I moved into a room at the guesthouse across from Marguerite’s. She and Charles watched over me, bringing meals that I hardly touched. A young woman was sent to collect my things from Kham’s family with instructions not to tell anyone of my whereabouts.
Alone with me, Marguerite swore and raged, pacing up and down in my tiny room, talking of ways Kham might be punished. “When we return to Vientiane, I’ll seek advice from an attorney,” she said.
Charles had threatened to beat Kham to a pulp, at first. Only after he promised not to become violent did Marguerite allow him to confront Kham. I learned later how my former employer’s eyes had filled with fear when Charles burst into his office late on Saturday morning. Kham had quickly become defiant, claiming I’d been drinking with him and offered myself for money. He called me a whore and a manipulative little bitch. Barely able to contain himself, Charles brandished his pistol and threatened to kill Kham if he ever repeated these lies to anyone, demanding I receive a year’s pay for my suffering. Kham balked at the suggestion, but when Charles grabbed him by the neck and slammed him against the wall, he took out a cash box. I was grateful to Charles, but the thought of touching Kham’s filthy money made me sick. Yet my financial situation didn’t allow the luxury of refusing it. I pictured Kham’s embarrassment on seeing that I’d thrown up on his desk and left my torn, bloody bloomers with the note in the desk drawer. I hoped his brother-in-law had found them first.
In the light of day, sober, did Kham regret his actions? He’d not been so drunk that he wouldn’t remember his monstrous crime. I couldn’t fathom why he wanted to harm me, to be so cruel. Whatever had I done to him to deserve this?
In shock, disbelieving, my brain struggled to comprehend the ways in which my existence had unraveled into nothingness. The world was no longer round but flat, and I had fallen off the edge into an abyss. I cried and slept and cried again, my hands resting on my emptied womb. Surely Kham had lied about Bounmy; all the things he’d said to humiliate me couldn’t be true. I reread Bounmy’s letter—he loved me. As days passed into nights, reality slowly seeped in. I mourned my loss of innocence. The loss of Bounmy. The loss of our baby.
Aunt Chanida appeared at the guesthouse early on Monday morning, having received a note from Marguerite Saturday evening informing her of the attack. On seeing the dark-blue bruises on my cheeks, a small cut above my lip, and my red swollen eye, she rushed over to fold her arms around me. “Vivi, my poor darling.”
After several minutes, she sat back, eyes filled with tears. “Marguerite said you saw a doctor.” I nodded. “This kind of crime is so rare in Luang Prabang. Are you comfortable telling me what happened? Were they after money…or something else?”
I stared at the intricate pattern of her green silk scarf, unable to meet her eyes. “It was a man…drunk. He overpowered me.”
Her face crumpled. “You were violated.” She paused for a moment. “Do you know this person?”
“Yes.”
“Have you gone to the police?”
“They’d never believe me. We were alone in his office.” I continued looking down. “He promised to say terrible things about me if I told anyone what he did.”
“You poor child.” She lifted my chin. “Was it Prince Kham Savang?”
I bit my lower lip for a moment. “How did you know?”
“He contacted Khamphet yesterday. They met last night.”
I gasped. “What did he want?” Had Kham repeated the same ugly lies he’d said to Charles?
“He didn’t say anything about this.” She paused. “But he talked about your relationship with his cousin, Prince Bounmy Savang. He said he thought the family should know.”
I felt sick, barely able to breathe. “Kham is a horrible person. He trapped me, and when I tried to fight him off, he hit me and threatened to tell everyone I was a whore.” I sobbed with despair.
“I know it wasn’t your fault, but he painted a very unkind picture of you. Even though we don’t believe him, your uncles worry for your reputation…and the family’s honor if Kham continues to spread such unpleasant stories. Will you tell me about it?”
Once again I felt trapped. “Bounmy and I became friends shortly after I left the orphanage. He has been nothing but kind and gentle.” I considered how much to reveal, taking a deep breath. “We’re in love.” I could not possibly tell her about the lost pregnancy.
Aunt Chanida’s brow furrowed. “I see.” We sat in silence as the fan stirred warm, stale air about the room. “I’m sure he loves you, Vivi,” she said at last. “You’re young and beautiful. But you must understand that Bounmy’s father is one of the most important people at the royal court, and the family’s position dictates Bounmy’s future. A match has been arranged for him with a young Lao woman of equal rank. They will marry this year.”
The things Kham had said were true. I wanted to beg her not to go on, to scream at Kham and Uncle Khamphet, at everyone standing in the way of our love. “Bounmy never told me,” I said at last. I stared into my aunt’s eyes, searching for a different outcome. “I can’t believe he’d marry someone else.”
“I know it’s hard to accept, but unless he abandons his family and royal life, he’ll not have a choice. The court wouldn’t even accept you as a second or third wife. You’d never be anything but his mistress.”
“Because I’m a métisse and a bastard? Because my father was French?” I spat out the words.
“The king insists on preserving the Lao heritage of the royal family. They marry only royals and highly placed aristocrats, never anyone French.”
Anger consumed me, like a phantom swirling through my body until my blood pulsed fast and hot. Everyone had warned me, but I’d chosen to ignore and deny the truth. Bounmy had never promised me anything, beyond our brief moments together and idle talk of going to Paris one day. How naïve and ridiculous my dreams seemed now. I couldn’t decide if I was more upset with Bounmy or myself.
My aunt let out a long sigh. “I know it’s painful, but you must break off the relationship immediately to save your reputation. We want you to be part of our family.”
Her demand was issued, leaving no room for discussion. I must choose my future. I squeezed my eyes shut. “I understand.”
She took my hand. “Mademoiselle Vanier told me you’ll be leaving Friday on a boat for Vientiane. Focus on meeting Antoine and planning a new life with him. You both have a family here who will always welcome you, but you must resolve this problem.”
In the midst of my misery, I had hardly thought of Antoine, the only person bringing hope to my future. First, I had to make the impossible choice of giving up Bounmy.
For the next four days, I stayed in my room at the guesthouse. Sleep only brought nightmares where I woke screaming and crying. Always the same thing: Kham in one setting or another—on Phou Si Mountain, in the courtyard of Wat Xieng Thong, trapped in the River Transport office—chasing me, overpowering me. In one dream, Bounmy stood by, silently watching with his arms crossed.
October 21, 1931
Cher Antoine,
I don’t know how to ease the pain of what I must tell you. Both our parents are gone, having died many years ago when we were small. A week ago Sunday, I visited Mother’s family—a sister, two brothers, their spouses, and many children. They were greatly surprised by my appearance but welcoming. Our aunt Chanida had searched for us without success ever since Mother passed. The Assistance Society once again blocked the way, denying our existence.
Aunt Chanida shared our parents’ story with me, giving me a photograph and a packet of letters from Father and Mother. There is so much to tell you, but I feel it must be in person.
I am leaving for Vientiane tomorrow and will arrive there within the week. I know you said it would be hard to get away before January, but I desperately need to meet you. My life has been turned upside down by events since I wrote you last. I am unemployed for the moment, so perhaps I could come to you in Pakse.
Hopefully, this note will reach you in a timely manner. Write me back to the address in Vientiane with your plans.
With love,
Vivi
P.S. Did you know that your Lao name is Vinya? Mine is Sakuna!
Aunt Chanida returned on Thursday, comforting my shattered soul in her quiet, gentle way. My aunts Dara and Noi had sent a gift, a beautiful silk sinh and pha biang in shades of emerald green and peacock blue. Aunt Chanida showed me how to fold the sinh around my middle and wrap the pha biang around my shoulders. I couldn’t wait to wear them.
She buoyed my spirits by recounting stories of her childhood with my mother. “We spent endless hours playing hide and seek or sometimes tag with the boys, who would get so wound up and start pushing and pinching me. Your mother was fierce, boxing them on the ears to protect me. They were afraid of her. One time Laya and I snuck up on Khamphet and Chanta while they were fishing in the river. She set off three firecrackers—I’m not sure where she got them—sending the boys flying into the water, screaming for help. We laughed until our sides ached.
“Your mother was a terrible seamstress. Never mastered a needle.” Aunt Chanida laughed. “Once she made me a new blouse. I was so excited. The first day I wore it to school, a seam came undone and the left sleeve fell off. The children laughed and pointed. I was so embarrassed.”
“That must be why I’m terrible at sewing,” I said, thrilled to find a common link.
“And oh, how she hated to cook—couldn’t be bothered. Thank heavens we had Khantalay.” She waved a hand in the air. “Laya was too smart, our tutor Tran’s best student. She always had her nose in a book. He couldn’t have been prouder of her if she’d been his own child.” She paused a moment. “I’m sure he was in love with her. He was twelve years older, but too shy and insecure to declare his feelings. I don’t think she would have accepted him.
“Lots of young men came courting, hoping to win your mother’s heart, but no one caught her eye. She loved her work teaching and didn’t want to get married only to be tied down with children and a household to run.” She shifted in her chair. “At least, not until she met your father. She fell madly in love with him.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to match the picture of the women in the photo to my aunt’s descriptions. “Was Mother angry with her brothers for not supporting her? Why didn’t they help?”
Aunt Chanida considered the question for a moment. “Disappointed, not really angry. Chanta was too young at the time to be of any help, while Khamphet was nineteen and could have done more to persuade our father, but he wanted to preserve the family’s honor, as he would inherit father’s position in the court.” She shrugged. “I had less to lose. I was likely to marry and move in with my husband’s family, although, as it turned out, we stayed in Father’s home.” She paused. “I was furious with Khamphet at the time. He refused to even come to see your mother when she was dying. He regrets it now.” She blinked several times. “It took me a long time to forgive him.”
“I want to know more about my father. His letters are brief, and Mother explained little about his past.”
“I can tell you what your mother shared with me. Your father had a sad life.”
“Did you know him well?”
“I spent some time with him. He was a quiet, thoughtful man. Very kind. I liked that he made your mother so happy and adored you and Antoine.”
“Why did Father marry Paulette, if they weren’t in love?”
“Henri’s father, your grandfather, wanted him to marry Paulette for her family’s money, as he needed an investor to open a bank in Aix-en-Provence. Paulette was young and pretty. I believe Henri thought love would follow. But circumstances worked against them.”
“What happened?”
“Henri helped his father found the bank, but he was unable to stop your grandfather’s disastrous management. Within three years, the business failed, and rumors and accusations of fraud and embezzlement followed. Henri’s family became social outcasts. Sadly, your grandfather began drinking and died six months later.”
“Father must have been devastated.”
“Paulette, being young and spoiled, was more concerned about her place in society,” Aunt Chanida continued. “That fell apart with the scandal, and the marriage collapsed. She took three-year-old Mathis and moved back to her parents’ home in Marseille. Your father was left alone to face creditors and accusations. He had to sell his family’s lands and go to work for three years in an accounting firm to pay off the remaining debts. All he cared about was Mathis. Every Sunday, he rode his horse over twenty miles each way to spend the day with the boy.”
“And Paulette abandoned him for all that time?” I asked. My aunt nodded. “How unfair.” Now I understood why Father didn’t express guilt over his affair with Mother. Paulette had not deserved his loyalty.
“Your father moved to Indochine with the hope of starting over where no one would know his past, but he couldn’t leave without Mathis. He forced Paulette to come by threatening to file for divorce on the basis of spousal abandonment. I think he tried to make her happy in Laos, but she was miserable from the start, unable to tolerate the heat and humidity. She rarely left the house and refused to mix with other French wives, saying they weren’t her social equal. She was rude and demanding with Laya. What upset your mother most was how she bullied the servants, yelling and slapping them for the slightest mistake.”
I thought of Madame Lansay, now passed away, who had told me how my mother saved her from the anger of the mistress.
“Then Mathis got sick, and Paulette took him back to France. It was a terribly difficult year. After Mathis died, your father left for Aix-en-Provence, and your mother was terrified he would never return. But he was so in love with Laya, she didn’t need to worry. After he came back, they had you and Antoine and spent three happy years together.”
“And then they died,” I murmured.
“Your mother never regretted her decision. Even if their time together was short, she said it was worth it to have experienced such a perfect love. Her greatest sadness was leaving you and Antoine.”
I was grateful to learn the complicated truth surrounding my parents’ story, to forgive them for leaving Antoine and me to grow up in an orphanage. But the loss and emptiness would never go away.