On January 1, 1932, Marguerite and Charles, standing on the bridge over the pond in Catherine’s garden, exchanged wedding vows as the sun faded behind the trees, surrounded by forty of their closest friends. Since Marguerite had proclaimed herself an atheist, and Charles was divorced, a Catholic wedding at Sacred Heart had been out of the question. Instead, the Resident Superior of Laos officiated.
As Catherine had said with a laugh, we couldn’t expect anything involving Marguerite to follow conventional traditions. The bride wore red chiffon that flowed around her curvy frame, mirroring the red and orange koi fish that darted back and forth in the water below. Catherine, maid of honor, stood beside her in a simple blue tea dress, while Julian, Antoine, Mali, and I gathered at the back of the crowd, beaming and dabbing at stray tears. Mali, dressed in a beautiful silk sinh and pha biang in shades of orange and sienna, quietly murmured Buddhist blessings. Like Mali, I wore the beautiful green-and-turquoise sinh and pha biang my aunts Dara and Noi in Luang Prabang had given me.
A reception followed at the Cercle, attended by the entire French colon community from the Vientiane area, a number of officers from Luang Prabang, and a select group of Lao aristocrats, including Prince Phetsarath and Prince Souvanna.
The wedding party roared on through the evening with champagne, extravagant food, and dancing to a live band. The air pulsed with joy. Julian and several young officers took turns twirling me and Catherine around the dance floor, but Antoine refused to budge, saying he’d never learned to dance. I vowed to teach him, but he laughed and said we’d see. He preferred sitting with Mali, speaking Lao over the din of the revelers, easing her discomfort at being in the French club. It had taken Marguerite days to convince her to attend.
The bride and groom cut the four-tiered chocolate wedding cake then bid their friends adieu a little after midnight. They were driving to the private home of a friend half an hour downriver for a short honeymoon. The evening wound down, and guests departed.
Our small group set out for home, slightly tipsy and a bit deflated after the high spirits of the day. Catherine put her arm through Julian’s and rested her head on his shoulder, while Antoine and I followed with Mali. The dry, crisp night and a refreshing breeze held the promise of new beginnings. Our lives were shifting in positive ways—Marguerite was a married woman, Julian was leaving for France, and Catherine would board a mail boat in two days for Luang Prabang full of love and hope for a future with Marcel. Mali would be spending an entire month in her village helping to organize her son’s wedding, while Antoine and I would begin teaching after the end of the New Year break.
I counted my blessings—Antoine, our mother’s family in Luang Prabang, and my wonderful friends who had given me shelter and adopted me as family. As much as I missed Bridgette, I was grateful for the years we had spent together when we so desperately needed each other’s love and support. No one could take that away. The future held endless possibilities for Antoine and me. Who could say where things might lead with Bounmy? Or Julian? Or a new life in Paris? But whatever path my future followed, I was determined to make peace with my past—half French, half Lao, at ease with who I was and who I might become.