The Madwoman of Thu Duc – Part 11

Through the branches of the tamarind trees, the light played dappled games with the surface of the pool at the Cercle Sportif. Children paddled in the shallow end, supervised by nervous nannies who were hardly old enough to bear children themselves and certainly could not swim. The French denizens of Saigon reclined in their ornate wrought iron chairs, sighed in satiation and considered a nap in the glowering heat of the day.

Heraud and Bec sat opposite each other, absently probing the spaces between their teeth with toothpicks.

“I noticed you had a cosy little chat with that idiot priest this morning after mass,” said Bec.

Heraud snapped the toothpick in half and tossed it in the ashtray. “Father Jean-Pierre? Oh, he’s alright.”

“He’s a sanctimonious prick.”

“True. But have you ever met a priest who wasn’t?”

Bec considered the question. “I have, but not here. The Outre-Mer seems to attract the most pernicious of them. So… what did you talk about?”

“The Souchet bitch.”

Bec pursed his lips. His friend’s hatred of la Belle Madame had grown so rabid in the last month that, if pressed, Bec would have guessed he had the hots for her. “Oh, really? What did our good Father have to say?”

“Nothing. Apparently, not only is she an opium addict and a communist, but she’s also an atheist.”

Bec stifled a laugh. “Aren’t atheists and communists somewhat synonymous?”

Heraud clicked his tongue in dismissal. “She’s a disgrace to this community! She gives the French here a bad name. She’s a terrible example to the Viets.”

“Oh, really? How so, my friend?” He was a bore when he got like this, Bec thought. He would never say it, however. Michel Heraud was not a man possessed of a sense of humour about himself.

Bending forward and stabbing his finger on the marble-topped table, Heraud hissed: “We have a solemn obligation to help these people aspire to real civilization! But that woman…that despicable woman indulges in their lowest habits!”

“Despicable!” repeated Bec, erupting into open laughter. “After all, she should be using them for whores like you and I do!”

Heraud stiffened and glared at his luncheon companion. “Shut up you fat bastard. That’s entirely different. We’re men. And the natives…well, it’s not like they actually possess any morals anyway.”

Realizing that he’d offended his friend, Bec did his best to wipe the smile of his face. “Of course, dear Michel. It is as you say. Just as you say. She’s despicable.”

“Yes! She is!”

“How many hectares does she have?”

“20,000 at Thu Duc alone.”

“Despicable,” Bec repeated. “And she smokes opium?”

“Smoke it? My dear Bec, she’s a complete addict. Everyone knows!”

“Father Jean-Pierre told you this?”

The plump man shifted in his seat. “No. I heard that from another source.”

“But you told the priest…”

For a fleeting moment, Heraud appeared hesitant. Then he straightened his back and adopted a self-righteous smugness. “Of course I did. It was my duty to do it. We can’t have totally unsupervised French women behaving in that manner! It has to be stopped.”

Bec narrowed his eyes, considering his friend. Of course, Heraud had been out here too long. He was not entirely sane, but who was after a few years in a place like this? Nonetheless, when Michel Heraud set his mind to something, he generally got what he wanted and that, in Bec’s estimation, was the important thing. The land that Claire Souchet was sitting on was deep red earth – the very best for growing rubber. If they could effect her removal and divide the land up amongst themselves, Bec was more than willing to let Heraud find a way to do it.

The only thing that gave him pause for concern was Heraud’s maniacal fixation on the woman’s morals. There was very little the priest could do if Claire Souchet was an opium fiend. And it wasn’t as if the police could do much about it either – she was hardly the only French citizen in Saigon with that particular weakness. The current public outcry regarding the dangers of its consumption was something of a joke: the colonial government itself was commissioning and supervising both the cultivation of poppies and the refining of their essence, right down the street from where they were sitting, for considerable profit.

“Don’t let your dick get in the way, Heraud,” said Bec, with unaccustomed severity.

The man sitting opposite slowly turned an alarming shade of purple. “What the fuck do you mean?”

Bec sighed and lit a Gauloises. “You know what I mean, mon ami. Keep your cock out of this adventure. I don’t give a shit one way or another about Mme Souchet. I just want her land.”

“Fuck you.” spat Heraud. “I wouldn’t poke that diseased cunt for all the tea in China.”

“Or all the rubber in Saigon?” Bec smirked, and called a waiter over. “Would you like tea, or shall we have something stronger?”