Marguerite arrived for dinner on Monday evening and flopped down on the settee in the salon with a loud huff. “I learned today the Resident Superior is leaving, and yet another short-term appointee will begin next week. Why can’t the government find a permanent candidate instead of this string of temporary posts? Every time a new boss arrives, I’m afraid he’ll replace me.”
“Who would dare try?” Catherine said. “You’ve been secretary to the resident superiors for eight years. You run the place.” She handed me a glass of soda water with lime and Marguerite a gin and tonic.
“They hardly acknowledge me.” Marguerite took several gulps of her drink. “But enough of my complaints.” She lifted several pages from her purse and handed one to me. “Here are the addresses and names of those in charge at the Assistance Society in Luang Prabang and the orphanage in Pakse.”
“Thank you.” I stared at the neatly written addresses. “I’ll add them and post my letters tomorrow.” I had spent Sunday afternoon struggling through multiple drafts of my appeals, revising them again that morning to incorporate Catherine’s suggestions. “How long does the mail take to get there?” I asked Marguerite.
She waved her hand through the air. “Delivery is always a gamble in these parts, depending on weather, river conditions, and mechanical problems with the boats, which happen all too frequently. A letter traveling on the mail motorboat might be in Luang Prabang within a week, but it’s as likely to take two weeks. Going south, the regular ferry service from Vientiane to Pakse is only four days, but the ferry only leaves once a week. A friend of mine recently received a letter from Champasak that had been mailed two months ago. Heaven only knows what happened. The unpredictability of the mail is the reason the wire service network is so extensive. It’s essential for people to communicate quickly.”
“I’m sure you’re anxious to hear back, but be patient,” Catherine added. “If too much time passes, you may have to send a second inquiry.”
After finally finding leads to my family, I wanted answers now, yet after fourteen years of waiting, a few more weeks would have to be tolerated.
Marguerite handed me another sheet. “These are the current government job listings designated for French widows and orphans, including the métis, of deceased civil servants. To qualify, you’d need to provide a letter verifying that your French father claimed you as his child and is now deceased.”
“I don’t know anything about my father, except that he went back to France in 1915. He may still be living,” I said. “Only the orphanage could provide that information, and Director Bernard would never help me.”
“I was afraid of that,” Marguerite said. “There are only two openings at the moment, anyway. With the world economy collapsing, budgets have been slashed, and many vacant posts are left unfilled.”
I glanced down at the two listings: dames-lingères. One was at the French guesthouse and the other at Mahasot Hospital. “Laundresses?” I asked, unable to hide the disappointment in my voice.
Marguerite took a sip of her drink. “It’s a broad category. At the guesthouse you’d be supervising the Lao women who do the laundry and cleaning. The opening at the hospital involves overseeing the cooking and distribution of meals.”
“I don’t even know how to cook,” I murmured.
“The advantage is, government salaries are higher paying and more secure.” Marguerite lit a cigarette and blew a thick stream of smoke into the air above her head. “But I can’t see you in these damn jobs. You’d do better applying to local businesses.”
“Aren’t there openings at the telephone exchange or wire service?” Catherine asked. “Vivi could apply on her own as a French woman.”
“Hah!” Marguerite scoffed. “They only hire French woman when forced to by the government. They prefer Annamese workers, who accept a quarter of the salary they pay French employees.”
“Is that true for Lao employees as well?” I asked.
Marguerite crossed her long legs, bobbing her foot back and forth. “They rarely hire any Lao. The government has brought hundreds of Annamese from Tonkin, Anam, and Cochinchina to fill administrative positions. Unlike in Laos, the indigène children in those colonies get a good education. French officials claim the Annamese are better trained and work harder.” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s true. The Lao are very relaxed about life.”
I stared at her with dismay. “But why is the pay so low?”
“Because they can get away with it,” Catherine said. “The government and private businesses exploit the indigènes. French women get higher salaries to accommodate their higher standard of living. It’s terribly unfair.”
“Where does that leave me? Would a private business consider me French or Lao?”
“You must rightfully present yourself as a French citizen and demand a proper salary,” Marguerite said emphatically.
“Do you sew, Vivi?” Catherine asked.
“I’m hopeless with a needle.”
“Can you type?” Marguerite tried. I shook my head. “What about bookkeeping?”
“I had high scores in mathematics.” I perked up, relieved to identify something I excelled in. “But I haven’t any training in accounting.”
“Of course not, you only finished school last week.” Catherine sat forward and patted my arm. “An office job would be best. Certainly you can file papers. Or you could be a clerk at a dry goods store, maybe a dress shop. A French business, of course, since you don’t speak Lao yet. I’ll make a list of places for you to try tomorrow—Bonnet’s Imports, where my father worked, and a number of others.”
“I searched the advertisements in the Vientiane Times today,” I said, “and found a listing for a clerk at a Chinese grocery store and another at a print shop.”
Marguerite snuffed out her cigarette. “Don’t bother. They won’t pay you anything.”
“Marguerite and I will ask our acquaintances again for leads,” Catherine added.
The telephone rang in the entry hall, and we heard Mali answer. After a moment she appeared in the doorway. “It’s a call for Mademoiselle Vivi from a Lieutenant Toussaint.”
“Oh heavens,” Catherine said. “Vivi, shall I deal with him for you? He’s not the kind of man you want to go out with.”
“Good God, no,” Marguerite agreed.
“I told him at the party Saturday I couldn’t go to dinner, but he didn’t believe me. He thought I should be grateful for his offer.”
“He’ll try to bully you into accepting if you talk to him.” Catherine headed toward the hall. “I’ll take care of it.”
Marguerite and I listened as Catherine, her tone light and airy, explained it was impossible at the moment for me to go out with him. “You’re right, she’s a lovely young girl, and how kind of you to want to help, but she needs time to settle in and find a job, get her footing. I’m sure you understand.” Catherine laughed at his response then said au revoir.
“Thank you,” I said when she returned. “I’ve never been asked out before, and he made me very uncomfortable.”
I paused a moment, pressing my fingers along the edge of my hem. “I need to tell you about what happened yesterday.” I explained about the local boys at the covered market and the Frenchman along the river who had harassed me. “They scared me, and I didn’t know what to do. How can I avoid these situations?”
“Oh dear,” Catherine said, “this is exactly what I warned you about the other night—men being attracted and acting inappropriately. You must be careful to avoid these situations.”
“But I did nothing,” I protested.
“Of course you didn’t,” Marguerite said. “Men are idiots, whatever their age. As annoying as these incidents may be, you’ll be perfectly safe in the daytime about town—not that I’d want you wandering down a deserted alley. But if men harass you, pretend you don’t hear them and walk away with confidence, head held high, shoulders back. If they persist, be noisy and draw the attention of other people, to embarrass them.”
Catherine got up to mix fresh drinks. “If you go on a job search alone tomorrow, don’t wander into bad neighborhoods, and only go into respectable-looking establishments.”
“She’s eighteen, not five, Catherine,” Marguerite chided.
“Still, be selective. If you wait until Wednesday afternoon, I could come with you.”
“No, no. I don’t want to waste your time. I’ll be fine,” I said, trying to sound confident even though the prospect of crisscrossing town hunting for a job terrified me. “I’m not sure what areas I should avoid.”
Catherine nodded. “I’ll mark a map for you.”
Marguerite took her drink from Catherine. “I’ll check for openings at companies the government does business with, where I have long-time acquaintances.”
Catherine smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure you’ll find something soon.”
“I’ll do my best.”
My letters to the Assistance Society and the Pakse orphanage lay on my dresser, written in my best penmanship, carrying my dreams of the past fourteen years with pleas for help and understanding. On Catherine’s recommendation, I’d kept them formal and to the point, devoid of anger or emotion.
As much as I had struggled with the letter asking for information on my parents, a separate letter to my brother in Pakse had flowed from the core of my heart, reaching out to a stranger—yet someone who was my own flesh and blood, who had shared my mother’s womb with me and come into the world at my side.
Geneviève Dubois
14 Rue des Fleurs
Vientiane, Laos
May 18, 1931
Cher Antoine Dubois,
My name is Geneviève Dubois. In 1917, when I turned four, I came to live at the Société d’assistance aux Métis, Maison Pour Filles Abandonnée in Vientiane. Last Saturday, a few days before my eighteenth birthday and emancipation from the orphanage, I gained access to my file and learned that I have a twin brother—you, Antoine Dubois—sent to the orphanage in Pakse.
The Assistance Society had not planned on telling me about you, and I assume you were not informed of my existence. The file stated the names our French father as Henri Dubois and our Lao mother as Laya (no last name listed), who lived in Luang Prabang where we were born. Our father returned to France in 1915. There was no explanation as to why we were turned over to the orphanage system.
Naturally, this news came as a great shock, as I’m sure it will for you. I am overjoyed to find I have family, and it fills me with great hope for the future. With luck, you will safely receive this letter.
Please write to me at the address above—I’m staying with my former teacher. I long to meet you whenever possible.
With affection,
Your sister Geneviève