Дональд Джеймс - The House of Eros

She shook her head, not understanding. ‘Too late for what?’

‘Too late for you to warn anybody.’ He moved and stood beside her. He made no attempt to conceal the mutilated hand now. ‘Perhaps you would see something like this.’ He flicked the file open so that one or two pages fell back on one another. She looked down. The face of Quatch stared up at her. In another photograph her grandmother and Quatch together… He closed the file. For the first time she registered that it was a red prosecution file.

Her grandmother and Monsieur Quatch were about to be arrested.

Nan Luc awoke early. From her sleeping mat she watched, through the room’s high single window, a long slow dawn climbing from the east. It touched a thin strip of cloud with copper fingers. It outlined in black the giant palms which marked the end of the streets and squares of the capital, beyond which lay dense forest. If she raised herself on one elbow, turning her head, she could see further, beyond low roofs to where the fishing boats streamed back towards a stone quayside that poked like Van Khoa’s single finger out into the shimmering black sea.

She rested for a moment on her elbow thinking how much she loved this land, thinking nevertheless how much she wanted to leave it. Only slowly did she become aware, as it seemed to her, of her own rhythmic, steady breathing.

And then of another rhythm, different, faster. Her throat tightened. Her head spun towards the corner of the room. She saw a dark, crouching shape. She came to her feet and in desperation snatched a candle-holder from beside the bed. Perhaps she forced out words. More likely, she thought afterwards, the words were trapped in the fear that seemed to have swollen her throat.

The crouching figure moved. Shuffled like a vulture about to tear at flesh. Then relief flooded her, anger, a desire to laugh at wild images of carrion birds as a familiar voice said in precise French, ‘It’s me, cherie. Your grandmother.’

Nan Luc could make out now the crouching figure, her chin still resting on arms crossed above her knees. ‘What in the name of heaven are you doing?’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

Her grandmother got to her feet. ‘I arrived in the middle of the night. I saw the house list downstairs and the number of your room. I thought I would sleep a few hours after my journey.’

‘You’ve come from the city?’

‘By lorry-bus, my dear. Can you imagine? Twenty peasants and me.’

‘I’ll light the candle.’

Bernadette put her hand on Nan Luc’s arm. ‘Wait for the dawn,’ she said. ‘A few moments.’

‘At least I can make you tea.’

Her grandmother nodded and went to sit by the window while Nan fuelled and lit her US Army field stove. ‘What are these lights bobbing out there?’ she asked as Nan Luc made the tea.

Nan glanced out of the window as she crossed the room. ‘Fishing boats coming back,’ she said.

Bernadette nodded. ‘Ah, yes. It’s well known in government circles that Cahn Roc port is one of the least secure places along this coastline.’

Nan Luc didn’t answer. She knew that her grandmother was talking about the boat people. But officially the boat people didn’t exist. Safer, even with Bernadette, to say nothing.

She took down the tea caddy and spooned out tea into the pot. Her grandmother’s eyes closed and opened. For a few moments Nan thought she was about to doze off but with an effort she rubbed at her eyelids and turned from the window to watch Nan Luc’s movements across the room.

Nan knelt by the stove in her white linen pyjamas, her rich hair falling across her face. Bernadette came forward. Her hand reached out to stroke her granddaughter’s hair, her lips curling downwards as she felt the girl stiffen.

‘I intended to come into Saigon tonight,’ Nan said. ‘As soon as my work allowed. I wanted to warn you.’

Bernadette smiled. ‘Too late, cherie,’ she said.

‘Quatch is already under arrest?’

‘Not yet. But we both know it’s a matter of days, hours even. He is watched day and night. This is why I’m here like this.’ Nan Luc waited. ‘You remember, cherie,’ Bernadette said, ‘that I once told you we were both free of any responsibility for each other, that the old family ties of Vietnam had burst long ago.’ Nan Luc stood, the teapot in her hand. ‘You can see that I was wrong,’ Bernadette said.

A chill crept through Nan. ‘In what way were you wrong?’ she asked.

‘I come here in a lorry-bus full of peasants. I come in the night. I sleep crouched in a corner.’ Bernadette turned in her chair to look at Nan. ‘I daren’t wear my Paris clothes, my makeup, perfume. Not in a lorry-bus with twenty peasants.’

Silently Nan Luc handed her grandmother her tea.

Bernadette took the thick white cup and raised it to her lips. For a moment or two she drank, silently. Then she put it aside. ‘I am in great trouble, cherie,’ she said. Nan Luc took her tea and sat cross-legged on her sleeping mat. ‘I am in great trouble,’ Bernadette repeated, ‘because Monsieur Quatch is in great trouble.’

‘He is a provincial administrator,’ Nan Luc said carefully. ‘The most senior figure in Cahn Roc. What is his crime?’

Bernadette shrugged. ‘He has made too many enemies with his French ways. A year ago he was reprimanded by a member of the government, a minister. He took no notice. He continued to live as a colonial governor.’

‘There must be other things.’

‘That was an outward sign. There are other things.’

‘More serious?’

‘In power he has lost his awareness of danger. He forgets Ho Chi Minh with his simple khaki shorts and sandals. It’s a long road to travel from Uncle Ho to Monsieur Quatch.’

‘There’s more,’ Nan Luc said.

Bernadette nodded. ‘Perhaps more than I know. He dines on foie gras and magret de canard . He drinks the best chateaux from the appropriated cellars of the old French colonists. All this costs money. Where, it is being asked, does that money come from?’

‘The trouble you talk about, Bernadette. Has it anything to do with the death of Peter Benning?’

Her grandmother pursed her lips. ‘Better you know nothing if you’re to help me.’

‘I can do nothing to help.’ Nan stood up. ‘You came here, I’ve no doubt, to ask me to speak to Van Khoa. But you must understand I am not on a level to talk to Van Khoa about a provincial administrator’s case.’

Bernadette was watching her carefully in the lightening dawn. ‘I know that, cherie,’ she said. ‘I’ve lived through it all.’

‘So why did you come?’

‘I came to ask you to do something for me . ’

The emphasis on the last word made Nan Luc stiffen. She got up and poured her grandmother more tea. Then went back to the sleeping mat and resumed her cross-legged position. The sky was light now, pouring brightness into the narrow room, revealing the old French bentwood clothes rack on which Nan Luc hung her two black pyjama working suits.

Bernadette let her eyes drift down to the sandals neatly arranged beside it. Blue files were piled up on a scarred but once fine directoire desk. A partly open drawer showed the edge of neat, folded underwear.

Bernadette smiled. ‘Perhaps because you have never owned more than very little, you cannot appreciate what it means to own much.’

‘Perhaps. How could I know?’

Bernadette nodded. ‘I had prepared myself for disaster,’ she said. ‘I thought I had.’

She paused, cupping the heavy tea-bowl in her hands. ‘In a Swiss numbered account I have 100,000 francs. Swiss francs. For the last five years I have possessed a valid Red Cross passport and suitable papers.’