The Harvest of Lies: An Athanate Novel of Nineteenth Century Saigon (Bian's Tale Book 1) by Mark Henwick

Author:Mark Henwick [Henwick, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Marque
Published: 2018-05-25T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

It was the day the Victorieuse departed. It was early; another pre-dawn gathering of mist dragons slid off the Saigon river as the sun turned the eastern sky pink. Taller quayside buildings began to glow as the light caught them, but it still felt chill and dark beneath the imposing ironclad bulk of the corvette. The navy ship loomed alongside the Quai de la Marine, tall and indifferent to the petty concerns of the people gathered before it.

I didn’t care how it looked or how brave I’d been before; I clung onto Papa and Maman.

I’d never had the chance to hug my birth parents, to tell them how much I loved them. And yet I was finding no comfort in this parting embrace.

Don’t go. Not yet. Just a little more time, a little more.

I felt sick and numb at the same time. My heart was pounding so hard, I could feel it in my throat, but Maman said I looked so pale.

Time was running out.

They’d carried ex-Governor Laurent aboard on a stretcher an hour ago. In the gaslit darkness, he’d looked exhausted, struggling to acknowledge farewells.

The Gosselins were ready to go aboard. Monsieur Gosselin looked utterly bewildered and lost. Taking him away from the place he loved seemed to have exactly the wrong effect. Madame Gosselin rushed around for both of them, making sure everything was in place, that she’d said goodbyes to all their friends.

“I’ll write,” Manon said through her tears, still hugging me as her mother plucked at her sleeve. “I’ll write every week.”

“You won’t,” I said. “But try to write every month. I will treasure each word.”

And I would. Letters from Manon would be hopelessly tangled with her exuberance and so precious to me.

The family made their way carefully up the wobbling walkway onto the deck. Their former servants clustered on the quay and waved, some of them crying.

Then, finally, there was just Papa, Maman and me in the shadow of the Victorieuse.

The Fontaudins had bid their farewells to my parents and left us to our grief in private. Madame Fontaudin had needed to rest her hip, so they sat and waited for me outside one of the cafes on the Ronde.

Maman had been right about the majority of our friends in Saigon; few of them had come to say farewell. The Champins did. A half-dozen others. But now that they had all gone, there was one final friend: Monsieur Song and his daughter, Qingzhao, approached.

We exchanged formal bows and greetings with the Songs. Then Song offered Papa his hand to shake in the Western manner.

“I am most upset at this parting,” he said seriously, as he and Papa shook. “I am even more upset at the behavior of this new regime. Hurry back, my friend. Saigon needs you.”

There was silence for a minute. Whatever Papa might say privately, it was shocking to hear the opinion said openly by my tutor, and yet it was true. Whatever the reasons for the lieutenant governor’s actions, perhaps to ‘put his stamp’ on the new administration, he had damaged so many things in such a short time.

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