The Silk Merchant's Daughter (8 page)

She couldn’t hear what he said, but from the fear in his eyes and the frantic way he shook his head from side to side, she felt certain somebody was threatening him. She felt sick but could not stop watching. A man stepped forward out of the shadows. She blinked rapidly and her legs almost gave way when she saw it was her own father. As he moved about the room, in and out of her field of vision, she smelt something vaguely rotten – mice or maybe rats – then heard a hollow groaning noise and looked around in panic. She glanced up at the narrow pipes of plumbing attached to the ceiling, then twisted back towards her father. His bearing conveyed something she had never seen before and in his right hand he held a pistol. Desperate to erase the sight, she squeezed her eyes shut to blot it out.

It couldn’t be real.

With every muscle tense, she forced herself to look again. A jolt ran through her as she saw him take aim. Everything went completely still. She heard a scream within her own head as he
pulled the trigger. It was over in seconds. She shuddered as she saw the boy’s eyes widen. He thrashed his arms, his muscles slackened and then his head fell forward where it rested at an unnatural angle, his thick fringe flapping like a bird’s broken wing. Blood began to ooze from the corner of his mouth, followed by gurgling. But she couldn’t have heard that, could she? Had her mind filled in the sound? A dark stain was spreading in the centre of his chest. He was O-Lan’s cousin. Her new friend’s cousin. She pictured the gentle way he had stroked Kim-Ly’s hair. O-Lan and her mother loved him, but now his life had been taken by her own father.

She tried to make out her father’s voice among the noises in the room but he had disappeared from her view. The words ‘puppet master’ came back to her. Why was her father involved in this? The shock of what she had seen had set off a chain reaction. Though her brain was screaming at her to run, she could not move her legs. He was her father. He had killed a man. As soon as she heard the scraping sound of movement inside the room, Nicole forced herself to step back into the shadows of the nearest wine cellar. There she doubled up, wrapping her arms round her middle.

The door opened, bringing with it the smell of blood. Her father was the first to emerge, followed by two men: one dressed in a waiter’s uniform, but looking more like a policeman, and the other the blond man Sylvie had been talking to earlier. They exchanged a word or two with her father, then disappeared from sight. Nicole saw no blood on her father’s clothing. Had he changed? She rocked back and forth, wanting Lisa. She heard footsteps and looked up. Another man had stepped out: Daniel Giraud’s father. A thick-set, unpleasant-looking man with pale watery eyes, thinning grey hair, heavy brows and large liverish lips: Nicole knew he was a man who hated the Vietnamese.

But who was going to dispose of the body? She was way out of her depth and her alarm at the thought of seeing the poor dead man again meant she had to get away quickly. No matter why it had been done, and aware she shouldn’t even have been there, it was clear nobody could know she had seen the killing. But when Sylvie emerged from the room, Nicole gasped. Her sister’s skin was ghostly white and she seemed close to tears; Mark was with her too, looking equally shocked.

‘Oh my God,’ Sylvie whispered. ‘I feel sick.’

Neither of them had seen Nicole hiding in the shadows but they were both visible to her and she could see Sylvie trembling.

‘Why did he want us to be there?’

‘So that you’d know what you’re getting into, I suspect.’ Mark took both Sylvie’s hands in his and rubbed them. ‘Grief, your hands are cold. I thought it would be an interrogation. Nothing more. I had no idea. I hope this proves we’re doing the right thing.’

‘It was terrible. Terrible.’

‘Maybe now you understand the American view of French methods?’

Sylvie slumped against the wall, withdrew her hands from his and covered her face with them.

‘And that’s why we must finance an alternative Vietnamese party to challenge the Vietminh.’

Sylvie dropped her hands. ‘Without the knowledge of the French?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But what about my father? He knows. Doesn’t that undermine his position with the government?’

Nicole watched as Sylvie’s tears began to fall. Dreadful to have witnessed what happened through a peephole, but to have actually been in the room must have been worse. She
watched Mark hold her sister by one shoulder and use his other hand to tip up her chin and wipe the wetness from her cheeks. Then he moved and, now with his back to Nicole, he blocked her view of Sylvie. Nicole couldn’t see his face or Sylvie’s, but she did see Mark bend forward very slightly and appear to be kissing Sylvie. Then he gave her a hug.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said.

Sylvie nodded and they walked away, Mark supporting her.As they went along the corridor to the stairs, the sweet smell of blood thickened the air and Nicole felt the certainties of her life crumbling.

The sun was up, its huge expanding light swallowing everything. Nicole stared at the window until the muscles round her eyes ached from the effort of focusing on one spot. The night before, utterly appalled by what she’d seen, she had managed to slip away from the ball without anyone spotting her leave. Most of the night she’d remained in disbelief, curled up tightly, feeling as if she was suffocating. A high-pitched, keening slid from her mouth. All she could think of was blood. She made fists and pressed them into her eyes. The whole world swam. Red. Bright red. She stopped pressing, waited for her eyes to focus, then climbed out of bed and, to force the internal pain away, slammed her fist against the wall.

Even though it was hot and wet outside, she had to get out of the house.

She splashed her face, threw on the first clothes she laid her hands on and slipped down to the kitchen. Lisa, her back to the door, was stirring something on the stove, but hearing Nicole, she turned round. Not knowing how to behave, Nicole shifted her weight, her arms hanging limply by her sides. She shouldn’t have come down to the kitchen; Lisa would see that she was made of paper.

‘Heavens, child,’ Lisa said. ‘You look terrible. There’s coffee on the stove. Just pour it yourself.’

Nicole picked up a coffee cup and walked over, but when she tried to pour from the jug, her hand shook so much she spilled coffee on to the stove. Hearing the sound of it sizzling, Lisa came over.

‘What a mess. Sit down and I’ll bring some.’

Nicole shook her head. ‘I’ll go out. I can find a cafe.’

‘You stay right here. You’re as white as a sheet. Your father would never forgive me if I allowed you out looking like that.’

Nicole looked at Lisa longingly. More than anything she wanted to be wrapped in the cook’s arms and to tell her what she’d seen, but the wrongness of it silenced her. She lowered her eyes, knowing her silence could not be temporary; she would never be able to speak of what had happened.

The fragrance of coffee filled the room as Lisa ground more beans and made a fresh pot. She brought it across, poured two mugs and came to sit beside Nicole.

‘Now you tell me what has been going on to make you look that way. Did you drink too much champagne? Is that it?’

Nicole took a sip of the hot coffee, not caring that it burned her throat, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

‘I don’t know, you young girls. What you need is a good square meal. Maybe some nice poached eggs.’

‘I couldn’t eat.’

‘A croissant?’

Nicole scraped back her chair as she sprang to her feet.

‘Sorry … I’ve got to …’ She stumbled over her words and, fearing she might dissolve, blinked repeatedly. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, then slipped past Lisa, turned on her heels and fled.

Outside the house she lengthened her stride, and as she began to run her blood pumped faster. Her skull felt too tight but it didn’t stop her. When running she did not think of blood.

By the time it began to rain in earnest Rue Paul Bert was crowded, but she kept her head down and dodged the people. Outside their own Maison Duval on the corner, she spotted her father standing under the roof edge that extended right over the pavement. He waved her across but she ducked her
head. She couldn’t even look at him. This was the second time he had truly shocked her. It was bad enough seeing him kiss the black woman’s semi-bared breast in the street. This was worse. Far worse.

As she passed the Cercle Nautique, the rowing club built on the water’s edge, she paused, panting to regain control. During a break in the rain, an entertainment troupe went by. The bands of musicians and actors were often seen on the roads going in and out of Hanoi. Though there were rumours about what they were up to – some thought them messengers for the Vietminh – Nicole usually loved the spectacle. Today nothing distracted her. She kept seeing what had happened. The seconds it took to kill a man. She remembered the fear in his eyes as he’d begged for his life – and that terrible knowing look. Was it always like that when death came? The awful feeling of helpless inevitability?

Once into the Vietnamese quarter, and forced to weave her way around the teashops on the pavements, she slowed down, her hair now damp with sweat and rainwater. Even so, she collided with a transient sandal maker who cursed her as his basket of goods tipped over.

Eventually she stood still to allow a rickshaw pulled by a man on foot to pass.

She had an intense headache; the humidity in July was so brutally relentless. Why had Sylvie been there? Why had her father shot a man in cold blood? She hardly dared think how betrayed she felt by seeing Mark kiss her sister. Why had she ever thought he’d be interested in her when he could have Sylvie? She imagined them laughing at her. Poor old needy Nicole. Wasn’t it obvious he would always prefer her clever and more beautiful sister?

She turned into the next street where she saw Yvette come running out of the bakery, a large basket of iced buns hanging
over one arm. With her black plait swinging, she waved, beaming with delight at unexpectedly seeing Nicole. She was such a sunny little girl that, despite her pain, Nicole smiled back. At least Yvette was the apple of
her
father’s eye. Yves was a good man. Nicole lifted a hand to wave back, then carried on walking until she reached her shop.

It was a day of extremely heavy rain and very few customers but it was well into the evening by the time Nicole made her way home.

When Sylvie came into her room to say dinner was served, Nicole floundered. Her sister wore a grey silk suit and a little white hat with a short black veil covering part of her face. She had clearly spent the day working too, and Nicole could tell they would not say a word about the killing. A man had died and it would be as if nothing had happened, and yet Sylvie had been shocked at what she had seen in the cellar too. Nicole had to know more: why had her father been the one to pull the trigger and what was Sylvie getting into? She longed to confide in her sister.

A yearning for the old familiar days surged through her, but she shook it off. ‘I –’

‘What?’

Nicole paused and they stared at each other.

‘I saw you.’

The horror of the night erupted, but something told Nicole to keep her mouth shut about the shooting.

‘What?’

Nicole thought quickly. Don’t mention the gun. Don’t mention the blood. ‘Why did you let Mark kiss you?’ she said instead.

Sylvie looked astonished.

‘I was in the passage. I saw you with Mark.’

Sylvie gazed at her feet before looking up and staring at her sister. She seemed unnaturally calm and gave Nicole a tight smile.

‘I hope that was all you saw.’

Nicole didn’t reply.

Sylvie looked at her pointedly.

‘I saw you, that’s all. He was my friend, Sylvie. Haven’t you got enough?’

‘I’ve known Mark for some time, Nicole. I don’t know what else to say.’

‘Don’t you?’

Sylvie gestured at the door. ‘I only came in to say dinner is served. Shall I say you’d like a tray? As far as Mark and I are concerned, you need to grow up. Is that why you left the ball without telling anyone you were going? I’m sorry if what you saw upset you.’

‘You know it upsets me, Sylvie, don’t pretend innocence.’

As Sylvie turned to leave, Nicole struggled with her resentment; failing, she picked up a paperback and hurled it at Sylvie. Her sister ducked as it thudded to the floor.

Nicole gazed at the upturned book, its pages fluttering in the breeze from the open window. There was silence for a moment while Sylvie glanced in the mirror, pushed a curl of hair from her forehead and pursed her lips to spread the lipstick.

‘I think you talked Father out of giving me a fair share in the business.’

When Sylvie spoke again it was without looking at Nicole. ‘Not this again. It wasn’t me. He thought it better if one of us had sole control.’

‘Nothing to do with you being perfect?’

‘He did it for the sake of the business. Now dry your eyes. And, by the way, I need you to cut me eight metres of the
cream silk shot with gold. No rush, but you never know when I might need it.’

After Sylvie had gone Nicole sprawled face down on the bed, buried her head in the pillow and chewed the skin round her thumbnail until she tasted blood. Always longing to be a proper French daughter, she’d thought being left out of the family business was bad enough. Now her pain was far more primal than that. Her sister and Mark had been present at a murder. What did that make them? What did it make her to have witnessed it? How could her father slaughter a man as if he was an animal? And as she thought that, a strange feeling scooped out her middle, leaving her hollow. Apart from Lisa, who could she trust?