The Weight of Quiet Things
The Weight of Quiet Things
Đà Lạt, Vietnam, French Indochina, 1950
Thạch
As if a blanket of clouds had suddenly fallen from the heavens above, the morning fog clung to the pine trees with a frigid breath, and it sent a shudder down Nguyễn Hoàng Thạch’s spine as he stepped down from the back of the cargo hold alongside his fellow servants. The air was sharp and damp, burning the backs of their throats as they clustered together for warmth, and the gravel beneath their feet gave way with a crunch that echoed, loud and jarring, through the hush of the forest.
Throughout the long and arduous journey from Hà Nội, Thạch and his companions had been surrounded by the Phan family’s many possessions—trunks lined with silk and filled to the brim with suits and dresses, crates that reeked of camphor wood and varnish, and an endless array of lacquered screens and furniture once arranged carefully within the family’s private rooms. With every turn in the road, something would shift or slide, and more than once, a corner of wood or the edge of brass had struck him across the arm or shoulder. Now, as he glanced down at the dark blotches blooming along his skin—purple and brown, like ink seeping into damp paper—Thạch had to admit it was truly painful. But none of them dared cry out or complain. It was not their place. It was their duty to endure in silence.
Flanked on either side by overgrown hydrangea bushes, the villa’s silhouette emerged slowly through the mist as Thạch and the others pressed forward, and it seemed to let out a sigh of relief, welcoming back its cherished inhabitants. For the most part, it stood as it had before—but as Thạch’s eyes swept across the exterior, the traces of absence were plain to see.
The sloped red-tiled roof, European in style, was still intact, much to his relief. But the once-immaculate white walls had begun to dull, streaked in places with moss where rain had carved its course. The wrought-iron gate let out an audible creak as it swung open, the first sound in an otherwise silent return, and faint rust flaked from its joints like dried petals. Yet it was the shutters that caught Thạch’s attention. Madame Phan had chosen their bright teal color herself, drawn to its resemblance to the Parisian apartments she so adored. Now, a year since the villa had last been lived in, the paint had softened and lost its luster. At the corners, the wood had begun to swell and peel—not ruined, not beyond repair, but weather-worn.
This villa was one of several retreats the Phan family used to escape the oppressive Hà Nội summers, but Madame Phan had always favored this one. Her childhood home was just five minutes away, and she had pleaded with Monsieur Phan to relocate the family here. Thạch, like the other servants, had noticed a shift in the household—Monsieur and Madame both on edge, though she bore it more openly. It had taken weeks of quiet persistence before Monsieur Phan finally relented. The main house in Hà Nội was a treasure, after all, and he had little interest in leaving it behind. He was fond of wine and chatter, and the notion of fleeing a conflict still distant from the city’s tree-lined boulevards seemed, to him, unnecessarily dramatic.
As Thạch assisted the others with lifting the heavy furniture and arranging it to the family’s liking, he could feel their gazes drifting toward them now and then—brief flickers of scrutiny he knew better than to meet. Beneath the shade of the wooden gazebo, the family lounged with cups of coffee and half-eaten French pastries, their voices rising and falling in languid conversation. When Thạch risked a glance, he noticed one chair sat empty.
He didn’t have time to wonder why.
Had he not stepped back just in time, he would have collided with the young master, who now stood barely a meter away—silent, expression unreadable, watching him with the faintest tilt of his head.
The young master was given the name of Hữu Trí at his birth, a beautiful name in itself, but it was much too native for the likes of the Phan family, and so he much rather preferred to be called by his baptismal name of Gioan. Like many progeny of the aristocracy, his frame was slender, slightly delicate, with a natural upright posture that had long since been drilled into him by tutors and governesses. He carried himself with quiet discipline—chin level, shoulders relaxed, and arms resting lightly at his sides as if he were perpetually on the verge of stepping into a portrait.
Master Gioan had a rather serene face, the kind shaped by a life of privilege and soft expectations—but there was a quiet severity in the near-perfect symmetry of his features. His brow, clean and well-defined, often settled low in thought, lending him a contemplative air. His nose, straight and narrow, only added to the impression of refinement. His lips, neither too full nor too thin, remained unreadable, rarely betraying what stirred beneath the surface. And his eyes—dark, almond-shaped—only deepened this restraint, appearing like two still brown pools, calm and without a ripple.
Though born in a land of heat and dust, his skin was pale and unblemished, like fine porcelain untouched by the sun. In the morning light, it seemed to hold a gentle glow, catching along the high planes of his cheekbones and softening the starkness of his gaze. Thạch would never voice it aloud, but he found the master handsome—so finely composed that he reminded him of the art pieces collected by the Phan family over the years: beautiful, distant, and carefully placed.
Unlike Monsieur Phan, who was dressed in a full suit despite the humidity, the young master appeared in simpler attire: an eggshell-colored shirt tucked neatly into high-waisted trousers the color of coffee. His hair had grown slightly during the long journey, now curling gently at the nape of his neck and around his ears. Still, he had combed it with care and parted it to the right, in a style borrowed from the West. A few loose strands clung to his temple, softening the elegant angles of his face. In one hand, he held a French novel, though it now hung forgotten at his side. Thạch assumed he had wandered across the lawn absentmindedly, the way he often paced through his private study. But the young master was no longer absorbed in words—his gaze had landed on Thạch, and lingered there a moment too long.
Thạch bowed his head at once, eyes fixed on the grass between them. “Forgive me, Master Gioan. I wasn’t paying attention. Please… don’t strike me. It was an accident.” He knew—deep down—that Master Gioan would never raise a hand against him. But others might. Others had.
Master Gioan gave a small nod before speaking, his voice calm and precise “Please make sure my room is ready by the afternoon. I’d like to bathe and take a siesta.” Without waiting for a reply, he resumed his slow pacing, the book once more lifted in his hand.
Thạch let out a quiet breath of relief. Neither Monsieur nor Madame Phan seemed to have noticed his mistake. Without wasting another moment, he turned to the young master’s belongings, prioritizing their careful arrangement. He worked with practiced efficiency, gently unpacking the volumes of French novels and philosophical treatises that Master Gioan favored. As he reached for a leather-bound edition of Camus, another pair of hands joined his—slender, steady, and unhurried. He looked up and met Mai Hương’s gaze. She was already at work, her movements calm and assured, and she wore a soft smile that, for a brief moment, eased the tightness in his chest.
Hà Nội had always been a place Thạch lived, but never truly called home. Though he had spent most of his life there, it remained strange to him—too rigid, too cold in its manner. Unlike Mai Hương, who was born and raised a Northerner, Thạch came from the deep South, from the mangroves and floating markets of Vĩnh Long. He had journeyed north with his mother long ago, in search of work and steadier fortune. Together, they clung to their southern ways as best they could—speaking in familiar cadences, cooking the food of home, and finding quiet kinship among other Southern servants who shared the same ache of displacement. In time, they formed a kind of bubble within the servants’ quarters, a little world of warmth amid the formality. But after his mother passed, that world receded. Thạch had to adapt. And it was Mai Hương who guided him—patiently, gently—into the customs and rhythms of the North.
Despite being several years his junior, Mai Hương carried herself with the quiet composure of someone far older—someone who had already lived through too much. And yet, by some misfortune, she remained under Thạch’s supervision. It wasn’t due to any lack of competence; far from it. But Madame Phan, who favored Thạch for reasons he never fully understood, had simply failed to recognize Mai Hương’s true potential. With her large, doe-like eyes that lent her a permanently wistful air, and a small, delicate frame that suggested fragility, she gave off the impression of someone in need of protection. But Thạch suspected otherwise. He believed she was clever—perhaps even sharper than himself—and that her meekness was a kind of armor, a performance meant to keep her safe.
Whatever the truth, he knew he wouldn’t have come this far without her. Her steady presence, her quiet guidance, and her small acts of kindness felt—at times—like a gift from the Buddha himself. Among the other servants, she was the only one he trusted fully. His confidant. His anchor.
“Did Master Gioan say where to put these?” Mai Hương’s voice was soft, barely more than a whisper—meant for Thạch alone, not for the echoing walls or curious ears beyond.
Thạch shook his head. “No, but he usually likes his armchair and desk facing the window. I figured he’d want the bookshelves along the side walls, so I had them brought up first.”
Mai Hương glanced around the half-furnished room, then gave a small nod. “I suppose you do know him best.” She shivered slightly and drew her arms tighter around herself. “When they said we were going south, I never imagined it would be this cold. Everything here feels… strange.”
After several quiet minutes of arranging, they sent Gioan’s books upstairs with another servant, then stepped inside to monitor the rest of the progress. The once bare-boned, spartan villa was beginning to show signs of life—rugs unfurled across the wooden floors, lace curtains shaking off their folds, chairs no longer wrapped in dust cloth.
Thạch moved room to room with a practiced eye, making small adjustments: shifting a vase slightly left, smoothing out a wrinkle in the young master’s coverlet, straightening the alignment of a picture frame. Once satisfied, he made his way to the kitchen to boil water for Master Gioan’s bath. Through the downstairs window, he spotted Madame and Monsieur Phan standing in the courtyard, watching the last of their belongings being carried in with visible impatience. The Monsieur was tapping his foot, arms crossed tightly. Neither of them had ever been known for their patience—but they could be appeased. Without missing a beat, Thạch and another servant swiftly assembled a tray of tea and galettes, knowing well that small comforts often softened sharp tempers. Thạch gave Mai Hương a small nod, then gestured toward the empty washbasin. Without a word, she understood, and together they moved quickly toward the gazebo to collect the used china from earlier.
Madame and Monsieur Phan were just beginning to descend the gazebo steps when Thạch and Mai Hương arrived. With a deep bow, Thạch stepped forward and placed the tea tray carefully on the table, while Mai Hương moved swiftly to gather the used china with practiced ease.
“Forgive us, Madame, Monsieur,” Thạch said gently. “The arrangements are nearly complete—I apologize for the delay. Please enjoy some tea and galettes in the meantime to tide you over.”
Thạch heard the Monsieur grunt softly in impatience, but it was the Madame who spoke first:
“Thạch, have you at least arranged the bedrooms? Surely you know by now—we need our rest.”
“Yes, Madame,” he replied, bowing slightly. “I made sure the bedrooms were made up first. We’re just waiting for the floors to dry.”
He caught Mai Hương glancing back at him over her shoulder before disappearing into the house. Her gaze lingered—just enough to unsettle him.
Then the Monsieur spoke: “Put new sheets and pillows in the guestroom as well.”
A dull ache crept into Thạch’s chest. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully.“Will the Monsieur and Madame be hosting guests?”
“We are hosting the Chef de Bataillon,” the Monsieur snapped. “Make sure the sheets are pressed and fragrant.”
“Yes, Monsieur,” Thạch said softly, bowing once more. He could already feel the tension coil through his spine.
“Thạch?” He turned at the sound of his name. Master Gioan stood at the base of the gazebo steps, one hand resting lightly on the railing.“Have you prepared the water for my bath?”
Thạch bowed his head. “Yes, Master. The water is ready.”He hesitated before adding, “If the master is able to wait a little longer, I will draw it for you after I finish arranging the guestroom.”
Master Gioan nodded “I will go wait in my room then, fetch me when the water is ready.”
“I won’t keep you waiting long, Master. Shall I walk you back?”
Master Gioan said little as the two walked back toward the villa, but Thạch could feel the master’s gaze on him from time to time. As they stepped into the foyer, Master Gioan gave a quiet nod before ascending the stairs to his chambers. From across the hall, Mai Hương glanced up from where she was dusting the last specks from the mantels, and Thạch offered her a brief, reassuring look before hurrying off toward the kitchen.
Fortunately, the water he had set to heat earlier on the brazier was still steaming. Lifting the pot carefully, Thạch made his way upstairs and placed it near the porcelain tub in Master Gioan’s bathroom. Without lingering, he rushed to the guest room in the opposite wing, where Mai Hương joined him moments later. Together, they stripped the bed of the sheets they had so carefully laid earlier. But Thạch knew that the Monsieur and Madame would beat him mercilessly if he failed to use the most luxurious set in the house—linens reserved only for their most honored guests. Though he had said nothing to Mai Hương about who was expected that evening, he could tell by the way she took extra care to smooth out the wrinkles that she already knew. Her hands moved with quiet urgency, and Thạch could feel her unease mirroring his own.
When Thạch was a boy, his mother once told him the story of Thiên Ma—the demon who tried to lead the Buddha astray from the path of enlightenment, the embodiment of desire, illusion, and lust. Monsieur Maxence Cazeneuve had long been a trusted friend of both Madame and Monsieur Phan, and in their presence, he presented himself with all the manners and elegance of a refined French gentleman. But to Thạch, he was Thiên Ma in all but form—a being cloaked in charm, yet steeped in something far more dangerous.
Thạch could recall too many moments when he felt Monsieur Cazeneuve’s eyes trailing him like a tiger stalking prey. With each visit, the Frenchman grew bolder—no longer content to merely watch. Sometimes, he would grip Thạch’s wrist too tightly when being served coffee, his fingers lingering a second too long. Other times, when the others were distracted in conversation, he dared to press a hand against Thạch’s thigh beneath the table, a silent violation masked behind a polished smile. There was no room to refuse. The monsieur could have him beaten, imprisoned, or killed without question. Yet fate, or perhaps mercy, intervened—each time, Mai Hương or another servant would appear just in time, preventing the worst from happening. So far.
Mai Hương’s voice snapped Thạch back to the present. “Are you alright?”
He shook his head faintly. “There’s no changing what’s already been decided.”
She paused, then said gently, “Leave this to me. I’ll finish up here. Go draw the master’s bath.”
Running the tap before emptying the pot of scalding water, Thạch paused and stirred the bath with his hand, wincing at the familiar sting of heat as it lapped between his fingers. Shaking the water off, he retrieved the bottle of bain moussant and poured the jasmine-infused liquid with practiced precision. Within moments, a delicate floral aroma drifted through the tiled chamber, softening the room’s stillness. The water shimmered with gentle foam, and its temperature, he knew, was to the master’s liking.
Thạch found Master Gioan seated at his desk, the same novel from that morning open in his hands. From the record player beside him, a soft voice drifted through the static—barely audible from where Thạch stood. Beneath the crackle, he recognized the delicate lilt of a French chanson. The young master had always been fond of them. For a moment, Thạch let himself admire the quiet intensity of Master Gioan’s face, the way his brow furrowed ever so slightly as he followed the words on the page. Then, sensing his presence, Master Gioan looked up and removed his reading glasses.
“Do you recognize the tune, Thạch?”
He paused, listening through the soft crackle of the record, but still couldn’t place it. “No, master.”
“I’ve played it for you before. Édith Piaf—La Vie en Rose.” Master Gioan stood and gently silenced the record. “It’s quite a sad song. Do you remember the lyrics I taught you?”
“Faintly, master.”
A faint smile touched Gioan’s lips. “Your French is improving. I hope, soon, you’ll understand the song without translation.”
Thạch lowered his gaze to hide the warm flush rising to his cheeks. “I hope so too, master.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “ I didn’t mean to interrupt—but your bath is ready.”
Master Gioan shut his book and looked at Thạch with a strange, unreadable expression. “I can smell the jasmine bain moussant.” He stepped toward him then, eyes softer than usual—softer in that way he reserved only when they were alone. “Thạch, you can lift your head.”
Thạch obeyed, and as their eyes met, he realized just how close the master was standing. There was something in Gioan’s gaze—contemplative, almost hesitant. His lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came. Then, as if thinking better of it, Master Gioan passed by him. “Could you prepare my robe and towel? Hang them on the rack. And let the others know—lunch is to be set.”
What had the master been trying to say? Thạch kept dwelling on it as he hung the robe and towel on the hook, the question looping in his thoughts like a thread without end. For a moment, he lingered by the lacquered wood screen, listening to the quiet shifts of water as Master Gioan settled into the bath.
He had never looked at Thạch that way before.
The only moment that even came close was long ago—when a friend of the Madame, with wine on her breath and a smile too curious, had cupped his chin and remarked how “civilized” and “handsome” an Annamite could be. It wasn’t the words that stayed with him, but the glance Gioan had given afterward—soft, almost aching, but veiled.
What he’d seen just now was different. Unhidden. Thạch shut the door gently behind him, heart still caught between wonder and confusion. Then, just as he passed by the upper windows of the villa, something arrested him.
A Renault was pulling into the courtyard below—sleek, deliberate, and too familiar. He could not make out the occupants, but a cold shiver passed through him. The way the driver held the wheel, the stillness of their posture—it was enough. Even before he could see his face, Thạch felt the aura of malice.
Monsieur Cazeneuve had arrived.
