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.