We only had a hundred yards of this particular silk. I can’t have another one made.”

  “We will all be changing for dinner,” said Marcelle, taking him by the hand. Their fingers wound tightly together, they approached the other guests, who were sitting on teakwood-and-rattan veranda chairs with rounded, carved armrests in a modern deco style. Next to them, on a square table, was enough champagne to last a week.

  Khoi stepped away from Marcelle when we reached the group so that I stood between them. “Madame Lesage. Jessie Lesage. May I present Jacques Barbier, who is with the press. He just started work at a new newspaper, a monthly, L’Information d’Indochine. The first issue was printed just a few weeks ago. Next to him is his lovely friend Pham Hanh. And Monsieur Renaud and Madame Claire Angevine,” he continued as they all stood to greet me. “Renaud also works in textiles. And of course, Wang Jing from Saigon and his wife, Wang Li,” he added as a Chinese couple stood up. “Monsieur Wang works in … natural relaxation remedies.”

  “A pleasure. So lovely to make your acquaintance,” I said in a loop, greeting the crowd that Marcelle already seemed to know intimately.

  “I will just show the ladies their rooms,” said Khoi, turning to his servants and saying something in Annamese. They put down our bags and crossed to the table, removing the covers from two silver dishes nestled among the champagne bottles. They contained perfect pyramids of cooked and seasoned clams. “So huyet, which translates to blood clam, named for the red flesh. A delicacy of the bay,” Khoi said. He picked up our bags himself. “Ladies, please,” he said to Marcelle and me.

  This man, though I’d only been in his presence mere minutes, seemed tailor-made for Marcelle. Though I didn’t wish ill on anyone, it did seem unfortunate that Arnaud hadn’t just conveniently fallen off a horse, like awful Dorothy’s husband had. The hand of fate really chose the wrong woman to bless.

  As we walked, Khoi pointed out features of the boat to me: a round window where there was a particularly dazzling view of the water, the bathrooms and the kitchen if I should find myself hungry in the middle of the night. “There will be someone there to make you a meal at any hour,” he added, without a hint of boastfulness. Marcelle and I were shown to two separate bedrooms, although I doubted Marcelle’s would be used for anything but as a place to set her bags.

  I thanked Khoi as he left, then sat down on my bed, which was covered in silk linens, all a deep inky blue a few shades darker than my slippers. The bed itself stood on a wooden platform, rounded at the edges, with a subtle foliage motif along the base. I quickly freshened up, changing into a pair of high-waisted striped trousers and a matching blouse, taking a light jacket with me, too, in case the weather turned cooler. I paused in the doorway of my cabin, where Marcelle stood waiting. I might as well have been a million miles from my farmhouse in Virginia.

  “What a whirlwind this all is,” I said to Marcelle, looking around the cabin. “Even this bed looks too beautiful to sit on. And the people upstairs. Everyone is so handsome. And such a diverse group. I didn’t know that such things happened in Indochine.” I was referring to the sight of Asiatiques socializing with the French. “Of course, I knew it happened behind the scenes, like you and Khoi, but not so openly. I certainly haven’t seen it at the club.”

  “Not everyone has the Michelin name to uphold,” said Marcelle. “They’re not afraid to live a little. Besides, aren’t we still behind the scenes here?”

  “I suppose,” I said, looking around again. “Although one of those men is a journalist, is he not?”

  “Don’t mind that journalist,” said Marcelle, slipping her hair out of her pins. “All he reports on is conflict, and not the domestic kind.” She pointed upstairs. “You just don’t know about all this,” she said, “because those sorts of couplings don’t happen at the club, unless it’s a Frenchman pulling one of the poor working girls into his bed at night.”

  By the time we joined the group on deck, the sails were tight, and the boat had pushed off, being steered steadily by the native crew. We were floating between limestone peaks, most covered in bright green foliage. I had no idea they would be so green, having expected smooth gray rock instead of the jungle that seemed to be growing out of the water.

  “These are called karsts in English,” said Red, who had taken the seat next to me. He had a pair of sunglasses on, his shirt untucked and a glass of his terrible orange drink in his hand, as he always seemed to. His face was very attractive, that was undeniable, but his look was one of studied slovenliness, as if he’d applied the faint stains on his pants himself. “They are limestone, like all these isles.”

  “They’re marvelous,” I said, looking at them, so dramatic despite their relative lack of stature. Their sheer number, color, and brilliance made them seem otherworldly.

  “To the rock wonder in the sky,” he said, lifting his glass in the air.

  “That’s a nice way to put it,” I said, marveling at the beauty.

  “I stole it,” said Red, lowering his sunglasses and grinning. “It’s from an old Annamese poem. A very old one, but quite famous.”

  “He steals words along with hearts,” said the journalist, breaking in with a laugh. “Anything authentic in there?” he said, pointing to Red’s head. “Or did you smoke all the good stuff away?”

  “This from a journalist,” said Red. “Selective truths are worse than lies.”

  The two men laughed and continued to exchange light jabs. “Legend has it,” the journalist told me, “that the bay sprang into being when a naughty dragon plunged into the sea and thrashed his tail around, cutting apart the land and creating these little islands. There are over a thousand of them. ‘Ha Long’ itself means ‘where the dragon descends into the sea,’ so don’t believe this ‘rock wonder in the sky’ nonsense from Red. Actually, don’t believe anything Red says,” he added with another laugh.

  The two men conversed, and I listened more than I spoke, as we all had champagne and finished the delicious clams Khoi had served. We all spent the day drinking and sunning ourselves, engaging in light conversation, falling asleep in the cool breeze, and then starting the process over again. Red kept a respectful distance, and I found that I was the one moving physically closer to him, so that by the time it was late afternoon, we were sitting only inches apart. At five o’clock, Marcelle disappeared below board while we spoke and reappeared a half hour later with a camera in her hands.

  “Let’s take a few pictures before the sun sets. So that we can remember a time when we were all young and beautiful. Well, the women, anyway,” she said, grinning.

  I stood closer to the men and then was joined by the rest of the party. “But you have to be in it, Marcelle,” I said.

  “Trust me, I’ve been photographed enough for one lifetime. Those flashbulbs have probably taken half my soul with them, but all right.”

  Sh
e took off her hat and tied a green ribbon around her dark hair, then came and squeezed in right next to me, not separating me from Red, who was on my other side. Marcelle smelled like gardenias and the spice of local food, a perfect mix of East and West.

  When a small silver bell rang indicating dinner, Marcelle took my arm and held it tightly. “All we do on this boat is eat,” she said. “Well, at least until the sun goes down. But it’s worth adding a pound or two. The food is the best you’ll taste in Indochine.”

  We ate dinner early in a capacious dining room downstairs where the tall, open windows framed a view of the sun, just beginning to set. Afterward, the whole group moved down the hall to an elegantly appointed sitting room with low couches, reclined chairs, and piles of silk pillows. I sat on the largest pillow and stroked the fabric, sure that it was the finest silk I had ever touched.

  Khoi said something in Annamese to a girl in a bright pink ao who had appeared at the door. She ran off, returning a few moments later with another girl. In their hands were several long wooden pipes, each with a small ceramic bowl attached to a saddle on the top.

  “Opium?” I asked Marcelle quietly as the others chatted animatedly around us, suddenly feeling quite out of my element.

  “You still haven’t smoked opium?” said Marcelle. She laughed but lowered her voice when she saw me flush. “I’m sorry, that was rude. I’m just surprised. They practically shoved one of these in my mouth as soon as I arrived. But I’m happy to be the one to initiate you. First, I show you the Officers’ Club—well, the good parts anyway—and now this. There’s almost nothing left for me to teach you concerning the vices of Indochine. Almost,” she said, glancing at Red.

  “No,” I said, watching as he lay back on a pile of pillows, one of the young native girls coming over to tend to him. “I’ve never even smelled it before.” I knew there was rampant opium use in Indochine and that the Europeans indulged in it as much as anyone, many of them becoming addicted. But after seven weeks in the country, I still hadn’t seen it. My closest encounter—and that was secondhand—was with that overly bold Frenchman on the day I witnessed the delivery of the dead communist.