I stumbled down the hall, finding refuge in the shadows of the foyer, as tears of disbelief and anger filled my eyes. How could the director mislead me all these years, only to dismiss my desire to learn about my parents with such indifference, more so impatience, as if my past was of little consequence? There was no reason to refuse showing me my file unless he was hiding something. I would not let him stop me from uncovering my story.
Wiping tears on my shirt sleeve, I followed the sound of music drifting from the salon. I found Bridgette and our friends, Madeleine and Lucienne, kicking up their heels, mimicking Mademoiselle Courbet as she did a two-step to a lively recording of piano and saxophone on the Victrola. Mademoiselle waved for me to join them. She dipped forward, her finger-waved hair falling in a white-blonde curtain across her face, then twirled around as her skirt lifted, revealing her shapely legs.
We all adored Mademoiselle Courbet, with her striking beauty and chic sense of fashion. She taught French literature and grammar at our private French lycée, while the orphanage engaged her as a tutor and instructor of comportment. She was the only adult we knew who liked to laugh and have fun, who treated us with respect and listened to our worries. She had saved me from the ire of the director and Maîtresse on more than one occasion.
Bridgette raced over and grabbed my hand, pulling me next to her. “Come. It’s the latest thing.”
I attempted to follow the quick movements, similar to the Charleston, which everyone adored. Soon giggles overcame me, easing the profound disappointment weighing on my heart.
When the song ended, Mademoiselle Courbet stepped over to the Victrola to lift up the needle. “How do you like it, girls?” she called over her shoulder.
“Wonderful,” Madeleine cried out.
“It’s called the ‘Black Bottom Stomp.’” Mademoiselle chuckled. “By Jelly Roll Morton and the Red Hot Peppers. Imagine these names. The Americans are very droll, don’t you find?”
Lucienne clapped her hands. “Let’s do it again.”
Mademoiselle replaced the needle, and we began our enthusiastic gyrations once more. This time I fell into the rhythm effortlessly, lifting my skirt above my knees, kicking up my legs, releasing my anger.
The salon door burst open. Maîtresse Durand stood in the entrance glaring at us, her broad shoulders pulled back straighter than ever. Everything about Maîtresse was drab, from her limp hair streaked with gray and pulled into a tight bun, to her pasty skin and dark circles under her eyes. She appeared permanently unhappy, as if sentenced to a life of mediocrity and disappointment.
Mademoiselle Courbet raced to stop the music.
“What is the meaning of this?” Maîtresse demanded in a high, reedy voice.
Mademoiselle laughed and waved a hand through the air. “We’re only having a bit of fun. I’m teaching the girls the latest rage from America. This crazy dance traveled all the way across the oceans to the edge of civilization here in Laos.” She winked at us.
Maîtresse Durand’s face flushed a deep red. “We are not running a Paris dance hall, mademoiselle. Have you forgotten they have final exams tomorrow?” Her gaze fell on us. “Girls, go upstairs at once and study.” She turned on her heel and left, slamming the door behind her.
Mademoiselle sighed. “I’m so sorry, mes chéries. She’s right, you must study and get excellent scores on your exams. We’ll try another day.”
Bridgette and I retreated to our bedroom, which we had occupied since turning fifteen. Two single cots, a nightstand, and a small dresser packed the tiny space, leaving barely enough room to move about. Our few clothes and a single towel each hung from hooks along the walls. The only decorations were a wooden crucifix and a faded print of Botticelli’s Madonna and Baby. Yet for Bridgette and me, the room represented the ultimate luxury, our own private retreat, after years of sleeping on bunkbeds in the dormitory that sheltered up to twenty other young girls.
“Unfortunately, we must study, or we’ll never get scholarships to a university next year,” I said. In truth, however, I was not worried for myself as learning came easily, and I always earned high marks. My sixth-year teacher, Monsieur Macron, said I absorbed knowledge the way the earth sucks up rain and sunshine. But Bridgette struggled, and it was only with my help that she managed to pass. “We can review biology together.”
“Okay,” she reluctantly agreed. “But first, tell me about your meeting with Director Bernard. What did he say about your parents?”
I plopped down on the bed with a loud sigh, repeating my conversation with the director and his denial of having any information. The anger formed a knot at the top of my neck. “I know he’s lying, because he has a folder with my name on it that’s filled with papers. When I asked to see it, he refused, claiming it’s confidential. How can my information be confidential?”
“That’s insane.”
“Then he acted all friendly and said I could call on him if ever I needed anything. As if I would.”
“He’s so disgusting,” she said.
“He can’t possibly understand what it’s like to not know about your past, to not have any roots.”
“Sometimes I think it would be better if I didn’t know.” Bridgette’s voice fell to a whisper. “Then I could imagine a kinder father who loved me.”
Bridgette’s story was not unlike many of the girls in the orphanage. She had arrived at the home the year we both turned eight. Her French father had drifted in and out of her mother’s life, as his post in the military took him back and forth between Vientiane and remote stations in the provinces. She remembered two versions of this man from her early years—the one who arrived for a visit full of smiles and affection, sometimes a small gift; and the one who drank excessively, becoming angry and abusive, screaming at her mother and sometimes little Bridgette. Her mother’s prominent Lao family had disowned them, ashamed of the affair and a métisse child born out of wedlock. They’d had to exist on the wages her mother earned cleaning houses, along with occasional contributions from her father.
Shortly after Bridgette turned seven, her father returned to France, promising to send money and come back to them, but they never heard another word. Her mother died of typhoid fever the following year, and an aunt she had never met before deposited Bridgette at the orphanage. It was a tragic story, but a lucky outcome for me. We had become inseparable.
I often wondered if my father had been the same, mistreating and abandoning my mother and me. I had vague recollections and faint images of my mother, like a dream you struggle to recall when awakened from a deep sleep. I could picture her sewing late into the night by a kerosene lamp or wrapping her arms around me as we slept on a mat on the floor. I didn’t have the slightest memory of my father.
“Even if my past is unhappy, I must know,” I said at last. “I can’t feel complete until I do.”
“We must”—Bridgette hesitated—“we must retrieve your file from the director’s office tonight. It’s right there for the taking.”
My mouth dropped open. “Break into his office and steal it?” I could barely utter the words. My friend, who always followed the rules, had never suggested anything so bold in her life.
“You can read the file and put it back without him ever finding out. He has no right to keep it from you, Vivi.”
I blinked several times as my mind embraced the idea. “What if we get caught?”
“What can he do to you when you’re leaving on Saturday?”
“But you’ll still be here. I should go alone.”
“Let me keep a lookout for Maîtresse, at least.” She shrugged. “You’d do the same for me.”
The clock in the entry hall downstairs struck eleven. An hour earlier, Maîtresse Durand had come upstairs for bed. We waited.
Bridgette toyed with the ruffle on her nightgown sleeve. “Take a look.”
Trying to ignore the fear tunneling down my middle, I peeked into the hall. Maîtresse had extinguished her lights, and everything was quiet. Bridgette and I tiptoed along the hall and felt our way down the dark stairwell, clinging to the railing. If anyone caught us, we’d plead hunger and a trip to the kitchen. While it was strictly forbidden to take food in between meals, it was a lesser offense than what we planned. The floor planks in the entry groaned under our weight, as if urging us to turn back. To my surprise, the door of Director Bernard’s office was open.
“Stay here and watch for Maîtresse,” I whispered.
Bridgette’s eyes grew wide. “I’m afraid.”
“Come, then.” I groped my way to the desk and turned on the small lamp, my trembling fingers barely able to grasp the switch. I searched for the file cabinet key, but it was no longer there.
I knelt by the cabinet drawer and pulled a hairpin from my pocket, working the lock with one side of the metal, twisting and turning until it gave way with a small click.
Bridgette let out a whoosh of air. “Bravo.”
When I slid the drawer open, the smell of musty air and wood shavings fanned over our faces. The alphabetical files were stuffed with crackling, yellowed papers. I lifted the one marked Geneviève Dubois and started as a wood beetle scurried from the pages onto the floor and disappeared under the cabinet. Placing the file on the desk under the light, I opened the cover as Bridgette peered over my shoulder. The inside page read:
Geneviève Dubois (Lao given name Sakuna)—born May 16, 1913, in Luang Prabang. Arrived at Société d’assistance aux Métis, Maison Pour Filles Abandonnée, Vientiane, May 18, 1917.
“Sakuna—what a pretty name,” Bridgette murmured.
Miscellaneous papers recorded health checkups with my height, weight, and illnesses across the years, as well as school grades and annual evaluations. I scanned several progress reports and comments from teachers, Maîtresse Durand, and Director Bernard:
February 20, 1920—Geneviève is a bright and able child but often challenges authority. She must learn to focus her energy on her studies and accept her place in life. She still yearns for her mother and often cries herself to sleep.
March 19, 1924—Geneviève is a difficult child, asking endless questions, particularly about the orphanage and her past. It becomes quite exhausting. She must ground herself in the present.
September 4, 1928—While a diligent student with top marks, Geneviève is proving to be a troublesome young woman who leads other girls astray, fomenting open rebellion against school and orphanage rules. She must conduct herself in a proper manner.
Bridgette giggled. “Naughty Vivi. I should add my own comment: the most loyal friend and dearest person. They know nothing of you.”
I smiled. “None of it matters.” I thumbed through to the last page and found an official intake form stapled on the back cover.
French father—Henri Dubois, worked in Luang Prabang 1910–1915. Returned to France.
Lao mother—Laya of Luang Prabang (last name unknown).
Twin brother—Antoine Dubois (Lao given name Vinya)—delivered to the Société d’assistance aux Métis in Pakse in May 1917.
The final line sent me reeling back, clutching at Bridgette’s arm. I slowly shook my head. “Impossible. How could I forget a twin brother?” I remembered living in a tiny wooden house with my mother, listening to the deafening roar of rain pounding on the tin roof, cooking on a fire outside, and Mother’s tears in the night. There was no trace of a brother.
“I knew he lied.” My voice shook. “He looked me in the eyes and lied about everything.”
Floorboards creaked above us. I stood rooted to the floor, numb, my mind racing.
Bridgette grabbed a scrap of paper and a pen from the desk drawer and copied down the information. “We have to get back to our room.” She stuffed the paper up her nightgown sleeve.
I recovered enough to straighten the file and place it back in the cabinet. My hands shook so violently that I couldn’t get the drawer to lock.
“Leave it,” Bridgette said, grabbing my arm and pulling me up.
Steps pounded down the hall and the door flew open. Maîtresse Durand shined a flashlight on us. “This time you’ve gone too far, mademoiselles.”