Days disappeared and suddenly two weeks had slipped past. I struggled to comprehend that Bridgette existed only in my heart. Images of my dear friend lying in the hospital bed and the coffin haunted my waking hours. I collapsed into the bliss of sleep each night, only to wake from nightmares, frantically searching for Bridgette in a forest as a tiger roared in the distance. Each morning brought the fresh realization of her death, like a knife being plunged into my middle over and over again. I dragged myself back and forth to work, my mind shrouded in a hazy fog. She was never coming back.
I turned to Catherine for support. She urged me to allow myself time, insisting there was no rush to make plans or worry about the future. Sometimes she simply sat with me in the back garden, holding my hand as I cried.
Mali nourished me with concern through her cooking, entreating me to eat when my appetite failed, as if I were a small child she had adopted. She insisted we resume our Lao lessons and attempt to carry on conversations. I tried, even though it was difficult to find the right words, and she laughed at my abominable pronunciation. The lessons were only a temporary diversion, and the moment my thoughts returned to Bridgette, I nearly suffocated from my sense of loss.
I was filled with questions for Mali. Urgent questions. As a Buddhist, what did she think happened to people when they died? How did reincarnation work? Having been raised a Catholic, would Bridgette be accepted in the Buddhist world? I went with Mali to her temple each morning before I left for work, and we lit candles and incense and prayed for Bridgette’s khuan, her soul. I wanted desperately to believe, to cling to anything that might bring comfort.
While Catherine and Mali showered me with understanding, Julian took it upon himself to distract me. He couldn’t bear to see me cry, so he tried to keep my attention elsewhere. Silence was banned from the dinner table along with any mention of Bridgette, and he told endless stories of his childhood and time in Paris, or talked of world events—anything he could think of. He mentioned Lily occasionally, how she had kept him dangling when he’d offered her his heart, as if this too were part of an amusing story. He complained of the ludicrous government bureaucracy in Vientiane impeding his efforts to set up his business. Even I laughed when he imitated the officious French administrator blocking his path.
Julian held his head in the air, looked down his nose, and sniffed. “Monsieur Courbet, you must understand, this is simply the way things are done. Be prepared to wait.” Julian chuckled. “He treated me like a half-wit.”
As much as Julian implored me to continue with tennis, I simply couldn’t face being at the Cercle among those impervious people. But our Thursday evening belote games resumed, and Marguerite entertained us with the latest gossip in town. The world kept turning.
At work I kept as busy as possible, arranging and rearranging office correspondence and invoices. No task was too small to engage me, as long as I avoided the despair threatening to consume me. The accountants, the warehouse manager, and even Kham were kinder. They tiptoed around me, as if I were a delicate piece of china that might break, obviously terrified I would dissolve into tears.
But no one relieved my sorrow like Bounmy. He was a balm for my aching soul. I refused to feel guilty for allowing myself these brief interludes of pleasure. Bridgette would understand. We continued to spend Friday evenings and Sunday afternoons together, but often he turned up at the end of the workday to walk me home. When we settled in a quiet spot along the river for a picnic, he encouraged me to talk about Bridgette, to cherish the memories and express my grief. Inevitably, when I began to cry, he held me in his arms, saying it was good to let the tears release my pain. Sometimes he kissed me tenderly, but he refrained from any passionate embraces. Perhaps he thought me too fragile, or that it was simply inappropriate.
In early August I received a second letter from Antoine. His cheerful words reminded me how suddenly life could turn around—happiness lost, then restored.
July 26, 1931
Chère Vivi,
I shall call you Vivi, as your friends do. I received your wonderful long letter of July 16 (only seven days in transit—a miracle). I’m relieved to hear mine reached you, as the mail is so uncertain.
The story of your unhappy upbringing at the orphanage made me very sad, but at least you had your good friend Bridgette to get you through. I look forward to meeting her when I come. My childhood was happier, but I don’t know what I would have done without my best friend Paul. The director of your orphanage sounds like many of my teachers in Saigon, more interested in their power and ability to intimidate than in helping students. They should all be fired and sent back to France!
I am delighted to hear you want to attend university in France in the next year or so, depending, of course, on the search for our parents. Perhaps we can carry out this plan together, and if we find our mother, we will take her with us. We’ll see how it unfolds.
You asked what the coffee plantation is like and what we do, so I’ll try to describe the operations. The owners are two middle-aged Frenchmen, who are gambling on growing coffee beans despite several other failed plantations over the years. This time they have planted a different variety called Arabica, which seems to be thriving in the altitude and cool weather of the Bolaven Plateau. While only three hundred trees are producing beans right now, each season more reach maturity (it takes five years). We continue to plant seedlings every day.
I am struggling with my conscience, trapped in a difficult situation. The owners have little regard for the laborers, and the conditions and pay here are appalling. My job is to oversee a hundred and fifty men and women, toiling from sunup to sundown, six days a week, with little time to rest. It is exhausting work, stooping and crouching down to plant seedlings, water, and remove insects and weeds (which pop up again within a week). When the harvest starts in November, they will spend three months passing through the trees over and over, carefully picking only the very ripe red beans, or “cherries,” as they’re called. My job is less demanding, as I simply ride around on my horse, supervising and solving problems. Yet I earn five times as much pay as these poor people.
Most workers live on the plantation in barracks with thirty bunkbeds jammed together—men and women are separated, of course. They are fed meager meals of rice and soup, which hardly sustain them. There is no care for the sick or injured, and taking a day off due to illness is met with anger and no pay. Some are even dismissed.
My direct boss is the French plantation manager. He is a cold person who treats me as far below his level and expects me to do whatever he demands without question. We both have one-room shacks to ourselves and a separate outhouse. While a cook prepares us decent meals, it is hardly a luxurious life.
I’m making myself unpopular by speaking out about the workers’ conditions and the need to improve them. If I’m not careful, I might lose my job. The owners and manager are on alert for outside agitators, like those who have incited rebellions at the rubber plantations in Cochinchina.
This is probably more than you wanted to know. I’m sorry to be so negative, but I have no one else to complain to. I’ll write again in a few days when I’m not so tired and can be more positive! I hope to receive another letter from you soon as well.
With affection,
Antoine
I felt badly that I had not written to him again, but I’d been unable to find the will after Bridgette’s death. With a heavy heart I took up pen and paper to explain my silence.
August 6, 1931
Cher Antoine,
You probably wonder why you haven’t heard from me recently. Two days after I wrote you last, my best friend Bridgette died. She was the only family I’ve ever known until now, and the loss feels unbearable. It’s as if half my soul has flown off to another place where Bridgette now resides. She contracted malaria, which worsened over many weeks until it took a sudden turn and extinguished her brief life. How could someone so young and good die like this? She never got to leave the confines of the orphanage, never had a chance to be free and find happiness.
Today would have been Bridgette’s eighteenth birthday, when she would have come to live at Catherine’s house with me. I ate a piece of her favorite chocolate torte at the French bakery to honor her and cried a great deal. We had so many dreams and plans that will never come to be. In my memory, she will remain a beautiful young woman, about to embark on her life, the loyal friend who helped me survive life in the orphanage.
People assured me my grief will slowly ease, which I found difficult to believe. Yet, the sharp debilitating pain I felt on waking each morning is now more of a dull ache. I go to work and keep busy, spend time with people I care about, and think about good things to come, like meeting you. More and more I keep my mourning for private moments.
I’m sorry for this dark letter, but I do have happy news. I am to travel to Luang Prabang at the end of September with my boss to help organize the company’s office there. A friend was able to find the location of our mother’s family home, and I plan to visit as soon as possible. I’m excited and nervous and full of hope. Soon we will have answers to our past.
Please take good care of yourself as I couldn’t bear to lose you, when I’ve only just found you. I promise to write again next week.
With love,
Vivi