The Madwoman of Thu Duc – Part 5

It was almost five in the afternoon when we reached the house. My chief foreman, Le Hoang Nam, was waiting to deliver his report of the day’s operations. He narrowed his eyes as Etienne stepped down from the car. I knew what he was thinking and what he feared: that in the year since Robert’s death, he had gained responsibility and respect, and he didn’t want to lose it to some French stranger. Equally, I did not want to undermine his confidence. For in the past year he had become my right hand man on the plantation. A lanky young Franco-Anamese with oriental eyes but the aquiline nose of a Frenchman, he was scrupulously honest and unfailingly fair to the workers. He was, in fact, a good part of the reason Estelle had prospered since Robert’s death.

Once I’d shown Etienne into the house and to his rooms, Nam stood in the hallway and went over the details of the day’s tapping and the volume of latex processed by the driers. There had been an accident with one of the mangles that pressed the rubber into cakes, and one of the pressers had lost two fingers. Luckily the infirmary had been open and the man’s injury had been promptly seen to.

“Will he lose his hand?” I asked.

“No. I don’t think so. But he won’t be able to work for a while,” said Nam.

“Will you pay his wife a visit and make sure she understands that we will find him a job doing something else? I don’t want them to worry at a time like this.”

“It was his own fault. He was careless.”

“We’ve all been careless at some time or other. We’ve just been luckier.”

Nam nodded and, with a glance towards the sleeping quarters and an overdramatic whisper, asked: “He is going to be your new husband?”

I laughed. “No.” I explained quietly that Etienne was my late sister’s husband, visiting from France.

“What’s wrong with him, then? Only a dishonourable man would refuse to marry his dead wife’s sister.”

“That’s not a French custom, Nam. It’s a Vietnamese one.”

“Well, it should be. It’s sensible,” he muttered.

“Would you prefer him as your boss?” I teased.

Nam grimaced. “No. You’re a good boss, Madame.”

I rolled my eyes. “Have you brought me…”

“Oh, yes.” Nam dug into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a package neatly wrapped in red oiled paper. He handed it over, but reluctance showed on his face. “Don’t smoke too much, Madame. You don’t want to get lost in the clouds like my grandfather. Not yet.”

Smiling, I stuffed the opium into my purse and closed it. “Thank you, Nam. Go home, now. It’s getting late.”

He was about to leave before I remembered. “Nam, when you bring me my horse in the morning, will you bring another – the gelding – for Monsieur Etienne? Perhaps we can take him on a tour around Estelle.”

Nam nodded and left, passing Etienne in the hallway, as he walked out of the house into the darkening evening light.

Etienne had washed and changed into a lighter suit. From the creases in it, I suspected it might have been the first time he’d worn it. But the light colour suited his dark skin well, and his wet hair glinted in the twilight as we walked into the living room. The servants were lighting the lamps and pulling the screens across the open windows.

“Have you got everything you need? Enough water, enough room for your things?”

“Yes. It’s a lovely house. Beautiful, actually.”

“Thank you. Would you like a drink? We have ice. We could have gin and tonic with ice.”

Etienne looked puzzled. “Well, I read I wasn’t supposed to drink the ice here.”

I laughed and clapped my hands. “This ice is clean, and we only get it once a week. It’s delivered on a Monday and only lasts three days, so you should enjoy it while we have it. By Friday you’ll be craving it.”

Suddenly he understood and looked around. “No electricity.”

“Not yet,” I said, fixing the drinks and depositing a scoopful of the precious chipped ice from the little insulated pail that Lan, the maid, had brought.

“We got a telegraph machine in…” I thought for a moment, handing him his drink and sitting down on the sofa opposite. “…the spring of 1918. Yes. More than a year ago now. It will be a while before we get electricity, I fear.”

Etienne sipped his drink and smiled. “It reminds me of the army. We’ve gotten so spoiled since the armistice.” Then the smile died on his face. He gave his head a strange tip, and took another gulp of his drink as if he were washing down memories.

It was a curious gesture, but one I knew well. There was nothing to say, so I stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to have a wash and get changed before dinner. You can have a look in Robert’s library, if you like. There are lots of books and periodicals, although they are a little out of date.” I gestured over to the louvered doors across the hallway. And if you need anything, call for Lan. Her French is very good; what she doesn’t understand, she guesses at and is usually right. Please make yourself comfortable.”

“I will, thank you,” he said quietly.

* * *

I hurried down the darkened hallway, tearing at the buttons on my blouse even before I reached my bedroom. I tugged it off, calling for Mai, the housemaid, to draw me a bath and help me with my clothes. The gin had gone to my head, having eaten no lunch. The corset felt like a living thing, a boa constrictor tightening its coils, squeezing the life out of me. After stepping out of my skirt, I seized the iron bedstead and struggled for breath until Mai tugged and loosened the laces just enough for me to get the eyelets unhooked.

There were deep, angry red welts where the steel boning had dug into my sides, and a line of small dark bruises from where I’d doubled over to vomit. Slipping into the tepid tub, I sighed into the burn that accompanied the release of my compressed flesh. The water felt delicious. I lay back, closed my eyes and breathed deep, filling my lungs with the sweet cool scent of the lavender salts. And for one beautiful, perfect moment, I felt utterly at peace. Utterly free. Utterly relieved.

But as always, it only lasted a moment. I looked down at my bruised body submerged beneath the water and almost immediately, the whispering desire was back, gnawing at my brain, stiffening my nipples, bringing my flesh up in goose bumps despite the heat. And with it came lurid images of Etienne, my dead sister’s husband, performing unspeakable acts upon me.

How could my mind be so despicable? How could I imagine such dreadful things? The wave of self-disgust that engulfed me didn’t quell the hunger. It only made it baser and worse. I thought about the new cake of opium in my purse. But I couldn’t smoke now. He’d know, he’d know there was something wrong with me. Smoking made me drowsy and incoherent. I wouldn’t be able to eat. And yet I could not let him see me this way either. I was sure the terrible hunger would show on my face, in the way I moved.

Resigned, I sank further into the tub, spread my legs and brought my knees up. Letting the images swallow me, I coaxed and stroked myself through the golden glow of my internal obscenities until, trembling and clenching my teeth to keep from crying out, I thrust my fingers deep into the hot, grasping core of me. I held them there and felt my muscles suck at my fingers until the violent spasms of my release had passed.