A Hundred Suns Page 5

  “I like these other streets just as much as rue de la Chaux,” I said, referencing our new street, in a neighborhood that had been reorganized by the French. As we turned south along the Red River, the sun was just starting to set in an orange-tinged haze above it.

  “There’s a more direct way to go to the Officers’ Club,” Lanh noted. “But we are a bit early, and as Monsieur Lesage requested, this way you can see more of Hanoi. The French parts, and the not so French,” he added, braking gently to let a group of older Annamite women cross the busy road, their backs bent. I imagined it was less from age than from manual labor.

  I turned to look at them, but Victor smiled and looked straight ahead as the group paused to ogle our big black car. Victor had purchased it from Delahaye and had it shipped to the colony six months earlier.

  In Paris, Victor had managed a steel-frame construction business that André Michelin also owned. He was eventually allowed to transition to the central Michelin company, rather than André’s other holdings, but his work had very little to do with the day-to-day rubber manufacturing operations down in Clermont-Ferrand. Instead, Victor assisted with updating the entries in the Michelin guides, which the company had been producing since 1900 to help travelers find suitable accommodations and dining establishments. Victor had said that it wasn’t work for an engineer—he had earned a degree in engineering at École Centrale—but they had reminded him that thanks to years as a professional bon vivant in Paris in his early twenties, he knew all the best places in the capital city. It was a kind way of saying that his youthful antics were still keeping him from being trustworthy.

  Eventually, Victor graduated from the guides and was allowed to work in advertising for some of the important Paris bicycle races that Michelin participated in, reminding the world that winning cyclists used Michelin tires, and that the company had, in fact, helped the world transition to pneumatic tires. After that he helped stamp the Michelin Man, Bibendum, as the French knew him, on just about everything. To his credit, it was work that he hated but did not complain about. Still, even his good attitude failed to move him an inch closer to Clermont-Ferrand.

  Victor had never been too concerned with money, as he was sure we would always have enough, but I knew how easily money could come and go. Especially go, in an economic crisis.

  Before I went to Victor with my idea, I told his mother, Agathe, presenting it in a way that I thought she’d be able to support. Everything that happened with Victor, besides marrying me, went through his mother first. Shockingly, she agreed.

  Thanks to a push from Agathe, Édouard Michelin had granted Victor the newly created post of family overseer of the Michelins’ two vast rubber plantations: the 22,000-acre Dau Tieng, where the deaths of the coolies had occurred in December—vast land due north of Saigon and over nine hundred miles away from Hanoi—and the 14,000-acre Phu Rieng plantation, another sixty miles northeast of Dau Tieng. He would also supervise the small 300-acre plantation, Ben Cui, that they had transformed into a company test station.

  Dau Tieng was located in the gray-earth region of the colony and Phu Rieng in the red-earth, but both had performed well since the family started cultivating the land in 1926. Soon, the Michelins would no longer need to buy rubber from other sources. The importance of eliminating dependence was a business principle we had both heard time and again, but I now realized that it had been from men who had never set foot on their own plantations.

  But we were changing that.

  “The club is just here,” Lanh said, taking a sharp left. Victor lifted his arm from my shoulders, straightened his jacket, and ran his right hand softly across his dark hair to make sure no strand was out of place, which it wasn’t. It never was.

  Lanh took another turn onto a nearly hidden driveway, which widened as we went, palm trees lining either side.

  “Look,” I whispered to Victor excitedly, pointing them out. When we’d first arrived in Indochine, docking at Haiphong on the coast and then traveling to Hanoi by train, I had seen many palms, but these were far more handsome—thin and tall and sinuous, trying to touch the sun with their leaves.

  “Look there,” said Victor, and I turned my head just as a white building came into view.

  After years of living in France, I thought I was used to grandeur, but this was architectural beauty of a different kind. The building was softer, more welcoming than the hard-edged stone edifices of France. It sat on a vast green lawn, and the sight of the white-painted wood against the perfectly manicured grass radiated something I’d had trouble finding in Paris, especially of late: tranquillity.

  “This may be my favorite building in the world,” I murmured as we drove slowly up the road.

  “I thought it was the Louvre,” Victor said, putting his hand on mine.

  “That is in the past,” I replied as Lanh pulled up in front of the building. Three Annamite men in white uniforms with stiff mandarin collars and bright gold buttons came out to greet us, opening both car doors simultaneously.

  “Welcome, Monsieur Lesage, Madame Lesage,” said the third man as we made our way around to the right side of the Delahaye. I was surprised he had addressed us by name but knew not to show it.

  “Thank you,” said Victor, heading toward the club with an air of authority.

  The building was long, with wings to the left and right that seemed to disappear into the trees and a two-story veranda punctuated by white columns running along the facade. Before we entered the main hall, I glanced up at the steeply slanted, red-brick-tiled roof that protected the veranda. Every part of the building was constructed with the natural elements in mind, yet without sacrificing beauty. I now understood why the French ran to the club as soon as their passports were stamped.

  I followed Victor to the lower veranda. It was dotted with high-backed rattan chairs, sporadically occupied by men in tennis whites or casual tropical suits. There were also a half dozen women draped over the chairs as if they had melted into them. They were sipping cocktails, their hair short and casually styled or pinned up off their necks, conversing softly, all seemingly part of a sun-drenched world created with nothing but repose and revelry in mind. A few of the men and women glanced up as we entered, their skin turning a soft pink in the evening light, but not for more than a moment before they went back to sipping their drinks.

  “Come in, please. This is the main room,” said the man leading us upstairs as the hum of conversation faded behind us. “I am Teo. I run the club for Monsieur Maillard. You will see me often, and I will have the pleasure of seeing you often, too.” He had that air of servility laced with confidence found among longtime servants fully aware of their competence.

  “Of course,” I responded politely. Next to me, Victor said nothing, his expression poker-faced, his chin slightly raised. Intentionally or not, his pose showed off his perfectly formed profile, the light blue of his eyes flashing in the dimly lit space. A teenage boy, also in a white uniform, appeared and offered tall glasses of water. “This end of the house is gentlemen only,” Teo said when the boy had vanished around a corner. He gestured to the west wing. “The smoking room, the library, and the billiard room are there, sir,” he said to Victor. “As are the guest rooms. The whole club was gentlemen only for many years, but the younger generation realized that the policy didn’t allow for much fun,” he said, smiling at me. “Now I think there are more women here than men during the week, even if they can’t wander freely or stay the night.”

  “What time must the women leave?” I asked, looking down the long hallway.

  “Two o’clock in the morning. Civilized enough yet uncivilized enough, as Monsieur Maillard puts it.”

  “I agree with that. Some of the old rules must apply, even if the world is changing,” said Victor, finally breaking his pose. He reached for my hand, running his thumb over my large emerald Boucheron ring, a gift he gave me four months after Lucie was born. I closed my eyes reflexively, as my mind hurtled back to that chaotic time.

&
nbsp; “Please come this way,” said Teo. “The president of the chamber of commerce and his wife, Madame Marcelle de Fabry, are enjoying a drink outside. They are expecting you,” he said, gliding silently on the dark wood floors. He led us through the main room, and this time eyes tracked us. I looked straight ahead the way Victor had done in the car, but couldn’t help noticing that Trieu had been correct about the women. They were not wearing the backless silk and satin dresses in bright colors that were so popular in Paris. From what I could see, their dresses were white or a light pastel, and very few had the flared hem that had become a signature of modern evening dress in France. There wasn’t one silk gown, but I spotted plenty of Paris chiffon and organza. I liked the look of it at once, as the light fabric made their tan skin glow. One older woman in a back corner was even wearing a white men’s linen suit, her hair cut short to her ears. I tried not to stare at her, or the massed beauty in the room, and hurried closer to Victor.

  Teo led us to an inner courtyard, lush with tropical green plants as large as boat oars and blossoming white flowers. I breathed in deeply, but the scent was different from that of the hoa sua around our house. Sitting at a lacquered table in the filtered glow of the remaining sun was a very attractive couple, the man a decade older than Victor, the woman not even thirty, judging by appearances. They rose to greet us when they saw Teo.

  “Victor Lesage,” said the man, whose light brown hair curled around his ears. It was loose, not back-combed and oiled down, as was fashionable in France. “You made it east in one piece.” He held out his hand to Victor. “And you brought your beautiful American wife,” he said in English.

  “I did, but she speaks perfect French,” Victor said, shaking the businessman’s hand. “She’s Québécoise on her mother’s side, so actually, I’ll correct myself and call it near perfect,” he added, putting his arm around me playfully. He then leaned down and pressed his lips on my bare skin, sending a pleasant shiver down my arm. “My not only beautiful but also rather intelligent wife.” He smiled at me, then turned back to Arnaud de Fabry.

  “Welcome, welcome,” said Arnaud, switching to French to introduce his wife. “Marcelle,” he said, glancing at her, “the bon vivant of Indochine. No one can be around Marcelle and not enjoy this place. Especially this place,” he said, gesturing to the building. “So, you are in good hands for your first evening with us, Madame Lesage.”

  I smiled and turned to his wife. Marcelle de Fabry was dark-haired like Lucie, though her perfect waves fell just above her shoulders, and had lovely pale skin set off by bursts of freckles. Her eyes were a golden hazel, and as I approached her, I could see that they were beautiful marbles of color, full of life. She stood up, her tall frame enviably thin, and greeted me like a dear friend. “Welcome to Indochine, Jessie Lesage,” she said, gesturing to the inviting rattan chair with a grass-green cushion next to her.

  “We just had the coldest Veuve Clicquot in the house brought to us. I like my champagne to be the temperature of ice cream,” she said, smiling.

  “To what are we toasting?” I asked as the four of us raised our crystal glasses.

  “We are celebrating it being Saturday evening,” Marcelle said as the men nodded and launched into an animated conversation. “And to being young and healthy and not so bad-looking,” she said to me. “You’re really not so bad-looking. I should detest you for it straightaway, but you seem far too lovely to hate.”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Oh, darling, just say thank you,” she said, still smiling. “It’s not your fault you’re pretty.” Her tone sounded genuinely warm, even though it was obvious that she was the more stunning one.

  “Thank you,” I replied, sure that I was blushing. “And it is Saturday, isn’t it? After so long on the boat, I can barely keep my days straight. But Saturday, that seems reason enough to have a drink.”

  “That boat ride over is dreadful, isn’t it? Takes a lifetime to splash halfway around the globe.”

  “It wasn’t ideal,” I admitted.

  I brought the drink to my lips and thought about how I wasn’t just celebrating a day or a weekend; I was celebrating a new life, one I was very excited for. With that in mind, the Veuve Clicquot was even more crisp and satisfying here than it was in France. And it was almost the temperature of ice cream.

  “How exotic of you to be American,” she said, her freckles seeming to multiply as she smiled. “I just love America. I traveled there once with an American fashion designer, and I wanted to stay forever. Such an outgoing people, the Americans. I made a great many friends.”

  “When did you travel there?” I asked.

  “Nineteen twenty-four. The spring of that year. I was barely nineteen years old.”

  “Yes, I imagine that one would want to stay forever in the New York of 1924.”

  “Were you there then?” she asked, her voice tinkling with excitement. “Maybe we crossed each other unknowingly on Fifth Avenue.”

  “I was,” I said. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if we had.” I leaned back, sipped my champagne, and looked slowly around me. “This building is wonderful,” I said, running my fingers along the carved wood railing next to my chair. “So welcoming, but still quite elegant.”

  “Isn’t it gorgeous?” Marcelle replied, lifting her hands like a dancer’s. “It was designed by a Frenchman who studied at the École des Beaux-Arts but then spent time in Ceylon and Singapore. That’s why it doesn’t look French at all. He learned from the British and the local builders in those far-flung countries. But it’s for the best, I think, because the French don’t excel in this indoor-outdoor architecture. We love to close doors and build the thickest walls possible, as if we are about to go to war and must keep the bullets out. And if we do build terraces, they are nothing like these verandas. They are so narrow one can barely fit a folding chair on them to enjoy a coffee in the sun. If there ever is any sun. It isn’t very civilized.”

  “Everything French is civilized,” said her husband, jumping into our conversation. “And they are only built that way because, as you presciently pointed out, my dear, in France it rains constantly.”

  “I won’t bother arguing with you,” she said, not turning to look at him. She put her arms on the table and stretched as we waited for our first course. “Hanoi is not New York, but she has her own magic,” she said, raising her thin eyebrows. “I love it here. I was a bit wary of it during my first month, but now I’m utterly in love with the place. We’ve been here nearly three years now, and I don’t ever want to leave.”

  “Really?” I asked, surprised. Hadn’t Trieu told me most French women quickly soured on Hanoi?

  “Oh, yes,” she said, sitting back as the waiter placed our whitefish salad on the table. “The way we live here, we could never exist like this in France, even if Arnaud had a very good year. In 1933, that’s just not possible in Paris. And culturally, Indochine is not lacking, either. Les indigènes are quite strong in the arts. In the mid-twenties we built the École Supérieure des Beaux-Arts de l’Indochine, and the school has already produced some fine talents. Painters, even sculptors. And our opera house is beautiful—it rivals Garnier. You must take in an opera from the first-tier box, on the right side if you can. It’s like jumping inside a lorgnette, the view is so good. The companies performing are world-class, too, not some singers they picked up off the street. The administration ships the performers in from France or even more far-flung places. Then there’s the sunshine and freedom on top of it. It’s proven to be my recipe for happiness.”

  “My recipe for happiness is a happy wife,” said Arnaud, interrupting us. “You’ll learn that soon enough, Victor. Keep Jessie content, and life in Indochine will be marvelous for you. Because some of the French wives, forgive my honesty, but they have a bit of trouble with it. With our way of life here.”

  “Jessie won’t,” said Victor looking at me. “She has an adventurer’s heart. But if Jessie were ever unhappy, I’d swim back to France with her the moment she desire
d. That’s just the type of upstanding man I am,” said Victor, placing his hand on mine.

  “When did you two marry?” said Arnaud, laughing. “Yesterday?”

  “Something like that,” murmured Victor. “It was actually Jessie’s idea to come here,” he continued, looking at me appraisingly. “I’ll deny that if you repeat it outside of this little foursome, but Jessie saw the potential in Indochine before I did. My family, of course, has seen it for years, but Jessie decided we shouldn’t just leave the plantations to be run by others. And after what happened at Dau Tieng in December—very unfortunate, those three coolies—it’s important to finally have a family presence here. To have someone with the Michelin name, even if it is sandwiched between Victor and Lesage.”

  “Quite right,” Arnaud chimed in. “Nor do you need a repeat of that enormous coolie strike you all dealt with in 1930. Bit of a fiasco.”

  “It was,” said Victor. “That’s what we most certainly want to avoid. Terrible press we received from all that. A bit exaggerated, in France at least. But we want to avoid that type of thing altogether.”

  Marcelle turned to me. “Well, you may be an adventurer, and adored by your husband—how lovely and rare,” she said, shooting her husband a sly smile, “but you still look as if you just stepped off the boat. First things first, Jessie, that posture must go. Far too perfect.” She moved forward and placed her warm hands on my shoulders, pushing them down gently. “Relax, my dear,” she said. “You’re on vacation, for as long as you want to be. This is Hanoi. It’s so much better than real life.”