The next morning I longed to pull the covers over my head and hide, like a mud turtle burrowing into the soggy banks of the Mekong River. I felt woefully inadequate to the task of finding employment, as if I’d been told I must catch a fish in order to eat, but I didn’t own a fishing pole or net and had no idea where to find fish. Yet I wouldn’t capitulate and stay home, as Catherine had suggested. I must continue the search. Even if the salary might be lower than elsewhere, I decided to try the Chinese grocery. Perhaps, not being French, they would be more welcoming of a métisse.
Huang’s Groceries was located on a street lined with brick and cement shophouses, where proprietors lived above their businesses. Red silk banners hung down building fronts with store names written in French and Chinese characters: Wong’s Furniture; Chang’s Fine China; Best Silk Fabrics; Zhou’s Herbs and Cures. Halfway down the block I found the grocery.
Long and narrow, the store was packed with goods that reeked of musky, pungent odors—rice noodles, sauces, preserved fruits, dried mushrooms, herbs, and other unusual-looking items, while huge hemp bags of rice were stacked nearly to the ceiling in one corner. Two shelves on the left wall featured wines, tins of liver pâté, and other specialties imported from France. Two Chinese woman wandered up and down the aisles, while a Frenchman searched the wine selections.
A middle-aged Chinese man, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, his thick black hair sticking straight up as if he had suffered a fright, manned the cash register.
I smiled. “Bonjour, I’m Geneviève Dubois. I’m applying for the opening you posted in the newspaper.” I held out the advertisement.
“What you can do?” he asked in broken French.
“Whatever you need: unpack boxes, stock the shelves, work at the cash register…” I searched for something more. “Take inventory.”
He grinned and shook his head, as if I’d told him a good joke. “You too young and little. How you lift boxes?”
My mouth felt parched. “I have a baccalauréat, and I…I’m very good with numbers.”
As I waited for his response, a beaded curtain at the back of the store rustled, and a tiny woman emerged, hurrying to the front. “Who you? What you want?”
The couple, presumably husband and wife, spoke rapidly back and forth in Chinese while she waved her hands at me. “No job. You go,” she said, turning to me.
“If you’d give me a chance for a week,” I pleaded. “Then if you’re not happy—”
“We know your kind. No good,” she interrupted, grabbing my arm and pulling me to the exit, pushing me out the door. “Go!”
With that I found myself on the street, trying to comprehend what had happened, hoping no one had noticed me being thrown out of the store like a petty thief. The woman’s reaction made no sense. What had she meant by “your kind”? Did she view a métisse as unacceptable in her world?
I made a hasty retreat back to Avenue Lang Xang and plodded down the street, deciding what to do next, unsure how much more humiliation I could withstand. Would every business, whether French or Lao or Chinese, reject me based only on the fact that I was a métisse? The possibility filled me with despair, and I longed to return home and spend the afternoon with Catherine.
I reached Wat Sisaket, the Buddhist temple on the corner, which I had passed many times and wondered about. The simple life of the monks at the small wat across from the orphanage had intrigued me, listening to them chant prayers and beat gongs. Mali’s suggestion that I take a quiet moment to step back and reflect, to restore my inner harmony, came to mind. It seemed a tall order at the moment, but I ventured through the temple gate and found a peaceful haven, empty except for two young monks with shorn heads and saffron robes, who were sweeping the dirt-packed grounds. One of them glanced up and nodded.
I strolled around the covered walkway that circled the courtyard, in awe of the hundreds of small arched niches carved into the walls, each holding a tiny Buddha. Below, dozens of larger Buddhas rested along a low shelf and on the ground. The statues’ other-worldly, serene expressions eased my discomfort. My breathing slowed and the unhappy lump inside my stomach began to dissolve. I wanted to be like these Buddhas, unperturbed and above the fray of life.
In the center of the courtyard, the roof of the wat swept down in multiple tiers, like whimsical slides, curving up at the corners. Elaborate carvings of fantastical creatures, painted and gilded, decorated the portals and eaves, while dragons guarded the stairway balustrades. I longed to venture inside but was unsure if strangers were welcomed.
Two elderly women emerged from the wat, slipped on their sandals, and left through the gate. A moment later, a young Lao man emerged. His shiny dark hair, cut short along the sides and back but with bangs that nearly covered his eyebrows, gave him the air of a schoolboy. He wore Western-style pants and a traditional cream-colored Lao shirt with a Mandarin collar. He glanced at me as he put on his shoes, and I turned away, embarrassed to be caught staring.
He walked over and bowed in a nop. “Sabaidee.”
I gave a small nod, ready to flee. He said something in Lao, but when I seemed confused, he switched to nearly perfect French. “Have you been to Wat Sisaket before?”
I shook my head, not wanting to engage any further with him. Surely he thought me as dense as a water buffalo, but how could I trust any man at this point? It struck me as terribly bold of him to speak to a strange woman in the middle of a Buddhist temple, yet his manner was not aggressive or threatening, and he lacked the bravado of others who had harassed me. Perhaps he wanted money.
“Excuse my forwardness. I’m Bounmy Savang.” He bowed slightly. “You appear a bit lost.” His voice was low and soft.
“Geneviève Dubois,” I offered at last. He was tall compared to most Lao men, standing a good head above me. From his refined features and clothes and manicured nails, it was clear that he was not a laborer or farmer, but a person of some means.
He waved a hand toward the temple. “The École Française d’Extrème Orient is currently renovating the interior murals. I came to observe the progress.”
“Do you work at the temple?”
“No, but I study Buddhist art. This is the oldest original temple in Vientiane, built over a hundred years ago, unique in that the architectural style is Siamese rather than Lao. Sadly, all the other ancient wats here were destroyed in wars with Siam or other kingdoms. Perhaps you know this history.”
“A little, but I’ve never visited the temples.”
“Are you here from France?” he asked, studying me as if trying to decipher my origins.
“I grew up in Vientiane.”
He appeared perplexed. “I’d be happy to show you inside and explain about the art.”
I hesitated, on alert, but decided nothing dire could happen at a Buddhist temple tended by two young monks in the middle of the day. On the porch we removed our shoes and stepped inside the cool, dimly lit wat. An altar held a huge gold Buddha surrounded by offerings: lotus flowers, fresh fruits, and lighted candles and incense.
He touched the carved and lacquered screen in front of the altar. “This is decorated with the naga design, the dragon-like spirit that protects the rivers and oceans,” he said.
“I have a scarf with a naga woven into the fabric that my mother gave me.”
“Ah, she wants to protect you,” he said with assurance. I appreciated that he interpreted the meaning of the scarf in the same way I had—a sign of her love and caring.
His long, graceful fingers pointed to the faded murals on the temple walls. “These are scenes from a story about one of Buddha’s former lives. You can see where the original art has been restored. It’s a slow process requiring great skill and patience.”
“Are you an artist, Monsieur Savang?”
He put his head back, chuckling, revealing dimples in his cheeks. “Most definitely not, but I appreciate fine work.”
“I see.” I studied his face, finding him attractive in an imperfect way, with ears that stuck out a bit and a wide crooked smile, offset by high cheekbones and a narrow nose. There was something elegant about his unassuming manner and quiet way of speaking.
“What is the meaning of the Buddhas on the small shelves?” I asked.
“Worshipers offer the figures to earn merit—that is, to bring blessings to their family and ancestors in this life and the next. It’s part of the Buddhist philosophy.”
“I’d like to learn more about Buddhism. I was raised Catholic.”
“The phasong, the monks, offer lessons at some of the temples.” He stepped aside as a woman entered and knelt before the altar to pray. “Perhaps we should leave,” he whispered.
Outside, I turned to him. “Thank you for showing me the temple, but I must go.”
“May I walk with you?”
My distrust returned tenfold. “To the next corner,” I allowed.
He kept a respectable distance between us, walking with his hands clasped behind his back, as if understanding my wariness.
“Do you work nearby?” I asked, curious to know what he did in life.
“Yes, for the government. I’m attempting to develop foreign trade.” He pointed down Avenue Lang Xang. “My office is that gray building over there.”
“Are you not working today?”
“Yes, but I like to spend my lunchtimes exploring local wats, as I only moved to Vientiane last month.”
“Where did you live before?”
“I was raised in Luang Prabang, but I’ve recently returned from school in Paris.”
“Oh, I’d love to go to Paris,” I said, my voice filling with wonder. “What was it like?”
He smiled. “Everything you can imagine—beautiful, exciting. I was sad to come home.”
We walked in silence for a moment. “Do you live nearby?” he asked.
“Not far. I turned eighteen a few days ago and left the French orphanage. I’m staying with my former teacher.”
“You’re lucky. It’s not easy to find a comfortable place to live for a young woman alone.”
“My teacher is very kind, but I must find a job to earn my keep.”
“That’s not simple, either.” He paused a moment. “My cousin Kham Savang owns the shipping company River Transport. He’s always in need of someone who speaks French well.”
I glanced at him, uncertain if this was a genuine offer or a way to lure me into a compromising position. I wouldn’t risk finding out. “I may have a job caring for the children of a French family,” I lied.
He pulled a silver case from his pocket and handed me his business card. “If that doesn’t work out, please call me, and I’ll introduce you to my cousin.”
I stopped at the corner. “Thank you, Monsieur Savang. I enjoyed the tour of the temple.”
He smiled and gave a slight bow. “Mademoiselle Dubois, the pleasure was all mine. I hope we cross paths again soon.”
Halfway down the lane I turned to look back. He was standing in the same place, watching me. I waved and continued on, intrigued by this new acquaintance, hoping he might be different from the others, interested in me as a person and not as a possible conquest. My instincts told me he wasn’t anything like Monsieur Simon or Lieutenant Toussaint. There had to be decent and trustworthy men somewhere.
“Bounmy Savang,” I said out loud, enjoying the way “Bounmy” rolled off my tongue.