he said, looking at me again.
“I’m Jessie Lesage,” I offered. “I’m—”
“You’re Victor’s wife,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if the crackle in his voice was excitement or disapproval. “I should have guessed from your pretty face. I’ve heard about you.” He leaned in and said in a loud whisper, “The French women hate you.”
“They do not!” Marcelle interrupted him. “I adore her.”
“You adore everyone,” he said good-naturedly. He turned back to me. “Women are just given to jealousy. Especially here. But pay no mind. I’ll like you perfectly well, I can already tell.”
“That’s reassuring,” I said, my heart beating quickly.
“Will you join us for lunch, Red?” Marcelle asked, gesturing to the three empty chairs at our table. “Or do you have a railroad to build?” She turned to me. “Red is trying to help our government complete the rail line down the coast. As it stands now, when we travel to Saigon, there’s a big hole between Tourane and Nha Trang, forcing us to drive in the middle of an already horribly long train journey. But they should have it done, with Red involved, in about two thousand years, isn’t that right, Red?”
“Three,” he replied, smiling. “And no, thank you, I’m still recovering from last night. This seems to be helping, though.” He raised his hand to show the cocktail he was holding. I hadn’t even noticed the small glass, as I had only looked at his face.
“Suit yourself, but at least sit for a little, please,” said Marcelle. “I need to say hello to Madame Clerc, who just came in. Her son is on his way here. He was no better than a criminal in Paris, but in Indochine they are going to make him the king or something like that. You know how it is here. Anyway, Arnaud would have my head if I didn’t say hello. You’ll keep Jessie company while I do, won’t you, Red? You two can speak your funny little language to each other.”
“If I must,” he said, winking at me and sinking into the chair beside me.
“Jessie Lesage,” he said, allowing a hint of a smile. “How did a pretty little American girl like you get caught up with these big bad Michelins?” he said, switching to English.
“Big and bad?” I replied lightly, trying not to show offense. “We are big, perhaps, but bad, certainly not. We, my husband’s family, are as committed to the success of the colony as those in the railroad business are, I gather.”
“Of course. We all are. Everything we do is for France. And her loyal subjects,” he said, smiling. “But still, you don’t seem like the kind of girl who would have married a Michelin.”
“You’ve known me less than ten minutes,” I replied. “And have you ever met a Michelin?”
“Not yet,” he admitted. “Your family doesn’t make it over here very often. But you don’t have to meet them to know about them, do you. The Michelins have provided colonial and French newspapers quite a few dramatic stories over the past few years.”
“I suppose I haven’t paid quite enough attention,” I said, smiling, though of course I knew exactly what he was referring to. “I stayed rather busy in Paris. Women’s things, you know.”
“You might want to change that here,” he advised. “Just so you won’t be surprised if people talk at the club. Though I’m sure your husband will make improvements. And it would be unfortunate for a beautiful woman like you not to get to enjoy women’s things.”
“Is your drink orange?” I said, hoping to shift the conversation to a lighter topic. I leaned in to smell it cautiously, but the man overpowered the scent of the drink. Red smelled like Indochine. The other Western men all smelled like imported European soaps and powders. Red was different.
“This? Yes, it certainly is orange,” he said, holding it in front of him. “Would you like to try it?” I took the small crystal glass he offered me and sniffed the liquor in it again.
I put it to my lips and raised my eyebrows at him, smiling, just before I let the cold drink touch my tongue. It was much stronger than I had expected.
“It’s a Pegu Club,” he said as I scrunched up my face. “Lots of gin. I grew a bit too fond of them in Rangoon.”
“Is that where you’ve come in from?” I said, handing him back his glass. “Burma?”
“Indeed,” he said. “A year ago, but yes. It’s a wonderful place, Burma. You should