The boat ride down the Mekong River was quick and mostly restful in contrast to our overland trek on horseback. The “boat” was a large raft, close to twenty feet long and eight feet wide, with a platform of bamboo poles lashed together and secured atop two pirogues. Rattan-covered seats and two tiny huts provided protection from the relentless afternoon sun and occasional downpours. We’d been fortunate to get passage on a mail boat with an outboard motor, greatly reducing our travel time to six days. The rainy season was nearly over, but water levels were still high enough to reduce the number of protruding rocks and other hazards.
Five Lao men steered the cumbersome vessel through the swift-moving waters. When we reached cascades and swirling pools, they pulled up the motor and plied their oars to navigate around exposed hazards—tree snags and floating debris. Several times I held my breath and gripped the platform, convinced we would be upended, sure that I would drown. Miraculously the raft bounced and bobbed its way to safety. On three occasions, we were required to get out and walk onshore, while the men lifted the boat up and over boulders and rapids, boarding again on the other side. Each day as the sun faded over the mountains, we docked along the shore for the night and slept in tents. The Lao men cooked us simple meals of rice, fish, vegetables, and fresh fruit purchased from villages along the way.
An older French couple, who had traveled from Hanoi to Luang Prabang, accompanied us to Vientiane. Marguerite visited with them on and off, but I lacked the strength for polite conversation with strangers.
The tangle of dread and terror in my middle slowly eased the farther we traveled from Luang Prabang and Kham. Even though he would soon return to Vientiane, I would feel safer at Catherine’s. On the boat in the fresh air, I breathed more freely.
The sun played hide and seek behind layers of white and silver clouds scuttering past. The river was alive with familiar activities—men fished in tiny skiffs, and pirogues carried children to school and farmers to markets with their produce. Women washed laundry on rocks and hung it to dry along the shore. We floated past green fields and forested mountains, removed from the threat of tigers, leopards, and other animals of prey.
I used the quiet time to prepare myself for what lay ahead, to craft words to tell Bounmy our time together was over. He’d loved me in his own way, as best as he was able in the time we spent together, just as Monsieur Fontaine had loved Catherine in his own way. Now I understood that love, to love someone, was an interpretation of each person’s needs. Bounmy had never promised me forever. Our love had limits defined by his birth and upbringing. By his desires. It was like plunging into a pond, expecting to be submerged in the cool blue depths, to discover the water reached only to my knees. It would never be enough.
We arrived in Vientiane mid-afternoon on Thursday. Marguerite had wired ahead to announce our early return, saying only that I had experienced a terrible trauma. The Resident Superior’s car met us and took us to Catherine’s house, where she and Mali were waiting. I fell into Catherine’s open arms spilling tears of overwhelming relief, like a baby bird fallen from its nest then returned home, battered and bruised, nestling into the shelter of its mother’s wings.
Catherine held me tightly and cooed words of comfort until I could catch my breath. “Mali is going to run you a nice bath. Relax. Take a nap. We’ll have an early dinner.”
“Where is Julian?” Marguerite asked.
“He went off into the wilds with André two days ago. I don’t expect them back for several weeks. Possibly a month.”
Marguerite rummaged in her purse and pulled out her cigarettes. “It’s probably for the best.”
I dried my tears on the handkerchief Catherine handed me. “I don’t want him to know what happened.”
Catherine nodded. “Of course not.”
Mali took my arm and led me upstairs. Marguerite would inform Catherine and Mali about the attack, as I couldn’t bear to talk about it. But we’d agreed that no one would learn about the miscarriage, not even Catherine.
In my room the organdy curtains flapped around the open window, as if welcoming me back. Mali had placed pink orchids in a vase on my dresser, and they filled the room with their sweet scent. Home. Over the last five months, this room, this house, had become more of a home for me than the orphanage had been during fourteen years. How fortunate I was to have this haven and my good friends to support me.
“There are fresh towels in the bathroom. I’ll fill the tub,” Mali said, giving me a gentle hug.
I turned to undress and noticed the envelope propped against the lamp on the nightstand. My heart contracted.
My darling Geneviève,
If you are reading this note, it means you are home. What happy news! It’s unbearable not knowing when you will return. Hopefully I’ll receive word in advance, but if for any reason you were unable to forewarn me, call me at work. Tell me the earliest time we can meet.
I am lost without you and long to hold you in my arms once more.
All my love,
Bounmy
I could not face him yet. Physically and emotionally spent, I allowed myself quiet hours in the house and garden, recovering from my wounds, wavering and struggling to muster the courage to meet with him. To face the inevitable. After a week, bolstered by Catherine and Marguerite’s advice and support, I wrote Bounmy and suggested we meet that Saturday in our usual place.
I left the pousse-pousse driver on the main road, asking him to wait for my return within the hour. With each step I took down the lane, my heart split apart a little more, like glass crashing to the floor, scattering in a thousand tiny pieces.
When I reached the garden, Bounmy was opening the house shutters, softly humming. He lifted a slat that had fallen halfway off, trying to reattach it. A lock of hair had slid over his brow, which he swept aside, but it stubbornly fell back. He wore his usual white shirt and khaki pants that fell gracefully over his long, slender limbs. My body and soul ached for him.
He hadn’t heard me approach. I stood very still, memorizing this image of him waiting for me. Innocent and carefree. Anticipating an afternoon of pleasure.
As if feeling my eyes upon him, he turned. His beautiful face, the face that had been my constant joy, transformed with a wide grin. He dropped the errant slat and raced to my side, throwing his arms around me and swinging me in a circle. I felt my resolve teetering toward failure in his embrace.
“I didn’t think you’d come home this soon.” He pulled back, beaming. “I only received your letter from Luang Prabang yesterday describing the meeting with your family. I’m so sorry about your parents, but at least you’ve found your aunts and uncles.”
Ah yes—the letter I’d written a few days before my world had collapsed, when everything good still seemed possible. My chin trembled, and tears swelled in my eyes. I studied his features, searching for traces of betrayal and hidden secrets.
“What’s wrong?”
I rested my head against his chest, listening to his racing heart, savoring the scent of sandalwood and the soft cotton of his shirt on my cheek. One last time, I would relish the comfort of his warmth, the strength of his arms, to carry me into a future without him. He stroked my hair as I sobbed. I hadn’t been sure of my reaction to his touch, if the memories of Kham’s assault would make me recoil from Bounmy with fear and loathing. But this was where I belonged. I was thankful to have experienced the beauty of making love with this man I adored, discovering what physical love is meant to be, before Kham could ruin it.
“Come. Talk to me.” He sounded uncertain, but he led me to a wooden bench under a flame tree. “You’re frightening me.”
Tears choked my voice. I searched for the words I’d carefully rehearsed over the past weeks. “Everything has changed.”
Bounmy took my hands. “How?”
“Something happened.”
“Tell me.”
“Kham…did something.”
“What?” His voice became a growl.
Words spilled out. Not the ones I’d carefully planned, but those I’d intended to keep from him. Anger suddenly overwhelmed me—anger with Kham, with Bounmy and the secrets he’d kept from me, with my own stupidity for falling into this hopeless affair. I hadn’t intended to reveal Kham’s brutal attack, the horrible names he’d called me, the threats he’d made. But it erupted, and I spared no details. My body shook uncontrollably as I relived each terrifying moment.
Bounmy sat next to me, confused at first, shaking his head as if I were speaking a foreign language he couldn’t comprehend. His body grew taut, and he gripped my hands tighter and tighter. When I stopped speaking, he let out a howl and slammed a fist onto the bench. “I’ll make him pay. I swear, I’ll make him pay.”
I touched his arm. “It will only complicate matters. He threatened to say terrible things about me if I tell anyone. I’m a métisse, already an outcast in the eyes of many Lao and French.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“No. Marguerite agreed they wouldn’t do anything. Why would anyone believe me over a prince? I’d only be further humiliated.”
He hung his head, unable to assure me otherwise. “I should never have trusted him and let you go to Luang Prabang. But I wanted you to find your family. I thought Marguerite could keep you safe.”
“Kham called me your whore.”
“That’s a lie! I love you more than anything.”
“He told me you paid my salary in order to buy my favors.”
“That’s ridiculous. I only wanted to help you. I never expected anything in return.” He took hold of my shoulders with trembling hands. “I should have protected you. Kham’s always been jealous that I’ve had more privileges in life. Growing up, he constantly found ways to undermine me and make trouble. He only hurt you to harm me.”
I swallowed hard, knowing I would never be whole again until he understood the consequences of his actions. “I was pregnant with your child but lost it after the attack.”
He withdrew, as if I’d slapped him violently across the face. Tears flooded his eyes. “Our baby.” His head fell onto my shoulder, and he cried like a small child.
I let him grieve. “It’s for the best,” I whispered at last.
“Don’t say that.” He sat up, wiping his face on his sleeve. “Forgive me. Please, forgive me. I can’t imagine your pain.”
We sat for a long time in silence as he stroked my hair and face and kissed my forehead. Birds called out from the branches above us, and bees droned among the flowers. For just a moment, I allowed myself to think everything would be fine. Bounmy would make it right again.
I stared at his shattered face. “You’re getting married in December.” There was not the slightest note of emotion in my voice. It was a simple statement of fact. He took in a quick breath.
“When did you plan to tell me?”
“I…I’ve been trying to convince my father to end the betrothal.” Explanations poured out—a marriage arranged when they were small children, a single meeting when ten and thirteen years old. A duty, an obligation. Nothing more. “I managed to postpone the wedding until after my return from France. But now…our families insist we marry.” He sounded like a spoiled child who had been issued an unjust punishment. “I’m the oldest son and must produce an heir to carry on the family name and honor our ancestors.” There was no need to add that having a son with me would never fulfill this duty.
“How could you have not told me this at the beginning? How could you lead me on with false hopes, letting me think you wanted a future with me?” I pushed my hair from my face. “I feel stupid, a naïve child who trusted you without question.”
“I’m so sorry. I fell in love with you from the start and couldn’t bear to think of losing you if I told you about my situation. I needed to work out a solution first.”
I didn’t hesitate. “So, you will marry her.”
He licked his lips. “Give me time. I begged Father to break it off and let me return to France.” He took my hand again. “We’ll go together.”
“Your family will never accept a métisse.”
He ducked his head. “Probably not.”
“And if your father insists on the marriage?”
His eyes stayed focused on the ground. “I’ll obey. But once there’s a son, we can leave for France. She means nothing to me. You needn’t worry.”
“How could you be so cruel? To allow this poor girl to marry you when you don’t love her. To make her bear you a son, knowing you will abandon her and the child?” I shook my head in disbelief. “I could never be with someone who could consider such a hideous thing.”
He didn’t answer.
“And what would I do while you’re busy producing an heir with your wife?” I asked.
He looked up, hopeful. “I’d get a house for you and be with you as much as possible.”
“I’d be your whore, your phu sao. No better than Sylvie.”
“Geneviève.” He sounded indignant. “How could you say that? Don’t you love me?”
“How else would people view me?” I thought of my mother’s lonely existence once Father had left for France. She’d been shamed and rejected by everyone, left to fade away from neglect. “When you grow tired of me, I’ll be alone and ruined.”
He shook his head. “I’d never leave you. Once we go to France, we’ll marry.” He spoke as if it were perfectly logical. How could I possibly have any objections? “Many Lao men have multiple wives.”
I gazed up at the leaves dancing in the breeze, trying to collect my thoughts. “In the past few weeks, I’ve lost everything that matters—my innocence, my faith in you…our baby. My reputation. Kham took everything from me then met with my uncle and told him of our affair, warning him about my stained character. If I want to be part of my newfound family, I can’t remain with you.”
Bounmy’s shoulders slumped. He seemed incapable of a response.
“I loved you with all my heart, believed in you completely, but you betrayed me by not being truthful. Your idea of loving me is limited to what is convenient for you.”
He took a shuddering breath and wrapped his arms around me, whispering in my ear as his tears dripped down my neck. “I’ve made a mess of things, but give me a chance. I want to be with you for the rest of my life.” He sat back. “I’ll defy my father and refuse to marry. We’ll go to France. Next week. I have money.”
“I don’t want you to renounce your family, and I don’t want to give up mine when I’ve only just found them. We could never be happy.” I bit my bottom lip to stem the quiver in my voice. “You’re bound to your heritage and position in life, promised to another. If you truly love me, let me go.”
I stood and put my hand on his cheek, looking into his eyes, dark pools of pain and guilt. It took every ounce of strength in my body to walk away, down the road to the waiting pousse-pousse. Memories of the day we’d first met, our boat rides down the Mekong, the first night we made love swam in my mind. Giddy, happy hours filled with promise and hope, now dashed. My first love.
I turned once to look back. He remained where I had left him, his head in his hands.
The affair was over.