Opium (5 page)

They sat on the cool stone inside the
sala
and Baptiste put the lantern at their feet. “You're quiet tonight,” he said to her.

“I'm nervous.”

“About what?'

“About my father.”

“Let me handle him.”

“Nobody "handles" my father, Baptiste. He "handles" them.”

He picked up her hand, held it in his lap, stroked the soft skin inside her arm with his fingers. He found the dark blue string tied around her left wrist. “What's this?'

“Last year I got very sick. The local doctors did not know what was wrong. Tao Koo, our houseboy, fetched his uncle. He's a sort of shaman. He performed this little ritual over the bed. He said I had a bad
phi
trying to lure my souls out of my body, and he called on some friendly spirits to summon them back to my body. The string is meant to bind them there so they cannot wander anymore.”

“You believe all this?'

“Perhaps.”

His fingers followed the contour of her arm to her shoulder, his touch feathery.

'“How can a person have more than one soul?'

“I don't know, it's what they believe. They say that when we die all our souls fly away to different places to be re-incarnated in different bodies.”

“There's nowhere better I'd want to fly away to right now,” he said.

He had moved very close. She felt his breath on her neck. She was shocked to hear herself whimper with pleasure as his lips brushed gently against the soft skin of her throat.

She had known from the moment she had seen him what would happen between them. Perhaps he was right, our destiny is written in our hands. The night closed around them, the chirruping of the jungle insects grew to a cacophony. He pushed her gently back onto the stone. "I am going to turn your life into a raging storm,” he said.

She stared at the vaulted shadows of the pavilion, the
nagas
dancing along the eaves, the geckos rustling in the roof, hunting for lust. She breathed in the male smells of sandalwood and tobacco, felt the hardness of his body, the
phi
whispering from the darkness, spirits good and bad. She felt her own spirit being coaxed away. This was what you wanted, she reminded herself. You could not be daddy's good little girl forever.

Chapter 6

W
HEN he first arrived in Asia over ten years before, Rocco Bonaventure had quickly adopted the daily routine of the French colonialists; he rose at eight, enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, and never conducted any business before ten o'clock. After lunch he rested during the hottest part of the day, and concluded the day's affairs by six o'clock. The evening was the time to drink
aperitifs
.

It was now his habit, at this
l'heure d'aperitif
, to sit in the upper storey room he used as a study, and watch the sunset. Tonight Marcel Rivelini kept him company during his vigil. Bonaventure reached for the bottle of Pernod and refilled two glasses, one for himself, and one for Rivelini.

“They say there has been more fighting on the border,” Rivelini said.

Bonaventure nodded. “Yes, Colonel Ky told me about it.”

“Damned Communists.”

“N
'inquiète-toi
. The Americans will not let them take over in Laos, Marcel. They saw what happened in Eastern Europe and they won't let it happen here.”

“I hope you're right, Rocco.”

“Of course I am.”

Bonaventure added a little water to his Pernod, and the golden liquid immediately turned the colour of milk. The monsoon had begun, and the twilight was grey, even the gilded stupas looked drab. The banana palms in the garden wilted under the assault of the rain.

***

Rocco looks so smug, Rivelini thought, here in his retreat, bookshelves filled with leather bound books he has never read, bronze statues of the Buddha and Hanuman on his polished teak desk. A pirate of such culture and refinement. Such a shame to prick his balloon.

But I will.

“How is Noelle?'

That jarred Bonaventure from his complacency, as he knew it would. He frowned. “She is well, as far as I know. Why, Marcel?'

Rivelini affected an air of discreet concern. “It is just, well ... one hears things. I would hate to see her hurt.”

“How could she get hurt, Marcel?'

“Rocco, I apologise. Perhaps one should not listen to idle rumours.”

“What rumours? Stop talking in riddles.”

“It is just I do not like to be the one to repeat them, but I suppose you should know. There is talk that she has been seen in the company of a certain - I hesitate to call him a gentleman - while you were in Saigon. It is not good for her reputation to be so careless.”

“What's his name?'

' Baptiste‚ Baptiste Crocé ‚.”

The glass cracked in his fist. Dark red blood welled through the knuckles and dripped onto his white linen trousers, mixing with the milky Pernod. Impressive, Rivellini thought. Better than I had hoped.

Bonaventure fumbled in his pocket with his uninjured hand for a clean linen handkerchief and wrapped it around his hand to soak up the blood. Then he pulled out his Gauloises and his lighter. He lit the cigarette one-handed, his fingers shaking.

“Rocco? Are you all right?'

“What else did you hear?' he snapped.

“They were only rumours, Rocco.”

“Did the rumours say she slept with him?'

“People will make up all kinds of stories, you know that. But she cannot afford even to be seen with him. This man does not enjoy a spotless reputation in Vientiane.”

“Or anywhere else.”

There was a long silence. Rivelini stared at the scarlet blossoming on the handkerchief. That will teach the bitch to make a fool of me, he thought.

“I thought you should know,” Rivelini added.

“Thank you, Marcel. I appreciate your concern. Now I'd like to be alone for a while. I need to think about this.”

Rivelini finished his Pernod and got to his feet. “Bientôt, Rocco.”

***

Bonaventure finished his cigarette, and as he stubbed it out he imagined it was Crocé's head. He lit another.

She had made a fool of him, again. He had tried to arrange suitable companions for her, and she had spurned them all. Had he not warned her about this Crocé? She had disobeyed him, the moment his back was turned she had chased after him, like a bitch in heat.

Did he really think he could get away with this?

They both needed to be taught a lesson. And Rocco Bonaventure was a very good teacher.

Chapter 7

Ban Hoie Sai

E
VERY year, during the poppy harvest, from February to the first weeks of May, the local Chinese traders set out for the northern mountains with salt, iron bars, and silver coins with which to barter for the tiny bundles of raw opium that the hill tribes - mainly the Hmong - grew in the sweet, friable soil.

The Corsicans flew to provincial capitals like Ban Hoie Sai or Sam Neua or Phong Saly and paid these traders hard cash for the opium they had collected. They would then fly it to Phong Savan or Vientiane until a buyer could be found in Bangkok or Saigon.

At this time of year the air was like steam. Baptiste and Jean-Marie were soaked with perspiration. They had three hundred kilos of raw opium to load into the Cessna. Some of it oozed like jelly from splits in the burlap sacks.

“There's rumours going all around Vientiane, Baptiste.”

“About what?'

“About you and Rocco Bonaventure's daughter.” Jean-Marie grunted as he lifted another sack. “You have to be out of your mind.”

Baptiste grinned. “Jealousy.”

“Why won't you listen to me? She's out of bounds, Baptiste! He'll cut off your balls when he finds out!'

Baptiste slid another sack into the hold. “His daughter's in love with me. What can he do about that?'

Jean-Marie shook his head. He admired his business partner, but he didn't like him very much. His coldness frightened him. There was an hard edge to Baptiste Crocé that was camouflaged by his velvet charm.

“I'm telling you, Baptiste, when he finds out, he'll want to kill you.”

Baptiste grabbed him by the shoulders. Sweat ran off his face, and the dark comma of hair hanging over his eyes made him look just as crazy as Jean-Marie said he was.

“You're not listening to me. She loves me! What do you think Bonaventure is going to do, huh? If he hurts me, she will make his life unbearable.”

“What does give a shit if his daughter yells at him? He's a gangster.”

But Baptiste was not listening. “What do you think about a merger, Jean-Mar'? Rocco Bonaventure's Air Laos and our little Wattay Air? Bonaventure is getting to be an old man. He'll want someone to take over his business, a clever son-in-law to keep his daughter in the proper manner, huh?'

“That's what this is about? You want to marry her?'

Baptiste grinned and patted him on the shoulder. Trust me, Jean-Mar. I'm going to make us rich! Now let's load the rest of this mud and get back in the air before we get rained in!'

***

Rocco Bonaventure was breakfasting on black coffee, croissants and a papaya with lime juice. A copy of the French language edition of
Lao Presse
lay open on the linen tablecloth in front of him. His right hand was heavily bandaged.

He looked up as Noelle joined him on the balcony. “If there's one thing I still can't get used to after all these years in Indochina, it's not having fresh milk for my morning coffee.”

Noelle sat down. Bonaventure studied his daughter anew in the light of last night's revelations. She looked pale and fretful. Good. “What's the matter,
chèrie
? Is there something wrong?'

“I have to talk to you about something.”

So. She had decided to confess.

“It concerns a certain ... gentleman.”

“A gentleman? Not Monsieur Crocé then?'

“You know?'

“Vientiane is a small town."

“Why didn't you say anything before?'

“I was waiting for you to tell me. I am glad we have no secrets. That's comforting to know. Perhaps you had better tell me what's been going on.”

***

How much should I tell him? Noelle wondered. Nothing about that first night almost six week ago. She would never forget that for the rest of her life. It had hurt more than she had expected, but when a woman loses her virginity she wants it to be special but she doubted if many women had made love to a man for the first time on a moonlit night among the ruins of an ancient temple, with a man as handsome and as gentle as Baptiste Crocé. She didn't care if it was a sin. She would gladly do it all again.

Well, I did, she thought with a wry smile.

“Something amuses you?' he asked her.

“I think I love him, papa.”

“Love him,” Bonaventure mused. “Love. How long did you say you have known this man?'

“Does it matter?'

“It depends what you intend to do about this ... love.”

“I want to marry him.”

“Well then, perhaps it does matter. Especially if you want the marriage to last longer than a week. Does he want to marry you?'

“Yes.”

“He has asked you?'

“Yes, he has.”

“When did this begin?'

“When you were in Saigon.”

“And you have been continuing this liaison since then, behind my back? How?'

“Sometimes ... at night.”

“While I thought you were here, asleep?'

“You go out most nights. Papa, it's not difficult.”

“No, of course not. It's called breaking a trust. That is never a difficult thing to do. It's keeping a trust that is hard. But you wouldn't know about that.”

She thought he would rage and throw things but he seemed preternaturally calm.

“What could I do? I have my own life to live.”

“Of course. Except when you live it your own way and get into trouble, I wonder who you will go to for help?'

“Papa, I'm serious about this.”

Bonaventure threw down his napkin. “So am I.”

“I know what you think about him. But what were you like when you were younger? Were you a choirboy? Give him a chance. Bad boys make the best men.”