Gassot could still hear the rustle of the silk worn by the half-Asian mademoiselles, denigrated as bui doi, the dust of life. He remembered the acrid odor coming from the opium smokers next door.
“What’s the matter, camarade? ”
In the shed where tools were kept, Gassot straightened his shoulders, realizing Tran was studying him. He forced himself back to the present and took a deep breath.
“Do you ever hear from Bao?” She had been Tran’s cousin, Bao of the pale oval face and laughing eyes. He knew that after forced marches and prison camp, the light would have gone out of them.
“Not for several years,” said Tran.
“Still in Indochina, is she?”
“Seems we’re talking about the old times instead of why you came here, camarade. . . .” Tran’s voice trailed off in disappointment. His manners were more French than Gassot’s and his accent was impeccable. But then he’d lived in France almost as long as Gassot, working for a wealthy old colonial family as an indentured servant until his retirement. Though slave would have described it better.
But he liked to keep busy, so he worked part-time now, here, as groundskeeper.
“You’re worried. It’s Albert . . . his heart?” Tran said.
Gassot gathered his courage. “Albert died in the hospital. But he was murdered there.”
“What makes you think he was murdered?”
“Who else knows, Tran?” Gassot asked.
“Mais, you don’t mean—”
“Who else knows about the massacre at Lai Chau?”
“The dead know,” Tran replied. “And your comrades.”
And it had been their regiment’s fault. Their bombing coordinates had been off. Off by half a kilometer, sending them into the no-fly zone.
A plain of burning flames, so intense the heat had melted the straps of Gassot’s helmet on his neck. The hidden mines planted by the Vietminh in the plain had exploded under the hail of the French bombing attack—an attack that had been meant to destroy the Vietminh forces, not ignite a incendiary vortex claiming thousands of both Indochinese and French lives. The deafening explosions cratered the red earth. Rice paddies were clogged with body parts kilometers away, destroying the ancient drainage system. The peasants starved the next season, refusing to eat a crop nourished by the blood of their ancestors.
No one talked of their mistake; the reports were destroyed, the incident hushed up.
“Only three of us left now,” Gassot said. “But someone could have escaped.”
“No one escaped from that hell,” Tran said.
“A victim in a field hospital? Or an eyewitness?” he said. “Someone who heard the stories and has come for revenge?”
“Go ahead and torment yourself, camarade,” Tran said. “You’re good at that. But it can’t bring them back. Nothing will. As they say, it’s all termite spit.”
“Albert opened his big mouth; he talked about the jade. And then the man he spoke to was shot. Killed.”
Tran’s hand shook as he lit another cigarette. “Merde!”
Tran, reestablish your connections,” Gassot said. “Go back “to the house. Talk to the old buzzard about the jade. You’re the one who heard the rumor in Haiphong.”
Tran bowed his head. “That’s so long ago,” he said.
“The jade is here. In Paris. We know it. We’re not the only ones looking for it, Tran,” Gassot said. “Remember that.”
“But we’re the only true believers.”
Gassot turned away. He stooped, tried to control the quiver in his shoulders. “Tran, you have to go back to the house.”
No one would suspect Tran. Gassot kept to himself his fear that someone was picking them off, one by one.
Wednesday Midday
AIMÉE NUDGED HER WAY through the throng of patrons at the Drouot auction house counter, to the catalogues. Around her, in the long salle hung with paintings celebrating Drouot’s history, patrons milled in the display rooms, looking at items in glass showcases or piled in corners. Her grand-père, a habitué, had frequented the auction house. More often than not, he’d spot a frayed Savonnerie carpet or a Baccarat chandelier with missing crystals in a heap to be auctioned off as part of a lot. Many of these “finds” furnished her apartment now. “I’ve got an eye for these things,” he’d say, grinning and crossing his eyes, making Aimée laugh. As a young girl, she’d loved the smell of old furniture, the blistered oil paintings, and the sound of the wooden gavel of the auctioneer.
Afterwards they’d walk to the confiserie, her hand nestled in his overcoat pocket. Inside, he’d let her choose from the old-fashioned sugared violets and candied almonds. They’d end the day at the Guignol puppet theatre in the Jardin du Luxembourg.
Now all Aimée saw were the feral gleams in dealers’ eyes and the video surveillance cameras tracking patrons. She doubted her grand-père would have been able to discover bargains or “finds” now.
She consulted November’s auction catalogue. Nothing. But in October’s issue, on page 114, she found a black and white photo that did little justice to the eleven exquisite jade pieces pictured. Yet even this photo took her breath away.
A short description read: Incomplete set of Chinese jade astrological figures, reputedly of fourth century Chinese origin. Provenance unknown.
This didn’t make sense. Who had put the jade figures up for auction, and more importantly, how had Baret ended up with them? Why sell them to Linh for fifty thousand francs when their value was estimated in the hundreds of thousands? Had he been short of money and so, motivated to make a quick sale? Or was he sincerely trying to help Linh?
“Excuse me,” she said to the smiling woman behind the counter, “I’d like to find out the result of the sale of lot #8793. What it sold for and to whom, if possible.”
The woman beamed at her, looking past people consulting glossy catalogues and smudged typed lists. “Just a moment please,” she said and consulted a binder. “According to the current auction log,” she said, “this lot was withdrawn from the auction.”
“Withdrawn?” Aimée asked in alarm. “You mean it was never auctioned?”
“Oui, taken off the list.”
Frustrated, Aimée leaned against the counter and thought. Nothing seemed to fit.
“I need to find out who put the pieces up for auction. How do you suggest I proceed?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Queries regarding previously catalogued items must be submitted to Madame Monsour in our archives division.”
“Merci,” Aimée said, and bought the catalogue. She wouldn’t give up without trying. By the time she reached Madame Monsour’s office, she knew she’d have to improvise. Again.
“What . . . no appointment, Mademoiselle?” said a harried man carrying a thick stack of files.
Aimée gave him a big smile. “Forgive me, I know she’s busy. Five minutes of her time, that’s all I ask.”
“If you’d made an appointment. . . .” he said.
“Marcel, so you finally found the Asian art estimates!” interrupted a slim young woman in a black suit, emerging from the office whose doorway bore the nameplate MADAME MONSOUR.
“But, Madame Monsour, that’s what I need to speak with you about,” Aimée said, stepping forward. “I need background information on a jade collection.”
“Do your homework. Go read some books, Mademoiselle. I suggest—”
“But I have, you see, and they raise more questions.”