"For what?" Inthanet asked indignantly. "Being married to someone else?"
"For not telling her you were before you started to woo her."
"It slipped my mind."
"The fact that you have four children and nine grandchildren slipped your mind?"
"No, just the married part. My wife left me a long time ago. Long before the kids were out of the house. I'd erased her from my mind."
"Right, then that's the angle we'll go with — amnesia. It isn't going to be easy, I grant you, but I want peace in this neighbourhood. Got it?"
Inthanet nodded.
"Good, then I think that's it."
"The umbrella," Daeng reminded him.
"Oh, yes. Perhaps someone can tell me why there's an umbrella poking through the roof."
Lia, the blind Hmong's granddaughter, sheepishly put up her hand.
"Sir?"
"Yes, love?"
"I'm do it. I'm make hole in roof."
"Why?"
"Grandfather tell it danger make fire in house if no hole in roof to make smoke go away. I use broomstick. Stand on chair."
"Well, you're a very strong girl," Siri said. "That was a very tough roof."
"Take one hour."
"But does your grandfather realize he shouldn't light fires in the house?"
"Hmong house have hole in roof."
"I know. But this house has a gas range and an open window. Can you explain that to him?"
"I tell."
"Thank you."
"I put the umbrella up there in case the rains come early this year," Inthanet explained. "Used the bucket to stop it blowing away."
"Right." Siri understood. "But if I bring some new tiles, do you think you could get up there and fix the hole?"
"No problem."
"Thank you."
"Bo ben nyang," said the old puppet master.
With a group sigh of relief, the meeting ended; it seemed to Siri that all the issues had been resolved quite amicably. The women had retired to the kitchen, where smoke from the range escaped through an open window. The smell of cooking filled the house. Siri and Inthanet were seated on the front porch, working on a second bottle of rice whisky. Crazy Rajid was still on Siri's mind but, like him and Daeng, all the people at the house were immigrants from the provinces. The only Vientiane resident was Miss Vong next door and she was off on a one-week training programme in the north. Then something occurred to him. He called Lia over.
"I sorry, sir," she said.
"It's OK, love. It's not about the roof." He took her hand and smiled. "When you and your grandfather were begging around the city, do you remember seeing a half-naked man?"
"India man," she said straight away.
"Yes, that's it. His name's Rajid, or maybe it isn't. He's a little bit…" He circled a finger around the side of his head.
"I know he."
"Good, well, he's missing. We can't find him. Nobody's seen him for ten days."
"I hope he no sick."
"So do I, Lia. Do you know about any places he might like to go to hide? Have you seen him anywhere apart from downtown?"
"No, sir."
"That's OK. We'll keep looking."
"Maybe he father know."
"You mean, your father?"
"No, sir. He father. India father."
"Rajid has a father? How could you possibly know that?"
"One day he take us go eat. Meet father."
"Where?"
"India restaurant near market. He father cooking. Big fat man."
The dinner was simple but Phan had learned to stomach the inadequate swill they served out here in the boondocks. He inquired about the recipe and charmed the girl's mother by going so far as to write it down in his notebook to give to friends in Vientiane. He told her his hobby was collecting authentic ethnic recipes, and hers was one of the best. He was a consummate and convincing flatterer. He savoured the bitter stench as if it were nectar from the gods and let his eyes wander only briefly to the still-blushing face of Wei.
Not bad this — only his second day and he was already in the circle: cross-legged on the bamboo matting, telling funny stories to the younger ones, sharing mechanical insights with the older brother. Not over the top. Modest. Not the entertainer who causes people to doubt his sincerity but the quiet, almost shy man who only speaks when spoken to. Perhaps he asks a question about the area: the wildlife, the irrigation system. The perfect guest.
Wei sat on the far side of the circle ignored by this interesting stranger all but for his eyes. Yet she knew, as they all did, that she was the reason for his being there.
On Saturday night he had presented his credentials to the headman and, according to protocol, dined with the old man and his wife. He might have mentioned the young teacher he'd seen at the pond, might have blushed a little, but he hadn't pursued the matter. Once mentioned, the subject was dropped. Of course the old wife had asked him about his marital status.
"I haven't found the right woman," he'd told her.
(Another blush.) He mentioned that he had only just arrived at the financial plateau upon which one could build a family life. (One more blush.) "I'm looking for a smart girl who loves children."
He'd noticed the old couple exchange glances at that point and knew the trap was set.
On Sunday morning he'd cleaned his truck and spent the next seven hours or so in the space beneath the headman's hut beside the loom. He had his back to the street and was writing at a makeshift table, poring over sheets of very complicated-looking documents. Serious. Dedicated. It was hot so he wore only shorts and an undershirt that showed his well-defined shoulders. Every footstep overhead on the old bamboo sent down a shower of dust but he ignored the inconvenience. They brought him water and lunch and he ate while working. He could tell that people were passing on the street, talking about him, stopping to admire his dedication. Nothing could disturb him until, at three o'clock, he was done. He leaned back on his stool and stretched.
He put on a pair of sand shoes and walked through the village in search of the inevitable game of takraw. After asking directions, he found it behind the school — teenagers and married men in a knockout competition, standard rules. A three-man team owned the court until it was beaten. He didn't push himself on to a team, just sat and admired the skills of the players and chatted. When he was given his chance to play he didn't outdo the locals even though it wouldn't have been hard. He did just enough to fit in.
Children came and laughed and poked fun. Teenaged girls came by, pretending not to be interested in the game, secretly whispering together about his fine muscles and his interesting face. And Wei came. She came with a queer friend. Phan couldn't abide queers. What was she thinking? Didn't she have any pride? Perhaps she was just kind. He put it out of his mind, became wrapped up in the tournament: slapped backs, told jokes, lost when he had to, put on a show, and took off his shirt.
He wouldn't have been disappointed if he'd had to wait three or four days for the invitation. That was normal. He knew he had her. But at the headman's house that evening as he was showering off sweat and dust in the backyard, the old lady called to him, "Better put on your best shirt, young Comrade Phan. You've got a date for dinner tonight."
Wei's father wasn't a wealthy man, but he had buffalo and the knack of breeding them. It gave him a steady income and allowed him to keep his promise to his wife that their children would study up to the level of their abilities. This was a minority Tai Dum village, and opportunities were not readily available to hill dwellers. Wei had done well at the local primary school, and they'd sent her off to stay with an aunt in town to become a teacher. At the age of fifteen she'd received her pedagogical certificate from the provincial governor and come home to the two-room school she'd left three years earlier. Now, at seventeen, she had lived her little dream and was beginning to wonder whether she'd used up all her luck. Then he'd arrived.