Catherine and I sat on the veranda on that Friday morning, eating pastries and sipping coffee. Since I’d moved in two weeks before, we’d settled into an amiable routine, sharing breakfast and sometimes dinner if she was at home. She told amusing anecdotes about some French children she was tutoring over the summer and filled me in on the latest from Bridgette and the orphanage, while I lamented my fruitless search for employment and the endless wait for answers to my letters about my family. At times, we were equally comfortable sitting in silence, and I grew more at ease with her, feeling less of an intruder in her home.
Several evenings each week Catherine went out with friends for dinner—perhaps that meant Monsieur Fontaine. I had seen them out my bedroom window one afternoon embracing in the back garden under the banyan tree. What was the nature of their relationship? Were they in love?
On days when Catherine ate out, I joined Mali in the kitchen, reassured by her even-tempered presence. After much cajoling, I’d convinced her to eat meals with me and share stories of her childhood and family, explaining I wanted to learn about the Lao way of life. She had grown up in a small village where multiple generations lived together under one roof. Half the other households were relatives—aunts and uncles and cousins who toiled together in the fields, caring for one another’s children and elderly, each pitching in to do their part. I came to appreciate the deep sense of connection and loyalty she felt for extended family and neighbors, the meaning of community. As I listened, I imagined this could have been the story of my mother and her family.
Mali answered my endless questions, recounting how she and her husband had met when she was only sixteen and he was eighteen at a festival of a neighboring Buddhist temple. “He stole my heart without ever speaking a word, so handsome with his shy glances,” she said, her face folding into a gentle smile. “His family came a week later to negotiate our marriage, and we wed the following month.” The more I learned of Mali’s past, the more I wondered why my mother had not married a Lao man. What had led her to my French father?
“My husband is the naiban, village chief, and we’ve been blessed with five children and two grandchildren already.” Mali described each child’s personality and funny antics. Her second oldest boy, nineteen, was courting a young woman in a nearby village, and planned to marry soon. She promised to invite me to the wedding so I could experience the marriage ceremony and meet all her family.
I envied her children having a mother who clearly adored them, even if she was gone much of the time working at Catherine’s. She had made the sacrifice so her children could continue their schooling and choose their future. Had my mother loved me and my brother this much? If so, why had she abandoned us?
When it came to teaching me Lao, Mali was relentless, drilling me over and over again. I knew how to count to ten and say the names of different foods in Lao, but I felt slow and dull-witted, struggling to master the pronunciation of the six Lao tones. A word could mean different things depending on which tone was used. I had never struggled this way as a student, and it wounded my pride. But how lucky I was that Mali was willing to share her life and introduce me to my Lao heritage.
Catherine spoke, interrupting my thoughts. “Marguerite and I are attending a special ceremony this afternoon at Wat Pha That Luang. The École Française d’Extrème Orient is funding a major restoration of the wat’s stupa, and the temple monks invited the Resident Superior and other guests for a blessing. Prince Phetsarath Rattanavongsa had a hand in the planning. Have you heard of him?” I shook my head. “He’s a cousin of Sisavang Vong, the King of Luang Prabang, as well as the highest-ranking Lao official in the colonial government. He’s a much-respected scholarly man who promotes Lao Buddhism and culture.”
I immediately thought of Monsieur Savang and wondered whether he might come to the ceremony given his interest in the temples. Each time I passed by Wat Sisaket or his office on Avenue Lang Xang, I found myself watching for him, but to no avail.
“Come with us,” Catherine said. “It will be interesting.”
“I’d love to.” I placed my coffee cup on the table. “When will you go?”
“We should leave here by three. Why they scheduled it at the hottest time of the day is beyond me, but I promised to accompany Marguerite. Charles left yesterday for an assignment in Luang Prabang and isn’t sure how long he’ll be gone, so I’m trying to cheer her up. I’ve never seen her so smitten with anyone.”
“This morning I’m planning to visit a friend who left the orphanage a few years ago,” I said. “I thought she might have advice on looking for a job.” I had repeatedly put off searching for Sylvie, troubled by Maîtresse’s warning that I should stay away from her. Yet I had promised Bridgette to try to find her.
“I’ll be tutoring Bridgette.” Catherine ran her fingers through her unbrushed hair. “Let’s meet back here for lunch.”
I sighed. “Poor Bridgette. I wish she could come.”
“I can’t fathom Director Bernard’s motives in locking her away. He is a vindictive, small-minded man.”
I slumped in my chair, filled with regret. “He’s punishing Bridgette to upset me. He has a terrible temper—spanking the girls with a wooden paddle and slapping the older girls, primarily me, across the face.” Anger swirled in my chest as I thought of the constant confrontations with the director, and I saw no reason to hold back. “He often locked me in the hall closet overnight, or confined me to my room without meals. Once he took my doll, the only thing I have from my father, and threatened to throw it away.”
Catherine’s frown deepened. “I didn’t know he was that bad. Although, his wife left him last year and returned to France amid rumors that he abused her.” She paused a moment. “But this is outrageous. I’ll write to my mother immediately. She’s good friends with the former orphanage director, who’s still on the board of the Assistance Society.” She shook her head slowly. “Knowing this will make it even harder for me to be civil to that man. I already try to avoid him as much as possible.”
Catherine glanced at her watch and jumped up. “I must get dressed and go.”
I found Sylvie’s boarding house on the map of Vientiane, located in the same neighborhood as Monsieur Simon’s house. A fifteen-minute walk brought me to a large two-story building of wood and plaster, which looked a great deal like the orphanage, only painted white with dark blue trim. Two young Frenchwomen, not much older than me, sat on the front veranda, drinking coffee and chatting. They stared at me warily as I started up the path.
“If you’re inquiring about a room, there aren’t any available,” one girl said, as if challenging me to come closer.
I stood at the bottom of the steps. “I don’t need lodging. I’m looking for a friend who lives here, Sylvie Bisset.”
“Oh, that one,” the other girl scoffed. “She moved out last fall.”
“Do you know where I can find her?”
The first girl shrugged. “Last I heard, she was living in the alley behind Wong’s Laundry, where all the Chinese shops are.” She looked me up and down in my simple white blouse and navy skirt, still looking like a schoolgirl. “I’d think twice about going there.”
The other girl gave a short laugh. “Someone told me she painted her front door red. How perfect.”
Disconcerted by the warning, I thanked them and retraced my steps to the main road, then continued on to the street lined with Chinese shophouses. What had prompted Sylvie to move to this neighborhood? Wong’s Laundry was on the corner of a smaller, seedier street. Halfway down it intersected with a narrow alley filled with crudely built shacks, the roofs fashioned of tin and bamboo strips. They reminded me of the huts that farmers built in the middle of rice fields to provide shelter from the sun and rain, except these unsightly hovels were crowded together, appearing to hold one another up. I’d never come upon an area as poor and dreary as this.
The stench of human waste drifted from privies out back of the structures. A Lao woman dressed in a cotton sinh and a loosely slung pha biang that barely concealed her breasts stepped outside her door and poured a pail of dirty water onto the ground. Her body sagged with the burden of her life. She quickly disappeared.
A sinister pall hung in the air, a presentiment of danger as I caught sight of a red door two places down. I walked closer and studied the cracked and peeling door with its garish red paint, trying to find the courage to knock. I was about to abandon my visit when the door swung open and a middle-aged Frenchman with a large, protruding stomach stumbled out of the shack, reeking of liquor. He shielded his bloodshot eyes against the sun’s glare. His shirt was untucked and askew from being buttoned in the wrong holes, leaving one shirttail longer than the other. What was he doing in this disheveled state at eleven in the morning?
A woman in nothing but a flowered cotton robe rested against the door frame. She pushed aside her tangled hair. Black makeup was smeared beneath her eyes, and a dark bruise covered the right side of her face. “Come back tonight,” she said. The Frenchman stole off down the alley without a response.
I stared in disbelief. “Sy-Sylvie?” Her eyes opened as wide as the full moon. “It’s me, Geneviève.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked, pulling the robe tighter. Her face had become harsh and angular, and her body was nothing more than a collection of sticks. “How did you find me?”
“Lucienne had your address at the boarding house, and a girl there told me where you’d moved.”
“Well, you found me. What do you want?” Her voice was angry and defiant.
“I left the orphanage two weeks ago, and Bridgette will be free in August. We wondered how you were doing and wanted to see you. I’m searching for a job.” I didn’t bother asking if she had ideas about where to look, as clearly her life had taken a disastrous turn.
“That bastard Bernard didn’t find you work? He stuck me at the Chinese laundry over there, but that didn’t last long.” Her lip curled into a sneer as she nodded toward the hovel behind her. “That’s why I’m living this glamorous life.”
“Was that…your boyfriend?” I asked, desperately hoping there might be an explanation other than the man being a paying customer.
She let out a harsh laugh. “One of several.”
A shudder rippled through me, and my stomach filled with acid. What had led her down this degrading path?
“What are you staring at?” she spat out. “You’re shocked? Don’t be so naïve. I’m not the only métisse to end up earning her living on her back.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Don’t be.” She took a cigarette from her pocket and lit it, blowing smoke above her head. “It pays well enough, and I don’t need your pity.” And with that, she stepped back into her hut and slammed the door.
I fled down the alley, desperate to get away from Sylvie’s hopeless situation. Girls who arrived at the orphanage recounted many tragic stories—parents who abandoned them, fathers who drank or smoked opium or abused their mothers—but I’d never known anyone who had ended up selling their body to make a living. Why hadn’t Maîtresse helped her?
Wandering aimlessly, I kept visualizing Sylvie’s bruised face and emaciated body. How did a young woman, especially a métisse, manage to survive on her own? Whatever would I do if no one hired me? Only then did I fully appreciate the loss of the teaching position that Director Bernard had stolen from me. Even being an au pair sounded appealing at this point, but that was out of reach as well. I might be reduced to washing laundry or cleaning houses, but I vowed I would never end up like Sylvie. Never!
At one of the Lao cafés along the riverbank I spotted Monsieur Fontaine seated by himself, a collection of beer bottles lined up on the table. He was slumped over, his head in his hands. I picked up my pace, hoping to avoid his attention, but he sat up to take a swig of beer and caught sight of me.
“Mademoiselle, wait,” he called, standing up and staggering toward me. “Please, I need your help.” He stopped and stood, weaving slightly, as if buffeted by a strong wind. His clothes were rumpled and dirty. “I didn’t do it. I never… You have to tell Catherine. I was drunk and passed out on the porch. That’s all.” His disjointed words spilled out in a rush.
I stepped back, confused. “I, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Our last meeting had been the day he’d saved me from Lieutenant Toussaint. I owed him the courtesy of listening, but he made no sense.
“My wife won’t listen. Tell Catherine it’s a misunderstanding.” His voice grew frantic. “I’d never do that. You have to believe me.”
“I must go, but I promise to tell her.” I knew this was the only response that would allow me to leave. He remained planted there, near tears, as I walked away. Something dire had happened, but I didn’t want to get involved.
It was a little after one o’clock when I reached the house. I checked the silver platter on the entry hall table where Mali placed the mail, hoping for a response from Luang Prabang or Pakse, knowing it was unlikely this soon. Nothing.
Mali motioned to me from the dining room. “Come.” She closed the kitchen door once we were inside. “A friend called Mademoiselle Catherine and told her something terrible,” she whispered, “but she wouldn’t say anything to me. She’s in her room crying. Mademoiselle Marguerite arrived ten minutes ago and is with her.”
I knew immediately—Monsieur Fontaine. “I’ll go up and see if I can help.”
The door to Catherine’s room was half open, and Marguerite was sitting beside her on the bed, rubbing her back. I paused, unsure what to do.
“You always said he was only a bit of fun, that you didn’t take him seriously,” Marguerite said.
“I knew…he couldn’t…be trusted,” Catherine sputtered between sobs. “But the servant…I can’t believe Marcel would take advantage of that poor young girl.”
“He’s a despicable bastard.” Marguerite lit a cigarette and handed it to Catherine, then lit another for herself. “Adèle Chancy told me Jeanette’s in a rage and is determined to leave as soon as possible for Saigon and a ship back to France.”
“I feel sorry for Jeanette,” Catherine said softly, wiping her cheeks and nose with a handkerchief. “And terribly guilty. I betrayed her. How could I have been such a fool, telling myself our affair was harmless?”
“Men are pigs!” Marguerite erupted. “I can only hope that Charles will behave while he’s in Luang Prabang. You can’t trust any of them.”
I didn’t want to intrude and embarrass Catherine, but perhaps she needed to hear Monsieur Fontaine’s explanation. I rapped on the door, startling them both.
“Oh, Vivi, did you overhear us talking?” Catherine asked. Her face crumpled with despair. “Did you already know about Marcel and me?”
I shifted from one foot to the other. “I saw you together at your party.” My eyes met hers. “But I didn’t think badly of you,” I lied.
“It’s over, and we don’t need to mention him again,” Marguerite said.
“I saw Monsieur Fontaine as I was coming home.” And I told them what had passed, how he’d sworn he was innocent.
“Of course he’d say that,” Marguerite snapped. “He’s a good liar.”
“I didn’t understand what he was talking about…but he seemed to be telling the truth. He was desperately upset.”
Marguerite gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “You’re too innocent to know the difference.”
“Perhaps he’s been falsely accused.” Catherine let out a dispirited sigh. “But it doesn’t matter. This had to end. I’m sorry, Vivi, that you’ve seen me making such a fool of myself with a married man.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry for everyone.” I hesitated, at a loss for what to say. “Will we still go to the ceremony?”
“Yes,” Marguerite insisted, although Catherine looked doubtful. “We’ll knock on your door when we’re ready to leave.”
I retreated across the hall to my room, shut the door, and threw myself across the bed, surprised by the tears that sprang from my eyes hot and fast—tears for Sylvie and all the women betrayed by selfish, heartless men. Monsieur Fontaine had used his good looks and charm to manipulate his wife and Catherine, and possibly the servant. Had he truly forced himself on a powerless young girl, assured that if she accused him of violating her, no one would believe her? The servant most likely needed the job to support her family and would not have been able to say no. I didn’t want to believe it, but the accusation remained, a cloud of doubt soiling Monsieur Fontaine’s name. I had no idea how to determine the truth.
I remembered Marie, who had arrived at the orphanage when barely fourteen. Maîtresse soon discovered she was pregnant, and the director had transferred her to a private home. During her short stay, she shared her story with some of the older girls, and we learned how babies are made. Her French father had lived with her mother for fifteen years, siring Marie and a younger sister, until one day he left without explanation for France. Her mother sent Marie to work for an older Frenchman, a friend of her father’s, who soon demanded she come to his bed each night. Her mother appeared complicit in the arrangement, perhaps hoping the man would marry her daughter. When the French administration learned of her situation, they insisted the mother give her up to the orphanage.
All these stories circled back to my mother. Had my French father used her in this same, shameful way? I needed to discover the truth, even if I feared what I might learn.