Marguerite sent me notes on Monday and Wednesday, asking me to join her for dinner, which I declined, saying I needed solitude to reflect on my parents’ letters. On Thursday, I found her waiting for me outside River Transport at the end of the day. She kissed my cheeks and placed her arm through mine, drawing me down the road.
“I’m sorry to come unannounced, but I was worried about you. You need a friend to talk with.” She pointed to herself. “And that would be me.”
I laughed. “I’m glad to see you. It’s been an emotional week.”
She stopped. “More importantly, I have something for you. It arrived at the guesthouse yesterday.” She pulled a letter out of her handbag, and my heart did a somersault at the sight of the white linen envelope with Mademoiselle Geneviève Dubois written across the front. “I wonder why Bounmy sent it to me,” she said.
“Maybe he didn’t trust Kham to deliver it.” I didn’t add that Bounmy might not want Kham or the people at work to see his correspondence.
“I know you’re dying to rip it open right now, but can you wait? There’s a nice place run by a couple from Hanoi where we can eat a quick dinner.”
“Of course.” I placed the envelope in my purse.
She led me to the road along the Nam Khan River and a small café serving a selection of Annamese and French dishes. We sat outside under an arbor overgrown by Rangoon creeper, its pink and red blooms filling the air with an intoxicating sweetness. Marguerite ordered beers and a plate of spring rolls. I relaxed, grateful for her company, for someone who cared about me. She was right; I needed to talk.
“What have you and Charles been doing?” I asked.
“Enjoying each other’s company.” She gave me a wicked smile. “Especially at night.”
I giggled. “What do you do while he’s at work?”
“The French wives invite me to luncheons and card parties. It’s all very dull. They do nothing but gossip and complain about their servants and the lack of decent teachers for their children. Their most pressing problem in life is finding the ingredients for a good French meal.” She lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. “Really, can you picture me as a dutiful spouse, staying home with a pack of little imps?”
“Not really.”
“Tell me about the rest of your visit last Sunday,” Marguerite said.
“After you left, Aunt Chanida gave me a photo of my parents and a packet of letters they wrote.” I tucked a stray wisp of hair behind my ear. “It’s the first picture I’ve ever seen of them. I have no recollection of my father and only vague memories of my mother.”
Her face softened. “How special. And was the lunch with the rest of the family nice?’
“I met my two uncles and their families. Everyone was friendly and curious about me. Although my uncle Khamphet seemed a little less welcoming, or at least unsure about me.”
She touched the cotton strings tied around my wrist. “They did a baci for you.”
“Yes. They made me feel like I was truly part of their family.”
Marguerite flicked her ashes into a battered tin ashtray. “And you’ve read all the letters?”
I nodded. “Most are from my father, sent from France after he left to fight in the war. It’s hard to read them.” I looked down at my plate as my chin trembled. “He knew he’d never survive.”
She reached over and patted my hand. “I understand. My father died at Verdun in 1916. I was fifteen. My mother, brother, and I had to move in with my grandmother in Nantes.”
I started. “My father died at Verdun, as well. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” A twinge of guilt came over me that I had never thought to ask where she was from or about her childhood.
“Do you know much about the war?” she asked.
I shook my head. “All they taught us in school was that it was long and difficult, but that France and its allies were victorious. My father didn’t write many details.”
“The censors would have blacked out most things, anyway.” She took a long swallow of beer. “I read accounts in the papers every day at the time. It was a living hell. Soldiers fought from miles of muddy trenches that stretched across the countryside, filled with rats and disease. The damned Germans, with their machine guns trained on our soldiers, could fire six hundred rounds a minute. Imagine how terrified those young soldiers had to be, knowing they were sitting ducks about to be shot. Poor bastards. Hundreds of thousands of young men were sent to their slaughter, their sheer numbers the only thing holding the Germans back. Battles always ended in a stalemate, with one side or the other gaining maybe half a mile of territory at the cost of thousands of lives.” Her voice was filled with bitterness. “By the end of the war, twenty million soldiers and civilians had been killed. That was our so-called victory.”
We sat in silence. I toyed with the spring rolls on my plate, unable to eat, thinking of the terror my father had lived through before finally being struck down.
“And the letters from your mother?” Marguerite asked gently.
“Only one. She wrote it shortly before she died, after everyone had abandoned her except Aunt Chanida and she’d given my brother and me to the orphanage. She told of her childhood and how she met and fell in love with my father. She recounted a few memories of when my brother and I were little, before my father left for France. It’s terribly sad.” I slowly turned my beer glass round and round, my eyes swimming once more. “I’m grateful to know my parents’ story and how much they loved each other. It helps me accept the loss.”
Marguerite dabbed at her cheeks with a handkerchief. “Look at me. You’ve turned me into a sentimental fool.” She pointed a finger at me. “Don’t you dare tell a soul. It will ruin my reputation.”
I smiled. “Would you like to walk up to Mount Phou Si this evening? Bounmy says the view is beautiful. It might cheer me up.”
“I’ve been meaning to go. We’ll be a sweaty mess by the time we get there in this heat, but I don’t care.”
We walked the short distance to the sacred hill located in the heart of Luang Prabang and climbed the windy, steep pathway to the top. We had to stop to catch our breath twice. At the crest of the hill, the stupa and golden spires of That Chomsi angled for the heavens. Spectacular vistas stretched before us of the town, rivers, and surrounding mountains. I wondered if my parents had ever climbed to this serene spot, content in their happiness together. How perfect it would be to have Bounmy at my side.
Marguerite patted her forehead with a handkerchief. “I’m dripping, but it’s worth the view.” She turned to me, grinning. “I can’t stand it anymore. I have monumental news to tell you.”
“Oh good! I need to hear something happy.”
“Charles is being transferred back to Vientiane soon.” She hesitated. “And, amazingly enough, he’s asked me to marry him.”
I gasped and threw my arms around her, squeezing her tight. “I’m so thrilled. And you said yes, right?”
She laughed. “Only after he promised I can keep working. And no children. I suppose it’s selfish, but I’m not cut out to be a mother.”
“He doesn’t mind?”
“He’s relieved. He has four children in France from his first wife that he’s still supporting.”
“Have you told Catherine?”
“I want to tell her in person when I return.”
“How I wish I could go back to Vientiane right now. I miss Bounmy so much.” My shoulders drooped. “I can’t stand being in this office with these awful men. I’m sure they’re hiding something illegal in the account books.”
“How much longer are you supposed to stay here?”
“I’m not sure, but probably a month.” I sighed. “Kham doesn’t bother telling me about his plans.”
“Now I know Charles is going back to Vientiane soon, I’ve decided to leave for home a week early. I want to start planning the wedding.” She glanced over, her face lighting up. “Come with me! You can find a better job. I’ve heard some unsavory stories about Kham’s business dealings recently. He’s a snake, and I don’t trust him.”
The thought of quitting my boring, unhappy job and returning to Vientiane lifted my spirits. I would spend as much time as possible with my family in the remaining weeks and then leave this job behind and return to Vientiane. Hopefully Bounmy missed me as desperately as I missed him.