to French to introduce his wife. “Marcelle,” he said, glancing at her, “the bon vivant of Indochine. No one can be around Marcelle and not enjoy this place. Especially this place,” he said, gesturing to the building. “So, you are in good hands for your first evening with us, Madame Lesage.”
I smiled and turned to his wife. Marcelle de Fabry was dark-haired like Lucie, though her perfect waves fell just above her shoulders, and had lovely pale skin set off by bursts of freckles. Her eyes were a golden hazel, and as I approached her, I could see that they were beautiful marbles of color, full of life. She stood up, her tall frame enviably thin, and greeted me like a dear friend. “Welcome to Indochine, Jessie Lesage,” she said, gesturing to the inviting rattan chair with a grass-green cushion next to her.
“We just had the coldest Veuve Clicquot in the house brought to us. I like my champagne to be the temperature of ice cream,” she said, smiling.
“To what are we toasting?” I asked as the four of us raised our crystal glasses.
“We are celebrating it being Saturday evening,” Marcelle said as the men nodded and launched into an animated conversation. “And to being young and healthy and not so bad-looking,” she said to me. “You’re really not so bad-looking. I should detest you for it straightaway, but you seem far too lovely to hate.”
“No, I’m—”
“Oh, darling, just say thank you,” she said, still smiling. “It’s not your fault you’re pretty.” Her tone sounded genuinely warm, even though it was obvious that she was the more stunning one.
“Thank you,” I replied, sure that I was blushing. “And it is Saturday, isn’t it? After so long on the boat, I can barely keep my days straight. But Saturday, that seems reason enough to have a drink.”
“That boat ride over is dreadful, isn’t it? Takes a lifetime to splash halfway around the globe.”
“It wasn’t ideal,” I admitted.
I brought the drink to my lips and thought about how I wasn’t just celebrating a day or a weekend; I was celebrating a new life, one I was very excited for. With that in mind, the Veuve Clicquot was even more crisp and satisfying here than it was in France. And it was almost the temperature of ice cream.
“How exotic of you to be American,” she said, her freckles seeming to multiply as she smiled. “I just love America. I traveled there once with an American fashion designer, and I wanted to stay forever. Such an outgoing people, the Americans. I made a great many friends.”
“When did you travel there?” I asked.
“Nineteen twenty-four. The spring of that year. I was barely nineteen years old.”
“Yes, I imagine that one would want to stay forever in the New York of 1924.”
“Were you there then?” she asked, her voice tinkling with excitement. “Maybe we crossed each other unknowingly on Fifth Avenue.”
“I was,” I said. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if we had.” I leaned back, sipped my champagne, and looked slowly around me. “This building is wonderful,” I said, running my fingers along the carved wood railing next to my chair. “So welcoming, but still quite elegant.”
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Marcelle replied, lifting her hands like a dancer’s. “It was designed by a Frenchman who studied at the École des Beaux-Arts but then spent time in Ceylon and Singapore. That’s why it doesn’t look French at all. He learned from the British and the local builders in those far-flung countries. But it’s for the best, I think, because the French don’t excel in this indoor-outdoor architecture. We love to close doors and build the thickest walls possible, as if we are about to go to war and must keep the bullets out. And if we do build terraces, they are nothing like these verandas. They are so narrow one can barely fit a folding chair on them to enjoy a coffee in the sun. If there ever is any sun. It isn’t very civilized.”
“Everything French is civilized,” said her husband, jumping into our conversation. “And they are only built that way because, as you presciently pointed out, my dear, in France it rains constantly.”
“I won’t bother arguing with you,” she said, not turning to look at him. She put her arms on the table and stretched as we waited for our first course. “Hanoi is not New York, but she has her own magic,” she said, raising her thin eyebrows. “I love it here. I was a bit wary