I barely slept on Saturday night, dozing in and out of consciousness, listening to the soft breathing of the women around me and the rolling thunder of passing showers outside. My mind became a spinning wheel of hopes and dreams as I imagined meeting my mother, as I had imagined it a thousand times, seeing the shock on her face at finally finding her lost child. Would she recognize me right away? Had she been searching all these years? I felt sure the Assistance Society had hidden the location of her children from her. I tried not to think about my father, dead now fifteen years, a phantom from my past whom I would never know. I fervently prayed to any possible higher power to return my mother to me. Once I found her, we would join Antoine, restoring our small family, which had been torn apart many years before. We could live together in Luang Prabang or Vientiane, or even Paris. It didn’t matter where.
The servants rose before dawn to start a fire and prepare breakfast for Kham’s family. I slipped quietly down the back steps to the outhouse, washing my face and brushing my teeth in the makeshift basin by the water barrel, then dressed in my polka-dot dress and set out. I wandered up and down the dusty lanes of town, needing to fill the hours until ten o’clock, when I would meet Marguerite. At times the anticipation of what lay ahead brought a cascade of panic surging through my body, my heart racing in leaps and bounds. I fingered the red stone amulet in my pocket and the silver tamarind flower hanging around my neck.
It seemed an entire day had passed before I finally made my way to the French guesthouse where Marguerite was waiting. Charles had arranged for a carriage to take us to my family’s home, two kilometers from the center of town.
The horse carried us out of town on a dirt road full of ruts and puddles, the wheels flinging clumps of mud into the air. A farmer hoed weeds in his vegetable patch while his wife hung washing on a line between two trees near the house. Three young children gathered around their mother to gape at the passing carriage. One little boy grinned and waved. I envied the farmers’ simple lives, tending fields and following centuries-old traditions. Despite their modest home and constant hard work, they had each other, a family, a place where they belonged.
Twenty minutes on, the driver turned down a grassy lane between rows of tamarind trees. Their May flowers had long since transformed into reddish-brown pods of fruit, which hung from the branches like misshapen fingers. Could these have been the trees my mother talked of when she gave me to the orphanage?
We passed through an open gate leading into a fenced compound. Three large traditional homes, similar to that of Kham’s family, overlooked the Nam Khan River. At the far end of the expansive enclosure, a collection of sheds, livestock corrals, and smaller wooden huts lined the bamboo fence. Was this where my mother’s life had begun, where she had grown up?
An older woman with silver-streaked hair knotted at the nape of her neck, wearing a simple cotton sinh and blouse, shook out quilts on the veranda of the first home. In the open space underneath a second building, two men sanded the sides of a longboat. A bevy of children of varying ages squealed and chased one another around an enormous banyan tree in the open courtyard, sending chickens and ducks scurrying in all directions. All heads turned our way as the carriage rolled to a stop.
I touched my necklace. “I’m terrified.” Marguerite patted my arm, for once seeming at a loss for words.
The woman left her quilts hanging over the railing and ran down the stairs to meet us. She gave a nop. “Sabaidee, mademoiselles.”
I searched her ordinary features—a broad, flat nose and forehead, a narrow chin. Could she be my mother? Yet nothing in her face struck me as familiar. My mouth turned dry, and I could barely utter the Lao words Mali had helped me practice. “I…I’m searching for Laya Thongsavat.” I could not quite manage to say my mother, the word being too extraordinary to speak out loud.
The woman’s eyes opened wide. After a moment, she said, “Please come.” She held her hand out, indicating we should follow her up the stairs.
As we reached the wide veranda, another woman emerged from the open doorway. She wore a silk sinh woven in shades of orange and burgundy and a white blouse edged with lace. Her dark hair was wrapped on top of her head, secured with silver combs. High cheekbones, a delicate mouth, and wide dark eyes formed a strikingly beautiful face. I couldn’t gauge her age, as her skin was smooth and free of wrinkles, neither young nor old. A faint memory from long ago caused my heart to flutter wildly. Could this be my mother?
The older woman repeated my request for Laya Thongsavat.
“You’re looking for my older sister, Laya?” the younger woman asked in French in a hushed, disbelieving voice.
I took a deep breath. “I believe she’s my mother.”
The woman gasped, and a hand flew up to her chest. “Sakuna?”
No one had ever addressed me by my Lao name. I nodded, too overcome to speak.
She took my hand. “I’m your aunt Chanida.” Tears flooded her eyes. “You look so much like your mother, but I didn’t dare to imagine it could be you.”
She turned to Marguerite with a nop. “I’m Chanida Thongsavat. Welcome.”
“Mademoiselle Marguerite Vanier. I’m a friend of your niece.”
“Please come,” my aunt said, ushering us to the far end of the veranda with its view over the Nam Kham River, where sunlight glanced off the water’s surface. Marguerite sat in one of the rattan chairs while my aunt invited me to sit on a teak bench next to her.
She turned to the older woman. “Khantalay, please bring us coffee.” An expression of wonder filled my aunt’s face. “I’ve spent fourteen years searching for you and your brother, Vinya, without finding a trace.” She took a deep breath, wiping a stray teardrop from her cheek. “I wrote to all the orphanages in Laos and the Resident Superior. They claimed there were no children with your names. I thought perhaps you’d been sent to France.” She took a deep breath. “Wherever did they hide you?”
“I was raised in an orphanage in Vientiane until I turned eighteen in May. They called me Geneviève Dubois. The director at the home kept my past secret from me, but I managed to view my file and found my parents’ names. I also discovered my twin brother, whom I didn’t know existed. They took him to an orphanage in Pakse and called him Antoine Dubois.”
My aunt covered her mouth as she sobbed softly. “I’m…I’m so thrilled to…to find you. I’d given up all hope.” She shook her head slowly. “However did you find us?” she asked.
I gave a brief account of my time since leaving the orphanage, the kindness of Catherine and Marguerite, and my work with River Transport, which had brought me to Luang Prabang. I explained about the old granny who had known my mother and remembered her family name. “A friend inquired about the Thongsavat family and found where you lived.”
“It’s a miracle.” My aunt wiped her cheeks with a handkerchief and took my hand again, as if needing to touch me to believe I was not an illusion.
“I contacted Antoine, and we’ve been writing. He went to school in Saigon for many years and is working on a coffee plantation near Pakse now.”
I looked out at the river as a giant white crane swooped low and dove into the water, emerging with a small glistening fish squirming in its beak. Why had my aunt been the one looking for my brother and me? Why not our mother? I didn’t want to hear the response to this question, which sat in my middle like a jagged strip of metal destined to shred me into tiny pieces.
“Can you tell me about my mother?” I whispered at last.
My aunt squeezed her eyes shut and let out a faltering breath. After some moments, she met my gaze. “You and your brother came from a deep and profound love, despite the circumstances and the disapproval of many. Your father returned to France to fight in the war when you and your brother were two years old.”
“An acquaintance recently retrieved his government personnel file for me. I know he died in battle the next year.”
Marguerite tipped her head. “Who was that?”
“Monsieur Fontaine,” I answered.
“It was a difficult decision for your father to leave Laos, as you and Vinya were only two years old,” my aunt said, “but he felt obligated to defend his country. When your mother learned of his death, it shattered her fragile heart.” My aunt sighed. “She was alone and unmarried with two babies, shunned by the Lao and French communities alike. Your grandfather Thongsavat refused to allow her back home. No matter how much my brothers and I begged him to reconsider, he wouldn’t relent. It tore our family apart, and I never forgave him.
“No one would hire your mother any longer. She was tainted, scorned as a lowly phu sao, a Frenchman’s mistress. When the money your father left her ran out, she took in sewing and laundry, barely making enough to feed you and your brother. She often didn’t eat to make sure you had enough.”
My aunt’s soft voice and her lightly accented, almost lyrical French soothed and lulled me into thinking this tale might still reach a happy conclusion.
“Your grandfather forbade anyone in the family from seeing her. But I visited her whenever I could without your grandfather finding out, bringing small stores of food and what money I could pilfer from home. Your mother grew so thin, I could hardly bear it.” My aunt’s eyes grew damp again.
“A close friend of your mother’s felt sorry for her situation and offered to take you children into her home temporarily, until she could reassemble her life. After many tears and self-recriminations, your mother agreed to place Antoine with the friend, so he would be fed and cared for properly. But she couldn’t bear to part with both of you.” This explained why I had no recollection of my brother.
Khantalay arrived with a tray of coffee and a plate of biscuits and mangosteen. It appeared oddly festive and inviting, as if we were merely old friends stopping by for a chat. I grasped the cup of hot liquid placed before me, needing to warm my icy, trembling hands.
My aunt sipped her coffee, trying to compose herself. “As your mother grew weaker, she couldn’t care for you any longer. It destroyed her to see you hungry. French officials from the Assistance Society hounded her for months, insisting she give you and your brother up to an orphanage, promising that you would be well fed and given a good education. Since she had your father’s acknowledgement that you were his children, you would be French citizens. When she continued to resist, they threatened to get a court order. It wore her spirit down until, hopeless and desperate, she acquiesced, insisting it was only for a short time until she found a good job and regained her life. She talked of nothing but getting you back.”
My aunt paused again, staring down at her hands. Her lips quivered and her voice caught in her throat. “But your mother contracted yellow fever and left this world. I was at her side the last few days and promised to find you children. You must understand how deeply she loved you.” Tears coursed down her face. “I should have done more. I should have found a way to save her, but I was only sixteen.”
A searing pain spiraled through me, like a stream of hot oil poured down the middle of my body. Fourteen years of hoping to find my mother ended here in this tragic tale. All along, both my parents had been dead. Antoine and I were truly orphans. A piercing wail escaped my lips, and I buried my head in my hands.
My aunt pulled me into her arms as I surrendered to my grief, my body convulsing in sobs. I don’t know how much time passed before my crying finally eased. I pulled back to wipe my face with the handkerchief Marguerite had placed in my lap, and my ragged breathing slowly evened out. Marguerite stood at the railing, staring out over the river, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“I’m sorry to cause you such sadness,” my aunt said at last, “but you’ve found your family now. Your grandfather passed from this world shortly after your mother. I think the trauma quickened his death.” She shook her head. “I am haunted by how differently things might have been if he’d died first, and my brothers and I could have saved your mother and kept you children with us. But please know, our family will welcome you and Vinya as part of our own.”
Overwhelmed, I struggled to speak. “All these years…I dreamed of finding my mother. I am…grateful to finally know what happened.” I pushed my hair behind my ear, wiped my tears. “Antoine has promised to visit me when I return to Vientiane. He will be grateful to know the truth.”
My aunt patted my back. “Shall I call you Geneviève and Antoine for now? It might be less confusing than using your Lao names.”
“Perhaps for now. My friends call me Vivi.”
A little girl appeared out of nowhere. My aunt pulled her close. “This is my youngest child, my only daughter, Phitsamay.” Aunt Chanida turned to her child. “Say hello to your cousin Vivi.”
The little girl gave a nop. “Sabaidee.”
My aunt smiled. “You must stay for lunch and meet the rest of the family. We have so much to talk about. Unfortunately, my husband is visiting our forests and won’t be back until later in the week, but your uncles are here.”
Marguerite cleared her throat. “I must get back to town as a friend is waiting for me. Vivi, you stay, and I’ll have the carriage return for you later this afternoon.”
After Marguerite left, Aunt Chanida sent Khantalay to inform the other households of my arrival and invite them to lunch. She showed me around her home, explaining her parents had built it when they married. “My husband and I stayed here after our marriage as my parents were both gone. The other two houses were constructed when your uncles wed and started their families.”
The lovely old structure was made of teak and rosewood, the wood slightly worn in places but polished to a beautiful sheen. The simple furnishing in the front room included several low tables with mats and cushions and two glass-fronted cabinets displaying carved Buddhas, large silver bowls, and decorative silk fabrics. My aunt led me to a teak table at the back of the room, which held a bronze seated Buddha, candles, and incense sticks in bronze dishes. Fresh flowers and food had been arranged next to two small paintings and two photographs.
“This is the family altar where we pray to our ancestors to honor them and wish for happiness and peace for their souls.” She picked up a photograph of a young couple. “This is your parents in 1912, shortly after your mother discovered she was with child. A friend of your father’s was a photographer and took it for them. I want you and Antoine to have it.”
I stared with amazement at the faded, black-and-white photo. “I have a vague memory of Mother, but nothing of Father.”
My father was standing very straight, a head taller than my mother, wearing a white suit. He was slight of build, his face serious. It was hard to identify any distinctive features other than a large mustache and a strong chin. One arm was wrapped around Mother’s waist in a protective manner. She leaned against him, staring directly into the camera with only the slightest hint of a smile, eyes opened wide, as if the photographer had told her an astonishing story. She seemed so tiny, dressed in her sinh and pha biang, her hair pulled into a plentiful knot atop her head. She looked like Aunt Chanida, delicate and pretty, and I thought perhaps I resembled her a tiny bit.
“This photograph of your grandfather was taken at court when he was honored by the king.” I saw an elderly man wearing formal court attire, unsmiling and stiff. “And these paintings are of my parents and grandparents on their wedding days.” My mother’s ancestors had posed in their wedding attire with dour expressions, the wives sitting and the husbands standing beside them. It was hard to imagine I was related to these people from a distant time and place.
Aunt Chanida showed me the large bedroom where her four children slept, then a slightly smaller room, which she shared with her husband. She opened a wooden chest in the far corner and retrieved a thick bundle wrapped in silk and tied with a ribbon. “I saved these letters for you and your brother with the hope of one day finding you. Most are from your father after he left to fight in the war in France, but one is from your mother to you children. She wanted you to know about her life and what happened. I think she knew she wouldn’t live to see you again.”
Tears threatened once more as I held the packet next to my heart. These thin sheets of paper covered in ink, some having traveled halfway around the world, held answers to my questions, the story of my parents’ love for each other and their children. I stared at my aunt, unable to find my voice to thank her for such treasures.
“You’ll want to read them when you get home,” she said. “We can put them in the front room with the photograph until you leave.” Reluctantly I let her take them.
“I hope you can visit often while you’re in town.” She placed the items on a low table. “Come back outside and tell me about your brother.”
We settled on the veranda, and I recounted Antoine’s news from the few letters I’d received.
“You must both come to Luang Prabang as soon as possible,” she said. “You’ll always be welcome.”
Aunt Chanida then began to recount our family’s history. “Your uncle Khamphet, your grandfather, and several generations of men before them were appointed to the royal kingdom’s tax administration, managing revenues from the muangs in surrounding districts. The position became largely ceremonial after the French assumed responsibility over taxes, but don’t bring that up with Khamphet, as he gets very indignant about the way the French have slowly usurped the king’s powers. He complains constantly, at least in private.” She pulled her scarf up higher over her shoulder. “But we are fortunate to have been granted farm lands and forests, which support our family.”
As she spoke, I studied her features, the gentle smile that caused her eyes to nearly close, the way her graceful hands fluttered through the air emphasizing certain words. Her warmth and honesty eased my grief and disappointment. She was the link to my mother that would sustain me now.
My uncles’ families arrived mid-day. Aunt Chanida introduced Uncle Khamphet and Aunt Dara, then Uncle Chanta and Aunt Noi. We greeted each other with repeated nops. My cousins, a total of thirteen children, ranged from toddlers to a fourteen-year-old girl, who shyly glanced at me.
Uncle Chanta broke into a broad smile. “It is like having your mother among us again. We are happy to know you, Vivi.”
When it was time to eat lunch, we sat on mats around a string of low tables on the veranda, with me placed in the middle of the adults. The servants brought dozens of hot and cold dishes, scurrying back and forth to the kitchen off the back side of the house to keep the platters full.
Aunt Chanida led the conversation in French, in which they were all fluent. Uncle Chanta and both aunts had strong Lao accents, and I had to strain to understand them. They asked about my upbringing at the orphanage in Vientiane. I offered a simple account, trying to focus on the positive rather than complaining about the many injustices I had suffered.
“What are you doing in Vientiane?” Uncle Khamphet asked. I explained about my living situation with Catherine and my work at River Transport. He nodded. “I know Prince Savang. We sometimes ship goods with his company.”
This startled me, and a twinge of unease settled in my middle. Did he also know Bounmy, and if so, how would he feel about my relationship with him? There were few secrets in this land. Like the vines entangling and connecting trees and bushes in the vast jungles, the links among royal family members and aristocrats ran deep in the kingdom of Luang Prabang and throughout Laos.
The afternoon slipped by with easy banter and lots of laughter. It was a family comfortable with one another. Toddlers drifted over to sit in their mothers’ laps, while older children examined me, the mysterious stranger in their midst, not quite Lao, not quite French.
Uncle Chanta talked of the forest and farm lands that the family managed in the area. My aunts Dara and Noi explained how they had formed a cooperative for women weavers in surrounding villages to help market their silk fabrics. The beautiful scarves and wall hangings had become popular with the French and other Europeans.
Uncle Khamphet remained mostly quiet, appearing a bit more circumspect about my presence than the others. Did he harbor reservations about accepting someone of mixed blood into the family, given his position in the royal government? Maybe attitudes had not changed as much as Aunt Chanida had assured me.
As the sun fell lower in the sky, a pottery jug was placed on the table and bowls of sticky rice and boiled eggs were passed around. A silver bowl filled with banana leaves, chrysanthemums, and what looked like a tree of white strings was placed on the center table.
“Before you go, we will perform a baci to mark this remarkable occasion and welcome you into the family,” Uncle Chanta said. “We are grateful to have you returned to us.”
“Have you seen this before?” Aunt Chanida asked. I shook my head. “Khamphet, as head of the family, will offer a blessing to keep your khuan, your soul or spirit, whole and safe with your body. We do this blessing ceremony on holidays and special occasions, or when family members are sick.”
Uncle Chanta poured small glasses of clear liquid from the jug and gave one to each adult. We held the drinks in our right hands and placed our left hands on the table’s edge.
Uncle Khamphet began chanting in a low sing-song voice that reminded me of the incantations of the monks at Buddhist temples. When he finished, we held up our glasses in a toast and swallowed our drinks. I choked and coughed as the fiery alcohol burned all the way down my throat and into my stomach. Everyone laughed.
“I see you have not had our Lao Lao before,” Aunt Chanida said, patting my back. “We should have warned you. It’s fermented sticky rice.”
One by one, family members tied a white string around my wrist, murmuring a welcome and wishing me happiness and health.
I made a nop over and over, in awe that my newly discovered family considered my visit a special occasion, a reason to celebrate. My heart filled with joy that I belonged among them, as my mother had before me. I felt her spirit watching over us.