The boat pulled alongshore in town as the sun slowly faded, and we navigated the steep riverbank. “Let’s find a spot along Avenue Lang Xang to view the procession,” Bounmy said.
I thought again of Catherine cautioning me about being seen alone with him, but I hardly knew anyone in Vientiane. Who would notice?
The farmers who had sold their produce earlier in the day along the river road had packed up and gone home, leaving only a few disfigured long beans, broken stalks of lemongrass, and half-crushed papayas littering the ground. A group of elderly Lao men sat on their haunches under a tree, smoking and talking. They watched us pass, their regards inquisitive, perhaps disapproving. Or was that my imagination?
“What did you think of your first outing on the river?” Bounmy asked.
“It was wonderful. Thank you.”
He smiled. “At least you didn’t fall in the water, and I didn’t have to rescue you.”
I wondered if I needed him to rescue me, and what that might mean.
The sound of clanking metal came from behind us. We turned to find four members of the Garde Indigène, the local Lao law enforcement unit, with rifles slung over their shoulders, marching eight prisoners down the road. The captives’ hands were shackled, and a rope tied them together. They appeared underfed in worn, tattered clothes. Bounmy pressed his lips together with distaste.
“What do you suppose they did?” I asked.
“Hard to know. There’s been unrest on the Bolaven Plateau among workers at the coffee plantations. The Sûreté has stepped up efforts to uncover communist cells.”
I recognized the name: Sûreté Générale, the French secret police. I looked into Bounmy’s eyes with bewilderment. “Is there trouble in Laos? I read an article in the newspaper about rebellions at the rubber plantations in the Annamese colonies involving the Indochinese Communist Party, but I thought Laos was peaceful.” I had seen the story by chance, which mentioned a man named Nguyen Ai Quoc who had formed a new communist organization and was in exile in Hong Kong. It warned that the group was creating an underground network throughout Indochine.
Bounmy nodded. “Trouble has started in a few Annamese villages in the south of Laos.”
The chained men shuffled past, heads hanging down.
“But these men are Miao, from the mountains,” Bounmy explained in a low voice. “If they’re in the custody of the Garde Indigène, they must have tried to escape a corvée order.”
“What is that?”
He sighed. “Because the colonies are always underfunded, native men are forced to work during part of each year on public work projects. The government uses the corvée labor to construct roads, telegraph lines, and public buildings.”
“They don’t pay them?”
He shrugged. “It’s another form of taxation. Villages pay a head tax for each person who lives there, but the village chiefs are skilled at undercounting. The government developed corvée labor as another tax that helps fill the shortage of workers. In past years there were many abuses and unreasonable demands, as men were ordered to leave their fields in the middle of the planting or harvesting seasons. It’s been better in recent years, but sometimes requests are still ill timed. As a result, there are always those who run away rather than serve.”
“What will happen to them?”
“A judge will determine the punishment. I imagine they’ll be in jail a few weeks, then they’ll have to serve their corvée requirement anyway. The point is to discourage them from doing it again.”
“Have you been called for corvée work?” I asked, unable to picture Bounmy on a crew, installing telegraph poles and stringing wires.
He shook his head. “Those who are well placed can simply pay a fee and be exempted. As a result, most corvée is performed by poor villagers, many from ethnic tribes in remote areas.” He looked at me apologetically. “It’s unfair. There are many practices like this one that I’d prefer to see changed.”
“I feel sorry for these poor men.”
“I agree.”
We walked on in silence, reaching the busy Rue Maréchal Joffre. A tiny restaurant displayed a handwritten sign for Chinese food, and the smell of garlic and hot oil drifted from the open door.
“Mademoiselle Dubois,” a voice called out of nowhere.
I turned with a start, feeling like I’d been caught doing something forbidden. André stood a few feet away, wearing the same rumpled khaki pants and shirt from the night before, as if he’d just tumbled out of bed. I could only imagine how hungover he must have felt after the vast quantity of alcohol he’d consumed the night before. He was the last person I wanted to see.
“Monsieur Robert,” I said.
André held out his hand to Bounmy. “Prince Savang, André Robert. We went to lycée in Hanoi together. I understand you met with Julian Courbet recently.”
Bounmy shook his hand and offered a tepid smile. “I remember you. Monsieur Courbet told me you had returned with him from France.”
André inclined his head toward my damp dress. “Did you get caught in the rain? I’d forgotten how suddenly these storms come up.”
“They can be surprising,” Bounmy said evenly.
Julian emerged from a tobacco shop, walking toward us as he studied the label on a pack of cigarettes. “André, they only—” He stopped midsentence on seeing us. “Vivi, Prince Savang, this is a surprise.” Julian studied me for a moment. “Cat and I wondered where you had disappeared to all day.”
“I was going to tell Catherine at Mass, but she didn’t make it.”
Julian smiled. “I’m afraid we were both done in by the party last night, but here you are, safe and sound.”
“We’re headed to Pierre’s for a drink,” André said. “Won’t you join us?”
“Thank you, but we’re going to watch the monks’ procession. Another time,” Bounmy said.
“Prince,” Julian said, “I’ll call you this week to schedule a tennis match.”
“I’d like that.” Bounmy gave a curt nod then took my elbow, leading me away.
His cool response surprised me. “You knew André at school as well?” I said at last.
“Unfortunately. Julian and I may have been academic rivals, but André was one of those boys who constantly caused trouble, taunting anyone who wasn’t French. He and Kham got into fist fights almost weekly.” A deep bitterness filled his words. “The French schoolmaster always took André’s side, naturally.”
I hadn’t expected Bounmy’s treatment in school to have mirrored my own. It seemed that being a royal prince had not protected him from the prejudices ingrained in French children at an early age.
“You’ve met André already?” Bounmy asked.
“He came for dinner last night.” I explained about Marguerite’s birthday party and how drunk André had been. “I can’t understand how Julian can be friends with him. I found his behavior and the things he said disgusting. I hope to avoid him in the future.”
“I feel the same.”
We picked a spot along Avenue Lang Xang, blending into a crowd of Lao and Annamese followers waiting for the Visakha Bousa procession. As darkness descended, a steady line of monks filed past carrying candles. The flickering lights filled the night like stars that had descended from heaven to scatter their glow.
“It’s magical,” I whispered to Bounmy.
Once the procession ended, we strolled toward home. I already felt sad at the thought of parting, wondering when we might meet again. Or if we would.
“Mali has been teaching me Buddhist beliefs,” I said. “I want to better understand how my mother was raised. I find the serene nature of Buddhism—striving for enlightenment and nirvana, freedom from human pain and torment on Earth, being kind and doing good deeds to earn merit in this life and the next—more appealing than the Catholic faith. I’ve always had trouble believing in a God that allows such terrible suffering around the world, and a church that threatens hell and damnation, punishing people for the slightest sins.”
“I took a class on world religions in Paris and discovered all faiths, at their core, encourage good behavior with the promise of a better life beyond this one, yet balanced with the threat of severe punishment for any misbehavior. Buddhism takes a gentler approach in some ways, perhaps, but it’s basically the same. Holidays like Visakha Bousa are an important reminder of the higher purpose in Buddha’s teachings. Yet many people who call themselves Buddhists inflict cruelty and pain on others. Religious beliefs everywhere are easily misinterpreted and abused.”
His philosophical, almost cynical, response surprised me. “Do you consider yourself a Buddhist?”
“I was raised Buddhist, and I try to follow its basic tenets, as it’s so ingrained in our culture and daily activities here in Laos. But like you, there are aspects of my religion that I question.” He looked down at me, his face unreadable in the dim light. “And you?”
“I’m still trying to figure it out. There is much I don’t understand, and in school they never taught us anything about other beliefs.”
“It’s good you are curious and willing to consider other ideas. I like that about you.”
I held on to these words of praise.
When we reached the house, I thanked him for the wonderful day.
Bounmy bowed slightly. “We’ll meet again soon.”
“I’d like that.” Why didn’t he suggest another date now? Had I disappointed him? Since we’d returned to town on the boat, he’d remained reserved and stiff, as if holding his emotions in check, not wanting to give away too much of himself.
Waiting to hear from him again would be agony.
I stepped through the gate and watched him leave. He turned, merely an outline in the dark, and waved one last time.