The door to Victor’s closet was slightly ajar, and I could make out his rows of perfectly pressed suits, each spaced two inches from the next. Victor had only taken two with him to the south. He said it was different there. He didn’t have to dress the way he had in Paris or even in Hanoi. Perhaps Red was right. Perhaps I didn’t know enough about life on the plantations that helped keep the Michelin name so prominent.
I emerged from bed slowly and looked at myself in the mirror. I was wearing an old pair of Victor’s pajamas instead of my nightgown. Trieu had helped me change when I’d sweated through it. I had eaten next to nothing for three days. My hair needed washing, my eyebrows shaping, my shoulders massaging so that their exhausted slump disappeared. I did not look like the elegant woman who had proven to be so confident, so capable in Haiphong. I looked like a stranger. I reached down and gripped my naked right hand. And now I had to make this journey without my ring.
TWENTY-ONE
Jessie
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