much champagne,” she said, closing her eyes as she lay where she’d fallen.
I stood and helped her up, leaning her back again.
“It’s no wonder I don’t see you at the club so much anymore,” she said.
“I have been here quite a bit,” I admitted.
“The Officers’ Club,” she said, slurring her words. “We women all go there on our first night in Indochine.”
“Yes, we do,” I said. I should have had a servant fetch her some water, but I was enjoying observing her loss of control too much.
“I’d like to spend time with you there again,” she said. She opened her eyes and looked at me, her expression suddenly thoughtful. “You know what I’ve been thinking about? The day I met you. How we were scampering around behind the walls together at the club. To be honest, that was the most fun I’ve had in Hanoi.”
I stared at her, her beautiful face tilted back at an unnatural angle. I thought of what I knew about her childhood. Of her parents, and how hard she’d had to work to rid herself of them. I hadn’t grown up with much more than she had, but I’d had good, loving parents who were determined to give me a better life.
Perhaps I could say one truthful thing to her on a night that was devoted to secrets.
“It was fun, wasn’t it?” I said. I reached out and touched her hand. “It’s amazing we kept quiet after seeing that minister,” I said, smiling at the memory.
“He was so fat,” said Jessie. “And so naked.”
We dissolved into laughter, and I poured us two more glasses of champagne.
“There’s really a lot to amuse us spoiled French women in Indochine,” I said. She was practically swaying when I handed her the glass. She certainly wouldn’t remember this conversation the next day. “It’s just that sometimes life gets in the way here.” I watched her as I said it.
“Is that what you call it?” she said, her eyes trying to focus on my face in the dim lantern light.
“Yes. Life. Real life. Because even though Indochine can feel like one long vacation, it’s not, is it? What happens here is just as important as what goes on in France or America.”
“I think so, too,” she said, closing her eyes. “But I like it here much more than in America.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said, exhaling my cigarette smoke into the black sky.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Jessie
November 16, 1933
“Did you say something?” I said, turning to the young native woman sitting next to me. Her name was Binh Tieu and her husband had made money in rice, she’d mentioned earlier. Or maybe it was coal. She smiled at me, her mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear her very well, so I leaned back and stared at her animated face. Khoi’s native friends were so different from the locals I saw in the streets, through the Delahaye’s windows. These people had lovely features and beautiful clothes and spoke unaccented French, unlike me. Eight years in France, and I still didn’t sound like a Parisian.
I was still in the same chair where I’d been talking to Marcelle, but I couldn’t remember whether that was just five minutes ago or an hour. The sky was still pitch black. It was hard to keep track of time when the sun disappeared. I remembered asking Marcelle about Red, but I couldn’t remember if he was at Khoi’s party or not. Perhaps that was why I was still sitting outside. To avoid him. I looked away from the pretty woman and saw a flash of light in the sky. It seemed too low to be lightning.
“I’m sorry,” I said, leaning toward her. “What did you say?” Binh was wearing a short-haired fur jacket over her silver dress, even though it was a warm evening. I reached out to touch it but pulled my fingers away as soon as they brushed it. The pelt of the dead animal felt exactly like Lucie’s hair when it needed to be combed. “I think I drank too much,” I said, balling my hand up into a fist in my lap. “I need some air.” I stood up to walk outside, then realized I was already there. “I’m sorry. How embarrassing,” I said, falling back down on the chair.
“No need to be embarrassed, my dear,” she said. “All we do in Indochine is drink too much. Keeps the malaria away.”
“Does it? I haven’t come down with malaria yet, so I suppose it works.” I put my