The Madwoman of Thu Duc – Part 3

Heraud poured a trickle of water into his third glass of Pernod, took a sip and smirked. “I’ve heard she fucks her houseboy.”

For a moment none of the three other men around the table on the terrace of the Hotel Continental said a word. At a nearby table, someone dropped cutlery onto their plate.

Berquet, an older, dapper man who refused to remove his white linen jacket, even in the oppressive mid-day heat, leaned into the table. “Have a little respect, Heraud. The woman has just lost her husband.”

“She didn’t just lose him. He’s been dead a year.” Heraud sneered and sat back, making the wicker chair creak. “She doesn’t come to the Syndicate meetings. In fact, no one has seen her in at least a month. Bec went to pay her a visit last week. Took him three bloody hours to get there and… well,” he shook his head in disdain. “You tell him!”

Bec raised his eyebrows in mock amusement and lit a cigarette. The portly little man smoothed his moustache down. “But you’re doing such a good job, my dear Heraud.”

“Don’t be an ass, Bec. Tell them. Tell them!” demanded Heraud.

“What’s there to tell? Nothing. She wouldn’t see me. She sent a servant out to say she was ill and could not see anyone.”

“Well, perhaps she was unwell,” said Berquet.

The broad shouldered, dark skinned Mathieu, who had been silent all the way through lunch, finally spoke: “She won’t see any of you and she won’t come to the monthly meetings, because she knows very well what all of you want. You want her to sell up and go back to France so you can divide the spoils amongst yourselves.”

For a few moments, quiet descended again over the table. Only the murmurs of other diners and the languid flapping of the striped awning above their heads could be heard.

“Well…she should sell up and go home,” said Heraud finally. “Rubber is no business for women. What on earth does she think she’s doing?”

“She’s doing very well, actually,” replied Mathieu. “In the last three months, her plantation out by Thu Duc out produced all of ours put together. So…whatever it is she’s doing, it’s working.”

Bec snorted and stubbed out his Gauloise with a distinct savagery. “She hasn’t had her rubber tappers down with disease like the rest of us. It’s just luck. Pure luck. Heraud is right, she should sell up and go home.”

“Her tappers aren’t dropping like flies because she spent a fortune on new quarters for them,” muttered old Berquet. “A foolish extravagance. And I’ve heard they don’t like it at all. They’re a superstitious lot, you know, the tappers.”

Bec shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I lost two of my best foremen to her last month. They like it plenty. But… if she wants to play the sister of mercy, why doesn’t she join the nuns at Saint Paul de Chartres? I could make twice as much as she is making on that plantation. She’s ruining it.”

“And she’s fucking her houseboy!” snorted Heraud.

The legs of his chair scraped loudly against the tiles as Mathieu stood up, pushing back his chair. He straightened his pale jacket and perched a straw panama hat on his dark, sleek head. “Good afternoon, gentleman. I’m afraid I can’t sit around all day defaming Claire Souchet’s character. I have work to do.”

The remaining men watched their fellow member of the Syndicat des Planteurs de Caoutchouc walk out onto the pavement and get into his car, parked in the shade of the grand theatre.

“Fucking nigger,” muttered Heraud. He lifted his hand and beckoned a waiter over. “I’ll have another Pernod. What about the rest of you?”

The men gave their orders and settled back in their seats.

“I don’t know what the world is coming to,” sighed Bec. “Women and niggers running the rubber trade. You’re the president of the association. You need to do something about it,” he said, glaring at Berquet.

The old man dabbed at his beard with his napkin. “I really can’t see what can be done about it. There is nothing in the charter that states a man of mixed race or a woman can’t farm a plantation or hold membership in the syndicate. Mathieu was decorated in the war, you know. He was with the North African Brigade in Cameroun. As to the Souchet woman…” Berquet shrugged his bony shoulders. “Perhaps after a while she’ll see that the life out here is not for her.”

Heraud took another sip of the cloudy liquid in his glass and shuddered. “We need to make her see.”