September 21, 1933
“This was left for you by the de Fabrys’ driver.” Trieu placed a thick blue card on a silver tray on the end table in the sitting room.
I opened it and read the short missive.
Thank you for your note. Of course, I would like to see you again. Did you know that they serve breakfast at the Officers’ Club? It’s the best time to be there. It opens around seven. Come tomorrow. Bring your appetite, and your bathing costume.
Marcelle
I was there at 7:01. When I got out of the car and stepped onto the empty veranda, the grass still wet, a haunting mist rising just above it, I sensed at once that Marcelle was right. This was the best time at the Officers’ Club. Suddenly it had gone from private club to a home. And this time I seemed to fit right in. I had had Trieu make me look clean, rich, and confident, all the things that pushed the lingering image of my mother far from my mind.
“Madame Lesage,” said Teo when he caught me halfway up the stairs. “Madame de Fabry is having breakfast by the swimming pool. You will join her, yes?”
“Oh,” I said, realizing I had yet to set eyes on the club’s pool. “Yes, of course.”
Teo led me back down the stairs, through an airy sitting room with high-backed rattan chairs, all empty. As we walked along a stone-tiled path, a boy in a white jacket handed me a glass of ice water with a sprig of rosemary in it.
“It is two hundred yards west,” said Teo as we made our way along the even stones. “Will you be able to make it? Driving is a possibility as well.”
“Of course, Teo,” I said, laughing. “Where I’m from, we do a lot of walking.” I had a sudden memory of hiking up into the rolling mountains with my brothers and sisters when I was younger, wishing we could keep walking away from our town forever.
When we reached the swimming pool, tiled a bright turquoise with a star pattern at the bottom, there was no one in it and only one person lounging beside it. Marcelle. A bright red bathing costume hugged her tall, slender body, and a large straw hat shielded her face. She was the image of easy youth, tucked fetchingly under a blue-and-white-striped parasol topped by a small white flag flicking in the breeze. She looked nothing like a woman who would have ferreted out my darkest secret and baited me with it. I relaxed slightly at the sight and walked over to greet her.
“I’m nearly speechless,” I said, kissing her cheeks. “This is heavenly.”
“Isn’t it, though?” she said, lifting the brim of her hat to see me better. “Most of the wives spend their mornings sleeping off the wine from the night before. I don’t know why they even open the club at this hour. I suppose for the men who stay overnight, the ones with and without clothes,” she said, grinning. “But I doubt any of them emerge from their private wing before ten o’clock.”
Embracing the quiet, Marcelle and I swam lazy laps, pausing at the end of the pool, our arms up against the sides for support, to rest and talk. After thirty minutes in the water, we were speaking more than moving, as new friends tend to do, and my mind, which had been flustered and in a state of paranoia this morning, relaxed more. Marcelle was just an outgoing person, I told myself, the type who shared too much and asked too many questions. I had panicked too quickly. Besides, I had been extremely rattled by what I had witnessed that morning. I had been in a state, and that was why I had jumped to conclusions about Marcelle.
She spoke of being a newlywed alone in Paris, just as I had been. Lacking in community, and in female friends especially. She had lived with her in-laws at first on the rue du Beaujolais behind the Palais Royal, but she had felt stifled there.
“My mother-in-law prefers to frown,” she said, plunging her head underwater, despite not having a bathing cap on.
“She can’t be worse than Victor’s mother.”
“Of course she is,” she said, slicking back her wet hair. “Victor’s mother is a Michelin. All of Victor’s money is hers, yes?”
“Most of it,” I said, which was true. “She is related to the very rich aunt, on their mother’s side, who gave a large sum and helped Michelin reestablish themselves in 1889 when the brothers took over the company and renamed it. So Victor is a bit of a distant cousin, but he’s the right cousin.”
There was money on the Lesage side, too, but Victor’s father had kept the bulk of it with him when he’d left the family a decade before.
“Then she is better, Victor’s mother, even if she is worse,” said Marcelle. She moved her hat brim higher as the only cloud in the sky passed over us. “Did the family mind that you worked before you were married? That was such a point of contention between Arnaud, his family, and me. They thought being a fashion model, even one for the best designers, designers they wore themselves, was on par with being a prostitute. Une pute.”
I looked at her animated face as she attempted to walk alluringly in the pool, both of us laughing as she tried to sway her hips.
“In all the years we’ve been married, Agathe never brought up that I was a teacher,” I said, thinking back. “It was unsaid, but quite obvious, that she liked me to pretend that I was rather unformed before encountering Victor. That I was just floating around waiting for a husband. She did tell me I was never allowed to work as a married woman. She said that even before Lucie was born. But I don’t think a woman like her could understand that aspect of a woman like me. Or you. I really did enjoy my job. I liked being around young people, and I loved giving another language, another culture, to children. I had French growing up through my mother, but I was so starved for everything else when I was young. I was given the language, but no view of the world that went with it. We never traveled north to Quebec. We certainly never went overseas. So I spoke a language that only got me from one end of my house to the other. And that was about thirty feet.” I didn’t usually admit the circumstances of my childhood so readily to people, especially well-to-do women, but there was something about Marcelle that indicated that she hadn’t grown up wealthy, either. She seemed far too carefree.
“But then New York,” she said, stretching out her arms as she spoke.
“Well, first the local teachers’ college. That’s what really helped me escape my small, rural world. But yes, then New York.”
“Then Paris, and now you’re here. Starving no longer,” she said gaily. “If awful Caroline had known all this about you on your first night, she wouldn’t have wondered why Victor picked you over all those dim-witted socialites back home that were surely buzzing around him like gnats.”
“Sometimes I still wonder,” I said, smiling.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, her wet hair stuck together in thick strands. “Brains are more effective than beauty. Only the world tries to make women forget it. They don’t want us to be too smart,” she concluded. “They’re scared that if they encourage it, we’ll end up more intelligent than the men. With the big secret being,” she said at a whisper, “that we already are.”
Victor had picked me, she’d said. And it was true; he had.
Ours was a believable enough scenario, I always thought. I was pretty enough. Clever enough. And of course, I was also starving enough. That was the part Marcelle couldn’t see.
Victor had told the story about how we met at Maxim’s by chance, just before Bastille Day, countless times. But it wasn’t true. There was nothing chanced about it.
It was true that I had never set foot inside Maxim’s until the night we met. But I had been outside the establishment many times. On most days of the latter half of June, I stood across the street, waiting to see if Victor Lesage was going to enter. About twice a week, he did.
I wasn’t picky about who would help me complete the one very important detail of the plan I’d created when I was still at the teachers’ college. I was convinced that becoming a French teacher was my ticket out of Virginia. Then in New York, I decided that since I was having no luck meeting rich enough men in Manhattan, where the men seemed to be able to size up your pedigree in a single glance, I should move my sights to France, where there was a history of American women reinventing themselves. I set my sights on Paris.
I could have saved up more money before I sailed, but marrying well had become imperative. Life at home in Virginia had become unbearable for my siblings. I had to get them out, and in a matter of months.
When I arrived in Paris, I started reading the society pages voraciously. Anyone with a title was excluded from the list of potential husbands that I’d started on the back of a sturdy bag from a boulangerie in the Thirteenth. They would be too snobbish. I was looking for someone who would indulge himself in the form of a pretty American who came from humble beginnings but had learned how to hide it. And I needed someone who wanted to tumble into bed with me immediately, because I knew that the only way a woman like me was going to marry the type of man I wanted was to become pregnant with his child. And even that was no guarantee. But I was my mother’s daughter, and she’d birthed eight children.
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 opportunity 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 heart 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.”
“Of course. We all are. Everything we do is for France. And her loyal subjects,” he said, smiling. “But still, you don’t seem like the kind of girl who would have married a Michelin.”
“You’ve known me less than ten minutes,” I replied. “And have you ever met a Michelin?”
“Not yet,” he admitted. “Your family doesn’t make it over here very often. But you don’t have to meet them to know about them, do you. The Michelins have provided colonial and French newspapers quite a few dramatic stories over the past few years.”
“I suppose I haven’t paid quite enough attention,” I said, smiling, though of course I knew exactly what he was referring to. “I stayed rather busy in Paris. Women’s things, you know.”
“You might want to change that here,” he advised. “Just so you won’t be surprised if people talk at the club. Though I’m sure your husband will make improvements. And it would be unfortunate for a beautiful woman like you not to get to enjoy women’s things.”
“Is your drink orange?” I said, hoping to shift the conversation to a lighter topic. I leaned in to smell it cautiously, but the man overpowered the scent of the drink. Red smelled like Indochine. The other Western men all smelled like imported European soaps and powders. Red was different.
“This? Yes, it certainly is orange,” he said, holding it in front of him. “Would you like to try it?” I took the small crystal glass he offered me and sniffed the liquor in it again.
I put it to my lips and raised my eyebrows at him, smiling, just before I let the cold drink touch my tongue. It was much stronger than I had expected.
“It’s a Pegu Club,” he said as I scrunched up my face. “Lots of gin. I grew a bit too fond of them in Rangoon.”
“Is that where you’ve come in from?” I said, handing him back his glass. “Burma?”
“Indeed,” he said. “A year ago, but yes. It’s a wonderful place, Burma. You should visit. You and Victor,” he added. “I thought I’d stay there for years more, but it turns out the French can’t build a railroad properly without an Englishman’s help.”
As a waiter approached, Red raised his glass and asked for another Pegu Club. “Two,” he corrected himself. “This young lady needs to be initiated.” He threw his forearms on the table with a bang. They were as hairy as his chest. “I think you would like Burma. You have a wild air about you. You’re trying to hide it, but I see it. People like that thrive in places like Indochine and Burma. Personally, they suit me better than home. I’m just too undomesticated for London, or Paris for that matter. I tried that one, too. Wasn’t a good fit.”
“You should work on your accent then,” I said, trying to break myself from his spell and hold up my end of the conversation. “It’s much too proper. You won’t convince anyone—or at least me—that you’re a savage if you sound like King George.”
“Hard thing to shake, an accent,” he said, sipping the last of his drink.
“I’ve been told that a few times,” I agreed.
“Your accent becomes you,” he said, looking at me quizzically. “To be honest, I’ve never heard an American speak like you.”
“You’ve only met New Yorkers probably.”
Red twirled his glass in his hand and leaned back. “I met a man from California in Rangoon. Railroad man.”
“As in he worked on the railroad or he owned the railroad?” I asked.
“I believe he owned it,” Red said, laughing.
“Then he definitely didn’t sound like me.”
“What do the French think of your accent?”
“Some think it’s terrible, others find it charming,” I said honestly. It was mostly the men who found it charming.
“It’s quite obviously the latter. And your French is extremely good. Almost as good as mine.”
“It’s not quite, but thank you. It’s my favorite language, even when spoken with an American accent,” I said, turning up the drawl.
“It’s everyone’s favorite language, trust me. When French women find out I’m a Brit, there’s nothing I can do to compete with their countrymen,” he said, shrugging.
It was clear from the shrug that he didn’t believe that for a second. Red had obviously come out on top most of his life.
He pushed his dark blond hair out of his eyes and nodded to a man who had just walked in.
“That’s the résident supérieur of Tonkin,” he said. “Stodgy grump when he’s sober but marvelous when he’s drunk. So, avoid him during daylight hours. You can tell that to Victor, too. If he needs to work with him, it best be between one and three in the morning.”
“I’ll pass along the advice,” I said. “Where are you from in England?” I asked.
“Buckinghamshire.”
“And where did you go to school?”
“Cambridge.”
“Are you married?”
“Never,” he said softly, leaning toward me. He picked up my glass and drained it for me.
I laughed, and he laid his hand on my shoulder. Firmly.
“That’s my cue,” he said, keeping his grip on me. “Marcelle is on her way back, but I just got the prettiest woman in the room to laugh. Now I can start my day properly. A pleasure meeting you, Jessie Lesage. I’m sure I will cross your golden path again soon.”