When I finally reached the French guesthouse, I noticed two missing buttons on my blouse and the front gaping open, revealing my torn chemise. My hair, which had been tied back with a ribbon, hung down in a tangled jumble. Several ragged boys, no more than eight or nine years old, sat out front begging for money or food from passing guests. Fear and distrust filled their eyes as I approached. I handed one of the urchins a coin. “Go to the restaurant and ask for Marguerite Vernier,” I said in my imperfect Lao, then repeated it in French. The boy scurried off. I sank onto a step and waited, barely able to breathe. My body felt inexplicably cold and numb despite the warm night air, and my teeth began to chatter. I wiped my nose with the hem of my skirt and discovered stains of blood. Instinctively, I reached for my necklace, seeking solace from the only thing I had to link me to Bounmy and his love. It was gone. Kham must have torn it from my neck in the struggle to overpower me. The loss was crushing, as if he had ripped my heart from my body.
Marguerite arrived in a lapis blue dinner gown and silver heels, her appearance grossly incongruous with our surroundings and the terror that had befallen me. She wobbled over, a bit woozy from cocktails and wine. Taking in my disheveled state, she crouched down beside me. “Oh, dear God, Vivi. Whatever happened?”
A knot formed in my throat and a fresh stream of tears erupted. It took a minute to find a way to speak the unspeakable. “He for…forced himself on me.”
She took my hands. “Who? Who did this? Was it Marcel Fontaine?”
“No,” I replied with surprise. “He wouldn’t.” I hesitated, afraid of the repercussions of naming my aggressor, but I knew Marguerite would never allow me to remain silent. I focused on the missing buttons of my blouse. “Kham. Kham Savang,” I whispered.
“That rotten bastard.” She helped me stand. “Come.” We stumbled into the guesthouse and down the hall to her room. I sat on the bed as she wrapped a quilt around me. I couldn’t stop shivering.
“Tell me what happened. Where were you?” She spoke in a quiet soothing voice, her arm about my shoulders.
I recounted how I’d run into Kham sitting with his friends drinking, how he’d dragged me to the office on the pretext of talking about work. “He was drunk.” Doubt seeped in. Had it been my fault? Could I have done something different to prevent this outcome? “He said…said such terrible things. I tried to get away, but he was too strong.” I buried my head in my hands. “I’m so ashamed.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Marguerite whispered hoarsely. “How could you have possibly known? It wasn’t your fault.”
I wanted to believe her. If only I hadn’t asked to speak to him in private. If only I’d gone straight home from the temple. If only I’d run away or called out for help. These thoughts would torment me forever.
She began to pace up and down the room. “That son of a bitch. We should report him to the local guard.”
I blinked slowly. “What would they do?”
She shook her head. “Probably nothing. That pervert would be protected as part of the royal family. It’s your word against his.”
“And no one will believe me, a métisse, who followed him into the building alone.”
She sat on the bed again and took me in her arms. “We’ll make sure this son of a bitch pays, one way or another. I promise you.”
“I want to go home. To Vientiane.”
“We’ll leave as soon as I can arrange a boat. Let’s get you into the shower. Sleep with me tonight, and tomorrow I’ll get you a room of your own.”
She led me into the bathroom and turned the water on. “I’ll tell Charles what’s happened.”
I shrank back. “Do you have to?”
“We need his help to—” Marguerite stopped midsentence. “Vivi, your skirt is covered in blood.” A gush of warm liquid ran down my legs.
She turned off the water and sat me on a small wooden chair in the bedroom wrapped in the quilt. “I’ll be right back.” She ran out. I waited, too numb and dull of mind to move. My head began to spin, and I braced myself on my knees.
Marguerite and Charles burst into the room. Charles, smelling of brandy and cigars, swept me into his sturdy arms and carried me through the dark streets to the French hospital. There were words back and forth as an attendant asked if I was Lao.
“For God’s sake, she’s French,” Charles exploded. “She needs immediate attention.”
I was placed on a bed in the ward for French patients. Smells of disinfectant and the stale air of illness assaulted my senses. Memories of the night Bridgette had died flooded back, and I wondered if I was dying. Then everything went black.
Rays of sunlight seeped through the window shutters on the other side of the room and fell across my face like warm ribbons. My whole body felt unbearably heavy, and I could barely move my arm to shield my eyes. Marguerite, still dressed in her blue gown with Charles’s dinner jacket over her shoulders, sat in a chair next to me, sleeping with her head on my bed. My brain finally recognized the hospital. I was wearing a faded green gown, and a cotton pad was secured between my legs. My abdomen ached. Memories of the night before came rushing back, and acid churned in my stomach.
I touched Marguerite’s hand, and she sat up with a start. “Vivi, you’re awake.” She hurried to the end of the room, calling for help.
A young Annamese nurse took my pulse and temperature, asking questions in a quiet, soothing voice. What was my name and birth date? How did I feel? Was there pain? She replaced the pad between my legs, which had blotches of dried blood. She would bring me some breakfast and call the doctor.
At Marguerite’s insistence, I took a few sips of hot broth, even though I couldn’t imagine ever wanting food again. From the blur of the night before, Kham’s ugly face, sweaty and distorted, loomed before me. I tried to block the image of him slamming me down on the desk, crashing on top of me. Confusion and panic overcame me until I couldn’t catch my breath.
Marguerite took my hands. “Vivi, you’re safe. Nothing is going to happen.”
A young French doctor entered the ward and picked up my chart, shaking his head. He turned to Marguerite. “I understand you’re a friend, but I must talk to mademoiselle in private. Could you step out for a moment?”
“No, I want her to stay,” I said, clinging to Marguerite’s hand.
He nodded. “This is a very sensitive situation. Do you want to tell me what happened last night? I know someone assaulted you.” I shook my head, unable to meet his eyes. “I understand your hesitation,” he continued, “but we should report it to the authorities so this man can be punished. You don’t want him to do this to another woman.” My throat choked. I had no response that would begin to explain my terror and shattered emotions.
“We believe it would be futile, given this person’s position,” Marguerite said in a hushed tone. “There were no witnesses. He would deny it, and she would only be further harmed.”
“I see.” The doctor shook his head with a pained expression. “There is something else. I’m afraid you had a miscarriage last night. We had to cauterize the bleeding. Did you know you were six or seven weeks’ pregnant?”
I gasped, staring into his eyes to be sure of what he’d said. I shook my head, trying to remember how long it had been since my last monthly cycle. I’d lost a baby. Bounmy’s baby.
“You can go home this afternoon, but stay in bed and take it easy for the rest of the week. Your body needs to recover from the shock.”
How could I make him understand? My body might heal, but I would never recover.