I woke at some point in the dark, needing to go to the bathroom. My head throbbed, and my limbs felt like blocks of iron pulling me down. I barely made it to the toilet before being sick over and over, my stomach going into spasms until nothing remained. When I finally climbed back into bed, clutching my middle, head pounding, uninvited memories of the evening filtered through—hours of drinking, Marguerite’s inappropriate behavior, and André’s hurtful remarks.
I feared that many Frenchmen, like André, felt perfectly comfortable demeaning the Lao and métis. We lived in a society where French and Lao existed side by side, yet in separate, unequal worlds. Naturally, the French considered themselves far superior to the lowly natives, while the métis straddled the chasm somewhere in between, like distant relatives that no one wanted to acknowledge. A few lucky métis garnered a favorable status if their French fathers legally married their Lao mothers and lived with the family. Aline Allard, who Prince Souvanna was courting, had been accepted in French and Lao society. But Bridgette and I were of a different ilk—lowly bastard orphans of uncertain origins.
Bridgette had always looked for the best in people and ignored unkind words, laughing off the taunts of French schoolmates, while I became furious and wounded. She didn’t understand the pervasiveness of these attitudes that extended to French adults, with the constant reminders of our tainted background. Derogatory names issued from arrogant lips debased us, while other, more subtle gestures put us in our place—inquisitive stares, averted eyes trying to avoid someone too insignificant to acknowledge. A frown. A sneer. A small tsk of distaste.
I suppose it wasn’t surprising that the French viewed the métis as below them. The government may have declared us French citizens, but we remained half Lao, lesser beings who were best suited as farmers, household servants, or compliant phu sao.
The Lao had their own qualms about those carrying “a touch of French blood.” While some Lao families accepted their mixed offspring, sometimes even proud of them, many found it difficult to acknowledge the shame of children born out of wedlock from French fathers—foreigners who showed so little respect for the Lao and their way of life. They had names for the French, the strange pale-skinned people: falang, or foreigner; kue ling, like a monkey, given their hairy bodies; or dang mo, long noses. How could the Lao not resent these unwelcome masters, who fathered hundreds of half-French children? The métis were a reminder of the humiliations they endured every day.
It was exhausting to be trapped in the middle.
I woke again at seven thirty. My head still felt as if it might explode, my pulse thrummed loudly in my ears, and the sunlight pouring through the windows hurt my eyes. But I needed to hurry to Madame Ketthavong’s shop to retrieve my clothes if I wanted to make it to Mass by ten. I would wear my new dress to show Bridgette and with Bounmy that afternoon. Perhaps Mali might make sense of what the old woman next door had to say and determine if she had actually known my mother.
Mali was in the kitchen putting away the previous evening’s dishes. I sat at the wooden table, holding my head. “Oh, Mali, I drank too much.”
She brought me two aspirin and a glass of water mixed with bicarbonate of soda. “Take these.” Then she served me a boiled egg on a slice of toast. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”
I couldn’t imagine keeping food down but forced myself to chew and swallow. After two strong cups of coffee, I felt almost human. “I’ll never drink like that again.” Mali only smiled, as if she had heard this promise before from others.
“I want to apologize for André last night. He said such awful things in front of you. And me. I wanted to slap him.”
Mali laughed. “I don’t listen to that man. Nothing but silliness come out of his mouth. In Lao we say people like him are ngocha, stupid.” She patted my shoulder. “Ignore him.”
The morning was still cool as we walked along the quiet streets toward the seamstress’s shop. Vendors lined the river road, offering produce and different wares displayed on mats and colorful cloths. Several women called out to Mali, and she greeted them in Lao.
“Mali, I don’t want to betray Catherine’s trust, but I have to ask if you’ve heard anything from your friends about the…incident with Monsieur Fontaine? I hate seeing Catherine so sad still.”
Mali nodded. “I know you are only concerned for her. From what I’ve been told, the young maid was not harmed. Monsieur Fontaine simply passed out on her porch, and one of his children found him there. But the wife chose to believe the worst.”
“Have you shared this with Catherine?”
She sighed. “Yes, I told her. I think it helped her to know.”
I nodded, relieved to hear this news as well. I would not bring it up again or say anything to Catherine.
Madame Ketthavong was waiting for me. She sent me behind the curtain hanging in the corner of the room to try on my new outfits, while she and Mali chatted in Lao. The linen skirt hugged my hips before flaring out into gentle folds and paired perfectly with both the blue and rose-colored blouses of soft, cool cotton. I stepped out to model them.
“Very professional, mademoiselle,” Madame Ketthavong said. Mali nodded her approval.
I changed into the navy-blue polka-dot dress. The fitted bodice and full skirt emphasized my narrow waist. I thought perhaps it made me look taller. I drew aside the curtain and twirled around.
Mali smiled. “Lovely, Mademoiselle Vivi. Just lovely.”
“I’ll wear it, as I’m going to Mass from here,” I said.
When I paid for the clothes, I asked Madame Ketthavong the name of the old woman next door.
“Madame Lansay,” she replied. “But you must not take too much from what she says. Her mind lives in another place these days.”
“I understand, but I’d like to talk with her for a moment. Just in case.”
Madame Ketthavong walked us outside, calling into the entry of the home. A young woman emerged. The seamstress introduced me and Mali in French and explained about our last encounter with her grandmother.
The neighbor bowed then disappeared. She returned, leading the tiny lady to the door; her spindly legs threatened to collapse at any moment. The neighbor lifted her grandmother onto her back and carried her down the steps, then lowered her onto a stool. “This is my grandmother, Madame Lansay.”
The ancient woman looked even more frail than I remembered, with paper-thin skin covered in brown spots. Her milky eyes sank into her skull, and I felt guilty bothering her. The old woman looked right past me, at first, into the morning sun, as if unaware of her surroundings or anyone’s presence. I crouched down beside her and held a bony hand. “Madame Lansay, we met last week. Do you remember me?” Mali repeated my words in Lao.
The old woman glanced over, studying my face. Slowly, she lifted a hand to run her fingers along my cheek. Glancing down for a moment, she let out a small gasp. “Laya…Laya Thongsavat.” My heart contracted until I could not breathe. Could Thongsavat be my mother’s family name?
I waited impatiently as Mali asked the questions I’d suggested earlier. The granny concentrated before answering in halting bursts. “She remembers you from the big house in Luang Prabang where she cleaned for the French family. You tutored the young master,” Mali repeated. “He was a sweet boy. You were both sad when he became ill and left with his mother for France. She says the mother was mean. You stopped the mistress from hitting Madame Lansay several times.”
Stunned by these details, I turned to the granddaughter. “Did your grandmother ever live in Luang Prabang? Could she have worked for a French family?”
The woman nodded, her mouth agape. “Yes, it’s true, but she hasn’t talked of it for many years.” She gently smoothed her grandmother’s disheveled bun. “She was born in Luang Prabang and married my grandfather there. He died when only forty. My grandmother worked as a housekeeper for different French families to support her six children. When my father, her eldest son, took a job with the telegraph company in Vientiane, Granny moved here with us.”
My pulse raced. “Does she know the name of the French family where she worked?” I asked. Mali repeated the question in Lao. The old woman became agitated and began rubbing her hands together over and over.
“Dubois,” I murmured.
Her face lit up. “Dubois. Monsieur Henri Dubois.”
A hitch seized my chest. I wanted to explain to her that I was Laya’s daughter, but I was afraid it would confuse her too much, so I pretended to be my mother. “Is… is my family in Luang Prabang?”
She answered in French this time. “Yes. Your father is an important man.”
The granddaughter shook her head in wonder. “Grandmother used to speak French, but we thought she’d forgotten. Usually she remembers nothing, only a little of her childhood.”
Tears sprang into my eyes. The unlikely chance of meeting this ancient person with her treasure of information overwhelmed me. To learn my mother’s family name, and to know my grandfather had been an important person, gave me a means of searching for my family. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
The old woman collapsed back, as if spent by the effort, and drifted to another place.
“I think she’s tired,” the granddaughter said. “You can come back another day and speak with her again if you wish.”
I gave Madame Lansay a gentle hug and kissed her cool, dry cheek. “I will come to see you soon.”
She patted my hand. “You must be careful. Don’t trust the French.” I wondered what prompted the warning. Had she known about the affair between my mother and father? I would think carefully about additional questions before returning.
I stood and thanked the granddaughter. It was difficult to pull myself away from the only link to my parents I’d ever found.
Mali held my elbow, quietly guiding us down the lane while I murmured my mother’s name: “Laya Thongsavat.” I turned to her with the wonder of it all, my eyes questioning hers.
“It was your destiny to meet this woman,” she said simply.
“I’ve never believed in miracles…but now I do.”
Mid-morning sun flooded our path and brought my thoughts back to the rest of my day. “We must hurry. You need to meet your husband, and it’s almost time for Mass. I’m going to wait at the church and try to see Bridgette.”
“Give me this,” Mali said, taking the package of clothes from me. “Say thank you to God, then Buddha, for aiding you.”
A half-hour early for Mass, I wandered in the Sacred Heart graveyard, hoping to catch sight of Bridgette before Director Bernard showed up. My mind raced with thoughts of Madame Lansay’s revelations. I had a name, a path forward for finding my mother’s family. Perhaps even my mother. Could there actually be a God watching out for me?
Reading the tombstones, it was shocking to see how many children and young people had lost their lives to tropical diseases, which would never have touched them if their families had remained in France. Instead, they’d met a tragic end before truly experiencing life and were buried in the cemetery of a remote country. A place they’d never belonged.
As families began filing into the church, I spotted Maîtresse with her flock of orphans marching behind, like a mother duck with her ducklings. I waited until she led the girls aged eight and under to Sunday school in the adjoining building, then waved frantically to Bridgette and the others. Lucienne saw me first, rushing over with Bridgette and Madeleine trailing behind. I threw myself into the warm embraces of my friends.
“Look at you in your beautiful new dress,” Lucienne exclaimed, stepping back.
“I’m jealous,” Madeleine said wistfully. “Your life is terribly exciting.” I grinned and nodded, unable to disappoint them with the full truth of my experiences over the past month.
Lucienne grabbed Madeleine’s arm. “Come. We’ll keep Maîtresse out of the way so Bridgette and Vivi can talk.” I was grateful she understood our need to be alone.
Bridgette hugged me tight again. “I can’t believe you’re actually here. So, tell me everything.”
“We don’t have much time. My job is boring, and the men grumpy, but I got paid yesterday. That makes it worthwhile. Catherine and Mali are wonderful and take good care of me. I can’t wait until you are free, and we can go everywhere together.”
“What about Julian?”
“I haven’t really…gotten to know him that well. He’s handsome, almost beautiful.”
She turned her head with a sly smile. “I can’t wait to meet him. He sounds dreamy.”
I studied my friend’s face, thinking her eyes looked a little swollen. “Are you all right? You look pale.”
“I’m fine. I’ve had a fever for a few days, but I think it’s gone now.” She pushed her hair behind her ear.
“Do take care of yourself.”
“Don’t worry. And Monsieur Savang? What is he like?”
“He’s very kind and—”
“Handsome,” she interrupted, giggling.
“That too. I’m meeting him this afternoon for a boat ride on the river.”
She hopped up and down, grabbing my hand. “It’s too thrilling. Promise to write me every detail tomorrow.”
“Of course.” I paused a moment. “Being with him—just thinking about him—gives me this warm glow, a strange longing I’ve never felt before. I definitely have a crush.”
Bridgette’s face turned serious. “Promise me you won’t run off with him before I get out of the orphanage.”
“Today is only our second date. I’m not running off with anyone. I am waiting for you to be free.”
I looked over and saw Maîtresse standing in front of the church, arms crossed, watching us with an amused expression. She waved for us to come. Sheepishly, we hurried arm in arm to where she stood.
“Director Bernard won’t be here today. You can sit together if you like.” And with that she disappeared into the chapel.
Bridgette made a face. “Can you believe it? She’s turning into someone nice.”
We sat in the pew behind Maîtresse and the other girls, holding hands, content to simply be together, speaking softly to each other when the choir sang, until Maîtresse scolded us. We made faces and giggled at Father Joseph’s sermon about asking God’s forgiveness for our sins, large and small. It was such a relief to feel so wonderfully at ease in the company of my dearest friend once again.
When we parted at the end of the service, it felt as if I were abandoning her once more. “I know it seems like forever until your birthday, but be strong.”
She gave me a final hug. “I’ll be fine, just keep sending letters—especially about Monsieur Savang.”
Maîtresse gave a small nod and led the girls back toward their cloistered lives. Bridgette faded from view, leaving me with an acute sense of loss.