72 VIOLET KUPERSMITH Patrimony oys weren’t usually sent away to the École until they were at least eight years old. Jean-François was only seven and a half when he went, but large for his age, which was one of the reasons he was permitted to go early. He took after his father, a Khmer originally from the deep sticky reaches of the South, who was tall and broad-shouldered and the rich umber color of a swamp eel. Or at least this was what Auntie Hien, his mother’s housekeeper back in Saigon, had told him. Jean-François had never actually met his father. While the Auffrets had been Catholic enough to keep and raise a mixed bastard, they weren’t as forgiving toward the man who had seduced their daughter and sired the child, and so one day Jean-François’ father was bundled onto a boat headed for Côn So’n Island and was never heard from again. Growing up, the boy had seen his mother regularly. On most afternoons , if he behaved himself, he was allowed into the main house to take tea with her on the grand, blue-tiled balcony, and then at bedtime she would cross the garden to the small quarters he shared with Auntie Hien at the far edge of the compound and give him a papery goodnight kiss on the forehead. But his memories of her had started leaching away almost immediately after he left home, and later, whenever he tried to recall what she looked like, he could only conjure up the haziest of images . It was Auntie Hien whose face would always haunt him with preternatural clarity. For nearly all of the long hours of those Saigon days he had belonged to the housekeeper. She was the one who kept him fed and washed, his toenails trimmed, and his hair parted neatly down the center . The one who scolded him when he threw rocks into the family koi pond, taught him to sleep with a knife beneath his pillow to keep away ghosts, and took care of him when he was sick, which was often. This was the second reason that he was sent to the École young. The boy, despite being tall and strong and rambunctious for his age, frequently suffered b 73 from crippling stomachaches of unknown origin and mysterious fevers that lingered for weeks before clearing up on their own, and the doctors thought the cooler mountain climate of Dalat would be beneficial for his health. Auntie Hien had not wanted him to go. She didn’t trust French doctors and believed that most, if not all, ailments could be cured by either drinking a saucerful of fish sauce or taking a very hot bath, and so whenever his stomach was acting up she would stick him in the tub and scrub him raw. For the rest of his life, Jean-François would have regular nightmares in which Auntie Hien drowned him or the bathwater filled with blood, or fish, or both, or his skin sloughed off with her washcloth, revealing something fibrous and golden and sticky like mango flesh underneath. But the third and most pressing reason for Jean-François’ early enrollment was that by 1942 the old order of Saigon had been upended. France was preoccupied with the war in Europe, the North was starving, and the emperor was off hunting tigers in the highlands. No one was quite sure what the Governor-General was up to, or whether they should be more afraid of the Japanese or the Viet Minh or the Caodaists. Dalat was safer than the city, and the prescient Auffrets wanted the boy left in the responsible hands of the École should the family need to make a speedy exit from Indochine in the near future. Arrangements were made. A suitcase was packed, and for his going-away present the boy’s mother gave him a boxy leather briefcase bearing his initials in gold, just like the one his grandfather carried. Auntie Hien had rolled her eyes at it, saying that schoolboys carried satchels, not briefcases, and that he would be made fun of...
Read full abstract