At two minutes before eight o’clock on Tuesday morning, I stood before River Transport, finding the office and warehouse tightly locked. Minutes ticked by, and I began to wonder if I’d misunderstood the work hours or the day Kham expected me to start. The warehouse supervisor, Monsieur Phoummathep, finally showed up thirty-five minutes later. He looked me up and down, a line knitting his forehead. I gave a nop and introduced myself, explaining it was my first day. He grunted and spat on the ground before unlocking the office door.
I stood in the dim light, considering what to do. The front room was jammed with two desks, a filing cabinet, a rectangular table, three chairs, and a bookshelf, which ran along the side wall, leaving little space to move about. The air smelled smokey and moldy with neglect. Everything was dirty and disorganized: desktops covered with papers and tea stains, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, and loose sheets littering the floor. After clearing a stack of papers from the spare chair next to one of the desks, I dragged it to the table, the only place left for me to work.
The accountants arrived at nine. I bowed in a nop and introduced myself. They reluctantly gave me their names. Monsieur Chan was an older Chinese man with sparse, white hair and papery skin that showed the dark blue veins in his hands. His coworker, Monsieur Nguyen, was a younger Annamese man with thick glasses and dense black hair. Both spoke passable French. They sat down at their desks, ignoring me and burying their noses in ledgers with finely lined pages covered in rows of numbers.
Monsieur Chan looked up after a moment to where I was sitting. “That’s my chair.”
“May I use it, please? There’s nowhere else to sit.”
His eyes narrowed. “Where are the papers I had on it?” I nodded toward the stack on the bookshelf. “You can’t rearrange things. I have a special filing system that you wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll check with you on everything first,” I promised.
He clucked his tongue several times and went back to his accounts.
I inspected a stack of documents on the table, relieved to find correspondence and invoices were written in both French and Lao. A half-hour later, embarrassed, I inquired where the toilet was located and if there was running water. Monsieur Nguyen sighed and led me outside, pointing to a ramshackle outhouse set among the trees by the riverbank. “There’s a sink in the warehouse.” He left me to find my way.
The outhouse was a filthy box of drooping, decaying wood, filled with cobwebs and geckos that seemed to close in on me when I shut the door. There was nothing more than a gaping hole in the battered floor emitting horrible smells that made me gag. I would use it only when in dire need.
I found a tiny metal sink and a barrel of water in the warehouse. I washed my hands, without soap or towel, and discovered the water drained out of the sink into a bucket underneath the pipe. Next to the sink was a table with a kerosene burner and kettle, as well as a green pottery teapot, tin mugs, and a jar of tea leaves lining the shelf above it. The teapot had dark stains, and rancid water filled the bottoms of several cups. There were no cleaning materials. As I considered the conundrum of what to do, Kham appeared at my side.
“What in the world are you doing out here?” he asked, obviously annoyed. “They didn’t tell you this area is for the warehouse workers?” I shook my head. “We have a boy who delivers tea twice a day to the office from a stand up the road.”
I felt foolish and angry with the accountants.
“Come.” Kham led me back in the office and called the warehouse supervisor to join us. Speaking French, he informed the three men of my “trial” position, which made me worry he already planned to let me go after a month. He introduced the three men, describing their roles in the business.
“I realize there has never been a woman in the office before, but even in Laos the world is changing. Please work with mademoiselle,” he said. “Explain how the business runs and answer her questions. She will be looking for ways to help you with your work and free up your time.” His introduction was far from an enthusiastic endorsement of my presence, but at least he had laid out some parameters.
Kham announced that, after consulting with them, I was authorized to suggest new record and filing systems to improve operations. When Kham finished speaking, the men bowed, their faces remaining impassive, and they offered lukewarm assurances that they would cooperate.
Clearly it would take time to gain the trust and acceptance of the others. To these men I had little value, being only a young woman, a métisse at that. I was an invader in their domain, a threat to their routines and ways of doing business that had remained unchallenged for decades. I would have to tread carefully.
I asked Kham for a key to the office so I could arrive early when no one else was there. He scrunched his face up for a moment, as if uncertain he could trust me, but then he handed me a key. “Be sure not to lose it.”
By Friday my hopes for making any progress in reorganizing the office or gaining the confidence of my coworkers had been stifled, lost among the stacks of papers piled around the room.
Mali had accompanied me early on Wednesday to the covered market to purchase a broom, pail, mop, soap, and rags. Over the next few days, in the early hours before the others drifted into work, I scrubbed desks, shelves, walls, and the floor, careful to return papers and files to the same places as before. No one acknowledged my efforts, but the cleanliness boosted my optimism.
I had hoped to build some kind of comradery and common purpose with the accountants and the warehouse manager, but the men largely ignored me as I pored through stacks of invoices, bills of lading, and receipts, trying to make sense of them. There didn’t seem to be any discernable system for tracing an order from start to finish. I asked lots of questions. The men simply glared at me defiantly and answered over and over: This is the way we have always done things. I became a pesky fly, buzzing about the room, refusing to go away.
No one had the authority to oversee the business except Kham, and he was too busy meeting with clients and negotiating fees with boat operators to focus on office procedures. Most days he vanished shortly after arriving and did not reappear until late afternoon, never telling us where he was going or when he would return. If clients came by the office, they would only speak to the accountants, acting as if I didn’t exist.
Kham left me to my work, offering an occasional nod as he came and went. Several times I glanced over to find him staring at me from his office with an odd smile on his lips that left me ill at ease. Whatever was he thinking? But it was his treatment of the two accountants that concerned me most: speaking to them with impatience, never happy with their answers. One afternoon he yelled at Monsieur Chan and pounded on his desk before storming out of the office and slamming the door. Another day he called Monsieur Nguyen into his office and thrust some papers under his nose, screaming at him for an error, then throwing the papers in the poor man’s face. I made a concerted effort to keep out of Kham’s way.
I drafted a chart of the steps in the shipping, billing, and accounting processes to show the flow of paperwork as best I could determine. Then I listed improvements to increase efficiency. The changes made perfect sense to me, like solving a complicated algebraic equation. Before I could approach Kham, I wanted to meet with the other employees again to get their reactions and support. The prospect left me quivering.
That afternoon, Bounmy stopped by the office. My heart bumped against my ribs, and my cheeks grew hot when I saw him come through the door.
Messieurs Chan and Nguyen jumped up and bowed, looking surprised to see him. After greeting the men, Bounmy turned to me. “I wanted to see how you’re faring.”
“I’m very happy,” I said hastily, knowing my coworkers were listening. Surely they found it curious that Bounmy had befriended someone like me. I was grateful Kham was out of the office.
“Why don’t we step outside,” I suggested, leading the way.
“I hope I haven’t embarrassed you by coming, but I’ve been thinking about you all week. Thank you for your note.” He glanced around. “This place is rather rough, but I suppose it will do for now.”
I pushed my hair behind one ear. “I can’t thank you enough for introducing me to your cousin.”
“I’m glad to help.” He twisted his straw hat round and round in his hands. “I…I wondered if we might have an outing Sunday afternoon. Perhaps a boat ride up the Mekong. If you’re free, that is.”
“I’d like that.”
He released a long draft of air. “Shall I come by your house around one o’clock?”
“I could meet you by the river,” I suggested. I wasn’t certain if Catherine and Julian would be at home at that hour, but I preferred to tell them about a date with Bounmy after the fact.
“How about on the riverfront just past Pierre’s?” he said, putting on his hat. “I look forward to it.”
He walked to a waiting pousse-pousse, then turned and waved. I didn’t know what to think of his attentions, but foolishly or not, I longed to spend time with him.
Arriving home from work that evening, I found two letters awaiting me. One was from Bridgette and the other from Luang Prabang. I ripped open the second envelope.
May 26, 1931
Société d’assistance aux Métis
Lambert Maison, Sakharine Road
Luang Prabang, Kingdom of Luang Prabang
Chère Mademoiselle Geneviève Dubois,
I received your letter of May 18 today requesting information about your parents who released you into the care of the Société d’assistance aux Métis in 1913. I am unable to provide you with any further background given the Society’s longstanding policy of privacy regarding our charges’ origins.
I wish you success in whatever you pursue in the future.
Regards,
Madame Gabrielle Lambert
Luang Prabang
I read the terse message twice then turned the page over, feeling sure there must be something more. It was blank. Unlike the kind and encouraging letter from the orphanage director in Pakse, this letter contained only five lines devoid of empathy or understanding. The answer was exactly as Director Bernard had predicted.
I’d been suspended midair for weeks, waiting for an answer, but now the gossamer thread of hope holding me up had been slashed, and I fell back to earth. I had my father’s name, but nothing more than my mother’s first name. How would I find her family in Luang Prabang? I folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope, setting it aside, too crestfallen to even muster any tears.
I opened Bridgette’s letter, desperately needing her cheerful, innocent sentiments to lighten my disappointment.
Vivi, chère amie,
I keep rereading your letter that Catherine brought yesterday. I can’t begin to describe how envious I am of your thrilling life—new clothes, a new job, and best of all a new beau! Or I should say a first beau! Hearing about Bounmy Savang (an actual prince!!) and your tea on Sunday made my heart race until I was quite short of breath. His effort to get you a job at River Transport is touching. He sounds like a dream: handsome, polite, kind.
You mentioned Catherine’s brother Julian arriving on Monday. I know Catherine is over the moon to have him home again. Do you like him? Tell me more. And what about your job? More, more.
As usual there is little to report here. A shy little girl, only seven years old, arrived at the orphanage yesterday. I saw her weeping out in the backyard this morning, but one of the other girls sat down and put an arm around her, comforting her. It was so sweet and made me recall my first day, and how you befriended me. What would I have done without you all these years?
I’m enclosing a sketch I made of a red ginger plant. Maîtresse must be feeling sorry for me as she bought me some watercolors. It may take me a while to get the hang of them, but I did my best.
You haven’t mentioned looking for Sylvie again after discovering she moved out of the boarding house, but I know you’ve been occupied with the job hunt. Once I’m a free woman, we shall search for her together.
Do come to Sunday Mass and wear one of your new outfits, so I can see it.
Miss you, miss you, miss you!! But I’m glad you are happy and doing well.
Love and kisses,
Bridgette
P.S. Hugs from Lucienne and Madeleine