The Woman Who Wouldn't Die

3

‘Ah, Siri,’ said Judge Haeng. With his pimples and watery eyes and green safari shirt, the prematurely middle-aged man looked more like a frog at a desk than the head of the Public Prosecution Department. He stood and offered his hand to the white-haired doctor but, as always, avoided staring into his deep green eyes. He’d had nightmares about those eyes sucking him inside that cantankerous old head full of horrible things. Siri gave a cursory shake to the outstretched hand because he knew this show of politeness came as a result not of love for his fellow man but of blackmail. The doctor was a collector of news, you see. He had the goods on a number of senior officials gleaned from eve-of-battle confessions, records of embarrassing medical procedures, and access to official government files written in French, which few in the ruling Pathet Lao could read. He had come across information that, should it fall into the wrong hands, might signal the end of the judge’s very comfortable lifestyle. It might even lead to a spell of re-education in a distant province from which many did not return.

Judge Haeng was the type of man who would happily arrange for an accident to befall a blackmailer. But Siri was the cordon bleu of blackmailers. All his news was stored in a number of ‘Open in the event of my untimely death’ metal deposit boxes in Laos and overseas, a fact that all his victims were made aware of from the outset. A fact that was a total fabrication. They were under his mattress. Apart from his wife, nobody else knew this tasty information. But Siri used this weapon not for evil or for financial gain, but for good. There was nothing like a little incentive to keep a government official on the straight and narrow.

‘I … er … read your complaint,’ said Haeng. ‘I haven’t yet submitted it to the Ministry of the Interior.’

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Siri asked. ‘You’ve had it three days.’

‘I know. I know and I’m sorry. I just … Why don’t you take a seat?’

Siri remained standing.

‘I was just wondering whether you might reconsider,’ said the judge.

‘What’s to reconsider? I’m taking a bath in the comfort of my own house when suddenly this army of nincompoops led by a midget comes charging in. And Shorty flashes his camera at my private parts, no less. I half expect to find my image pinned to every telegraph pole across the city.’

‘Siri, Comrade Koomki is just short of stature. If he were legally a midget he wouldn’t have been given the role of Head of Housing Allocations.’

Siri raised his bushy eyebrows and shook his head. What was going on in the mind of this Soviet-trained bureaucrat?

‘Judge,’ he said, ‘I don’t care whether he’s legally a midget or not. What I care about is that he invaded my house and my privacy. He deserves to lose his job. I’m entitled to make an official complaint.’

‘It could be … embarrassing.’

‘The redder the faces the better.’

‘I don’t know. I suppose I could be inclined to submit it …’

‘Good.’

‘I could be inclined to submit it … if you could see your way to lending your country a hand just one more time.’

‘What?’

‘Lending a hand.’

‘A man has only so many hands, Judge. Would you accept a finger?’

‘Now, Siri, there’s no need for that attitude. Until his final breath, a good socialist will always have enough oxygen to give resuscitation to a drowning comrade. No matter how choppy the sea. I’m well aware of the services you have selflessly performed for our nation. But I know too how much you enjoy the occasional junket. These little trips around the country at the expense of the committee.’

‘I’m retired.’

‘A perfect time to see the sights. A few days in a scenic guest house. One or two cold beers and good food. You could take Madame Daeng along. Call it a second honeymoon.’

Siri hesitated.

‘Where to?’

‘Sanyaburi. The boat races at Pak Lai.’

‘The races were last month.’

‘Down here they were. It’s up to the cadre in charge in each province when the workers would most benefit from a few days of joy and recreation. Luang Prabang doesn’t have theirs until November.’

‘I don’t know. On my last junket I was caught in the middle of a massacre. The one before that I was tortured and left for dead. Joy and recreation seem to have escaped me somehow.’

‘This will be different, Siri. A couple of hours of work then you’re free to stay as long as you like to enjoy the countryside. You can take the two-tier ferry up there and hop on one coming back.’

‘What’s the catch?’

‘You’re always such a sceptic. Why should there be a catch? You’d merely be there as a … what shall we call it? An observer. This would really be easier if you’d take a seat.’

Siri remained standing.

‘An observer of what?’

‘Something quite ridiculous, to be honest. Even so, I wouldn’t doubt it’s right up your alley.’

‘What alley might that be?’

‘Oh, you know. Ghosts and the like.’

‘Why should I be hanging around in any alleyways with ghosts?’

‘Come on, Siri. There are those who believe you like to dabble in the supernatural.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘That’s what I tell them. He’s a man of science, I say. There is no place for superstition in the mind of a medical man. But you know what this place is like for rumours. Even the Minister of Justice seems to think you might enjoy this ghost hunt.’

Siri sat. The rickety wooden chair creaked beneath him. He considered standing again.

‘And whose ghost might I be hunting?’

‘The brother of the Minister of Agriculture.’

‘Really? And who exactly is the Minister of Agriculture this month?’

It was a response that would normally have caused Haeng to reprimand the doctor for his lack of respect for the longevity of government appointments. But, with so much resting on the success or failure of the current farming cooperative programme, the role of minister in charge of such a mess was something of a revolving door.

‘General Popkorn,’ said Haeng.

Siri sighed. He knew them all. Natural commanders in the field of battle and clueless behind a desk.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘His brother was presumed killed in a covert military operation. They never retrieved the body. The general’s wife is Vietnamese and she believes there’s disquiet amongst the ancestors because her brother-in-law is unsettled and that’s causing problems in the family. Personally I think the family problems are caused by the fact she’s a nasty cow but don’t quote me on that. She believes the brother wants to come home and be afforded his just rites.’

‘Where was he presumed to have died?’

‘Hmm. That’s not such an easy one to answer. He was operating under cover, mostly organizing guerrilla attacks on royalist-held bases. The last dispatch they got from him was from Luang Prabang in June 1969. There were suggestions he might have been discovered and killed there. But there was no mention of him in royalist reports.’

‘If he was under cover they wouldn’t have known who he was. I doubt he’d have been carrying his citizen identification card.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Then he could have died anywhere.’

‘Also true.’

‘Then how on earth are they going to return his body if they don’t know where it is?’

‘The minister’s wife — and feel free to laugh at this — has hired a witch.’

‘Does she come with a broomstick?’

‘What?’

‘Never mind.’

Civilai was perhaps the only person in Laos who got all of Siri’s funny lines. Haeng got none of them. Not even the ones that were culturally inclusive.

‘Tell me about the witch,’ said Siri.

‘The locals call her Madame Keui — the used-to-be woman. She’s what they call a ba dong,’ said Haeng. ‘She claims to be able to locate the bodies of soldiers killed in battle. They say she’s good. Give her an object that belonged to the departed one and she’ll draw you a map to where his remains are. It’s all nonsense of course but the minister obviously has no control over his wife and she’s insistent. She dragged her husband off for a meeting with the witch last weekend. The old woman did some mumbo-jumbo incense burning gobbledegook, performed a couple of magic party tricks and hey presto, they’re both sucked in. According to the witch the body’s a few kilometres upriver from Pak Lai.’

‘That’s two hundred kilometres from Luang Prabang.’

‘He escaped by boat, she says. Succumbed to his injuries before he could get to a qualified medic. It’s not clear where he got off the boat. A lot of the river round there is deep in jungle. No settlements. It appears that’s where the mystic radio waves ran into some interference.’ He laughed at his own cleverness. ‘That’s why the witch needs to go there and take a look for herself.’

‘Good grief. You’re sending me on holiday with a witch?’

‘You don’t need to have any direct dealings with her. Just wait around. On the off chance she turns up with a body, you do the examination.’

‘Why is it that people hand me bones and expect me to know whether the skeleton was a paid-up member of the local trade union?’

‘I’ve made it easy for you, Siri. Major Ly, that’s the name of the brother, had been injured in a grenade explosion a year before he disappeared. He’d had work done in Hanoi to put his chin back together. There’s a screw in his jaw. The doctor was Cuban. He kept records and an X-ray. I’ll have them for you before you go.’

‘You seem confident I’ll agree to all this.’

‘Ah, Siri. You’re a curious man. Retirement doesn’t suit you at all. You love mysteries like this.’

‘I don’t know. I’ll see what Madame Daeng says.’

‘That’s the spirit. A good soldier-’

‘Right. I’ve had my socialist maxim for the day already. When’s the supposed departure?’

‘Thursday. I know you’ll do the right thing.’

Siri stood and considered his next action carefully. Then he reached into his shoulder bag and produced an envelope which he handed to the judge.

‘What’s this?’ asked Haeng.

‘It’s a letter from some judge asking the US consulate if he can have a condominium overlooking the Pacific in exchange for the odd secret.’

‘I …’

‘It’s the original. I didn’t make any copies. I’d hurry up and burn it if I were you.’

Siri rode his bicycle home along Fahngoum Road. Ugly the dog trotted behind him. It was a remarkably fine day. There was a cool breeze off the Mekhong and the sky was, at last, the colour of the airport: Wattay blue. It still seemed to be the only paint colour available in the city. The small maggot blooms along the roadside were a wash of colours but smelt like vomit. To his right, every other shop and restaurant he passed was padlocked and shuttered. The river road had been a happier place when the Americans ruled the roost. Beer and girls and loud music that lurched across the river and collided with loud music from Thailand. Now, on the Lao side, the cicada male voice choir was the loudest sound you could expect. Vientiane was a green city. That isn’t to say a Western-type city with sporadic outbreaks of controlled vegetation, but a forest of a city with big sprawling trees along the roadways and patches of jungle that would one day give themselves up to development — but not without a fight. The plants ruled and, thanks to them, the city breathed. The street was paved but covered in mud and there were no cleaners to dig down to the concrete. Siri’s tyres left slalom grooves. His was the only transport on the road.

He caught a brown flash of movement low on the bank of the river. At first he thought it was an animal. A wild cat. But as he squinted against the bright sun Siri could see that it was a man. Naked. Indian. He seemed to be tracking the squeaky bicycle like a jungle predator. Hopping from bush to bush. Crazy Rajid had apparently arrived at the belief that if he were undressed he would be invisible. If anyone spotted him he could merely freeze in position certain that he had blended into the surroundings. He was Vientiane’s own street person. Mad as a sack of rats. Unpredictable. Uncommunicative. Yet with a frozen pond of skills Siri had only just broken the surface of. He waved at the loping vagabond. Crazy Rajid froze in position. Siri looked around as if wondering where he’d gone. Rajid’s face broke into a vast white smile.

Siri laughed. It had been a fun day. He’d left the judge gaping like a mortar wound to the chest. He hadn’t really expected a ‘thank you’. Giving him back his letter had been a difficult decision to make. By holding on to it, the doctor could have kept the man chained indefinitely. The official would continue to be polite and efficient and respectful to his elder. But, to be honest, where was the fun in that? Since their first meeting in 1975, the year the Communists took over the country, the year Siri was railroaded into a job he didn’t want, Judge Haeng had been a wonderful nemesis. Incompetent but wielding great power. Awash with misguided self-confidence. Slippery as a freshly peeled mango. Judge Haeng had been the face of the Party. Siri couldn’t break the Party, but my word he could break the face. That’s why he’d released the judge from his spell. He wanted the battle to continue.

And what joy this new mission offered. A witch, no less. A woman who could trace the dead. He’d heard of them, the ba dong. There were many in Vietnam. There had been incredible stories. A rescue team directed by map to a remote mountainous crop and to within a metre of a shallow grave. Nothing visible above the surface. This was the world that Siri was inadequately a part of. In spite of his own common sense and his medical training, he was well aware that he hosted the spirit of a thousand-year-old shaman. His scientist self had immediately fallen into a fit of denial. He’d argued himself silly that possession was biologically impossible. He’d attributed his visions to dreams, to drunken hallucinations, to heatstroke. But after some time, when the spirits began to make direct communication, supernature and nature collided unmistakably. He was left with no alternative argument. There was, without a shadow of a doubt, a spirit world. And once his stubborn streak had let go of his prejudices, they came. In ones and twos at first, leaving clues. Making efforts to establish a two-way link. He saw them. He heard them too, albeit in a tinny second-hand form through his own mind. He even felt the icy blades of the malevolent few who wanted his resident shaman annihilated. And the more he believed, the more he saw. In their hundreds on the old battlefields. In their tens of thousands in Cambodia. And it came to the point where they were as much a part of his landscape as his wife Daeng, and his friends, and everything else he had come to see as normal.

But there was a blockage. He didn’t know where the main pipeline to the afterlife was clogged or how to clear it, but he still could not conduct any two-way conversations with his visitors. It was as if he were on one bank of the Mekhong and they were over there on the Thai side. They’re waving and shouting but he can’t hear. And so they resort to pantomime. Charades for the hard-of-channelling. Most of the time he didn’t get it. He had no idea what they were trying to tell him. When a murder case was resolved by more scientific means he would look back over his dreams and his encounters and slap his ever-bruised forehead. ‘So that’s what they meant.’ It was like looking at the filled-in crossword on the solutions page of Le Figaro.

He was tired of guessing. He needed a tutor. He believed that, like the sciences, the super-sciences could be learned from an expert. He’d met one such seer: Auntie Bpoo the transvestite fortune-teller. One had to look beyond her sumo build and her penchant for the type of clothing one might see in Pigalle late in the evening. He-she had the direct line. There was no question. He-she could have taught Siri everything. But he-she, and she preferred to be referred to as she, was a most exasperatingly certifiable human being. Siri had recently hounded her for tutorials but she had been occupied to the point of unavailability by ‘the do’.

Fortune-tellers, if they’re worth anything at all, should be able to see everything. Auntie Bpoo had seen her own demise. She knew the date and the time and she had been planning a Phasing Away party in memoriam of herself. For the past month she’d been preparing for the evening — for, luckily, she would be dying at approximately nine p.m. — by handwriting invitations and working on a menu. And, naturally, there was the costume. A girl had to go out on a high fashion note. Siri had begged — not something he did willingly — for some insights, but she had dismissed him with fortune cookie comments such as, ‘Under a full moon all is clear.’ He wanted to strangle her but he knew she’d see it coming. She would be phasing away, with or without his help, at nine p.m. on the fourth Tuesday in October, which wasn’t a full moon night at all.

But here was an even better chance. A ghost whisperer. A witch. More likely a sorceress or a spirit medium, but with enough of a track record to win over a cynical Lao general. A few days away together on the Mekhong. Enough time to probe her mind. Perhaps Madame Keui, the used-to-be woman, would be the medium to take his hand and lead him through the teak doors to the beyond.

‘He’ll be sleeping with you next,’ said Daeng.

She was on her bamboo recliner in front of the shop shelling peas. She had ‘the smile’. It was a different smile to the one that greeted her husband in their bed every morning and welcomed the customers to the restaurant. This one came to her unnaturally, care of the opium she took to fight off the ravages of rheumatism. Siri had attempted to guide her to less addictive pain relief but, having seen the misery in her eyes, he no longer begrudged her. He shared the sigh of relief when the demons let go of her joints for a few hours.

‘No danger of that,’ said Siri climbing down from the one-speed Chinese Pigeon. ‘Ugly is an outside dog. He stands watch at the door then accompanies me to the next appointment. If I were accosted along the way he would bite off the leg of the attacker. If I were stabbed in my sleep he would shrug and leave it all up to the police. He’s never been inside a building. Doesn’t trust ’em.’

‘He told you all that?’

‘We dogs have an innate understanding. How was lunch?’

‘Crowded. I’m not sure what we’ll do with all this money I’m making.’

‘Madame Daeng, you charge so little and add so many exotic but expensive ingredients, we average one kip profit on each bowl of noodles. In another five years we’ll be able to buy a teapot.’

‘People have to eat.’

‘That’s the UN’s job. Feeding the hungry. We are a business. They’re all hooked now. It’s time to cash in on the addiction and double the price. Start raking in those kip. Put in a pool. Drive German cars.’

‘You’ve been listening to Thai radio again.’

‘They all have spin driers over there, Daeng.’

‘We could always sell your Triumph. A lot of Soviet advisors come by to look at it.’

‘They will not touch my motorcycle. It’s a classic, as are you. Could you see me signing you over to a Soviet advisor and watch him ride you off into the distance?’

‘You never use it.’

‘I do. I shall. It’s there for emergencies. This flightless Pigeon is just my back-up. Exercise. It helps me be a cog that runs in time to this city’s clock. When we need speed we’ll have my Triumph.’

‘We can’t afford the petrol.’

‘That is exactly why you need to double the price of your noodles. It’s time for us New Socialist Mankind to embrace old Capitalist thoughts. I know. Let’s fire Mr Geung. He uses up far too much of our profits. He even has the nerve to eat free. That’s the ticket. Retrenchment. Where is he?’

‘Out the back,’ she laughed. ‘Naming the chickens.’

‘Again? How are we supposed to chop their heads off and pluck ’em if they have personalities?’

‘He likes them.’

‘That’s it. He’s got to go.’

Siri, attempting to wipe the grin off his face, marched through the restaurant and into the small back yard. Mr Geung was squatting on the ground cuddling a chicken.

‘Geung!’

‘Yes, C … Comrade Doctor?’

‘What are you doing with that chicken?’

‘Talking.’

‘Mr Geung. You do know tomorrow that chicken is going to be redistributed into the stomachs of a lot of hungry people?’

‘I … kn … know.’

‘And?’

Geung looked up at the one small cloud that travelled slowly over the yard.

‘Her life is … is … is not so long like ours,’ he said. ‘I give her a name and a … a cuddle and she’ll have ssssomething nice to remember from this life to … to … to take to the next.’

He had a tear in his eye. Siri sat on the dirt beside his friend. The concept of dignity was beyond Mr Geung but that was exactly what he was bestowing upon these temporary visitors. Mr Geung was giving the chickens status. Siri squeezed his hand.

‘What’s this one called?’ he asked.

‘Lenin.’

‘All right. You win. I won’t fire you.’

‘Thank you.’

Geung still hadn’t turned away from the cloud.

‘Is there something interesting up there?’

‘An old man.’

Siri looked up, half expecting to see a basket hanging from the cloud with a man in it.

‘Where?’

‘In the market. This ar … ar … afternoon. A farang.’

‘Probably Soviet, Geung.’

‘No. Farang.’

The Lao had divided the sparse Western community into two categories. On the one hand were the Soviets, which included every eastern European national. These were foreigners ill-suited to hot climates who were surprisingly easy to detect from their scent. On the other hand were the farang which incorporated everyone else with white skin. And they weren’t always the sweetest either.

‘He smelled like ointment,’ said Geung.

‘You got close enough to smell him?’

‘Yes. Yes … no. The market lady tol … told me. I was far. And he spoke French. The market lady can unnnnderstand French.’

‘And was there something special about this farang?’ Siri asked.

‘Yes.’

The cloud continued to fascinate.

‘And are you going to tell me?’ Siri asked.

‘He’s got … got a star. On his hhhead. Here.’

He pointed to his forehead above his right eye.

‘A tattoo?’ Siri asked, even though he considered his own question ridiculous.

‘No. A scar. He … I saw it when he passed me. Not so easy to see. Bbbut I could see.’

‘So you went to talk to the market lady.’

‘Yes.’

‘And she told you about the French.’

‘Yes. And about Comrade Madame Daeng.’

Siri looked away from the cloud and into Geung’s eyes.

‘What about her?’

‘That’s why th … the … the Frenchman was in the market. He was asking where was Comrade Madame Daeng from the sssssouth.’

‘It’s a common name, Geung.’

‘He wanted my Comrade Madame Daeng.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I know. Her ol … ol … old name, Keopakam. That’s what he said. And it’s not good news, Comrade Doctor. Nnnot good at all.’

There were as many Daengs in Laos as there were tea leaves in China. As there were spin driers in Thailand. But Siri was a believer in fate and instinct. If Geung had sensed something, there had to be a negative current that passed into him from the Frenchman. Judge Haeng’s offer of a few days away, specifically mentioning Daeng, had to fit somehow into this karmic jigsaw puzzle. Siri had learned to his detriment that ignoring the fates was a terrible mistake.

‘Fancy a holiday?’ he asked his wife.

Daeng was sweaty and pink in the evening noodle rush. She leaned into the steam from the broth pot to swat away a persistent beetle.

‘OK. Madrid,’ she said.

‘I wasn’t actually offering you a choice of location.’

He held out the bowls as she gently scooped the noodles into the broth. Mr Geung took them from Siri and scurried off between the tables. It was as crowded as Paris St Germain in the rush hour but with no soundtrack. Great noodles left no room for conversation.

‘So, where?’ Daeng asked.

‘How do you fancy Pak Lai?’

‘Pak Lai, Sanyaburi?’

‘The same.’

‘What’s there to do?’

‘Boat races, beer, views, elephants, holding hands on a slow ferry upriver.’

‘When?’

‘Thursday.’

‘All right.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. We’ll have to take Geung.’

‘We will?’

‘Of course. If we close the shop he’ll be bored and miserable. And we invariably need back-up.’

‘Why would we need back-up on a romantic cruise up the Mekhong?’

‘Because we wouldn’t be going if you hadn’t been handed some impossible task that will toss us higgledy-piggledy into the slow-burning furnaces of the devils.’

‘That was very poetic.’

‘Bowls.’

‘What?’

‘Hold up the bowls.’

‘Sorry.’

At the end of the early evening noodle shift Siri and Daeng partook of their late evening constitutional with Ugly trotting along behind. Siri was always aware of his wife’s condition but Daeng invariably insisted they take their sundown stroll. They admired the shimmering reflections of Thai street lights that reached across the river like beggars. They passed the locked confectioners where they paused and pretended to buy strawberry ice-cream cones. Then, as if by chance, they walked two circuits of the French embassy compound which took up an entire block. The couple’s instincts had different origins. Daeng’s the gut feeling of a fighter. Siri’s the subliminal screams and yelps from the beyond. But between them they were confident by the second lap that they had not been followed. They stopped beside the metal side gate on Rue Gallieni and Siri banged three times. For effect, he pretended to be tying his bootlaces as they waited. Daeng reminded him he was wearing sandals but he told her that from a spy blimp they’d not be able to see that clearly. The gate creaked open a slice and the couple slid inside the empty embassy.

France and Laos, you see, were having a ladies’ tiff. It was the ultimate porte-monnaie slap fest. The French embassy in Vientiane had apparently been urging the upper classes to leave the country. Visas had been as easy to come by as tropical ulcers. In France, a Lao government in exile was being encouraged — if not openly supported — by the anti-communists. To the Pathet Lao administration this was starting to look a lot like the tacit support of a coup d’etat. All the staff at the Vientiane embassy, including diplomats, had been banned from travelling further than three kilometres from the embassy compound. The French retaliated by restricting the Lao staff of their embassy in Paris to a three kilometre perimeter. This troubled the Lao more than the French as three kilometres from the Vientiane embassy was little more than rice fields, whereas the ban left the Lao diplomats as prisoners in the extortionately expensive inner suburbs of Paris. The Pathet Lao refused to accept any new diplomatic postings so the French closed their embassy and took their tricolour home. Thus the embassy compound, the zero kilometre mark for all road distances from Vientiane, became a ghost town.

Monsieur Seksan, the embassy caretaker, beamed and shook the hands of his visitors. He was a solid Lao with a fine paunch nurtured over thirty years of employment with the French civil service in Paris. He’d arrived in Europe aged two and naturally didn’t have too many memories of his homeland, fond or otherwise. He’d spoken Lao at home with his nurse but was raised and educated a Frenchman. Despite claiming a first-class degree in law and having French citizenship, the man had been overlooked for promotion so many times he’d come to believe that nothing short of plastic surgery would put him on the diplomatic fast track. At first, when the foreign service had called him aside and offered him a posting at the embassy in Vientiane, he’d had ambassadorial flutterings. When he found out all the French embassy staff had been recalled in protest and that he’d be bouncing around like a single pea in a pod, he was not amused. In fact, he was pissed off.

Dr Siri was an acquaintance of Monsieur Seksan’s father. They’d studied at the temple together. The young man had made contact as soon as he’d arrived in his alien homeland. His Lao was raw and his knowledge of Laos was fundamental, but Siri had welcomed the boy warmly. They drank together often. And in Siri, Monsieur Seksan found a man he could trust and he told him all his frustrations. So, it was only to be expected that when Siri sought refuge for Lao citizens who were being persecuted by the socialist doctrinaires, Seksan said he would be delighted to help. They’d arrived late one night, eleven of them. They were no trouble and had even brought their own instant noodles. In fact Seksan enjoyed the company. One of the refugees, a young lady recently returned from a failed venture in Thailand, had become particularly close. The embassy compound had turned into a village and Seksan was the headman. He had a real Lao family and was, day by day, strand by strand, discovering his roots.

‘How’s the team?’ Siri asked.

‘They’re keeping me sane,’ said Seksan.

He gave a respectful nop to Daeng who patted his cheek in response.

Technically, Siri’s eleven refugees could have had a residence each in the sprawling compound. There were some twenty buildings including staff cottages and administration offices. In many of them the furniture was shrouded in dust covers dotted with mouse and lizard droppings like huge lumps of chocolate-chip vanilla ice cream. But the team preferred to bunk together in the visitors’ dormitory rooms, a bungalow which had at one time housed the French horses. Mrs Fah’s children, Mee and Nounou, were the first to spot Uncle Siri and Auntie Daeng. They sounded the alarm with their screams. Their mother followed with her two nieces recently returned from an unsuccessful spell across the river working as karaoke hostesses. Both Gongjai and Tong were adamant that the Japanese craze would never catch on. The blind beggar, Pao, and his granddaughter, Lia, were there as was Comrade Noo the ostracized Thai forest monk. Uncle Inthanet, a man of Siri’s age, had not yet appeared but he’d found himself a girlfriend half his age and they spent a good deal of their time ‘discussing’ behind a closed door. Then there was the latest inmate, a tall, skinny middle-aged woman who could not remember her name. She had been walking aimlessly around the town for a week before Daeng confronted her and asked her where she was going. She could not remember that either. She carried no identification so Siri had taken her in and was waiting for the fog to clear.

After a round of cheek sniffs and handshakes and present giving, Siri and Daeng sat with Monsieur Seksan at a large wooden table in the chef’s residence. A solid teak door at the far side of the room with several broken padlocks lying beside it opened on to a staircase which in turn led down to the cellar. The sign, Passage Interdit, had been ripped in half. Siri, Daeng and Monsieur Seksan were sampling the ambassador’s personal 1958 Latour Pauillac. Siri found it rather amusing. Daeng said it was piss weak. Seksan could only laugh.

‘What exactly do you plan to do when the embassy staff return and find the cellar empty?’ Siri asked.

‘Blame you bastards,’ said the caretaker with a chuckle. ‘Here I was, sitting down having my petit dejeuner one day when a gang of soldiers marched in and cleaned out the cellar. I’ll show them the powder burns on my upturned palms where I tried to protest. “Take me but spare the wine of my ambassador,” I had shouted. But to no avail.’

‘We’d better set about clearing that cellar before the bastards get here,’ said Siri.

‘Avec plaisir,’ said Seksan.

Perhaps unwisely, Siri had decided not to tell his wife anything he knew, or thought he knew, about the Frenchman at the market. He wanted to introduce the subject gently and observe her reaction. After all, there might have been nothing sinister about the visit at all. What if he was an old boyfriend who wanted to get in touch? Nothing wrong with that, he thought, although his teeth may have clenched at the idea.

‘So, there aren’t that many French tourists around town for you to look after,’ he said.

‘One or two might sneak in,’ said Seksan. ‘But we soon sniff them out and send them packing.’

‘Oh, some survive,’ said Siri. ‘In fact our restaurant’s maitre d’ spied one at the market today.’

‘Geung didn’t tell me that,’ said Daeng.

‘You work the poor man so hard I’m surprised he has a chance to speak at all,’ said Siri. ‘He told me during his down time while I was applying balm to the lash marks on his back. He’d seen a man about your age, he said. Tall. Good looking.’

‘We’re obviously starved of entertainment if the sight of a Frenchman at the market is the highlight of the day,’ said Daeng.

‘Ah, but Geung wasn’t so impressed with his nationality as he was with the star over the man’s right eye.’

There it was. Slight but you could make it out if you knew what you were looking for. Daeng had what they called in the West a poker face. Unless you studied that face the way Siri had every morning as he lay beside her, memorizing her tics and twitches when she spoke, you would never have noticed it. A shadow passed over her at pace and in under a second it was gone. But in that fraction of time, his wife had clearly travelled three hundred kilometres and thirty years.

‘A star? What, you mean like a tattoo?’ asked Seksan.

‘No. Geung said it was more like a scar. I’ve seen a number of smallpox scars that resemble stars. I think that’s what impressed Mr Geung.’

‘What made him believe the man was French?’ Daeng asked.

‘Some of the market women told him,’ said Siri. ‘Why?’

‘I might know him,’ she said.

Siri felt a pang of jealousy as he watched the blood fill in his wife’s cheeks.

‘Perhaps he’s come looking for you,’ said Seksan.

‘Perhaps,’ said Daeng.

‘I wonder if we can get in touch with him somehow?’ Siri asked.

‘I wonder,’ said Daeng.

‘Well,’ said Seksan, ‘we have nothing to do with the visas they hand out in France. In the days when there were people here to read them, the Lao embassy in Paris used to wire a list of the names of successful applicants and the projects they’d been invited to consult on. They’d get the odd tourist here but the visa process in Paris took so long it left everyone feeling Laos didn’t want them. Which, in fact, is true. The Lao have put up a lot of red tape to make life hard for French entrepreneurs and opportunists to get in. The casual visitor would have fallen at the first hurdle.’

‘So my friend at the market …?’ said Daeng.

‘Would have come in some official capacity or paid baksheesh to sneak in.’

‘Who handles consular matters for the French now the embassy’s closed?’ Daeng asked.

‘The Germans.’

‘Do you know anyone at the German embassy?’ Siri asked.

‘Everyone,’ said Seksan. ‘They’re big party animals.

When they found out I spoke German, they-’

‘You speak German, too?’ Siri asked.

‘I have an ear.’

‘I have two ears, but … Well, technically I have one and a half, but my language bank was full after Vietnamese.’

‘The Germans?’ said Daeng with some urgency.

‘They’re all as depressed to be here as I was,’ said Seksan. ‘I consoled them with a few bottles of Beaujolais.’

‘So if we wanted to get hold of our mysterious Frenchman’s visa details …?’ Siri asked.

Seksan smiled, reached for the telephone and dialled. After a baffling gabble of German language he put down the phone and said, ‘We’ll need another glass.’

Twenty minutes later, Stephan Bartels, the First Secretary of the Federal Republic of Germany’s embassy, was banging on the side gate. He arrived with a large grey envelope and a bottle of Korn Schnapps for later. He was so frightfully handsome Siri edged closer to his wife. Seksan went through some sort of German greeting ritual and, in no time, a glass of white appeared in front of the visitor. Stephan gave them a brief introduction to himself through Seksan. He spoke fluent Spanish, he said, for which he’d expected a posting to South America. And he was fluent in English, and quite competent in Kiswahili which they agreed was as useful in Laos as a can opener in a coconut grove. This was why they were speaking through an interpreter.

Stephan opened the envelope in front of him and produced a fax. He explained the complicated process of obtaining a visa for Laos with the embassy in Paris closed. The applicant had to travel to another country which had an active embassy and apply from there; in this case the applicant had travelled to Thailand. But, due to strained relations between Laos and Thailand, the Lao embassy in Bangkok was not currently offering consular services. The French embassy in Thailand had to apply directly to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Vientiane if one of its citizens wished to travel to Laos. A copy of the application would be sent from there to the German embassy. Siri and Daeng were getting bored.

‘So, is his photograph on the fax?’ Daeng asked as she reached for the file.

‘Sort of,’ said Seksan. ‘They have a Russian fax machine at the ministry. It makes all the photographs look like Jesse Owens. You’d certainly never forget this character if you saw him walking down the street.’

Daeng stared at the picture trying to see through the smudge of ink. It was true. He looked like the character on the Darkie toothpaste tube. You wouldn’t recognize your own mother in a MoFA fax.

‘According to the application, his name is Herve Barnard and he’s a consultant on the Swedish roads project down in Takek,’ said Seksan. ‘Judging by the date of the first contact he’d been waiting in Bangkok for his visa for almost a month. He’s French, born in Marseille. Age sixty-six. Engineer. Single. Any of this ring a bell, Madame Daeng?’

She was still staring at the photograph.

‘Where’s the original application?’ she asked.

‘At the French embassy in Bangkok, I’d imagine.’

‘Would they do a better job of faxing it here?’

‘No doubt. I’ll call them in the morning if I can get a line out.’

‘Meanwhile, do you have any contacts at the Swedish roads project?’ Siri asked.

‘We might need another glass,’ said Seksan.

In half an hour the SweRoad director, Lars Stiegsson was banging on the side gate. By then the white burgundy had given way to schnapps and the mood was light. The group had been joined by an exhausted Comrade Inthanet and his girlfriend, Bebe, and Seksan’s young lady, Mrs Fah’s niece, Tong. They cheered at Stiegsson’s arrival. He was a wiry character with a shock of white hair. He carried a bottle of akvavit and an envelope. They all looked on in amazement as Seksan welcomed him and engaged in a long question-and-answer session in Swedish.

‘I presume there are one or two languages you don’t speak,’ said Siri to Seksan as they were arranging the newcomer a seat and a glass.

‘I never really had an ear for Cantonese,’ said Seksan, suggesting that everything else was a piece of cake.

‘So what about our visiting Frenchman?’ Daeng asked.

To their delight, Stiegsson spoke reasonable Lao and he answered them directly.

‘I’ve never heard of him,’ he said. ‘We haven’t had any new consultants of any nationality for months.’

He opened his envelope and pulled out a letter.

‘And I have some disturbing news for you. This letter was handed to me by my Lao counterpart at the Public Works Department. It is purportedly from me asking for the ministry to expedite the visa application of the same Herve Barnard. There was a CV and job description attached. My Lao colleague told me yesterday that everything had been taken care of. The wheels of the system roll slowly here. I didn’t write this letter. This is not my signature. Your friend Mr Barnard is an imposter.’

Siri and Daeng staggered along the river road arm in arm, each holding the other up. Ugly trotted along behind.

‘So, what’s the missing part of your story, my husband?’ she asked.

‘Why should there be anything missing?’ he replied.

‘You would make a terrible secret agent, Dr Siri. I can tell when you’re holding something back from me just as I can tell when you find me irresistible but forget to inform me.’

‘You know I always find you irresistible.’

‘I need constant reminders.’

‘I shall make a point of doing so.’

‘And?’

‘What?’

‘He asked for me, didn’t he?’

Once more, Siri was astounded at his wife’s instincts.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Should I be worried?’

‘About being alone in the dark with me?’

‘About Barnard.’

‘Of course not.’

‘But you think you know who he is.’

She was silent for a long time.

‘I hope not,’ she said.

‘Were you lovers?’

Daeng stopped walking and swung around clumsily to face Siri.

‘Why on earth would you say that?’

‘I’m psychic.’

‘You are not. You just carry spirits around. You’re a … a suitcase.’

‘I am certainly not a suitcase, madam. I have innate gifts. And I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘Do you really want this to be the moment that I confess to the tens of thousands of men I’ve had in my bed?’

‘No, only this one.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s unsettled you. I’ve never seen you ruffled before.’

‘Nonsense.’

She took his arm and they continued to stagger.

‘Then why did you try so hard to get visa information on him?’ Siri asked.

‘A girl my age doesn’t get too many men asking for her. I was flattered. I wanted to check him out.’

‘Do you want to tell me the story?’

‘I can. I mean, I will, Siri. But you need to give me some time to organize it. It’s an important story.’

‘Then don’t tell it. Write it.’

‘What?’

‘Really. Consider it the first instalment of your memoires. The Women’s Union has been on at you since you arrived to start documenting those years. And we’re always complaining that there’s nothing to read in our language. You and I should start the presses rolling.’

‘I’ve never written anything longer than a shopping list.’

‘It’s exactly the same but with a few verbs and adjectives thrown in. We can work on it together until you feel confident.’

‘I don’t-’

The pop-pop-pop of a Lambretta emerged from the silence behind them. There was a shout. Something like, ‘Hey, you!’ Siri and Daeng staggered on.

‘I do believe we’re about to be arrested by the People’s militia,’ said Daeng.

‘Well, you will keep me out late.’

‘Should I handle it?’

‘No. Allow me.’

The pop-pop got closer and the shouting more aggressive. Siri and Daeng laughed and wheeled around to face their pursuers. Two skinny young men with the scent of the northern hills still on them skidded their motor scooter in front of the couple. They were draped in washed-out Lao People’s Revolutionary Army uniforms like scarecrows. Their armbands said they were security police. They had their weapons at the ready: the driver an ancient rifle, the pillion rider a night stick. It seemed they hadn’t long graduated from the course in how to terrorize citizens out after curfew. They were still yelling obscenities, drowning each other out. Pillion slapped the truncheon against his own palm, most certainly causing himself pain. Perhaps they were used to violators trembling with fear before them but they certainly weren’t sure how to react to two smiling old folk.

Siri disengaged himself from his wife and stepped up to the boys. The driver bravely raised his rifle. Siri reached forward and pushed the barrel to one side. All the time he glared at the young policeman. A Siri glare could be a powerful thing.

‘Listen,’ he said calmly. ‘Stop shouting, the pair of you, and look at this face.’

His confidence disoriented the boys. A nervous silence fell over them.

‘Have you not seen this face before?’ Siri asked.

‘I …’ began the driver.

‘Think carefully before you answer,’ said Siri. ‘Think about this year’s national games. Think about the covered stand with the ribbons. Think about the VIP box where the politburo members and their wives sat.’

‘I didn’t go,’ said the driver.

‘Perhaps you’re missing the point then,’ said Siri, taking one more intrusive step into their insecure space. ‘The point is, do you think I would be walking the streets after curfew if my face wasn’t in every newspaper? If my voice wasn’t broadcast on public radio day after day?’

‘I …’ began the driver.

‘I’m sure to a boy of your age … what are you, thirteen, fourteen?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘Right. To your generation all grey-haired old men look alike …’

‘Comrade, it’s not-’ began the pillion.

‘… which I can forgive,’ said Siri. ‘But use some common sense. Did we flee in panic at the sound of your little motorcycle? Am I quivering here before you?’

‘No, Comrade.’

‘And what does that tell you?’

‘That you’re … somebody?’

‘Good. I won’t embarrass you by asking what my name and my position are. But, next time you see my wife and me strolling beside the river after dark, show a little respect. I won’t report this. You can go now.’

There was a pause. Thailand seemed to be watching with bated breath.

‘Did you hear me?’ Siri asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ said the driver. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘We’re sorry,’ said the pillion.

The driver engaged and revved up his scooter with enough gusto to send it through to the next time zone and the boys were gone in a cloud of exhaust smoke. Siri and Daeng watched them go before taking one another’s arms and resuming their promenade.

‘You’ll notice I didn’t lie this time,’ said Siri.

‘I’m impressed. I find honesty in a man very erotic.’

As if by magic, their pace quickened.