wanted a word,’ Sylvie said as she leant with her back against the door.
Nicole sensed something different in her sister’s voice, perhaps even a hint of remorse, but she refused to meet Sylvie’s eyes and went to gaze out of the window instead. She didn’t want Sylvie in her room. Feeling cornered, she watched a lizard run up the trunk of a tree.
‘I wanted to put you in the picture about that conversation you overheard.’
Nicole spun round.
‘I thought it best you hear it from me.’
Nicole stared at Sylvie, who hesitated for a moment, as ifweighing her words. ‘Look, the Americans are financing an alternative Vietnamese party, non-communist, to fight the Vietminh. People’s lives could be in danger, that’s why it has to be secret. Can I rely on you?’
‘Why don’t the Americans just support the French?’
‘I suppose they think we’ve had our day.’
‘But you don’t think that?’
‘Of course not.’ Sylvie straightened up. ‘But an alternative to the Vietminh can only make us stronger.’
‘Is Papa involved?’
‘That’s what I wanted to say. He is. But the government can’t know about the new party or its army yet. It would damage his position to say the least.’
Nicole narrowed her eyes. ‘So Mark isn’t a silk merchant? You, Mark, Papa. You’re in this together?’
‘For the good of France. You know that’s what Papa cares about.’
Nicole shook her head.
She went straight to the shop and decided to lose herself by working long hours. By the end of the day, with stinging eyes and muscles aching with the effort of lifting heavy bales of silk, she felt a little better. The next day she painted the shop a gorgeous shade of greenish blue, soft, like a duck’s egg.
Over the following days she collected lotus flowers to display and worked to make the upstairs flat habitable, polishing the furniture with beeswax and washing the tiled floor over and over with lemon-scented soap. She spent hours sewing off-cuts of silk together to make shimmery curtains, cushions and a matching bedspread. She learnt how to construct tasselled lampshades and devised a way to make beautiful feathered birds out of silk, which she hung in the shop front. After that she began running up shawls and scarves to sell.
As the young Vietnamese girls flocked to the shop to buy them, the silk shop became the centre of her life; she felt safe there, and it was where she intended to carve out her place in the world.
One evening she bumped into O-Lan outside. Her mind tumbled over itself. What on earth could she say to her friend? How would she hide the fact that she knew O-Lan’s cousin was dead?
‘Hello,’ O-Lan said. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t seen you lately, but I’ve been occupied with my mother.’
Nicole shifted her weight and struggled to keep the anxiety from her voice. ‘No. I … I’ve been busy too.’
‘Would you like to sing? My mother is sleeping so I have the chance.’
Nicole hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. I’m tired.’
‘Please. It will wake you up. It always wakes me up at the end of the day.’
Nicole gave in and the two of them went upstairs, where O-Lan gazed at the changes.
‘This room is beautiful,’ she said. ‘You have a real talent.’
They started to sing but O-Lan looked terribly low and Nicole was gripped by a dreadful feeling of guilt. Neither girl was in good form, and they soon took a break. Nicole opened a bottle of ginger beer and passed it to O-Lan.
‘Let’s sit on the sofa,’ she said, trying to sound relaxed and normal.
O-Lan was quiet and stared at the bottle in her hands. Oh God, Nicole thought, she’s going to tell me her cousin Trần is dead. She felt an acidic taste on her tongue. Did lies actually have a flavour? She thought of something else to say. ‘How is your mother?’
‘Getting worse.’
So that was it. Though it felt unkind to feel relieved, she was. ‘Has she seen a doctor?’
‘He does not seem to be able to help
Nicole sensed something different in her sister’s voice, perhaps even a hint of remorse, but she refused to meet Sylvie’s eyes and went to gaze out of the window instead. She didn’t want Sylvie in her room. Feeling cornered, she watched a lizard run up the trunk of a tree.
‘I wanted to put you in the picture about that conversation you overheard.’
Nicole spun round.
‘I thought it best you hear it from me.’
Nicole stared at Sylvie, who hesitated for a moment, as ifweighing her words. ‘Look, the Americans are financing an alternative Vietnamese party, non-communist, to fight the Vietminh. People’s lives could be in danger, that’s why it has to be secret. Can I rely on you?’
‘Why don’t the Americans just support the French?’
‘I suppose they think we’ve had our day.’
‘But you don’t think that?’
‘Of course not.’ Sylvie straightened up. ‘But an alternative to the Vietminh can only make us stronger.’
‘Is Papa involved?’
‘That’s what I wanted to say. He is. But the government can’t know about the new party or its army yet. It would damage his position to say the least.’
Nicole narrowed her eyes. ‘So Mark isn’t a silk merchant? You, Mark, Papa. You’re in this together?’
‘For the good of France. You know that’s what Papa cares about.’
Nicole shook her head.
She went straight to the shop and decided to lose herself by working long hours. By the end of the day, with stinging eyes and muscles aching with the effort of lifting heavy bales of silk, she felt a little better. The next day she painted the shop a gorgeous shade of greenish blue, soft, like a duck’s egg.
Over the following days she collected lotus flowers to display and worked to make the upstairs flat habitable, polishing the furniture with beeswax and washing the tiled floor over and over with lemon-scented soap. She spent hours sewing off-cuts of silk together to make shimmery curtains, cushions and a matching bedspread. She learnt how to construct tasselled lampshades and devised a way to make beautiful feathered birds out of silk, which she hung in the shop front. After that she began running up shawls and scarves to sell.
As the young Vietnamese girls flocked to the shop to buy them, the silk shop became the centre of her life; she felt safe there, and it was where she intended to carve out her place in the world.
One evening she bumped into O-Lan outside. Her mind tumbled over itself. What on earth could she say to her friend? How would she hide the fact that she knew O-Lan’s cousin was dead?
‘Hello,’ O-Lan said. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t seen you lately, but I’ve been occupied with my mother.’
Nicole shifted her weight and struggled to keep the anxiety from her voice. ‘No. I … I’ve been busy too.’
‘Would you like to sing? My mother is sleeping so I have the chance.’
Nicole hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. I’m tired.’
‘Please. It will wake you up. It always wakes me up at the end of the day.’
Nicole gave in and the two of them went upstairs, where O-Lan gazed at the changes.
‘This room is beautiful,’ she said. ‘You have a real talent.’
They started to sing but O-Lan looked terribly low and Nicole was gripped by a dreadful feeling of guilt. Neither girl was in good form, and they soon took a break. Nicole opened a bottle of ginger beer and passed it to O-Lan.
‘Let’s sit on the sofa,’ she said, trying to sound relaxed and normal.
O-Lan was quiet and stared at the bottle in her hands. Oh God, Nicole thought, she’s going to tell me her cousin Trần is dead. She felt an acidic taste on her tongue. Did lies actually have a flavour? She thought of something else to say. ‘How is your mother?’
‘Getting worse.’
So that was it. Though it felt unkind to feel relieved, she was. ‘Has she seen a doctor?’
‘He does not seem to be able to help
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