On Wednesday evening I finally read my mother’s letter, anxious to hear her story, but at the same time frightened of what it might reveal. It had been written almost two years after Father’s death, as her life slowly slipped away. My heartbeat slowed and my breathing grew shallow as I unfolded the faded sheets of rough-textured paper made from mulberry bark, like the paper I’d seen at a stand in the covered market in Vientiane. This was all I had left of my mother, the sum of her life contained in six pages covered front and back with her even, compact script. It seemed unlikely it could ever begin to answer the hundreds of questions that filled my thoughts, the longing to understand the choices she had made.
Wednesday, September 22, 1917
Mes chéries Sakuna and Vinya,
I write this letter for you to read when you are older and seek answers about the parents who lovingly brought you into this world…just in case. I am fighting to regain my health, but I fear my soul may soon disappear into the heavens. As a Buddhist, I believe my destiny was determined long before I was born, shaped by the karma of former lives and actions in this life on my journey toward enlightenment and nirvana. I strive to transcend suffering and attain a higher place in the cycle of life, but I still struggle with my grief over losing your father, my beloved Henri. My only reason for living now is to bring you children back from the orphanage and into my arms. I pray to Buddha every day to guide me, however everything in life is transitory.
Your father and I shared a deep love for each other beyond the bounds of this earthly existence. In the small, insular world of Luang Prabang, the French and Lao communities alike judged us harshly, condemning our devotion as something shameful and wrong. We did not, could not, obey the narrow confines of other people’s misplaced morality.
Your grandfather, my father, was among those who denounced our love, banishing me from my family. He was unable to appreciate the joy and happiness your father’s love brought me and refused to recognize his own grandchildren born of this union. It was a cruel blow from a father I had been devoted to all my life. But please know I have no regrets.
After your father’s death, my efforts to keep you nourished and safe failed. Your Aunt Chanida was the only person in my family to help but, being only a young girl living under the control of our father, she was incapable of resolving my problems. It saddens me that no one else was willing to assist me. With a broken heart and terrible guilt, I entrusted you to the care of the French Assistance Society. This sacrifice reflects my fierce love for you. I will reclaim you as soon as I am able.
I reread these paragraphs several times, trying to imagine her despair and resignation as her world fell apart. She had lost everyone she loved, save Aunt Chanida. Tears prickled at my eyes. My suffering growing up in the orphanage and losing my dear friend Bridgette felt insignificant in comparison.
I believe your father and I were destined to meet. We both lost our mothers at an early age and grew up seeking a love that could fill the empty spaces in our hearts. In time, we found that love and comfort in each other.
She went on to describe her gentle mother, the center and soul of her family, who had taught her children Buddhist values of respect for elders and compassion for all living things. But the unthinkable had happened when my grandmother had died giving birth to Uncle Chanta when Mother was only ten. My grandfather had retreated into work to escape his grief, leaving Mother to care for her three younger siblings.
Your grandfather holds an important position in the royal court. He did not embrace the arrival of the French as readily as some, resenting the way these foreigners declared our kingdom a French protectorate, as if the Lao people were helpless orphans in need of guardians to oversee their lives. Despite his dislike of the French, your grandfather understood the need to adapt and hired a young tutor from Hanoi, Tran, to teach him the French language. He struggled to master this foreign tongue and endured humiliation by French officials, who smirked at his limited vocabulary and Lao accent. Some even dared to correct him in front of others. Not wanting his children to be treated this way, he insisted we become fluent in French. Tran stayed on to tutor us in the language as well as mathematics, history, and science. I was fortunate to have been given a proper education when few Lao girls received one.
When I was seventeen, a widowed aunt, who had no children of her own, came to live with our family, and I was freed from the responsibility of running the household. On Tran’s recommendation, a French family offered me a position tutoring their three children. When they returned to France six months later, another family employed me, then another. This work led me to your father.
I longed to know about the French families whose children she had taught. What had she felt in these situations? But there was nothing more beyond these few spare lines. A breeze brushed my face and ruffled the pages in my hands. Perhaps it was Mother’s spirit come to comfort me, saying there was nothing more of importance that I needed to know.
The letter continued with a brief description of my father’s upbringing. His mother had died when he was only six years old, and he and his little sister, Helene, had been left to the care of nannies, rarely seeing their father or receiving any affection. After Father finished university, my grandfather pressured him to marry seventeen-year-old Paulette, the only child of a wealthy business associate. Father complied, but he soon found himself disillusioned with his young wife and trapped in an unhappy, loveless marriage. But they had Mathis, whom he adored, and so he stayed with Paulette.
I glanced over at the stoic expression of the golden Buddha sheltered in the pagoda next to me as I tried to accept these facts, but I desired more details to understand his unhappiness in the marriage and the reasons he turned to my mother.
A friend from university visited your father after returning from Saigon and urged him to consider a new beginning in a faraway place. Your father applied for a position with the French Indochine colonial government, hoping this might improve his marriage.
On July 14, 1911, I attended a Bastille Day party. The mother of the French children I was tutoring at the time introduced me to Monsieur Henri Dubois, assistant to the French Commissioner of Luang Prabang. He had come from France three months before. Henri mentioned his wife and son, who would arrive in a few months, and wanted to know if I would be available to tutor his son.
Our meeting seemed inconsequential at the time. It is funny, remembering how unremarkable he appeared to me. With his light-brown eyes and big mustache, he looked like so many of the Frenchmen I’d met. When we crossed paths in town several weeks later, he had to remind me of his name and our previous encounter.
I forgot about your father until he contacted me in September, asking if I could meet his wife and six-year-old son Mathis. Paulette was a beautiful woman with pale, clear skin and fine features. But she was an unhappy soul. She treated me like a servant, shrugging off my credentials as unworthy, saying I would have to do. No Lao person of good upbringing would ever be so rude. I wanted to decline her offer, but Mathis, your dear half-brother, raced into the room with his father chasing after him, the two of them out of breath and giggling. On seeing his mother, the boy stopped cold, and his sweet face quivered as his eyes darted toward his father, seeking protection. I could not turn away from this child with his big, sad eyes.
Paulette relinquished the care of her son to me, expecting me to serve as nanny and tutor, watching over him all day and most evenings. I didn’t mind. Mathis was a gentle, sweet child, whom I quickly came to love. We made forays through town, pretending to be explorers, and studied insects in the yard outside the house and along the banks of the Nam Khan River. I taught him to read and how to add and subtract. In the evenings we read books aloud as he snuggled in my arms. Your father started joining us and, in these intimate moments, our friendship first flourished. It pained me that Paulette remained locked away in her dark room, seemingly indifferent to her family, incapable of displaying warmth or true affection for her husband or son.
Your father realized there was no hope for his marriage, but he endured Paulette’s constant complaints and disgraceful behavior in order to keep his beloved son with him.
You might think I am overly critical of Paulette, biased by my love for your father. It was a difficult situation, and perhaps there were reasons I didn’t understand causing her to behave in this manner.
I put the letter down to reflect on my mother’s account of the woman who had become her rival. Was she being unfair, or had Paulette truly been an unforgivably difficult and selfish person? I strolled around the temple grounds to loosen the stiffness in my legs and backside from sitting on the hard bench. As twilight descended, the peaceful beauty of the wat tempered my sadness for what my father and mother had borne. Had my parents ever come here, like me, seeking solace?
Mathis was diagnosed with tuberculosis in early February. He had been frail and unwell ever since I’d met him. Given how far the disease had progressed, the doctor thought he must have contracted it long before leaving France, but he warned that the humid climate in Luang Prabang might result in a more rapid decline in the boy’s health. Paulette blamed Henri, and three weeks later, she and Mathis left for France. My heart broke when Mathis said goodbye, clinging to me and sobbing. He told me he loved me and promised to return when he was healthy. I knew we would never meet again.
It was strange to think of the half-brother I would never meet, except through this account. How terribly sad that his life had been so fleeting. What might our relationship have been? Mathis had been lucky to enjoy the love and affection of my mother and father, even though brief—a love Antoine and I could not remember.
When Paulette and Mathis returned to France, your father and I finally surrendered to our love for each other. My dear children, it is true your father was still married when we formed a bond, something I never could have imagined, but do not think too badly of us. We were meant to meet and love as we did, and you are the welcome fruits of that union.
A wire in April brought the devastating news that Mathis had passed away. Your father was drowning in sorrow and guilt that he had not returned to France with the boy, so I encouraged him to go back to find peace with himself. He returned to Provence to make sense of his life, but found he no longer belonged in that world. In August, he returned to Laos, to me and his true home, and we learned soon after that we would have a family of our own.
The few short years we spent together were the happiest of my life, and, I believe, your father’s as well. He doted on his “darling twins,” spending all his free time playing with you, taking turns carrying you on his shoulders, singing silly songs. He constantly brought you small gifts and treats. On Sundays, we often went to a stream outside of town and sat in the shallows, splashing and laughing until your little eyes grew heavy. At night, with one of you on each of our laps, we read stories and rocked you to sleep. These magical moments sustain me.
When I lost your papa, everything became small and insignificant. I’d been cut off from family and friends and all vestiges of respectability. But how could I regret one moment of our happiness, dear treasures?
Your roots come from two distant parts of the world, two cultures intertwined in a strong and loving bond. Be proud of your mixed heritage, even if others do not always appreciate your unique beauty. If we are not able to meet again in this life, I pray you find the happiness and love your father and I knew.
With all my love and blessings,
Your Maman
I could not stop crying. The doomed love story of my parents had left my brother and me orphaned and abandoned to the misguided mercy of our French wardens. Should I feel angry with my parents for bringing us into the world, one that held so much contempt for the métis born out of wedlock? But they never imagined their lives would end so soon, leaving us without their love and protection. The gift of their letters would allow me to finally come to terms with my past. I hoped Antoine would find the same sense of relief and peace from this knowledge.
My parents’ love had endured despite the obstacles. I could only hope the love Bounmy and I shared would prove as resilient and true.