cascaded past her shoulders. The profession of faith, which Le Xuan read aloud, proclaimed her new belief in God, his son Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit, and the church and all its sacraments. Three timesâat the mention of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spiritâthe priest poured water on Le Xuanâs forehead, signaling a washing away of her sins. Then Le Xuan received her baptismal name. They chose Lucy, after St. Lucia, the patron saint of the blind. A Christian among pagans, Lucy had chosen to remain a virgin and clawed her eyes out instead of marrying a pagan suitor. Le Xuanâs most beautiful features, her liquid eyes, stayed open during the ceremony, newly vigilant to the senses she most had to guard againstâsensuality, pride, and vanity.
Sometime before the ceremony and behind closed doors, the groomâs family had paid a thach cuoi, a bride-price, to Le Xuanâs family. Traditionally, the payment acknowledged the loss of the bride to her family and monetized the forfeit of her labor. The fact that the Chuongs were an urban, rich family changed nothing about the custom. The Ngos may have paid entirely in cash or included practical items: cloth, jewels, meat, and tea. The bride-price for Le Xuan was determined by the status of her family, and thanks to their shifting allegiances, the Chuongsâ status was still very good indeed in Japanese-occupied Hanoi.
The Chuongsâ garden was transformed into a lavish oasis for the wedding reception after the full mass. The early May air was fragrant, full of blooming lilies and aromatic frangipani. Women flaunted their rationed silk and cosmetics. Some might have pulled their formal attire from careful storage, preserved in tissue from the era of carefree partiesâbefore the mess of war. Others dressed in obvious contraband: women who knew the right men sported the latest fashions.
Wartime privation had not yet stemmed the Chuongsâ supply of French champagne. It flowed into the clinking goblets of the guests, who were, as Madame Nhu would recall wistfully, the âtout Hanoiââall of Hanoi who mattered, that is.
All eyes were on the eighteen-year-old bride when she entered the garden. In Le Xuanâs official bridal portrait, taken on her wedding day, her features are composed and serious. Her hands are clasped in front of her but hidden from the camera under the wide sleeves of a traditional robe. The expanse of red silk is embroidered with Chinese symbols of double happiness and dotted with exquisitely detailed blossoms. Bands of imperial yellow follow along the neck and sleeves, a style befitting the daughter of a royal princess. Around her neck hangs a heavy medallion of the finest jade; matching rosettes adorn her ears. A heavy black turban sits back on her head. Underneath, her hair is parted severely down the center and wound tightly around her head. Le Xuanâs eyes are lightly kohled and her eyebrows painted on carefully. Her lips are stained, and her cheeks are powdered. She looks like a china doll that might crack if she dares to smile, but a powerful marital alliance of this kind was a serious matter. Le Xuan had assumed her new role impeccably. From now on, she would be Madame Nhu.
CHAPTER 5
Long-Distance Phone Call
M ONTHS WENT BY. I HAD SENT MADAME NHU more polite letters, reintroducing myself and giving her my background. âI want to tell your story,â I wrote. My mind churned through an endless list of possibilities to explain why she wasnât answering me. What if Madame Nhu was not as grateful as I assumed she would be for the attention? Maybe she didnât even know she was the Dragon Lady.
I daydreamed about what our first conversation would be like. I saw myself flying to France, sitting on her crushed-velvet divan, chatting over a porcelain cup of tea and sweet peppermint candies . . . but it was taking more and more energy to pin my hopes to the same starting place everyday. I
Sometime before the ceremony and behind closed doors, the groomâs family had paid a thach cuoi, a bride-price, to Le Xuanâs family. Traditionally, the payment acknowledged the loss of the bride to her family and monetized the forfeit of her labor. The fact that the Chuongs were an urban, rich family changed nothing about the custom. The Ngos may have paid entirely in cash or included practical items: cloth, jewels, meat, and tea. The bride-price for Le Xuan was determined by the status of her family, and thanks to their shifting allegiances, the Chuongsâ status was still very good indeed in Japanese-occupied Hanoi.
The Chuongsâ garden was transformed into a lavish oasis for the wedding reception after the full mass. The early May air was fragrant, full of blooming lilies and aromatic frangipani. Women flaunted their rationed silk and cosmetics. Some might have pulled their formal attire from careful storage, preserved in tissue from the era of carefree partiesâbefore the mess of war. Others dressed in obvious contraband: women who knew the right men sported the latest fashions.
Wartime privation had not yet stemmed the Chuongsâ supply of French champagne. It flowed into the clinking goblets of the guests, who were, as Madame Nhu would recall wistfully, the âtout Hanoiââall of Hanoi who mattered, that is.
All eyes were on the eighteen-year-old bride when she entered the garden. In Le Xuanâs official bridal portrait, taken on her wedding day, her features are composed and serious. Her hands are clasped in front of her but hidden from the camera under the wide sleeves of a traditional robe. The expanse of red silk is embroidered with Chinese symbols of double happiness and dotted with exquisitely detailed blossoms. Bands of imperial yellow follow along the neck and sleeves, a style befitting the daughter of a royal princess. Around her neck hangs a heavy medallion of the finest jade; matching rosettes adorn her ears. A heavy black turban sits back on her head. Underneath, her hair is parted severely down the center and wound tightly around her head. Le Xuanâs eyes are lightly kohled and her eyebrows painted on carefully. Her lips are stained, and her cheeks are powdered. She looks like a china doll that might crack if she dares to smile, but a powerful marital alliance of this kind was a serious matter. Le Xuan had assumed her new role impeccably. From now on, she would be Madame Nhu.
CHAPTER 5
Long-Distance Phone Call
M ONTHS WENT BY. I HAD SENT MADAME NHU more polite letters, reintroducing myself and giving her my background. âI want to tell your story,â I wrote. My mind churned through an endless list of possibilities to explain why she wasnât answering me. What if Madame Nhu was not as grateful as I assumed she would be for the attention? Maybe she didnât even know she was the Dragon Lady.
I daydreamed about what our first conversation would be like. I saw myself flying to France, sitting on her crushed-velvet divan, chatting over a porcelain cup of tea and sweet peppermint candies . . . but it was taking more and more energy to pin my hopes to the same starting place everyday. I
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