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. Together 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.
“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 passionate 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.
I took a deep breath, then lowered my hand from my face. As soon as I did, I jumped, losing one of my shoes. I moved frantically to put it back on, seeing a line of ants crossing my foot. They were all over the dirt floor. I stood up quickly and looked at one of the dead men. His skin had been partially eaten away. I turned away from him at once, nausea hitting me like a swell. I suddenly realized what I was looking at. I peered at the man closest to me and said, “Ai trong mấy người này là Ly Duc Khai?”
My Indochinese was still clumsy, but this they would understand: Is one of you Ly Duc Khai?
My heart began pounding the way it would in the seconds before my mother forced me to slaughter a chicken. The anticipation of the blood spattering from its neck, even if I had given it a blow to the skull before beheading it, the adrenaline surge that kept it moving even when headless, the tautness of its skin after I’d killed it. That was what I thought of as I looked at the emaciated, naked figures in front of me.
Two of the men who were still alive didn’t look at me, their bodies bent over, their torsos nearly touching their legs, their ribs visible even in the dim light.
But the man closest to me, the one I had addressed, turned his head to see me. “I am Khai,” he said.
His face didn’t match his voice. He had somehow found the energy to smile. He had hope—I was a woman, after all, and women had softer hearts than men. Even Western women.
I took a step forward so he could see me better.
Ly Duc Khai was the first name on the list that I’d obtained for Victor in Haiphong.
I stared at him for a few seconds more, at his naked body, his fading smile.
I met his eyes and saw the soul of the man still there, despite his body giving out. I bit my lip as hard as I could. My tears were desperate to fall, but I could not let them. I did not deserve to cry.
I could not help him. I had created a life for myself where I was nearly as tied up as he was. I was powerless to release him.
“Xin lỗi Anh.” I’m sorry, I whispered in Annamese. “I’m so sorry.” I walked into the pungent room a few more steps until I knew I was far enough inside that Victor could not see me. I leaned down and touched his head, my hand on his hair, which was heavy with grease and the dirt he’d been lying on. And then I brought my lips down on it quickly. “I can’t help you,” I said in French. Then I stood straight up again and put my hand on his back. “Please forgive me,” I said. “I am much weaker than you.” I hadn’t said those words since Virginia. Since the darkest day of my life.
A person could live for a week without water. But in that windowless room, in their coffin, it would be different. In three days at most, they would all be dead. I turned around, unable to bear the sight anymore. I shut the door behind me, locked it, and squeezed the doorknob, my heart hammering. Victor would be waiting for my reaction. What kind of a person was I, eight years into our marriage? Was I the kind of person who could support him as he carried out a plan that I had set into motion? As he made money that I needed more than he did? Was I the kind of woman who could forget such a sight and continue as a loyal wife no matter what? Or was I still the girl he’d forced on a train to be drugged in Switzerland? I felt much more like the girl on the train than I did a dutiful wife, but I knew that sentiment had to change. I slowly let go of the door frame, feeling my heart bleed. Even if I’d wanted to, I was powerless to save those men. Everyone’s arms were linked together here: the government, the police, and businessmen like Victor. And those dying men were the enemy. They were trying to take what the French and so many Annamites had built and improved over the last nearly fifty years, the economic prosperity, and knock it down again.
But the real reason I was powerless was that I needed money, far more than Victor did. I needed a good life for my daughter. I needed the world I’d fought so hard to be a part of not to disappear. No matter what.
I closed my eyes a moment and exhaled what felt like the remains of my soul. Then I turned to Victor, sitting back comfortably in his open-top car, looking at me expectantly.
“They were just days away from starting a communist uprising here. They were hiding weapons. Daggers and knives that they made in the auto shop. And worse. Over a dozen guns that had been smuggled in. Burying them in the earth. They were stocking food, had been for months. But thanks to you, I beat them to it,” he said, a glint of pride in his eyes. “I notified the police, who are as scared of another uprising as we are. It was decided that we should make an example out of these men instead. After this, things will be different. You’ll see. There will never be another strike like 1930 here, not after these men meet this fate.”
I lifted my right hand and threw the keys at him. “Then it’s all for the better,” I said, smiling.