Venom, page 4
Instead she had been forty hours straining and screaming in this stinking charity ward. She didn’t care about the baby any more. She just wanted to be free of the terrible pain.
She felt the onset of another contraction. She stuffed a mouthful of her long hair into her mouth and bit down.
‘Pray God for forgiveness,’ she heard the nun say, and then she was gone and Adrienne was left alone with her agony and the desolate sound of the rain beating against the window. She sunk her nails into the flesh of her thighs as she bore down.
It felt like the child was tearing her apart. She screamed herself hoarse and cursed the child and the man whose seed it was.
♦ ♦ ♦
The boy was a mirror image of his father. He had the same cafe au lait complexion, with chocolate-brown eyes and a down of black hair. When she put him to her breast he stared back at her the whole time, greedy for her attention and her love.
Adrienne preferred to look at the wall. Just leave me alone, she thought. I want Jogi, I don't want you. Not now. Just leave me alone.
‘What's wrong, child?’ Soeur Odile was different from the other sisters. She was a kindly old woman with florid cheeks and horn-rimmed spectacles.
Adrienne wiped away the tears that smeared her cheeks. ‘Nothing is wrong. I just need to rest.’
‘Every infant is a gift from God, you know.’
Adrienne wanted to laugh in her face. But when she looked into the old nun's eyes, she knew she meant it. ‘There are other gifts I would have liked better.’
Odile patted her hand. ‘You are fretting. It is not just the baby, is it?’
Adrienne had seen young men visiting some of the other girls, smiling at their babies, bringing flowers and chocolate. Where was Joginder?
‘Has there been anyone asking for me? An Indian . . . he's tall . . . you couldn't forget him if you saw him. He is very handsome.’
Odile shook her head. The sad eyes looked owlish behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. ‘So that's what it is ... ‘
‘His name is Joginder. Joginder Krisnan.’
‘No one has been here looking for you, my child. I am sorry.’
Adrienne gripped the nun's hand. ‘Can you do something for me?’
‘If I can.’
‘He has a tailor's shop, near the main square. It's not far.’
‘You want me to go there?’
‘Would you? Please. It’s not far.’
Odile sighed. ‘Very well. I'll see if I can get away later this afternoon. Now you must rest. You have to regain your strength.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’
♦ ♦ ♦
It was evening when Soeur Odile returned. She stood by the bed and picked up Adrienne's hand.
Adrienne saw genuine regret in the old nun's face. ‘I'm sorry,’ she said. ‘I spoke to him. But he says he cannot come at the moment. He is too busy.’
Adrienne nodded and turned her face to the wall.
Chapter 3
November 1951
Saigon had once been described as a quiet French village nestling on the banks of the Mekong River. Now its streets bristled with barbed wire and machine guns.
As the war in Tonkin dragged on, a campaign of terror was taking place against the colonial French. French-owned buildings were bombed and bloated corpses began to appear in the river. Grenades were thrown into cafés and into cinemas, and each night, after the curfew, mortar fire from the surrounding hills crunched into the suburbs.
In the French quarter they barricaded the doors and windows of their villas and settled to a life under siege.
Each day there was news of some fresh atrocity. A French major staying at the Saigon Royal hired a Vietnamese barber to shave him in his room. Unfortunately for the major the barber was a Viet Minh agent. The man took the opportunity to draw the cold razor across the officer’s throat.
When the proprietor ran into the room he found the major gurgling and flapping on the floor like a beached fish, surrounded by a widening pool of his own blood.
The French would not admit, even to themselves, that they were losing their war, but each year the French Expeditionary Forces lost more officers in Indochina than graduated from their military academy at St Cyr.
Against this background of bloodshed and bombings, another smaller, more personal war was reaching its inevitable conclusion.
♦ ♦ ♦
Adrienne lay on the narrow bed, staring at the flaking paint of the ceiling, its patterns forming grotesque shapes in the shadowy darkness. The fan creaked overhead, almost useless in the damp, thick air. The room was suffocatingly hot, even with the shutters thrown wide open, and the sheets were damp with sweat.
Michel gave a small cry, restless in his cot in the corner.
It was past midnight. Joginder finally turned off the lamp in the workshop and crept in. She watched his silhouette against the shuttered window, as he took off his clothes. He was running to fat. Too many long hours at the workbench. And there was a glistening brown patch on his scalp where his hair had begun to thin.
Business was flourishing though there still never seemed to be enough money. Joginder had taught Adrienne to sew buttonholes and measure seams, and now he employed another seamstress at the shop, a smooth-skinned almond-eyed Vietnamese girl. One day, he promised her, he would be a rich man. It was the only fragment of the dream that had survived.
She wondered when they had stopped loving each other, or if Joginder had ever truly loved her at all. As soon as her belly had begun to swell, he had seemed to lose interest in her.
For a while, after Michel's birth, she thought they had rediscovered the spark. But he had never shown any interest in his son and as Michel grew Joginder became more distant. She tried to tell herself it was because he was working so hard, but deep in her heart she knew the terrible mistake she had made. She stayed now out of stubborn pride. She could not bring herself to go back to her father, beg his forgiveness and ask his help.
She would not do it.
She sniffed the gamey taint of sweat as Joginder slipped into the bed beside her. She felt besieged by her own loneliness. She ached for someone to hold her and love her. It had been so long.
‘Jogi...’
‘I'm tired.’
Adrienne reached under the bedclothes, found the soft flesh of his penis, rubbed herself against him. ‘Please, Jogi.’
He pushed her away. ‘I told you, I'm tired.’
Adrienne rolled away, stung by the rejection. ‘You work too hard.’
‘A man has to work hard if he's going to succeed.’
‘You're ruining your health.’
He didn’t answer her, and she thought that he had fallen asleep. But then he said: ‘Yes, that’s what I've been wanting to tell you.’
‘Tell me . . .?’
‘I've decided to take a holiday.’
‘A holiday?’
‘I've bought a ticket on a ship going to Bombay next week. I want to visit my family. I haven't seen them for nearly six years.’
‘What about me?’
‘I need you to stay here and look after the shop.’
She felt suddenly numb. ‘I want to come with you.’
‘The voyage will be too difficult. Besides, I cannot close the shop. You are the only one I can trust.’
‘But … how long will you be gone?’
‘A month. Perhaps two.’
‘Please let me come with you.’
‘I told you, it's impossible. Now go to sleep.’
‘But you've always said you should like me to meet your family. You said that when we get married ...’
‘Go to sleep! We'll talk about it in the morning.’
‘But Jogi ...’
‘Not now.!’ Joginder repeated. ‘In the morning.’
He rolled away from her.
Adrienne lay awake for hours, listening to the creak- creak-creak of the fan overhead. She threw back the single sheet in despair. She thought of her bedroom on the Rue Catinat, the crisp cotton sheets, the smell of the bougainvillea blossom that wreathed the verandah outside her window. She cursed herself for trading all that for this narrow bed, for poverty and damp and an uncaring Indian husband.
What had she done?
‘Do you still love me, Jogi?’ she whispered to the darkness.
Adrienne did not expect him to answer. He was asleep. Or perhaps he was only pretending to be. Either way, she supposed she already knew the answer.
Adrienne stared into the darkness until the sound of the bells from the Notre-Dame basilica drifted across the city, summoning the faithful to the six-o'clock Mass, their ringing slowly drowned out by the mounting cacophony of bicycle bells and cyclopousses on the Rue Le Loi.
As she finally closed her eyes she remembered the words her father had said to her: ‘You have made your bed. Now you must lie in it.’
♦ ♦ ♦
Joginder had been away for almost two weeks when Adrienne finally made up her mind. She awoke early that morning, before the Vietnamese girl, Sai, had arrived at the shop for the day, and bathed. She stood naked in the tiny white-tiled washroom and splashed cold water over her head with the long-handled dipper.
Afterwards she stood in front of the cracked mirror and examined her reflection critically. She was twenty-three now; her beauty was at its peak. She was not as taut or as supple as she had been before Michel, but she knew she was still a desirable woman. She could still turn men's heads in the street.
But these last few years with Joginder had hollowed her cheeks and there were tiny lines etched around her eyes already. She could not afford to waste any more time on an Indian tailor. Her beauty could be thrown away on a hollow passion, as it had with Joginder, or it could be her passport back to the life of ease and luxury she had so recklessly surrendered. What a fool she had been. Her romantic daring had been nothing more than a schoolgirl’s fantasy after all. Folle, folle! She had thrown away a life of privilege for these two shabby, stinking rooms.
Well it was time to put her pride away.
She put on the pale green gingham frock she had last worn the day she had come to live with Joginder and splashed some Joie perfume behind her ears. Then she went to the iron cot in the corner to dress Michel in his best clothes.
The boy's resemblance to his father was startling. Even after four years she could still scarcely believe the child was her own. The rich brown skin and the chocolate-brown eyes still shocked her. It was difficult to believe he had once been a part of her own body.
Two brown arms reached out eagerly towards her. ‘Come on, little Michel,’ she whispered. ‘Maman is not going to work today. You and I are going out.’
‘Where are we going?’ the child murmured sleepily.
‘We are going to visit someone very special. You must promise to be on your best behavior.’
‘Who is it?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Promise me you'll be good. You mustn't shout or scream, and you must remember the manners I taught you. Do you promise?’
‘Yes, maman. But where are we going?’
Adrienne dressed her son in a white cotton shirt and blue shorts. ‘We are going to meet your grandfather,’ she told him.
♦ ♦ ♦
Adrienne had passed her father's villa on the Rue Catinat every day for the past four years on her way to the market. Sometimes she saw a shadow move behind one of the windows and wondered if her father was watching her. Twice she had passed him on the street and he had not spoken to her, or even looked in her direction. She had thought of grabbing him by the shoulders, making him face her, but her pride would not allow it.
Now, as she walked up the long drive between the banana palms, she wondered what he would do. The neat gardens were rimmed with the pale orange and yellow tiger flowers. She stood on the familiar porte-cochere, wreathed in red and purple bougainvillea, and took a deep breath to steady her nerves.
‘Shoulders back,’ she hissed at Michel. The boy thrust out his chest and gripped her hand tighter.
She set down her battered brown suitcase and rang the bell. She waited.
Mai Ong opened the door. When she saw her the crone's face twisted into a malicious grin. ‘So, missy, you come back?’
Adrienne drew herself up to her full height. ‘Tell my father I'm here.’
The boyesse looked down at Michel. ‘This belong you now?’
Adrienne took a step forward. She wanted to hit her. ‘Just tell my father I'm here. Do it!’
‘You still damn fine manners.’ She turned and tottered across the marble-floored hallway. ‘You wait. Master on verandah, breakfast time. Maybe he not want to see you.’
So it's come to this, Adrienne thought. Begging the help for an interview with my own father. Treated like a tramp, which is what everyone thinks I am.
She peered inside, trying to remember. The door to the library was open, and she could see her father’s favorite wing-back chair, the shelves of leather-bound history books. It was cool inside, and the house had an almost cathedral sanctity. She suddenly missed it all so much, she could hardly breathe. She fought back tears of self-pity.
‘So. You've come back.’
Emmanuel stood in the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a crisply starched white tropical suit, his silver-grey hair meticulously parted. He looked at her down the length of his nose.
‘I won't beg,’ Adrienne said. ‘I'll starve first.’
‘I see your experience of the seamier side of life hasn't changed you.’
‘You mean it hasn't made me servile?’
‘I meant grateful’
God, I had forgotten how much I detest you! Adrienne thought. Just one smile, one moment of gentleness and I would have dissolved in tears at your feet. ‘What do you want from me?’ she said.
‘It was you who came to me,’ he reminded her and switched his attention to the coffee-skinned child at her feet. He frowned. ‘Is this your brat?’
‘His name is Michel.’
‘It's a French name. The child is obviously not.’ He looked back at Adrienne. ‘Have you finally come to your senses, then?’
The bastard! He was going to make her say it. She nodded. ‘I want to come back.’
‘Very well. Not the child, though.’
‘But. . . what do you mean?’
‘He's a darkie. You cannot bring him into this house.’
Adrienne tightened her grip on Michel's hand. ‘I . . . I'm his mother.’
‘That’s right. That is why I will never allow him to remain in my house as a reminder of your shame.’
‘But Father ...’
‘You can come back, Adrienne. But you must leave the child behind.’
Adrienne wanted to protest but no words would come. It had never occurred to her that her father would make such a demand of her.
She couldn't do it. Michel was her blood. She picked up her suitcase. ‘As you wish, Papa.’ She dragged Michel away. ‘Allons-y!’
‘Adrienne!’
She turned, hoping that he was about to relent. But the expression on his face crushed that false hope. ‘When you have had enough, give the urchin to the orphanage and then you can come home.’
Adrienne hurried away, heard the door slam behind her. She hurried away, clutching Michel's hand, the little boy scampering to keep up.
♦ ♦ ♦
Sai was bent over the foot-pedal Singer when Adrienne got back to the shop. ‘You have been crying,’ she said.
‘It's nothing.’
Her pretty oval face twisted into a frown. ‘Joginder should have taken you with him.’
Something in the girl's tone alarmed her. She's goading me, Adrienne thought. She wants me to leave. ‘It's none of your business what Mr. Krisnan wishes to do. Get on with your work.’
Sai pouted at her. Adrienne went into the tiny bedroom and closed the door behind her. She dropped her case on the floor and threw herself down on the bed. She slammed both her fists into her pillow. ‘Damn you! Damn you, damn you, DAMN YOU!’
‘Maman?’ Michel's fingers stroked her hair.
‘That cold, bloody bastard!’
‘Maman, what is wrong?’ Michel stood beside the bed, his huge brown eyes were wide in astonishment. ‘Why are you crying?’
What am I going to do with this child? Adrienne thought. He has no legal father, no nationality, no existence outside the handwritten entry in the records of the Catholic hospital. She pulled him close, felt the beat of his heart against her cheek.
‘What am I going to do with you?’ she said aloud.
There was a knock on the door. It inched opened. Adrienne sat up. It was Sai.
‘What are you doing in here? Get back to your work!’
‘I heard you crying.’
‘Just go away!’
But Sai just stood there. ‘I have to talk to you,’ she said.
‘Get out!’
‘It's about Joginder.’
‘Jogi? What about him?’
‘You know what he's doing, don't you? He has a wife in Bombay. That's why he went back. That's his family.’
A wife? Joginder?’ What was she talking about?
‘He told me about her. Her name is Sushila.’
‘He told you? Why should he tell you anything?’
Sai did not answer. But as Adrienne stared at the pretty brown face and the soft willowy figure and thought about the long hours when she was away every day at the markets and she started to understand. ‘Just get out.’
‘I just want to help you, mademoiselle.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
Sai shrugged her shoulders and left the room. A few moments later the sewing machine clattered back to life in the shop. Adrienne stared at the flaking plaster of the walls, saw her father's face in the grim patterns. He was smiling.
♦ ♦ ♦
Two weeks later Joginder returned. He got back late one night and slipped silently into bed beside her. A few minutes later, he was snoring. The next morning he got up at dawn and went back to work in the shop without a word.
Adrienne slipped into her faded green frock and came to stand beside him at the workbench. ‘Jogi.’
