finger around the rim of his glass. “I wonder if de Fabry has met maman?”
“Most likely. Everyone has met your mother,” I said, moving to the edge of his chair.
“It does seem that way,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder and standing up. “It’s a blessing and a curse. But here, I think, it will be a great blessing.”
Victor’s mother had grown to like me much more after Lucie became a toddler. It was hard not to love Lucie and impossible to ignore that she wouldn’t be here if not for me. Still, I seldom traveled with Lucie when she went to visit Agathe, a distance we both appreciated.
“We dine in an hour,” my husband said, pushing his sleeves higher. “Will you be ready?”
“I’m ready now,” I said, motioning to my hair and lightly made-up face.
Victor reached for my hand and gestured for me to stand.
“Almost. You’ll have to change your dress. Ask Trieu what to wear. I’m sure Louise van Dampierre put her through the wringer on etiquette and dress. She’ll have an idea of what’s suitable.”
When we’d decided to come to Indochine, Victor’s cousin Pierre, the younger son of Édouard and the new director of the company, had suggested that we reach out to the van Dampierres. Théodore van Dampierre, Pierre noted, had attended school with Édouard. They were the only good friends of the Michelins living in Indochine, Pierre had admitted. Théodore van Dampierre, who was working for the Banque de l’Indochine in Hanoi, wrote to us at once, even sending his letter by the new airmail system, which only took eleven days between the colony and Paris. A week later, we received a series of lovely letters from his wife, Louise, telling us all about life in the colony and why she’d enjoyed it so much. She even suggested that we stay for a time in their large yellow house, as they were headed back to France before we were due to arrive. She’d sent a few photographs of the home, so Victor had seen the large size of it, the many balconies and terraces, all looking like an invitation for the world to join us indoors. He was delighted with it, and I suggested that we do more than just stay there. Why not purchase the lovely place? Firmly plant roots before we arrived. Since the price of everything in the colony had fallen drastically as the depression swept France, it was a fine time to buy. Victor had jumped at the idea.
We’d traveled down to Clermont-Ferrand to tell Édouard and Pierre in person, convinced that now that Victor had a special place in the company, we wouldn’t be imposing.
Pierre was still getting his legs about him as director, as he had only taken over the position in September and for the worst reasons. At the end of August 1932, his older brother, Étienne, died in a plane crash. Despite being an expert airman, as many Michelins were, he’d lost control of his small airplane in dense fog and hit the ground in Saint-Genès-Champanelle, less than ten miles from the factory.
The management said they were all excited for us to go, and I could tell it was genuine, and an utter relief for them. You can contract malaria instead of us, their eyes seemed to say. But I’d dealt with far worse in life than a bit of a fever.
“I’m sure Louise was quite stylish,” I said, returning to thoughts of the evening ahead. “But my guess is that Trieu simply has good taste on her own.” I pictured her elegant black and white clothes, her dark hair a smooth curtain just grazing her shoulders.
“Either way,” said Victor, letting my hand go. “She’ll know.”
As I made my way back up the stairs, I thought about the summer I met Victor. He had been drinking cold white wine with his shirt collar open, just like tonight. And even though July in Paris was usually quite pleasant, it had been a rare heavy day, and the air felt much as it did on this September afternoon in Hanoi.
It was a midsummer evening in 1925 when our divergent worlds collided with full force. I was sitting near the front window of Maxim’s, the fashionable café on the rue Royale, drinking a glass of champagne, something I’d never had before. I also had never been to Maxim’s but had passed it many times on my walks in the Eighth Arrondissement. I’d decided that since it was a