Marguerite arrived at seven on Wednesday morning in the Resident Superior’s black Renault motorcar, driven by his chauffeur. I’d never ridden in an automobile before and thought it quite thrilling. Marguerite wore voluminous white cotton pants and a long flowing robe with black riding boots. All she needed was a turban wrapped around her head to match an Arabian prince in an illustration from One Thousand and One Nights. Even wearing Catherine’s jodhpurs and coffee-colored riding boots, I looked unremarkable in comparison.
“What an ungodly hour. I barely had time for coffee,” Marguerite grumbled, as I sank into the pleated leather folds of the back seat. “Charles had better appreciate the sacrifices I’m making to travel to Luang Prabang. I’m either crazy or in love. I’m not sure which, yet.”
We continued to the French guesthouse near the Cercle to collect the overweight German and his Danish companions, who we’d seen at the club the previous month. Marguerite said they’d recently returned from Champasak in southern Laos. The three men staggered out of the inn with their valises, reeking of gin. Dark circles surrounded their sleepy eyes. They nodded a curt greeting and crowded into the car. One Danish man was sweating profusely, and his face was white. I feared he might be sick on the way to our destination.
The chauffeur drove us north on the still-under-construction autoroute to Luang Prabang. “The road is only a hundred kilometers long at the moment,” Marguerite said. “They’ve been working on it for nearly a decade, but budgetary constraints keep getting in the way. The recent economic collapse has brought construction to a halt again.”
The route was nothing more than an eight-foot-wide stretch of packed dirt, which Bounmy had told me had been hand-excavated by corvée labor crews. Once out of town, we passed through rice paddies and small villages until the landscape turned into a seemingly impenetrable jungle, like the pending darkness of nightfall, threatening to reclaim the colonial government’s efforts to create a link to the north. Rain the day before had made the dirt slick, causing the car to repeatedly slide and swerve. In some spots downpours had washed away chunks of the road and created enormous potholes, which the driver had to veer around or slowly traverse. I began to think I might be better off on a horse, as frightened as I was at the prospect.
Two hours out of Vientiane, the route ended abruptly. Ten Lao guides, eight small horses, and two elephants awaited us. The men were busy saddling horses and attaching square platforms atop the elephants’ backs, before loading on supplies and luggage. The guides were small of stature and spare, barely taller than me, but their wiry arms and legs proved remarkably strong. They went barefoot and wore loose cotton shirts over sarongs tied about their waists.
Kham showed up in a battered old Ford convertible ten minutes later with two Chinese merchants.
“Prince Savang, may I introduce Mademoiselle Vanier, secretary to the Resident Superior of Laos,” I said.
Kham smiled and made a nop in a deferential manner that was out of character. “Mademoiselle, what a great pleasure.” He introduced his companions as Messieurs Wong and Lee. All the men disappeared briefly into the trees before reemerging.
Marguerite whispered in my ear, “We should probably use the facilities before we start.”
Startled, I looked around. “There’s an outhouse?”
Marguerite laughed. “No such luck. Get used to nature’s water closet. And watch where you squat. God only knows what might be crawling on the ground or in the plants. The jungle is full of lethal snakes.”
I wrinkled my nose. “If you’re trying to reassure me, it’s not working.” I followed her into the trees and found a private spot, examining the earth below me as I gingerly crouched down. It would be a very long trip.
The horses stood only four to five feet tall, sporting harnesses with silver adornments and saddle blankets woven with bright colors. The animals appeared unbothered by the people and commotion around them, perhaps resigned to the long trek ahead. One of the older guides led me to the smallest horse, presumably because I was the smallest person in the group. The horse’s ears shot back, and it retreated several steps as I approached.
The guide laughed as I recoiled in fear. “Like this,” he said, showing me how to stroke the animal’s neck and speak in soothing tones. The horse relaxed and allowed me to climb onto its back. The saddle felt more like a hard plank of wood than leather. How would I manage for the next twelve days?
Marguerite mounted her horse, squirming in the seat as the guide adjusted her stirrups. She turned to me with a guffaw. “Get used to your derrière being numb, Vivi.”
After a great deal of heated discussion, the guides relegated the German to riding on one of the elephants. The diminutive horses could not possibly support his corpulent frame. He huffed and mumbled what must have been German curses as they hoisted him up on the palanquin seat.
We struck out at last, plodding along a narrow dirt path that led into a tangled mass of trees and vines. Two guides rode horses at the head of the procession, while another guide took Marguerite’s and my reins as we followed. The other riders followed in pairs, while the elephants trailed behind. The early hour and Marguerite’s grim expression discouraged conversation, but it didn’t matter. I was exhausted and consumed by thoughts of Bounmy and Julian’s comments the previous night. The swaying gait of my horse rocked me back and forth, and my thigh muscles soon felt stretched to their limit. My backside ached.
We trekked over rolling hills where giant mahogany and teak trees towered over stands of bamboo and purple flowering vines. Suddenly forest gave way to verdant valleys with vast stretches of flooded rice paddies and small villages. Farmers, harvesting bananas and mangos from their orchards, stopped to wave to our party. Houses were built on six-foot poles above the ground, and small children peeked at us from under the verandas. The familiar scent of wood smoke from cookfires drifted through the air. Almost every village had a simple brick-and-plaster Buddhist temple, where monks and young novices went about their daily chores.
We passed a burly young Frenchman and his corvée crew repairing the ubiquitous network of telegraph lines, which had been knocked down by monsoon storms. The Frenchman called out a greeting and waved his hat.
Cultivated lands soon disappeared into untamed jungle, a wonderous place of colors and shapes and smells. Marguerite pointed out a peacock, spreading its glorious tail feathers as if trying to get our attention. Soon we spotted a troop of white-faced gibbons, swinging between tree branches and squawking at one another, making us laugh as they peered out through the leaves with curious eyes. The sound of the elephants stomping down the trail startled a flock of blue and green parrots, sending them into careening through the canopy. We crossed a series of shallow streams that meandered downhill, destined for the Mekong River, where we paused for the animals to drink.
A few hours out, we stopped to rest. My legs nearly collapsed beneath me when I slid off my saddle, and I thought of Bounmy’s predictions of the rigors of riding. Marguerite and I found a log to sit on apart from the rest of the group. My throat was parched, and I gulped down coconut water from fruit that the guides had cut open with machetes.
“You seem far away,” Marguerite said. “You were out with Prince Savang last night. Did you have a nice time?”
I smiled. “We always enjoy being together. It was hard to say goodbye.”
“I’m sure.” She lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag and exhaling the smoke, which swirled around us and melted away. “How are you and Julian getting along? It’s difficult for him right now.”
I bit my lower lip. “I appreciate his friendship, but—”
“You’re in love with the prince.” She finished my sentence. I nodded. “Be careful, Vivi. You’re so young.” She chuckled. “Trust me, you’ll have plenty of time to fall in love and make foolish choices later on. Look at me. I have no idea why I’m going all this way to visit Charles.”
“Why does being young disqualify me from falling in love and making rational decisions?”
“You’re right.” She sighed. “But don’t let it go too far. Men are men. They’ll say they love you in the heat of the moment, then do exactly what suits them.” She crushed her cigarette with the heel of her boot. “It seems unlikely that his future is his to choose.”
I swallowed hard and kept my eyes focused on the damp earth below, watching a line of industrious army ants carry fragments of leaves and small sticks four times their size. Everyone kept cautioning me. It was true that I had no idea what Bounmy thought about the future or what his options might be. But how could I not be with the man I loved?
Marguerite inclined her head to one side. “I can see I’m a little late for warnings. You’re already lovers.”
I blushed to the tip of my scalp. “Yes.” I met her gaze, relieved to confess to someone. Marguerite was the one person I thought would understand my surrender. “We love each other.”
She sighed and offered a wan smile. “That’s how it should be. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me. I hope he’s using protection.”
I nodded. Bounmy had used condoms most of the time, but sometimes in the rush of passion, it was forgotten.
“Don’t say anything to Catherine,” Marguerite said. “She’s too close to the situation with Julian.”
I smiled. “I hadn’t planned on telling you.”
She patted my arm. “I won’t say a word to anyone.” She started to speak again but stopped, instead standing up and stretching her arms over her head. “Shall we walk a bit and get some feeling back in our derrières?”
We stayed in communities of twenty to forty homes perched on hillsides among the trees. Each village had salas, small huts built of wood and bamboo with woven rattan floors, meant to accommodate passing travelers. Marguerite and I were given a separate sala from the men, where we would collapse, weary to the bone, on cots under mosquito nets. I was thankful for Marguerite’s presence, as I couldn’t imagine feeling secure if I had been the only woman in the group. Sleep would come to me within minutes, lulled into oblivion by the incessant drone of insects and mysterious calls of unknown creatures.
The days fell into an exhausting pattern. We marched five to six hours up and down mountains, through deep river ravines, and across narrow green valleys, stopping occasionally to rest along the way. The guides seemed in no rush to reach our destination. Twice we were forced to take shelter under giant palm fronds from torrential rains that made it impossible to proceed.
On Marguerite’s advice, I had bought an inexpensive pair of men’s khaki pants and two long-sleeved cotton shirts to have a change of clothes. We washed our things in streams and hung them to dry on tree branches overnight. But the fabrics remained damp the entire trip, smelling of sweat and mud and horses.
The sixth night out, village elders joined our party for a dinner of chicken, vegetables, and sticky rice. Except for the rice, which the guides had brought, we purchased fresh foods from the farmers and paid local women to prepare our meals. We were often entertained by a villager playing a khene, a bamboo reed flute, dipping and twirling to its haunting notes that echoed into the night.
“Monsieur Borck, are you all right?” Marguerite said suddenly, addressing the thin, blond Danish man, who had looked unwell since the day we embarked on the trip.
His head lolled to one side, and his face flushed. Sweat beaded his forehead. He looked up bleary-eyed, as if trying to focus on Marguerite, then keeled over on the mat.
“Malaria,” the German offered, seeming remarkably unconcerned for his colleague.
After several rounds of interpreting in multiple languages between the German, the other Dane, Kham, and the village chief, the guides carried poor Monsieur Borck to the sala. Marguerite and I trailed behind to see if we could help. He was soon delirious, rolling around and crying.
“He’s very sick,” I murmured to Marguerite, holding on to her arm.
“Sleep will help. We had a long day.” She tried to sound reassuring, but worry filled her voice.
“I know malaria doesn’t have to be fatal, but what can they do for him out here?” Despite the warm night, my body shivered as I thought of Bridgette and the uncertainty of life. Everything could change in an instant.
Three village women appeared and began wiping his face and arms down with cloths dipped in cool water. They managed to get him to drink a foul-smelling herbal tincture, then fed him several spoons of a brown paste.
“Opium,” Marguerite said. “That will calm him down so he can sleep.”
Monsieur Borck fell into a deep sleep, and an hour later his fever broke. While I tossed and turned on my cot, worrying about him, he slept soundly.
The next morning Monsieur Borck arrived for breakfast, looking relatively normal. “I’m a little weak, but I’m able to continue.”
“Quinine,” the German proclaimed. “He’ll be fine with quinine.”
Marguerite rolled her eyes at me. “I guess that settles the problem.”
The sun beat down on mountaintops where Miao hilltribes had cleared trees to plant vegetables and dry rice. Marguerite said that after four or five years the crops leached the nutrients from the thin topsoil, forcing the entire village to move to a new location.
One morning we passed a hillside bursting with cup-shaped, purple flowers on tall stalks. “How beautiful. What are they?” I asked.
“Opium poppies,” Marguerite said. “They extract a white sticky substance from the bulb at the center of the flowers. Very profitable, as you might imagine. The colonial government requires that all opium be sold to the French-run monopoly Régie d’Opium, so they can collect taxes, but most of the drug gets smuggled out through Chinese traders.”
“Goodness.” I’d had no idea where opium came from, only that it was abused by many and could ruin lives.
Marguerite and I liked to walk for short stretches to give our horses a rest, and to ease the constant ache from sitting in our saddles. In some places the steep climbs made it too difficult for the animals to support us. Sore calves and painful blisters plagued me, but the worst was the leeches, which latched onto my legs, even inside my riding boots, causing me to bleed on my pants and socks. Everything in my body hurt.
On the eighth night, we stayed with a hilltribe high in the mountains. The lead guide announced, “The chief says not to wander far. A tiger has been stalking the village and has already killed a water buffalo.”
Marguerite looked at me with true fear in her eyes. “We must stick together every minute.”
That night before bed, we only stepped a few feet into the forest, nervously scanning the shadows and staying close to each other. “I don’t care who sees me,” Marguerite snapped.
I squatted down, ready to spring up if necessary. Could I outrun a tiger? I had no idea. “I can hardly do my business,” I whispered.
She laughed. “Let’s hope we don’t have intestinal problems tonight. I’m not leaving the sala.”
I woke repeatedly throughout the night, my body tightly coiled as I listened for the tiger. We woke early in the morning to a not-so-distant roar that seemed to grow louder as the sun rose. Marguerite reached out and took hold of my hand.
I clung to her. “Are you scared?”
“Damn right. Being mauled by a tiger is hardly the way I plan to exit this world. Especially before I get to spend another night in bed with Charles.”
I giggled, thinking how I longed to be back in Bounmy’s arms.
Everyone was jumpy that morning as we prepared to set out. Kham looked over at Marguerite and me and winked. “Don’t worry, mademoiselles. You’ll be safe.” But his insincere smile didn’t instill confidence.
“I don’t trust that man anywhere near me,” Marguerite whispered. “Be wary, Vivi.”
Three of the guides shouldered shotguns almost as large as they were. A half-hour on, my horse jerked his head up and his ears shot back as the horse behind us whinnied. On my right a streak of orange and black dashed through the trees. “Over there!” I cried. My heart thudded, and my breath came hard and fast. I considered jumping off my horse and running, but a strange heaviness paralyzed my limbs. Where could I go? What could I do?
The lead guide brought the group to a halt as two others lifted their shotguns, pulling back the locks, ready to fire. The elephant carrying the German stepped back and forth nervously and trumpeted loudly, the sound reverberating through the trees. The tiger peered out from behind a giant mahogany tree, its pale-yellow eyes riveted on one of the guides. It took two tentative steps forward, growled, and bared its teeth, crouching down on its front legs, back muscles taut, as if ready to pounce.
A shot rang out. The bullet hit the tree above the tiger’s head, gouging the bark. A second shot hit the ground just short of the beast. The tiger jerked back, turned, and bolted into the dense foliage. We waited ten minutes without any sign of the beast before starting down the narrow trail once more. A few distant roars slowly faded away.
As our trip neared its conclusion, we stayed in a Kha village. I tried not be embarrassed by the bare-breasted women wearing only sarongs, and the men with nothing but tiny loincloths. As in other settlements we had passed, many of the inhabitants’ teeth and mouths were stained red from chewing betel nuts. Marguerite said it gave them a boost of energy, similar to caffeine. Although these people lived in the most basic, dirty shelters, they welcomed us warmly and shared their food.
On Sunday, eleven days after our departure, we reached the autoroute to Luang Prabang. It seemed highly improbable that this remote road would ever connect to its counterpart near Vientiane, given the vast stretches of impenetrable terrain in between. Like the other road, this one was packed dirt, full of potholes and muddy ruts, running sixty kilometers into town.
French officials and Kham’s family had been notified of our pending arrival via telegrams sent from the last village. The only two cars in Luang Prabang, belonging to the French commissioner and the king, waited to ferry us on the final stretch of the trip.
Kham indicated I should ride with him, while Marguerite would go in the government car with the German and two Danes to the French guesthouse. Monsieur Borck had held up remarkably well for the remainder of the trip, although he was still running a mild fever and had noticeably lost weight. Marguerite said they would drop him at the French hospital for treatment.
“I’d invite you to stay with me, Vivi,” Marguerite whispered, “but Charles lives in the officer quarters, so he’ll be sleeping in my lodgings—very discreetly, of course.” She winked at me. “But come for dinner tomorrow night at seven at the French Cercle. Be safe.” She kissed me on both cheeks and climbed into her car.
I took a deep breath and joined Kham and the two Chinese men in the king’s car, missing Marguerite already.