I took the waiting pousse-pousse to Madame Ketthavong’s, the Lao seamstress Catherine had recommended. My new salary would allow me to order a skirt and blouse. Her shop was located in a house on a narrow lane a short ride from the center of town. The homes of wood and bamboo with thatch roofs rested on poles five feet off the ground. Chickens roamed up and down the dirt road, pecking at tufts of weeds, while the smell of wood fires and steaming fish and vegetables filled the air. The porter dropped me off in front of a home with a neatly printed sign—Madame Ketthavong, Seamstress. I tried to pay him, but he assured me that the monsieur had already covered the fare.
I hesitated outside the building, not seeing anyone about. Next door an old Lao woman, nothing more than weathered skin covering protruding bones, perched on a stool by the entrance to her home. A cotton sinh and white blouse hung loosely over her withered body, and a network of deep lines etched her sun-stained face as she glanced at me with cloudy, red-rimmed eyes. She was washing long beans and watching over a chubby toddler, who sat on the ground scraping dirt into small mounds. All at once her face lit up, and a smile revealed her toothless gums. She began to rattle on in Lao, but I could not decipher anything she said. I shrugged my shoulders and apologized in French, saying I did not speak Lao. With considerable effort, the old granny stood up on shaky legs and strained her head to look at my face, hampered by a pronounced hump in her back. She spoke louder, as if this would help me understand.
A nicely dressed middle-aged woman stepped out of the seamstress shop and introduced herself as Madame Ketthavong. “Can I help you, mademoiselle?”
“Mademoiselle Courbet recommended you. I’d like to order a skirt and blouse.” The old woman edged closer, continuing to speak and waving her arms.
“Don’t pay attention to Granny,” the seamstress said. “She’s not right in the head anymore.”
“What is she saying?” I asked.
“It’s nothing. She thinks she recognizes your face.”
I shook my head at the ancient woman and turned away, trying to ignore her. But her insistent, urgent tone drew me back.
“Could you ask her how she knows me?”
Madame Ketthavong gave a tsk. “You shouldn’t encourage her. She is very old, and her mind plays tricks.”
“Please.”
Madame Ketthavong spoke back and forth with the old woman. “She says you both worked for a French family. You helped her when she got in trouble with the mistress.”
I puzzled over this for a moment. It made no sense. The grandmother gently touched my cheek with her gnarled fingers. She wore an expression of tenderness, speaking a single word over and over. Laya.
“She thinks your name is Laya,” Madame Ketthavong said.
“That was my mother’s name,” I whispered. An eerie feeling crept over me.
“It’s a common enough name, mademoiselle,” Madame Ketthavong said softly. “Why don’t we go inside?”
“Yes, of course.” I patted the old woman on the arm, feeling sad to leave her, and climbed the steps into Madame Ketthavong’s shop.
A large worktable was piled with half-finished projects—a basted bodice with only one arm, a collar covered with lace, and a green linen skirt, the pleats pinned in place, waiting to be sewn. The seamstress owned a lovely old French Hurtu sewing machine with its lyrical, arching design and inlaid mother-of-pearl decorations, which made it look more like a work of art than a utilitarian machine. Maîtresse Durand had ordered a similar one from France, in an attempt to teach the girls at the orphanage to sew. The shelves behind the worktable held bolts of cotton, linen, crêpe, voile, satin, and silk in a rainbow of colors.
Still distracted by the old woman’s words, I told Madame Ketthavong that I needed clothes for work. “I’m starting a job tomorrow at River Transport,” I announced proudly.
Madame smiled and offered me a chair next to a low table covered with French and English pattern books and fashion magazines. “Look through these and show me the styles you prefer, mademoiselle. Then we’ll pick fabrics.”
I forced myself to concentrate on the task at hand, leafing through magazines and pattern books. The clothes must be appropriate for work, but versatile enough for other occasions. I wished Catherine had come with me or, even better, Bridgette.
I showed Madame Ketthavong pictures of a flared skirt and two patterns for simple blouses with short sleeves. She took my measurements and suggested a tan linen for the skirt, a pale blue cotton for one blouse, and perhaps a deep rose color if I desired a second top. After I learned how reasonable the cost would be, I ordered the skirt, two blouses, and a navy-blue polka-dot shirtwaist with a white Chelsea-style collar. The price for all four items was less than I’d paid for my new green dress.
“I’ll have them for you on Sunday,” Madame Ketthavong promised. “Come early in the morning before the sun is too warm.” She bowed and thanked me.
Stepping out of the shop, I blinked against the blinding afternoon sunlight. The grandmother and toddler had disappeared, leaving me both relieved and disappointed. The exchange with the old grandmother, and her insistence that she recognized me, left me desiring to know more. The sound of her murmuring “Laya” over and over haunted me. Was it possible there could be a link?
I strolled home along the river road, stopping at a stand to buy a cup of coconut water then sitting in the shade to sip the refreshing drink. A warm tingling filled my body as I remembered the sensation of Bounmy’s limbs pressed against mine in the pousse-pousse. I felt an urgent need to be near him, to hear his voice and see his gentle smile. Should I call him that afternoon to tell him I would be starting work the next day and thank him? Perhaps that was too forward, the kind of behavior Catherine discouraged. It was better to send a thank-you note. The more I thought about Kham’s attitude—the way he had stared at me, his remarks insinuating something unsavory about my relationship with Bounmy, his seeming indifference to hiring me—the stronger my misgivings. But I needed the job.
A team of twenty young men rowed past in a racing longboat, practicing graceful, measured strokes that propelled them forward at great speed, gliding over the water. If only I could slide through life as effortlessly. Every day taught me how little I understood of the world and dangers lurking in unexpected places.
I crossed Catherine in the entry hall getting ready to leave. “How did it go?” she asked.
“I have a job. At least, he’s giving me a month to see how it works out.”
“Wonderful!” She turned toward the mirror to arrange her straw hat. “I’m on my way to fetch Julian, but I want to hear all about it later.” She whirled around and gave me a quick hug, her high spirits floating around us. “Oh, there’s a letter for you from Pakse. I hope it’s good news.” Grabbing her clutch bag off the table, she disappeared out the front door.
I snatched the letter from the silver platter.
May 23, 1931
Société d’assistance aux Métis
19 Rue du Marché
Pakse, Laos
Chère Mademoiselle Dubois,
I received your letter today with its surprising news regarding Antoine Dubois. I’m afraid Antoine left the orphanage when he turned eleven. He was a very intelligent and well-behaved child, who I greatly enjoyed, and I was able to obtain a full scholarship for him to study at the prestigious College Chasseloup-Laubat in Saigon. He continued on there after it became a lycée. I am writing to the school today, asking if they know his current whereabouts. I hope to hear back within a few weeks and will forward any information to you as soon as possible.
I was unaware Antoine had a twin sister. I can’t understand why this information was not provided to the home when he arrived here fourteen years ago. The Société d’assistance aux Métis has adopted policies they believe in the best interest of the children under their care; however, I do not always agree with certain choices. In this case, I find it terribly wrong to keep siblings, twins no less, from finding each other.
I will assist you as best I am able. Please be patient.
With deepest regards,
Christophe Augustin, Director
I sank onto the chair next to the hall table, rereading the words once, then twice. His response was encouraging, but the news left me in limbo once again, disappointed yet hopeful. The orphanage director was clearly a kind soul who cared about my brother and wanted to aid him in reuniting with his sister, a completely opposite response from Director Bernard. I had no choice but to wait and hope the school in Saigon knew where Antoine was living. I would write Monsieur Augustine immediately to thank him for his efforts and emphasize how urgent it was for me to find Antoine. Waiting. Still waiting.
Mali emerged from the kitchen. “Does the letter bring good news, Mademoiselle Vivi?” she asked hesitantly.
“I think so.” I explained about the orphanage director’s search for my brother.
“He will find him,” she assured me. I wished I could be as certain.
She patted my shoulder. “Come have lunch.”
I sat at the kitchen table and slurped down chicken noodle soup as I shared the details of my interview with Kham. Then I described my encounter with the old woman next to the seamstress’s shop. “It seems impossible, but I can’t help thinking there’s a connection. How could she know my mother’s name?”
Mali gave a small shrug. “My mother is like this. Her mind slips in and out of the present, but events long ago remain very vivid for her. Perhaps you should try talking with her again to see if she remembers something more.”
“I’m going back to pick up my new clothes early Sunday morning, so I’ll try to see her. But she only speaks Lao.”
Mali glanced up. “I’ll come with you and translate.”
“Would you? Won’t it interfere with your weekend at home?”
She picked up our dishes and carried them to the sink. “I can leave for my village a little later.”
“Are these for the spirit house?” I asked, noticing a tray with rice, bananas, cups of tea, and incense sticks. “May I take them out?”
Mali smiled. “Of course.”
I took the tray, happy to be useful, and replaced the food and incense, saying a brief prayer to protect the house and the people living in it. A deep contentment filled me on taking these first steps to discovering my Lao soul.
Afterwards I retreated to my bedroom, stripping down to my cotton chemise and bloomers and curling up on my bed. I’d hardly slept the last two nights, too excited about the tea with Bounmy then my job interview. My eyes grew unbearably heavy.