"Your friends?" The man laughed for the first time. "Then you're a very popular man, Dr Siri."
"Thank you."
"Yesterday I counted nineteen people coming to and going from the That Luang residence. Eight of them have registered your house as their official domicile. There was also a monk who we have no record of at all. What's a monk doing at your house, Comrade?"
"He's my spiritual adviser. You know, like when the prime minister's wife sneaks off to the temple to ask about fortuitous dates for staging national events?"
"Then I suggest he's advising you subliminally because he would appear to be deaf and dumb. He seemed unable or unwilling to tell me to which temple he is attached. And we all know that monks are not permitted to stay in private housing. Which brings me to the question of prostitution."
Siri raised his bushy white eyebrows and turned to his wife. "Do we know any questions of prostitution, my dear?"
"The question 'How much?' springs to mind," she replied.
The Housing man was getting more and more flustered and the scent of Daeng's noodles was very seductive.
"The question refers to two young women residing at your house who have criminal records for engaging in prostitution."
"Tsk, tsk, and they're plying their trade from my house?"
"Not exactly."
"That's similar to 'no', isn't it?"
"We are still investigating that charge. It's one of the reasons I've been sent here to fetch you. We have a hearing scheduled for you at seven thirty."
"Am I under arrest?" Siri stood and held out his wrists.
"Well, no. I'm not a — "
"Because if I'm not under arrest and if you don't have at least four burly thugs waiting outside to haul me away, it looks like you're going to have to conduct your little trial without me."
"That isn't an option, Comrade." The man's voice was beginning to crack. He fumbled through the sheets on his board. "I have a summons here signed by the director of Housing."
"Oh, then that's different." Siri nodded. "Could I get a better look at that?"
Koomki held it out and, in one smooth sweeping movement, unexpected in a man of his age, Siri grasped the sheet in his hand and was halfway across the shop. Daeng took a step back. Siri folded the paper neatly before placing it on the earthenware hearth in which burned a merry fire. It crumpled to black within seconds. Where the mouth of the man from Housing had previously been, there was now a large gaping hole.
"And, if you'll excuse me," Siri said, wiping his hands, "I intend to have a little breakfast before heading off to work."
The man seemed unable to move. "That was government property," he managed finally.
Siri went over to Koomki, put his arm around him, and led him to the front of the shop.
"You blatantly destroyed government property," the man stammered in case Siri hadn't heard the first time.
"Then it's an eye for an eye. You see, I am the national coroner, which makes me government property too. I am owned exclusively by the Justice Department. Yet you come here and attempt to destroy my reputation. A little slip of paper is cheap by comparison, don't you think?"
Siri had Koomki on the uneven pavement now, but before sending him on his way, Siri leaned close to the man's wet eyes and said, "So please tell your colleagues that if they have any charges to bring against me, they should have me picked up by the police. They may then pursue my case through the courts. Otherwise, leave me alone. I'm not going to get into a panic about a couple of minor officials in an office playing pocket politburo. And if you even consider confiscating my house I'll have you up in front of the Party union representative before you can get to verse two of 'The Red Flag'. I've been a fully paid-up member for longer than our own prime minister. Don't forget that."
He launched Koomki on his way and stood back. It was always good to have a little sport before breakfast. Siri laughed and took in a breath of early Vientiane. It had become a peaceful place. The only ugly sounds floated across the river: motorcycles and tape recorders, loudspeaker trucks urging people to buy plastic buckets and sweet potatoes. Somewhere, a man was shouting at his wife, sharing their family scandal with his Lao brothers and sisters. Thais weren't a race you'd ever accuse of peace and quiet. Their televisions and radios had two adjustments on the diaclass="underline" off and loud.
Madame Daeng wheeled her cart out to the pavement and joined Siri in his revelry. She put her arm around his waist.
"Poor man," she said.
"Him or me?"
"Comrade Koomki. I don't suppose I need to tell you what you just did probably wasn't a good idea."
"Good idea? He comes here, spying, at six o'clock on a Saturday morning to see if I'm wearing pyjamas…?"
"I know."
"What's the country coming to? Is this what we labored in the jungles for thirty years to produce?"
"I know."
"Bloody little bureaucrat with his clipboard and lists. If he were 50 centimetres taller I might have given him a right hook." He showed her his right hook, and she felt his muscle. "Even the old one-two."
"My hero."
They gazed at the retrograde fisherman until he turned to look at them and waved. They waved back.
"But it probably wasn't a good idea," Siri agreed, recalling all his other dust-ups with government officials.
"Probably not. Did you know you had ladies of ill repute at your house?"
"He has to be talking about Mrs Fah's nieces."
"She didn't mention their old career?"
"All she said was they were back from the islands. She could have meant a resort vacation for all I knew."
"More likely the internment camps on the reservoir. But if they were released it means they've served their time. And if they were really on Don Nang with hardened criminals it wouldn't have been a very pleasant experience. The last thing they want is nosy cadres breathing down their necks."
"It's the last thing any of us wants. According to Fah, they both lost husbands to the war and children to disease. They're long overdue a gust of good fortune."
"Well, they did find a kindly old gentleman to take them in off the streets. And what about your monk?"
"Comrade Noo? He did well to keep his mouth shut. If they'd found out he was Thai they'd have whisked him off to Immigration, never to be seen again."
"Your house is getting out of control."
"So it would appear. Since Nurse Dtui and I moved out to our respective love nests it's been hard to keep a check on who's moving in or out. I suppose I should stop by there tomorrow and do a head count."
"I'll come with you. It's always a laugh to spend time at your house. It makes me feel…I don't know, saner."
Phan often considered the possibility that he might have the 'everything' that other men craved: a regular job that allowed him to travel, several government letters of identification, and looks that naive country girls found interesting. And of course he had a truck. A man with a truck was somebody in Laos. With its solid double-plated frame and its growling Chinese engine, it broadcast his power. Of course he didn't own it but nobody needed to know that. Being allowed to drive a department vehicle was almost as good. He liked the way they watched him pass, the dull nowhere girls sitting on their front porches, hoping for life to come by and call for them to climb aboard. If he chanced to stop they'd almost turn pirouettes and crash face-first onto the dirt.
That power had taken control of him. It wasn't simply that he could bed them; that was easy. Mothers sometimes brought their daughters to him and asked whether he'd like to take them for a trial run. No, it was the knowledge that he could woo a respectable girl — untouched, unsullied, saved for something special — that he could talk his way into the family home, make a seemingly genuine display of his affection, and have them all believe he was a legitimate catch.