The days of the week dragged on endlessly as I waited for Sunday to arrive. Between the dismissive treatment of Kham and his family and the hostile environment at the office, I’d lost any remaining shred of enthusiasm for work. I longed to be back in Vientiane with Bounmy, living in my lovely room at Catherine’s house. Safe and cared for.
I found a disturbing level of disarray and mismanagement. My instincts told me that the misdeeds in this office ran even deeper than those in Vientiane. Kham’s brother-in-law unnerved me the most. His eyes tracked me, like a bird of prey preparing to swoop in and grab its helpless victim. I could only guess that he feared I might reveal his malfeasance to Kham.
In the evenings, I returned to the house to dine alone on the back veranda. After eating, I chose one of the Buddhist temples in Bounmy’s guide to visit, taking pleasure in reading his descriptions of the wats and beautiful art, which he had lovingly prepared. Wearing the silver necklace he’d given me, I felt him there in spirit.
Although still uncertain of Buddhist beliefs, the serene temples eased my anxious thoughts and buoyed my hopes, as I lit incense and prayed before the altars, that I might find my mother. The day before I left for Luang Prabang, Mali had given me an amulet half the size of my palm, a red stone carved with an image of Buddha. She’d had the monk at her temple bless it to bring me luck in finding answers to my past. I cherished the aura of love and good wishes in Bounmy’s necklace and Mali’s amulet.
On Saturday morning a note arrived at work from Monsieur Fontaine, suggesting we meet at three that afternoon at La Patisserie Française for coffee. My pulse quickened as I read that he had information regarding my father. Surely his desire to help me was an act of love for Catherine, a means of reaching out to her.
He was already seated at a table when I arrived. A middle-aged French woman ran the small establishment, which sold dark roasted coffee and an array of French pastries, biscuits, and cakes. I’d been too nervous to eat lunch, and now my stomach rumbled with hunger.
Monsieur Fontaine greeted me with polite reserve and ordered us coffee and a plate of golden madeleines. “How is your work progressing?”
“Slow and tedious.”
“My current position is much the same,” he said with a rueful smile. He pulled a paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. His sad expression foretold unhappy news before he even spoke. “I found the personnel file on your father. As you thought, he worked in Luang Prabang from 1910 to 1915, arriving here when he was twenty-nine years old. He worked as an assistant to the Luang Prabang French Commissioner, coordinating issues with the royal palace.” He took a sip of coffee and focused on the paper, avoiding my gaze. “He was married with one child. His wife and seven-year-old son joined him here in early 1911, but they returned home five months later. Your father left in 1915.”
All the air left my lungs as my worst doubts and fears were confirmed. My father had another family, a French family. Questions swirled in my head. Had he seduced my mother and taken her as his mistress to fill the void when his wife and son went back to France? Was it loneliness and desperation, or had he loved my mother? I couldn’t fathom how he was capable of starting a second family, a Lao family, only to abandon us.
“Does it say why he returned to France?” I asked at last.
“Like many of the men here, he went to fight in the Great War.” He cleared his throat. “I regret to tell you, he was killed in action in March 1916 at the Battle of Verdun. He received the Croix de Guerre for his bravery.”
I blinked several times taking in the news, trying to absorb the loss of this person called my father, but emotions failed me. I had no memory of him. Perhaps he was a good person who had loved me. Or he could have been a selfish, immoral man who took what he wanted without any regard for my mother and the children she bore him. I had no way of knowing. Regret washed over me for what might have been, the relationship we could have shared.
Monsieur Fontaine folded the paper and slid it across the table. “It’s terribly sad. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m grateful to you.” I took a sip of coffee. “Why did you help me?”
“You’ve had a difficult time. I don’t understand the Assistance Society’s policy of hiding your past.” He glanced out the window for a moment. “I suppose Catherine’s passionate beliefs in righting the wrongs of this world influenced me.”
“Do you hope this will somehow bring her back?”
He shook his head slowly. “I realized much too late how much I love her. Only with her did my soul feel at ease.” His voice grew tight, and his eyes glistened. “I have no illusions about winning her back. I simply want her to understand the depth of my love for her.”
“And what about your wife and children?”
“My wife filed for divorce and is seeking sole custody of the children. I can’t blame her. I was a total failure as a husband and father.” He sounded contrite, not bitter. “My wife and I married too young and were not a happy match, but I miss my children terribly. I hope someday they’ll forgive me.”
This was a very different person from the one I’d met in Vientiane. His despair was etched in the wrinkles that marred his handsome face. He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Would you please give this letter to Catherine for me?” I nodded and took it.
“Are you still going to your mother’s family home tomorrow?” he asked. I nodded. “I wish you luck…and peace of mind. If there is anything else I can do for you, mademoiselle, please don’t hesitate to contact me.” He stood and strode quickly out the door.
I remained at the table, slowly eating the rest of the madeleines, feeding the emptiness within. I wavered between disgust with Monsieur Fontaine’s drinking problems and infidelity, the pain he had caused Catherine, and empathy for his dark unhappiness. Even if he had only himself to blame for his circumstances, he was drowning in sorrow. Finally tears welled in my eyes for the father I would never meet.