of it during my first month, but now I’m utterly in love with the place. We’ve been here nearly three years now, and I don’t ever want to leave.”
“Really?” I asked, surprised. Hadn’t Trieu told me most French women quickly soured on Hanoi?
“Oh, yes,” she said, sitting back as the waiter placed our whitefish salad on the table. “The way we live here, we could never exist like this in France, even if Arnaud had a very good year. In 1933, that’s just not possible in Paris. And culturally, Indochine is not lacking, either. Les indigènes are quite strong in the arts. In the mid-twenties we built the École Supérieure des Beaux-Arts de l’Indochine, and the school has already produced some fine talents. Painters, even sculptors. And our opera house is beautiful—it rivals Garnier. You must take in an opera from the first-tier box, on the right side if you can. It’s like jumping inside a lorgnette, the view is so good. The companies performing are world-class, too, not some singers they picked up off the street. The administration ships the performers in from France or even more far-flung places. Then there’s the sunshine and freedom on top of it. It’s proven to be my recipe for happiness.”
“My recipe for happiness is a happy wife,” said Arnaud, interrupting us. “You’ll learn that soon enough, Victor. Keep Jessie content, and life in Indochine will be marvelous for you. Because some of the French wives, forgive my honesty, but they have a bit of trouble with it. With our way of life here.”
“Jessie won’t,” said Victor looking at me. “She has an adventurer’s heart. But if Jessie were ever unhappy, I’d swim back to France with her the moment she desired. That’s just the type of upstanding man I am,” said Victor, placing his hand on mine.
“When did you two marry?” said Arnaud, laughing. “Yesterday?”
“Something like that,” murmured Victor. “It was actually Jessie’s idea to come here,” he continued, looking at me appraisingly. “I’ll deny that if you repeat it outside of this little foursome, but Jessie saw the potential in Indochine before I did. My family, of course, has seen it for years, but Jessie decided we shouldn’t just leave the plantations to be run by others. And after what happened at Dau Tieng in December—very unfortunate, those three coolies—it’s important to finally have a family presence here. To have someone with the Michelin name, even if it is sandwiched between Victor and Lesage.”
“Quite right,” Arnaud chimed in. “Nor do you need a repeat of that enormous coolie strike you all dealt with in 1930. Bit of a fiasco.”
“It was,” said Victor. “That’s what we most certainly want to avoid. Terrible press we received from all that. A bit exaggerated, in France at least. But we want to avoid that type of thing altogether.”
Marcelle turned to me. “Well, you may be an adventurer, and adored by your husband—how lovely and rare,” she said, shooting her husband a sly smile, “but you still look as if you just stepped off the boat. First things first, Jessie, that posture must go. Far too perfect.” She moved forward and placed her warm hands on my shoulders, pushing them down gently. “Relax, my dear,” she said. “You’re on vacation, for as long as you want to be. This is Hanoi. It’s so much better than real life.”
“It does seem a bit like a vacation,” I said, feeling my tired body bend under her hands. “The palm trees on the way in were a sight to see. As is all of this.” I allowed myself a glance over my shoulder toward the dimly lit dining room, which despite the shadows was alive and buzzing with conversation.
“I’ll never tire of it,” Marcelle said. She looked up into the last rays of sun and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she leaned in and whispered, “You know, I’m from somewhere exotic, too.”
“Are you? Where?” I asked curiously.
“Lille,” she said, laughing. “It’s exotic to Arnaud. He doesn’t know that our country extends past Paris. He thinks that Italy borders the Thirteenth Arrondissement.”
“Were you in Paris before coming here?” I asked, enjoying Marcelle’s animated manner.
“I was in Paris. But Arnaud was in Burma,” she said, pushing the hair from her forehead. There was no way to avoid sweating if you were sitting outside, but Marcelle didn’t seem to mind. “The government sent him there to deal with some financial nonsense. Burma is British, as you know, but the French