The birthday party started out full of friendly banter and laughter. Marguerite wore a traditional Annamese áo dài, a long emerald-green silk tunic with slits up the sides to her hips, over loose-fitting, white silk pants. The costume seemed incongruous draped over her tall, big-boned frame, unlike the delicate Annamese women I’d seen wearing them in town.
“I bought it in Saigon when I first arrived in Indochine,” she said, after I told her how pretty she looked. She giggled. “Men find it very sexy, like silk pajamas they can’t wait to peel away.” I blanched at her suggestion, and she threw her head back laughing.
Marguerite began a long harangue about the new Resident Superior. “That man is impossible and demanding. He argues about every single detail, no matter how small.” She ranted on, relating a story of how he had nearly torn to pieces a lowly civil servant from the customs department, not to mention the disagreement he’d had with Charles, which had ended in a shouting match. She crossed her legs and sighed. “The next thing we knew, Charles was sent packing to Luang Prabang!”
As Marguerite vented her frustrations, I studied Catherine’s face across the room. She wore an unconvincing smile, and I could see her attention stray somewhere else several times, undoubtedly to Monsieur Fontaine. I had respected her wishes and not asked any further questions about him, but now it broke my heart to observe her sad, dull eyes.
After Julian refilled drinks, Catherine brought Marguerite’s gifts from the side table. “Open your presents,” she said.
“What about André?” Julian asked.
Catherine shrugged. “He’s always late. We can’t wait for him.”
A smile lightened Marguerite’s face. “I got a birthday wire from Charles this afternoon. He said the trip to Luang Prabang was quite exhausting as it rained incessantly, and they only arrived yesterday.”
“As I thought,” Catherine said. “After all that moaning about how he’d forgotten you.”
Marguerite waved off the comment and pulled Julian’s green scarf from its wrapping, oohing with delight. “It’s such a beautiful color.”
“I must give Vivi credit for choosing the scarf,” Julian said. “She has an excellent eye.”
Next came a bottle of Shalimar perfume from Catherine, which Marguerite sprayed on her wrists then mine. She unwrapped my tortoiseshell comb, ran to the mirror above the side table, and secured her hair back on the left side. “I love it,” she exclaimed. “Thank you all. What would I do without my dear friends?”
Marguerite flipped through the pile of records resting on the table next to the Victrola that Julian had brought from Paris. “How thrilling to have new music!” She placed a disc on the turntable, and Maurice Chevalier sang “Toi et Moi.” She begged Julian to dance with her, and soon they were circling the room in a foxtrot.
When the song ended, Julian restarted the record and bowed before me. “Mademoiselle, may I have this dance?” I protested that I didn’t know the steps, as the only person I’d ever danced with was Bridgette, and we could never figure out who was leading and who was following. But he refused to take no for an answer and pulled me up from my chair into his arms. “I’ll show you what to do.” Stiff and blushing, I stumbled along, stepping on his foot several times, but he just smiled and explained the moves, counting out the beat. The song ended and he restarted the record for a second time. Before long, I relaxed into the song’s rhythm under his confident lead—one hand holding mine, the other firmly planted on my back, guiding me across the floor. It felt like a dream, as if I were floating on air. When the music ended, my disappointment surprised me.
“Bravo, Vivi,” Catherine said. “You’re a natural.”
“We’ll go to the club one weekend and try out our moves on a proper dance floor,” Julian said, waggling his eyebrows. Perhaps the invitation served as penitence for his past remarks, but I remained cautious nonetheless.
André joined us forty minutes late, reeking of gin. He apologized, saying he’d lost track of time while having a cocktail—obviously more than one—with a friend at Pierre’s. He was not handsome and sophisticated like Julian as I’d expected, but short of stature, only a few inches taller than me, with big hazel eyes and the soft, pudgy body of a stuffed teddy bear. His constant laughter over the slightest amusement filled his fleshy face with fine lines. He wore dirty khaki pants and a shirt half-untucked with a dark blue stain on the front pocket. A habit of running his hand through his curly auburn hair gave him the air of having recently stepped out of bed.
As Julian introduced us, a silly grin spread across André’s face. He took my hand into his clammy palms and stammered, “I…I’m delighted to, to meet you.” He turned to Julian. “You’re right, she’s quite beautiful,” he said, as if speaking of an inanimate object to be evaluated and rated.
Julian laughed and slapped his friend on the back. “Really, André, can’t you monitor anything you say?” It soon became apparent that André rarely filtered his comments, less so as he continued to drink.
My first impression was of an overgrown puppy, madly wagging its tail for attention, full of enthusiasm for everything and everyone it encountered. Later, I understood that as he got more and more wound up, he issued tactless remarks without any awareness that he was inflicting pain on others. I didn’t think he was intentionally mean, simply wildly self-absorbed and oblivious.
Julian poured a steady stream of cocktails and champagne. I tried to resist, but he kept insisting, “Just one more.” I complied, not wanting to appear young and inexperienced. The alcohol deceived me at first with its warm glow, and the more I imbibed, the more at ease I felt, joining in the conversation and raucous laughter. It was almost as if I belonged among these privileged French friends with their comfortable lives. Almost. Until André blurted out another careless remark that drew me back to reality.
Mali had outdone herself, serving chicken cordon bleu and spinach soufflé for dinner. Marguerite continued to drink with abandon, complaining about growing old and how her life was empty and pathetic with Charles gone. At one point, she batted her eyes at Julian and made suggestive remarks. Her flirting seemed more a habit, an affectation, than a sign of any real interest in him. Julian brushed off her suggestions as a joke and changed the subject. Her outrageous behavior made me cringe.
The contrast between Julian—handsome, self-assured, and witty—and André, a bumbling fool, made them unlikely friends. Yet they recounted tales of their college days in Paris, interrupting each other and embellishing details, like a seasoned comedy routine. Incidents grew more hilarious as the night wore on and the alcohol kept flowing.
André launched into a tale about an evening in a Paris restaurant. “I heard these young oriental men speaking Lao and immediately introduced myself. They were students at the École Coloniale, sons of aristocratic families in Luang Prabang. The four of us shared a bottle of wine and waxed nostalgic for Laos. Nice chaps.”
“And good sports,” Julian added, “considering how Parisians treated them, pointing and staring. They recounted several appalling incidents that made me ashamed of my fellow countrymen.”
André put a hand up to get our attention. “One day, shopping at a cheese shop, the vendor thought they were someone’s servants and tried to cheat them out of their change.” He chuckled, as if it were terribly amusing. “Another time at a reception at the French Ministry of Culture, several guests assumed the men were wait staff and asked them to refill their wine glasses. Too droll.”
“None of that is funny, André,” Julian said, his voice irritated.
A slow burn filled my middle as I thought of similar stories Bounmy had recounted of being ridiculed and mistreated. “So, anyone who isn’t French is assumed to be a servant?” I snapped. “How ridiculous.”
“Really,” Marguerite said, draining her champagne glass. “French people are such pompous asses.” I felt sure her statement included André.
“You have to admit, Julian, their French was absolutely abominable,” André continued, as Mali emerged from the kitchen to clear dishes. He began imitating the men’s accents in a small tinny voice, laughing so hard he never noticed that no one else shared his amusement.
“How well do you speak Lao, André?” I asked.
He glanced up, obviously irked by the question. “Can’t speak a word. Impossible language. The Lao are much better off learning French, the only civilized language.”
“André, you’re an incorrigible snob,” Catherine said, her voice dripping ice. “The Lao language is beautiful.”
Mali never acknowledged the conversation, keeping her head down, her expression neutral as she carted off dishes to the kitchen.
Marguerite’s head lolled to one side. “Tell us about your trip…from Singapore.”
“Oh, a great adventure,” André assured her. “I must say, we were surprised to find the train from Singapore to Bangkok as good as any in Europe. First class had sleeper cars and an excellent dining room.”
Julian sipped his champagne. “From Bangkok we took the northern train line to a small town called Phitsanulok. A rougher ride, to be sure.”
André joined in, “We met two Danish men who work for a logging company in the northern forests of Siam. They live in the middle of nowhere with half a dozen other Occidentals.” He waved a hand through the air. “Of course, they all have their phu sao, like here in Laos. One of the men even submitted to a native wedding, paying the family a bride price and going through a hocus-pocus ceremony: praying to ancestors and mysterious spirits, lighting candles and incense on the Buddha altar. Voilà, wink-wink, he was married.”
Catherine shook her head. “It’s disgusting. I bet these men have wives and families in Denmark. One day they’ll go home and abandon these poor women.”
André shrugged. “Probably. And leave behind God only knows how many half-breed bastards.”
“Really, André, must you be so crude and tactless?” Julian said. “Stop drinking!” He grabbed André’s glass and set it aside.
I kept my voice even and stared at André. “You mean half-breed bastards like me?”
André shrank back in his chair, seemingly chastened. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”
“You never do,” Marguerite interrupted. “But you have it wrong, André. The men are the bastards, not their children.”
Julian turned to me. “I apologize for my friend. He hasn’t the slightest clue what he’s saying.” After a pause, he cleared his throat. “But at least the Danes saved us a great deal of trouble, telling us how to hire a car to drive to Nong Khai. We rode for four hours in a beat-up old Ford with a missing fender on bone-jarring, dirt roads.”
“Twice we had to get out and push the damn thing up a hill,” André said. “But we got through. A quick boat ride across the river, and here we are in Vientiane.”
“How lucky for us,” Marguerite said, smirking. Barely able to sit up any longer, she rested an elbow on the table. Her arm suddenly slipped off the edge, nearly landing her on the floor, but Catherine jumped up and caught her.
Catherine sighed, appearing remarkably sober. “I can see you’ll be sleeping in the guest room tonight, dear.” She called to Mali, who emerged from the kitchen with a cake and three lighted candles on top. We sang “Joyeux Anniversaire” in our slurred, discordant voices, and Marguerite made a wish and blew out the candles. Catherine cut slices of the banana cake topped with a tart mango sauce and passed them around.
By this time my head was spinning so fast that I had to support myself on the table to remain upright. I desperately wanted to go to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, my stomach turned somersaults, and I was sure I’d be sick. I opened my eyes wide and blinked rapidly, trying to focus.
After the cake, Catherine stood up, making it clear the party was over. With considerable effort, André rose from his chair and bowed, nearly falling over. “Thank you, Catherine. You’re a beaut… beautiful woman.” He stumbled toward me. “And you’re a lovely girl,” he said, grabbing my hand and giggling like a young schoolboy. I pulled my hand from his sweaty grip, not bothering with a reply. He repulsed me.
Catherine shook her head. “Julian, walk him home, or Lord knows where he’ll end up.” Julian was swaying back and forth, but he managed to link arms with André and guide him out the front door.
Catherine and I led Marguerite to the downstairs guestroom, where she fell on the bed and immediately passed out. Catherine removed her shoes and closed the mosquito netting around her.
On wobbly legs, I staggered to the stairway, grabbing the railing for support. “Thank you for the evening. I’m terribly drunk.”
“Everyone is. As usual.” She turned away then stopped. “Are you going to Mass in the morning?”
“Yes, but first I’m going to Madame Ketthavong’s to pick up my new clothes.”
“Bridgette will be looking for you.” She paused a moment. “I’m sorry André was such an ass tonight. He says such terrible things when he’s drunk, and tomorrow he won’t remember any of it.”
“Maybe drinking reveals people’s true feelings,” I said. “I’m grateful you’re not like that.”
Catherine gave me a quick hug. “It’s best to ignore stupid people. They don’t deserve your attention.”
Somehow I made it to my room and fell on the bed, not even bothering to take off my clothes.