A Hundred Suns

by Karin Tanabe

  “Oui, madame, j’arrive,” I heard Trieu call from down the hall as I flicked on my lamp, her voice muffled by the closed door. She opened it a few seconds later, leaving it ajar so the hallway light poured in. She was in a blue ao and black pants, but her hair was unbrushed, and she had sleep in her eyes.

  “Trieu, I need to be on the morning train to Saigon. What time does it leave?”

  “The train south leaves at nine o’clock, madame,” she said. “But it does not go to Saigon. The railroad does not connect Hanoi and Saigon yet. It won’t for many years still. You can take a train directly to Tourane, on the coast, but then you have to travel by car or boat to Nha Trang. From there, you can continue by train to Saigon.”

  “That’s right. Victor mentioned that,” I said. “Which is faster, car or boat?”

  “Monsieur Lesage takes a car and spends one night along the route. There is a good European hotel in Quy Nhon, about halfway between the two rail stations. Le Grand Hôtel. There is running water, electric fans. It’s very near to the beach. It’s where your husband stays. I think this way is faster, or at least more comfortable.”

  “Yes, that sounds fine. Please arrange it,” I said.

  Trieu nodded and straightened the band-style collar of her ao. It was still open, and she quickly pushed the small gold button through its loop, murmuring an apology.

  “Would you like to dress now?” she asked, stepping into the room.

  “Not yet,” I said. “I can dress myself for something as casual as a train ride.”

  “Of course,” she said and backed quickly out the door.

  I drained the cup of tea that had been placed by my bed the night before, not minding that it was cold. My heart was broken over my ring, but I was physically feeling like myself again and was glad I had my appetite back. Since returning from Ha Long Bay on Sunday, I had stayed in bed, barely leaving my room, trying to right my mind. For three days I had ricocheted between deep sleep and restive wakefulness. Lucie had come into my bedroom a few times, lying down with me, telling me stories about her days at school, as well as her time in the kitchen, which she seemed to enjoy more. But even with her animated face in front of me, I couldn’t stop the images from those ten hours on the boat from flashing through my brain. I was unable to make sense of them, still feeling desperately unwell after the quantities of strong substances I’d consumed with Red. The champagne. The Pegu Clubs. The opium that had caused my nausea. That awful tar was still coating my lungs, I was sure of it. But one image that never appeared was my ring breaking. I had no recollection of it.

  Trying to find peace in sleep, I’d close my eyes again and again, only for certain scenes to resurface: the guests pawing at one another, in the sway of desire and drugs; Marcelle in the arms of a man not her husband—and Red. Mostly I kept seeing my transgression with Red, the only misstep I’d made since meeting Victor. It felt as if that sin had broken my ring. Perhaps I had collided with the wall on purpose, knowing I didn’t deserve it anymore. And I certainly didn’t deserve to be Victor’s right hand, tasked with confidential dealings.

  When I’d woken this morning, I expected another such day but was surprised to feel as if I could breathe again. I was able to shut down the images from the strange interlude at Ha Long Bay. Instead, I concentrated on the trip I wanted to make. The trip south to our vast miles of gray and red earth.

  Victor had called the plantations a man’s world many times. He had never instructed me not to visit, but he hadn’t invited me either, and I hadn’t asked. But now I felt that I must go. Red was pushing for me to visit. Insisting. There had to be a reason why.

  The way he had brought up the Michelin land the morning after our kiss, that stupid, reckless kiss. Why did he care if I’d seen it or not? It felt out of character. Red seemed like a man focused on living large without a care in the world. I supposed he had to dabble with the railroad expansion sometimes, but from what I could tell, his main priorities in life were getting highly intoxicated and making love to intoxicating women.

  Lying between my sheets, which Trieu had been changing twice a day because of my cold sweats, I fingered the silk bag and thought about how I’d first met Red. He’d been one of the only men in the club when Marcelle and I had arrived for an early swim, an outing orchestrated by Marcelle. In hindsight, it was far too convenient.

  I’d been wrong to stop worrying about her. I’d been too hungry to establish a life in Hanoi, and too desperate for friendship, especially with someone as vivacious and companionable as Marcelle. That childish longing, that need for intimacy, which I blamed on growing up with a horde of siblings, had made me silence my suspicions about her too quickly. I’d written off her mention of Switzerland as my tendency to overreact at times of change or upheaval. Victor knew that, too. But we’d made a mistake here.

  I would explain to Victor my misgivings about Red, and he would understand why I needed to see the plantations.

  I rang the bell that sounded in the servants’ rooms again, and Trieu reappeared a few minutes later. Her hair was brushed now, her appearance much neater.

  “I’d like to send a telegram to Victor,” I said. I reached for the notepad and pen on my nightstand and scribbled a quick note. “Just in case I can’t get him on the telephone in time,” I said, handing it to her. “It’s difficult to connect to the plantation. The service out there is dreadful.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ll send it at once.”

  In the note, I estimated I would arrive in three days’ time, assuming the journey went smoothly. Victor would not be pleased that I was coming uninvited, but I told myself that when I explained about Red, he’d wonder why I hadn’t come sooner.

  Visit the Michelin plantations, Red had said. His voice had been light, yet there was an urgency in his words and in his expression.

  I wondered if he thought I was the kind of woman who just sat idle and had no interest in how her husband made his money. I hoped he didn’t. Regardless, he seemed determined to have me see more.

  The door to Victor’s closet was slightly ajar, and I could make out his rows of perfectly pressed suits, each spaced two inches from the next. Victor had only taken two with him to the south. He said it was different there. He didn’t have to dress the way he had in Paris or even in Hanoi. Perhaps Red was right. Perhaps I didn’t know enough about life on the plantations that helped keep the Michelin name so prominent.

  I emerged from bed slowly and looked at myself in the mirror. I was wearing an old pair of Victor’s pajamas instead of my nightgown. Trieu had helped me change when I’d sweated through it. I had eaten next to nothing for three days. My hair needed washing, my eyebrows shaping, my shoulders massaging so that their exhausted slump disappeared. I did not look like the elegant woman who had proven to be so confident, so capable in Haiphong. I looked like a stranger. I reached down and gripped my naked right hand. And now I had to make this journey without my ring.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Jessie

  October 25, 1933

  It was only the fourth time I’d been inside the Hanoi train station, yet it felt familiar. I was seated in the waiting area, on a wooden bench near the ladies’ restroom, taking in my surroundings: the families rushing by with too many bags and not enough hands; the coolies with cargo wrapped in frayed cloth tied onto their backs, heading to the rear of the train; the well-dressed French travelers avoiding them as best they could; the more well-to-do Annamites chatting in unaccented French as they strolled from the ticket counter toward the tracks. I had pinned the bag with the ring inside my waistband. It was not the same as wearing it on my hand, but it was comforting to have it near me. It was smashed beyond repair; I knew that. This would have to do for now.

  As I watched two native men disappear out the door to wait on the platform, I noticed a colorful poster on the wall near where they had just purchased their tickets. I hadn’t spotted it before, as the stationmaster had bought my ticket for me while I rested. Now I went to stand
in front of the poster. It was quite large, and I was surprised I’d missed it on my way in. It featured an imposing white train station, much like ours in Hanoi. But dominating the station was a giant sun with yellow rays so bright they seemed to extend past the edges of the poster, illuminating the wall around it. It was one of the houses of a hundred suns. I moved closer and read the words printed under the picture: “Pour aller loin, pour payer moins, pour être bien, prenez le train.” A push for the merits of train travel—affordable, comfortable, and able to take you far. I turned on my heel and rushed to the station’s main door to see if Lanh was still there so I could show him that I’d found the poster he’d told me about. He’d want to know that another generation of children in Indochine was getting a chance to see the image that had so ignited his young imagination. But he and the Delahaye were gone.

  The train was due in three minutes. Upon my return to Hanoi, I would ask the stationmaster if I could buy the poster. I wanted very much to give it to Lanh.

  Boarding the train was a peaceful process for passengers in the front car, where I was seated, and utter chaos for those at the back, even more so than on my trip to Haiphong, since this train had many more cars. It was exhausting just watching the Annamites in third class shoving and jostling to board, but I found my way to my large plush seat with the help of an attendant, who opened my window wide for me. I hung my hat on the hook on the wall, the same hat I’d worn to Haiphong, and peeked in my traveling purse to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. I’d been so concerned about my ring that I hadn’t paid much attention to the rest of it. I had asked Trieu to put a small, framed picture of Lucie in the bag. This trip to Cochinchina would mean the longest separation for the two of us since Switzerland, seven years earlier. When I’d kissed her good-bye, I’d held her too tightly, and she had kissed both my hands.

  “Don’t worry, maman,” she’d said as I wiped away tears. “A trip away is good for you, because you can be quite shy. That’s what Papa says, isn’t it.”

  “He does at times,” I said. “But sometimes husbands don’t know everything about their wives.”

  “I see,” she’d said pensively. “I’ll be here when you return.”

  I looked at the picture of Lucie and rubbed my index finger over it. Girls had been a burden in my family, but Lucie was a gift. That tiny seed, which I’d prayed would implant inside me, had brought me marriage, a ticket out of America, and now this life.

  I placed the picture back in my bag, next to my engraved silver cigarette case. Having grown up covered in tobacco, I didn’t find smoking the least bit appealing, but Trieu had packed it in my purse for the journey, saying that someone important might ask me for a cigarette, and it was only polite to be ready. You never knew who you might encounter on the journey south in the first-class car.

  I took a cigarette out and spun it slowly between my fingers, thinking of my father, who rolled his own using the tobacco he grew on our farm. It was why I never smoked. The acrid smell always reminded me of him, of home. Still, I found myself pulling a cigarette out, lighting it, and placing it between my lips.

  Inhaling just a tiny bit, I thought of my mother walking through my father’s smoke rings, usually with a pregnant belly leading the way, muttering to herself in French. Seven thousand three hundred nautical miles. That’s how far Hanoi was from Blacksburg, Virginia. It was one of the first things I’d calculated when Victor had told me we finally had the family’s blessing to go. It was twice as far as Paris. I had thrown my arms around him and tried not to cry tears of joy. I’d saved myself in Paris, but with Hanoi, it felt as if he were saving me. I knew that living in Hanoi wouldn’t prevent my being tracked down by Dorothy Davis. I wasn’t on the moon. But the odds of my running into someone from Blacksburg, Virginia, in Hanoi were nil. There were fewer than a hundred Americans in the whole colony. It was yet another chance for reinvention.

  As I took a real pull on the cigarette, the train started to move, accelerating as it left the city. Once Hanoi was far behind us, the train chugged toward the coast, hugging it like a frightened child. I watched rolling green hills slowly appearing as we rumbled through small villages and then flat vistas returning before we reached another part of the country that was cut into rice paddies.

  After we left the town of Hue, nearly 350 miles from Hanoi, the rickety fishing boats bobbing a few feet from shore multiplied and the land grew hillier again, making it feel on many turns as if the train might pitch itself into the sea. The waves were small and soft, slapping rhythmically against the side of the boats below. Past Hue, the overgrown foliage alongside the tracks found its way in through the windows, to the delight of the only child in my car. I fell asleep to the sound of his mother scolding him. It had been hard to leave Lucie again after my days of oblivion, but hearing the voice of a child I didn’t have to tend to reminded me that it was good for a woman to be alone sometimes.

  I didn’t wake up until we were traversing the Hai Van Pass, the high, scenic mountain pass that protrudes into the East Sea, Bien Dong, as the natives called it. The crossing meant that the end of the first train leg was near. The mist covering the pass dissipated quickly as we chugged out of it, and I soon saw small, white-sand beaches, deserted except for fishing boats. Then more miles of rice paddies, and soon after that, Tourane, where the track ended abruptly.

  After the long train ride, I was happy to switch to a car for the next 335 miles. Perhaps because of my American heritage, long distances exhilarated me, even more so with a change of perspective.

  My driver was a middle-aged man with prematurely white hair and a white driving suit to match who told me his name was Xuan. He said he’d driven Victor before but that he preferred not to converse on the journey because his French wasn’t good enough. He made that declaration in perfect French, but I honored his request, saying almost nothing on the trip except to tell him when I needed a rest or glimpsed something I wanted to photograph with the Lumière Elax camera Victor had given me before we left Paris.

  In the mud-splattered Hispano-Suiza, we made our way to the port town of Qui Nhon, where I spent a comfortable night in the French-built hotel, a four-story white structure with a veranda on the first floor and a view of the beach that seemed to have been dipped in sunshine. In the morning, Xuan offered to drive me to the famous caves of the Marble Mountains or to the many large pagodas that the French cooed over, but I declined. Instead, we pushed on to the coastal city of Ninh Hoa for an early breakfast before reaching Nha Trang, just a few miles farther south. Not bothering to even glance at the city, I boarded a train nearly identical to the one from Hanoi, made sure I secured a window seat in the first-class car, and lost myself in the scenery of the remaining 250 miles to Saigon. I was scheduled to reach the southern city before nine the next morning, ending a seventy-five-hour journey. Trieu had said another driver would fetch me at the station and chauffeur me to Dau Tieng. At the hotel in Quy Nhon there had been a telephone, and I’d briefly considered calling Victor. But I’d decided the conversation we needed to have should be done in person.

  When the train finally screeched to a halt at the Saigon station, everyone in the first-class car pushed their way to the exits as eagerly as if they were arriving in the heart of Manhattan. My body stiff from the journey, I waited for the throng to clear and disembarked last, meeting a porter with my suitcase on the platform. Outside the station, I heard a male voice call my name and spun around to see a young man of European appearance approaching.

  “Madame Lesage, what a pleasure to have you with us,” he said enthusiastically, extending his hand. “I’m Jacques Caron, one of the chief overseers at Dau Tieng. Victor asked me to meet your train.”

  “Oh, did he?” I managed to reply, taken aback that I was being met by a European and that he’d referred to Victor by his first name. “How kind of him. Are you … I hope this isn’t putting you out in any way.”

  “You were expecting a native man to drive you,” he said, grinning. Togeth
er we crossed the street, past the row of coolies competing for our fare just like those in Hanoi, shouting for our attention and flashing their nearly toothless grins.

  “I suppose I was,” I admitted. “My servant who arranged the journey told me to expect an indigène driver.”

  “You were going to have someone local,” he said. “A driver named Nien was due to fetch you, but he was commandeered at the last moment by my wife, and Victor and I didn’t want to leave you with a chauffeur we didn’t know well. A woman in a car alone for hours with a stranger, it didn’t sit well with me, or your husband.”

  “How kind of you to think of my safety,” I said, although I didn’t believe for a moment that this brash young man’s actions were propelled by kindness. “But you shouldn’t have come yourself,” I went on. “You could have sent someone else.”

  “When I heard it was you arriving, I thought it would be the gentlemanly thing to do, particularly since we hadn’t met yet. You have never graced us with your presence here in Saigon.”

  “No, this is my first trip,” I said as Jacques took my suitcase from the porter who had been standing silently next to us. “I don’t think I’ll have time to see much of Saigon on this trip, unfortunately. It’s just a visit to see my husband and the plantations.”

  “Of course. Your family’s crown jewels in Indochine. I’m very lucky to work at Dau Tieng. And I know Victor is excited for you to be here, to finally see it all,” he said as he started the car and pulled away from the station.