Catherine rapped on my door a few minutes before three. “Vivi, are you ready?” Her eyes were red and puffy, but she looked lovely in a simple dress of pale blue chiffon, her face powdered and her lips a ruby red.
“We should leave for the temple. And I’m treating you and Marguerite to dinner at the Cercle after the ceremony.” She glanced at my rumpled skirt and blouse. “Why don’t you put on your blue dress? We’ll wait for you on the front porch.”
I changed into my tired blue dress, the only outfit suitable for such an occasion, grateful to Mali for keeping it clean, mended, and pressed. I desperately needed something new, but I hesitated to spend any of the money from the Assistance Society before finding a job.
“Don’t you look nice,” Catherine said when I joined her and Marguerite. I forced a cheerful smile.
Marguerite crushed a cigarette in the ashtray and stood up. She wore a print dress of bright red roses with a skirt that swirled around her legs. I tried not to stare at the ruffled neckline, which plunged into a deep V, revealing a great deal of cleavage. It seemed inappropriate for visiting a Buddhist temple, but who was I to judge?
“Three single ladies out on the town.” Marguerite raised an eyebrow. “Let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into.”
Catherine gave a harsh laugh. “I, for one, don’t need any more trouble, thank you. And I think Charles might object to that plan.”
Marguerite slid her arm through mine, steering me to the front gate. “Well, at least we can have fun.”
Catherine flagged a horse-drawn carriage for the ride to the temple. As we turned down Avenue Lang Xang, the sun beat down from between scattered clouds, shrouding the afternoon in suffocating heat. The humidity clung to my skin, and sweat trickled down my back. Marguerite lifted her long locks off her neck and pinned them on top of her head.
“Have you ever been to Phra That Luang?” Catherine asked. I shook my head. “It’s one of the most important temples in Laos, built over four hundred years ago, on the site of an early Hindu stupa.”
“But it was destroyed by invading armies,” Marguerite added, “and the colonial government tried to restore it in 1900, or thereabouts. The architect ruined the design, though, and the work was shoddy. Now the stupa is falling apart.” She laughed. “Undaunted, the French government is going to try again.”
The carriage turned into the wat’s main gate. The vast scale of the stupa was different from anything I’d seen before, with three progressively smaller tiers, like a wedding cake, which formed a bell-shaped top supporting a needle-thin pinnacle. Up close, the temple was tired and worn with sagging parts, crumbling walls, and broken or missing adornments.
We joined a crowd of French and Lao guests gathered before an open-sided building adjacent to the stupa, where an altar held a large golden Buddha. Although we were standing in the stupa’s shadow, the heat was overpowering, and many of the women waved fans back and forth. I recognized a few people from Catherine’s party and smiled at them. But their eyes slid past me, as if I didn’t exist. My breath caught in my throat as I caught sight of Madame Trembley of Chez Josephine and Monsieur Simon from the bookstore chatting only a few feet in front of me. I lowered my head, hoping they wouldn’t notice me.
Marguerite nodded toward the three men standing next to the altar. “That’s the new Resident Superior, Monsieur Chatêl, next to Prince Phetsarath and the head monk of the temple.” A young monk came forward and lit candles and incense on the altar.
Near the front, a man turned and scanned the crowd. Bounmy Savang. His eyes landed on me, and he gave a muted smile with an almost imperceptible nod, before turning his attention to the front. My heart beat so fast that I felt faint in the steamy heat. Had he watched for me these past weeks, as I had searched for him?
The portly Resident Superior, wearing a white uniform covered with colorful ribbons and shiny medals, made a short speech lauding the generosity of the French government and the École Française d’Extrème Orient for restoring and preserving ancient Lao art and culture. He mopped his red face with a handkerchief, panting in the heat as he promised that the stupa would be rebuilt to its original glory, omitting any mention of the failed first attempt by the French. The audience applauded enthusiastically.
The next speaker, Prince Phetsarath, wore a silk cream-colored Mandarin jacket, white stockings, and a bright orange salong—a long piece of cloth wrapped around and through the legs, resembling knee-length baggy pants. In flawless French, he emphasized the profound importance of the Buddhist temple and stupa both historically and culturally to the Lao people and expressed his gratitude for the French contribution.
The head monk, wrapped in his saffron robe, bowed to the Resident Superior and Prince Phetsarath, then knelt before the altar and began chanting a blessing. He continued for some time as people fanned themselves and rocked from one foot to the other. The monk finally stood and lifted a silver bowl and a brush made of bamboo. He dipped the brush in the bowl and sprinkled water on the Resident Superior and Prince Phetsarath, then stepped down the stairs and anointed the gathered crowd, all the while chanting.
Marguerite whispered, “He’s blessing everyone with sacred water.”
When the formalities were over, Monsieur Chatêl and Prince Phetsarath mingled with the crowd, greeting guests. Catherine and Marguerite chatted with friends. No one spoke to me or acknowledged my presence.
Madame Trembley nodded her head toward me, speaking to the woman next to her in a voice loud enough for many of her words to reach me. “A métisse, naturally…doesn’t belong…terribly rude…disgusting.” I backed away, thankful that at least Monsieur Simon was no longer there.
Director Bernard appeared out of nowhere, marching toward me. I’d seen him at Mass the Sunday before, guarding the orphanage girls to make sure I could do nothing more than wave to Bridgette and the others. Now, he brushed past me, purposely knocking into my shoulder, before stopping. “I’ve heard stories, Geneviève. You’re already making quite a reputation for yourself,” he murmured. “Not surprising given your character.” He continued on and shook hands with a man, exchanging pleasantries in his unctuous manner. I clenched my hands, consumed with anger.
Up front, Monsieur Savang was speaking with another Lao man who bore a close resemblance to him. Like Prince Phetsarath, the two were dressed in silk jackets and brightly colored salongs, reminding me of drawings in a picture book, like fairytale characters come to life. Monsieur Savang excused himself and came to my side.
“Mademoiselle Dubois, I was hoping to see you here. It’s a very special occasion.”
“I, I’m glad to see you…as well.” I stumbled over my words, mortified that my dress was soaked in sweat and sticking to my body.
He nodded toward Catherine. “Is that the teacher you’re living with?”
“Yes, Catherine… I mean, Mademoiselle Courbet. She invited me to attend.”
“I hope you enjoy your day.” He nodded. “Please excuse me, but duty calls.” He left me feeling like an abandoned child, once more conspicuously alone.
A few minutes later, Marguerite and Catherine collected me, and we headed for our carriage.
“Let’s go to Pierre’s for a drink,” Marguerite suggested. “It’s too early for the Cercle.”
“Excellent idea,” Catherine agreed.
“Should I come?” I asked.
“Of course,” Marguerite said. “You must try a Singapore Sling, one of life’s great pleasures in the tropics.”
“I’ve never been out at night before,” I confessed. “Or had dinner in a nice restaurant.”
“You poor dear, so sheltered and innocent,” Marguerite said. “We’ll introduce you to Vientiane’s exciting nightlife.”
I stole a last glance at Monsieur Savang as he conversed with the Resident Superior. His presence at the ceremony with Prince Phetsarath surely meant he was well connected. Our brief exchange had disappointed me, but it was ridiculous to expect he’d be interested in someone like me. I sighed and turned my thoughts to the evening ahead.
The carriage dropped us at Pierre’s Bar and Café, and we settled inside, under one of the big fans swaying overhead. I hoped the faint breeze would help dry my damp dress. Marguerite waved to friends at another table.
“That’s the owner, Pierre Lemont.” Catherine nodded toward a burly man with a scruffy beard and thinning gray hair. “He came to Laos five years ago searching for gold, like so many men drawn by newspaper stories claiming treasures were available for the taking. The reality turns out to be quite different, of course. When Monsieur Lemont failed to find riches, he opened the bar.”
“A very happy ending for the French community,” Marguerite added.
Pierre appeared beside us, and his face lit up. “Mademoiselles, what a treat to see you. And who is your lovely young friend?”
“This is Mademoiselle Dubois. She’s staying with me for the moment,” Catherine said. “Vivi, Monsieur Lemont.”
He bowed. “It’s an honor. Please call me Pierre, my chérie, as everyone does.”
“We’ll have three Singapore Slings,” Catherine said, “only light on the alcohol for our friend. She’s not accustomed to drinking.”
Marguerite scoffed, “I’m sure she can handle one drink.”
After the drinks arrived, Marguerite held up her glass. “Santé! May we all find a decent man one day. With twice as many French men as women living here, how can it be so difficult?” Catherine smiled sadly as we clinked our glasses.
A first sip revealed sweet fruit flavors, a touch of sour, and a bitter aftertaste that lingered on the back of my tongue. The cool potion slid easily down my throat. “It’s so good. What’s in it?”
“Besides a lot of gin, there is pineapple juice, grenadine, cherry liquor, and I can’t remember the rest.” Marguerite smiled. “Pierre boasts he adds a secret ingredient that makes his the best anywhere.”
“Be careful, Vivi, it’s very potent.” Catherine rested her chin on her hand, looking gloomy. “What a shame alcohol leads people to do such terrible things.”
“Have you heard from your brother?” Marguerite asked Catherine. “A wire arrived yesterday at work from an officer headed to Vientiane. His ship docked in Singapore Wednesday, and I wondered if Julian might be on the same boat.”
Catherine’s expression brightened. “I expect to hear from him any moment. What a relief it will be to have him safely home again. Maybe Julian can protect me from bad influences.”
Marguerite smirked. “Not likely.”
I glanced outside to the patio, and the air fled from my lungs. Monsieur Fontaine veered toward us across the terrace. His normally slicked-back hair hung down over his forehead, and his clothes looked even worse than they had that morning. He tripped over a chair, nearly falling, but the man at the next table caught him.
Marguerite turned toward the commotion. “Oh, good God. It’s the bastard himself.”
Monsieur Fontaine lunged in our direction. “Catherine, the woooman of my dreams.”
The bar grew quiet as others watched the unfolding drama.
Catherine turned deathly pale, her eyes fixed on his approach. “Marguerite, do something!”
Stopping in front of our table, his gaze fell on me. He struggled to stand up straight, weaving back and forth. “Did your little orphan tell you I’m innocent?”
Marguerite signaled to Pierre. “Marcel, go away,” she hissed. “Catherine doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“I didn’t do anything, Catherine. You have to believe me,” he pleaded.
Catherine stood. “Get out of here. You’re nothing but a liar and a drunk.”
Pierre and the friend who had caught his fall dragged him away.
“I love you, Catherine, more than anything,” he called over his shoulder. The friend led him down the street.
Catherine sank into her chair, putting her head in her hands. “I’m mortified.”
“No one cares,” Marguerite insisted. “They all know what an ass he is.” The other patrons resumed their conversations as if nothing had happened. “And they can all go to hell anyway,” she added.
“Vivi, I’m sorry to drag you into this,” Catherine said, looking up at me with tears in her eyes. I stared at her, unsure what to say to comfort her.
“Well, now he’s done something inexcusable. It’s over,” Marguerite said.
“I’ve been such a fool.” Catherine grabbed a cigarette and lit it. “Some role model.”
We sat quietly, sipping the last of our drinks until Marguerite waved to Pierre and ordered another round.
“Only pineapple juice for Mademoiselle Dubois,” Catherine said.
The alcohol had made me woozy, and everything around us appeared like a blurry photograph. I wanted to let my mind drift far from the unhappiness of the day. Was this what people hoped to accomplish by drinking? To disappear from reality?
Marguerite cocked her head to one side with an inquisitive look. “Who was that young Lao man you spoke with at the ceremony?”
I ran my finger over the beads of condensation on my glass, surprised she had noticed. “His name is Bounmy Savang. I met him at Wat Sisaket one afternoon.” I looked up. “He works with Prince Phetsarath.”
“Have you seen him since?” Catherine asked, sounding worried.
“No,” I said quickly. “But he gave me his card and said to call if I was still looking for employment. He offered to introduce me to his cousin, Kham Savang, who owns River Transport and might have a job opening.”
“Prince Kham Savang,” Marguerite said, “which means Bounmy Savang is a prince as well, part of the royal family of Luang Prabang.”
My droopy eyes popped open.
“The royal family is quite large because the men have multiple wives and concubines, which means lots of children. King Sisavong Vong has at least a dozen wives.” Marguerite winked at me. “That must keep him busy at night.”
“Marguerite! Don’t embarrass poor Vivi,” Catherine chided.
“She’s a big girl.” Marguerite lit a cigarette. “Anyway, the royal court is a complicated place. The king, his wives, and their children make up the Main Palace. Then there’s the Front Palace, with the king’s siblings and cousins, who run the kingdom in cooperation with the French colonial government. The lesser royalty and aristocrats, scholars and such, are called the Back Palace.” She shrugged. “No telling where your acquaintance fits into the giant family tree. Anyway, the government uses River Transport all the time, so perhaps you should contact your friend.”
“Is that really wise?” Catherine asked. “You wouldn’t want him to get the wrong impression.”
“You worry too much.” Marguerite clucked her tongue. “River Transport would be an acceptable place to work.”
“Make it clear from the start that you’re only interested in a job,” Catherine insisted.
Excitement rushed through me at the thought of calling Bounmy. “I’ll contact him next week.”
Catherine finished the last of her second drink and pushed the glass away. “Perhaps we should take a walk before going to the club. If I have another drink, someone will have to carry me home.” She stood and smoothed her dress as Marguerite left money for the bill.
“My head’s a little foggy,” I admitted.
Catherine put her arm through mine. “No more drinks for you tonight. We are corrupting you, and that simply won’t do.”
“Better to teach her to recognize her limits,” Marguerite said, pulling the pins out of her hair and letting her red waves cascade down her back. “Although I suppose we should set a good example. But that’s no fun.”
Despite a half-hour stroll along the riverfront, we were one of the first parties seated in the dining room at the Cercle. Housed in a buff-colored building near the river, the club provided French colons and other Occidentals a place to gather, play tennis, or relax in the lounge with French newspapers, magazines, and games of chess or cards. They drank at the bar and ate French meals in the restaurant upstairs, with its dance floor and tables set with white linens, fine china, crystal glasses, and a bevy of waiters attending to their every need. The moment we crossed through the lounge, curious eyes turned on me—a half-breed tagging along with two of their own.
By the time our entrées arrived, the dining room was nearly full of men and women dressed in evening wear, as if eating in an exclusive restaurant in Paris. But the thrill of coming to this sacred haven quickly dissipated for me. I felt completely out of place, unsure how to act or what to say in such a rarefied setting, trapped among French patrons looking down their noses at me.
We nibbled our meals, pretending to enjoy them, but a somber haze of despair cloaked our table. Catherine’s spirits seemed to sink lower with each passing minute, while Marguerite struggled to keep up a conversation, offering tidbits of gossip from her office.
“Oh look,” she said, “there’s the new Resident Superior with Prince Phetsarath and his young brother Prince Souvanna.”
I turned my gaze to the table, hoping Bounmy might be among the party, but he was nowhere to be seen.
“Everyone is talking about Prince Souvanna,” Marguerite said, lowering her voice. “Apparently, he refused to marry the Lao princess the king selected for him because he wants to marry for love. He’s currently courting a métisse named Aline Allard. Word is, the prince and Aline are very much in love, but the king forbids royal family members from marrying anyone French, which includes the métis, since you’re half French.”
“What a romantic story,” I said, thinking it sounded like something in a Jane Austen novel.
Marguerite shrugged her shoulders. “It’s not clear if there will be a happy ending or not.”
“Are there ever any happy endings?” Catherine asked, pushing her hair back from her face. “I’m sorry to be so glum, ladies.” Yet another sad sigh escaped her lips. “And I was supposed to be cheering you up, Marguerite.”
“We understand.” Marguerite patted Catherine’s arm.
“I want to go home.” Catherine’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I can’t stand being around these people another minute. They all know what’s happened and that I’m part of the story.”
Our big night out ended at a quarter to eight, before the dancing had even begun, but I was relieved to escape and return home where I could breathe freely once more. The day had overwhelmed me: the discovery of Sylvie’s hopeless situation, the allegations against Monsieur Fontaine and Catherine’s heartbreak, and my disappointing exchange with Monsieur Savang. In the past two weeks, a constant stream of unsettling situations had confronted me, things I’d never imagined possible when Bridgette and I had daydreamed of an exciting, rosy future outside the orphanage.
I climbed into bed with pen and paper ready to create an alternative story for Bridgette, one that would spare her the sadness enveloping me. My letters to her omitted all my troubles and reported only happy news and funny anecdotes. As long as she remained in the orphanage, I would shield her from the reality.