Free The Silk Merchant's Daughter by Dinah Jefferies

the painting now completed, the shop was open and she could concentrate on her customers instead of worrying about what he was doing.
    O-Lan was in the little kitchen at the back of the shop brewing the coffee, and as Nicole slipped through the dark rooms to the brighter sunshine of the courtyard, the aroma of sweet hot milk drifted out.
    A few minutes later O-Lan came out carrying two mugs.
    ‘Here we are.’
    Nicole passed the paper bag of tiny cakes she’d bought from Yvette’s father, Yves, and O-Lan picked out two.
    They sat on the low wall around the well in companionable silence, enjoying the warmth. A trace of mint laced the air and a dusty yellow haze hung over the surrounding rooftops. Thestart of the day, when many of the inhabitants of the ancient quarter were still lost in their dreams, was special.
    As they sat, O-Lan began to sing a haunting Vietnamese song, unlike anything Nicole had heard before. O-Lan had a most unusual singing voice and Nicole was impressed.
    ‘What is that?’ she asked when the girl had finished.
    ‘Vietnamese folk music. There are many kinds. Do you like it?’
    ‘It’s different from French singing. Could you teach me?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘If you have time, shall we have a go now? I don’t have to open up yet.’
    They went to the room above the shop where they stood as far from the open window as they could. It took a while for Nicole to get the hang of the sharp brittle sounds, and she was worried people might laugh. But, without her knowing, some of the locals had gathered outside to lean against the wall and listen. She only realized they were there when, at the end of the session, a round of applause reached them from the street.
    The next day Jerry phoned her at the shop to say she had been given a part in his show at Les Variétés. At first a feeling of euphoria washed through her, but then she realized she would have to tell her father and Sylvie about her role in the show. She’d never be able to get to rehearsals without them noticing her absence. She glanced up at clouds of whipped cream melting into patches of blue, though in the near distance a heavier sky indicated rain. With her eye on some delicious-looking caramelized corn on the other side of the street, she closed the shop early and went to see if O-Lan might join her. Across the street the man who roasted corn attempted to light a cigarette with his hands cupping the flame. The wind gusted and he tried again. A bent old woman passed by, her papery skindeeply wrinkled. She smiled at the man and Nicole saw only gums; no teeth at all. A group of young girls came out of a shop, clutching their sides and giggling, each one tiny and exquisite – impossible to imagine the old lady might have once looked like them.
    Nicole found no sign of O-Lan at the till inside her shop, so passed through a pair of carved wooden swing doors and walked into the next room, calling her name. A table, standing in the middle, was decorated with a single lotus blossom arranged in a tiny vase. Stone ornaments and earthenware sat on the side tables and a huge brass four-bladed fan, fixed to the ceiling, slowly spun round. The sheer silk drapes at the windows gently stirred the air.
    Hearing an unusual sound, Nicole walked outside to the courtyard, where swathes of orange flowering creeper hung over O-Lan’s house, the timbered cladding lost beneath it. The moment she stepped out to touch it, rain began to fall. Fast. She glanced at the dark clouds blocking out the sun and took a step back, then stopped to gaze at the solid sheet of water splashing from the overhanging eaves.
    Above the rain she heard another sound, like a cat mewing, but she felt certain this was human. In a side room at the back, attached to a kitchen, she discovered O-Lan’s mother, Kim-Ly; a tiny Vietnamese woman wearing traditional
áo dài
and with her hair scraped back in a bun. The woman, slumped in a chair and ghostly white, looked as if she’d passed on.