by Karin Tanabe
“Is he?” I asked, trying not to sound surprised.
“Very,” said Jacques, making a right turn away from the station. “It’s almost a four-hour drive to Dau Tieng, which is the largest of the plantations,” he said when the yellow building was finally out of sight. “That’s where you’ll start your visit.” He pointed to a glass bottle on the floor near my feet. “Cold water there. Should be nice and refreshing since it was on ice. Drink it when your stomach begins to feel even slightly sour, and try to look straight ahead when we are off the paved roads.”
“I’m from the country,” I said, looking out at the crowded road ahead of us.
“Not this country,” he replied and sped up. “We are heading east of the city,” he added, gesturing. “Would you like me to detour so you can see some of Saigon’s jewels? Notre Dame Cathedral? The opera house?”
“No, just to Dau Tieng, please,” I said, resting my head against the passenger window. I closed my eyes, putting my hand over my waistband so I could feel the little bag holding my ring. Assured of its presence, I let myself drift to sleep.
Three and a half hours later, I was roused by Jacques touching my arm. I opened my eyes, sat upright, and rolled down the window.
“We’re just arriving,” he said, pointing. “There, just beyond those trees, is Dau Tieng.”
I blinked a few times to get the sleep out of my eyes and saw a barrier blocking the dirt road. On either side were squat watchtowers and men in uniform.
“Are those military guards?” I asked, looking at them more closely as we approached.
“Yes,” he said, signaling to them out the window. “After what happened at Phu Rieng in ’27, the murder of the overseer, they were stationed here at the gates and all around the periphery of the land. We do have men who try to escape, and so many acres are hard to monitor. Nothing to be alarmed by. Just a precaution.”
“Why do men try to escape?” I asked as Jacques rolled his window back up.
“Oh, you know the nature of men. Some just don’t like to work. Some are homesick, some want to run off and be revolutionaries. But those are fewer and fewer these days,” he said. “It’s not like it was in 1930, I’m told. Or even last year. Your husband, in just a few months’ time, has things in firm control.”
“I’m happy to hear it,” I said, turning to get a better look at the military men after they’d waved us through.
We drove in on a wide dirt road, crossing an expanse far more open than I’d anticipated.
“All this is being replanted,” he said, following my gaze, “which is why it’s so bare right now. On the other side, there,” he said, pointing to a mass of sprawling one-story buildings, “are the coolie villages, the hospital, the orphanage, the canteen. And beyond that is more land that we’re clearing.”
We passed rows of short rubber trees, all spaced with the precision of soldiers on parade, not daring to grow out of line.
“Your husband is in his house,” Jacques said as the low buildings disappeared behind us. “I’ve worked on rubber plantations throughout my career, first in Brazil and now here, and this is the first time I’ve seen any family member from the company live on the plantation. He, and Michelin, should be applauded. It will make the difference in our success, I believe. In your success,” he corrected himself. “You’ve already invested so much in research. New technologies for planting and tapping. That is already paying off. And with low labor costs, you are still making money in the depression. It’s just the unrest that’s been a problem, after last December, and Victor is prioritizing that.”
“Yes, well, the Michelins are known for building loyalty in Clermont-Ferrand. It is time that they do the same here. I think Victor is quite capable—”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” he said, interrupting in a voice that indicated he didn’t care at all about being rude, “but loyalty isn’t the problem. It’s communism. The men who find their way here and spread their lies to these uneducated men, advocating violence. That is the problem.”
“Victor mentioned as much,” I said, trying to remain pleasant. “But he already weeded one out, from what I hear. I’m sure he will have the problem under control soon, if he does not already.”
“One can never have it fully under control,” he said, turning the wheel sharply to avoid a dip in the dirt road. “But I think Victor can keep the spark from spreading into a blaze. The last thing we can do is let ideology burn this amazing place down.”
“What are those buildings?” I asked, looking at a cluster of large, one-story structures in the distance, happy to change the subject. As we approached, I saw they were all connected by covered walkways.
“Hospital buildings,” Jacques said, slowing the car.
“All of them?” I asked. “That seems like quite a lot.”
“It’s not easy work, planting. There are injuries, unfortunately. It simply can’t be avoided. Having a modern hospital on the grounds is better for everyone. That’s the French doctor’s bungalow,” he said, pointing to a building slightly set apart from the others. “The nurses’ barracks are there, the indigenous workers’ dormitory, the refectory and the kitchen just past it.”
Beyond the buildings, the rows of rubber trees stretched away endlessly, vanishing into the horizon. Victor hadn’t invited me to come to the plantations, but his judgment was off. Seeing the land transformed this way was extraordinary.
“He’s a shrewd businessman, your husband,” Jacques said. “No wonder the family selected him to come here.”
I didn’t bother to correct him about who had approached whom about Victor’s new post.
“I’ve only worked here a year, but I’ve wanted to work for Michelin for a long time,” Jacques continued. “France owes a great debt to the Michelin brothers for what they did for the country in the Great War. The planes they made, the factories they handed over to the army. They were a model for French industry.”
“I’m glad you’re here, then, working for them,” I said, impressed by his knowledge of the Michelins’ wartime contributions.
“All this was savage land,” he said, driving now on a narrow but more manicured road. “Les terres grises,” he said. The gray earth. “It was inhabited by natives and was producing nothing. Or very little. But now it’s fruitful, after only a few years’ investment. And we—the Michelins, I mean—have provided so many jobs to the coolies from the north. So many of them illiterate. Godless. Now they can support their families, even in a difficult economic time, with what we pay them.”
I looked around for one of these illiterate, godless men but saw none.
“Is it strange that we haven’t passed any people, any coolies?” I said. “I thought that nearly six thousand workers were employed between here and Phu Rieng.”
“That’s right,” said Jacques. “And seventy more at Ben Cui. But we don’t allow them to roam free. It’s eleven o’clock, so they’re working, of course. They work in large groups, in the fields, in the factories. At noon, they’ll walk back to the canteen for lunch. A generous meal to get them through the day. Rice. Fresh fish. You’ll see them then, if that interests you.”
He pulled up in front of a handsome two-story white house and switched off the engine. He came around and opened my door.
“This is Victor’s house, yes?” I said, looking at Jacques as he reached for my hand to help me out. Before he could answer, Victor appeared at the door, then hurried down the stairs, which were flanked by two large pots of flowers, and greeted me warmly.
“Thank you, Jacques. Most kind of you to fetch her,” he said as we walked inside, ignoring his subordinate’s attempt to start a conversation.
Victor kissed me, then reached for my bag and placed it by the door, motioning for us to go to the living room. “So,” he said as we went inside, his voice curious. “Traveling down here practically unannounced. I only received your telegram yesterday. Is there something I should be worried about? I’m assuming you did not just feel a sudden pa
ssionate urge to visit Dau Tieng. Or am I wrong?”
“I have been interested in seeing the plantations, of course,” I said, sitting down on one of the chairs in the small room. “But that’s not why I rushed onto a train without discussing it with you first.”
“Those are terribly uncomfortable,” Victor said, pulling me back up and leading me to a large couch in the corner. “Let’s sit here. Less-punishing furniture.”
I looked around the quarters. They were pretty but sparse, with very little personal adornment besides a few family pictures on the mantel. There was one of him and Lucie in a small frame and one of me that I didn’t remember being taken. I was in the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris, and my hair was longer and loose on my shoulders, which were nearly bare. I looked at Victor after I’d registered it and saw a faint flush on his face, as if I’d caught him with something inappropriate.
“So, you do miss me a little when you’re here,” I said, smiling.
“I miss you very much,” he said, smiling back. He picked up my hand, but I pulled it gently away from him when guilt started pricking at me.
“Do you know who Hugh Redvers is?” I asked, launching right into what had happened before I grew too scared to.
“I do,” he said, dropping my hand. “British. Railroad man. Gives all the women syphilis. That’s the one, yes?”
“The very one,” I said, not mentioning how close I’d come to being one of those women. “I spent an evening in his company recently, along with Marcelle de Fabry, her Annamite lover, Nguyen Khoi, and a few other people. It’s a long story, but I’ll get to the point now and recount the rest later.”
“Very well,” said Victor, noticeably tensing.
“We were all on an excursion on Khoi’s boat. During the trip, Red demanded to know why I hadn’t been to visit our plantations. It wasn’t just a simple question; he pushed the subject. He clearly wanted me to come here. So now I’m hoping you could explain why Hugh Redvers would insist that I visit? Is there something about Dau Tieng or Phu Rieng that I should know about? Or that your uncle and cousins should know?”
“No,” said Victor, eyeing me a bit more warily. “Uncle Édouard and the rest of the managers know about everything that goes on here. The overseers keep them abreast of every detail, and now so do I.” He leaned back. If he guessed that something untoward had happened between me and Red, he didn’t say so.
“Marcelle de Fabry has an indigène lover she flaunts?” he asked instead. “That’s very surprising. I wonder why Arnaud doesn’t put a stop to that.”
“Yes, she does. A very rich one,” I said. “Although I think ‘lover’ isn’t a strong enough word, actually. Love. He feels more like her love than her lover.”
“How original of her. But it will end badly. Those types of relationships, unions, affairs, whatever you want to call it, always do.”
“I don’t really see an end in sight for them,” I said.
“Yes, well, the world seems to right those sorts of things on its own. Or perhaps Arnaud will get some sense and put a stop to it.”
“Perhaps,” I said, not mentioning that Khoi seemed like a far more appealing choice than Arnaud.
“And Red being with Marcelle. Was that a coincidence or—”
“No. I don’t think it was. She arranged the party. As I said, we were on her lover’s boat.”
Victor raised his eyebrows at me and reached for a cigarette from the case on the end table. “Where were you sailing?”
“Ha Long Bay,” I said.
He looked at me for a long moment without replying. Finally, he lit the cigarette and said, “I hear it’s very nice there.”
“It is,” I said, looking away from him.
“Maybe I was too quick to tell you I thought that woman’s allusion to Switzerland was a coincidence,” he said.
“Well, it still could have been,” I replied. “But with all this nonsense with Red … it doesn’t feel random, like an accident. His hope that I end up right here was not the least bit veiled.”
“That’s odd. Maybe he is involved with something untoward,” said Victor, tapping his long fingers together.
“Like what?”
“A communist uprising? Or funding a communist uprising,” said Victor.
“A communist uprising? Red can barely wake up before noon. Unless the uprising had to do with stealing whiskey or women, I doubt he’d be interested. And he’s British, and a railroad man. An industrialist. Wouldn’t that suggest he wants to stamp out communism, not throw wood onto the fire?”
“Not every European here is for industry, nor is every native a communist. It doesn’t work that way. That would be too easy.”
“I don’t imagine it does, but even so, wouldn’t Red want to reform his own industry first? How many coolies have died building the railway line south?” I asked.
“Twenty percent, on average,” said Victor quickly. “And they’re far less policed than we are. The work inspectors leave railroad construction alone because they want a train that goes straight down to Saigon even more than the rest of us, since they have to make the trip so often. Which means it’s likely a higher percentage than that.”
“Then why would a man like that have anything to do with our plantations?” I asked. “Or care about funding the communist workers?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice showing his frustration. “But if Red was involved with the communists, the railroad would give him very good cover,” he continued. “Plus he’s British. A dedicated rogue. The community in Hanoi seems so distracted by his womanizing, maybe it really is all just a successful ploy to disguise the truth.”
“Seems a bit of a stretch.”
“Maybe,” said Victor, inhaling again. “Maybe he has some sort of alliance with the British rubber brokers. He was where before Hanoi? Java?”
“Burma.”
“There’s only minor production there,” said Victor, putting out his cigarette firmly, “but production all the same. Maybe he has a man here for that reason. No one is investing more in research than we are. That could be what he’s after. That makes quite a lot of sense, actually.”
“But either way, why would he push me here? Wouldn’t he want me to stay away, in that case, so that a conversation like this didn’t occur?”
“Jessie, I wasn’t there for this pleasure cruise you took. You should know better than I, shouldn’t you?”
I didn’t answer. If he only knew how much of a pleasure cruise it really was.
Victor ran his hands down his thighs, gathering himself. “If he’s interested in our rubber research, I can’t imagine why he’d want you to come here,” he said at last. “If he’s a communist sympathizer, or worse, then I can think of one reason.”
“Which is?”
“You’re my wife. A person who he assumes has influence over me. Which you do. A lot, as you can see,” he said, gesturing to the house, the fact that we were in Indochine at all. “But one who he wrongly assumes scares easily.”
After all these years, Victor still had no idea how easily I could be scared.
“He may think that. He probably does.”
“Then come with me,” Victor said. He grabbed my hand, and together we hurried down the stairs. Before we were out the door, Victor stopped. He looked at me, causing my heart to start racing. Then he lifted up my hand and held it.
“You’re not wearing your ring,” he said incredulously. “I don’t think I’ve seen you without it a day since I gave it to you. Did you lose it?”
I pulled my hand away, letting it fall to my side. “I didn’t lose it,” I lied. “I just don’t need to wear it anymore. I decided it was a bit of an unhealthy obsession, my spinning it all the time. I left it at home because I thought I could use a fresh start.”
Victor nodded, then kissed me on the forehead. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered. “Here at Dau Tieng, and just with me. I’m glad you’re my wife, and not having an affair with a rich native. And I’
m glad you understand the intricacies of doing business in a place like this. It isn’t easy, but I am trying my best.”
“I know you are,” I said, smiling. “And I’m glad, too,” I said, taking a step closer to him, “that I’m your wife.”
“Come,” he said, sounding more animated.
We walked out the door and climbed into his black, open-top car, one much less polished and grand than the Delahaye.
He drove faster through the grounds than Jacques had, past a factory whose double door was wide open. Despite our speed, I caught a glimpse of the interior. I could see high wooden beams holding up the corrugated metal roof and a few men wearing thin shorts and nothing else, their bodies sinewy and dark.
“Not here,” said Victor. “We’re going to one of the coolie villages. There are several. But only one you’ll care about right now.”
After five more minutes on the dirt roads, we stopped at a small cabin about a hundred yards from the sleeping quarters. It was windowless and looked as if it might be a latrine or a bathhouse.
“Go ahead. Go inside,” said Victor, pointing to the door but keeping the car engine running. He put a small silver key in my hand and nudged me to get out. “If he’s so keen to have you here, and at this particular time, then he must want you to see this.”
I gripped the key tightly, a surge of anxiety spreading through my body.
Victor could tell I was stalling and waved at the door again. “Go on,” he instructed.
I put the key in the lock and turned it slowly. When it clicked, I leaned my weight against the door and pushed it open. As soon as I did, I clapped my hand over my nose and mouth, gagging from the overpowering stench of human feces. All I saw was blackness, but I opened the door wider, and in the shaft of daylight it let in, I could make out the shadowy forms of what was inside.
I stepped in, my face still covered. On the floor, without a wall to support them, was a row of five men. Their ankles were shackled to the same wooden bar, but two of them were lying down, not sitting up like the others. I stepped closer still and saw why. They were dead.
