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.
4
I was two months short of my fourteenth birthday when I killed my first Frenchman.
‘Do you think it’s all right to start like that?’
‘It’s your story. Start any way you like.’
‘I don’t want to sound racist.’
‘You could qualify it.’
I was two months short of my fourteenth birthday when I killed my first Frenchman.
At the time it didn’t matter that he was French, or European, or even a man for that matter. I killed him because he was evil. Because I had no choice. It was several more years before I developed a penchant for killing men just because they were French.
‘That might be considered just a tad …’
‘I’ll cut it out later.’
There were those who said I’d been driven to it by the Fates. I was born in December 1911, slap in the middle of the Chinese revolution. My grandfather named me Daeng to mark the event. Daeng is usually a nickname but he told everyone his granddaughter of the revolution would be known to everyone as Red. The bamboo hut in which I first opened my eyes was in a minority Lao Teung village in Savanaketh Province. Ours was a district famous for a three year uprising against French taxes. Very few of our men lived to boast of their bravery. My father had been one of the unlucky ones.
I was born into a country called Laos that had already spent a quarter of a century as a jewel in the French colonial crown — a crown that included the three provinces of Vietnam, Cambodia, and us. We were a small, particularly dull jewel. Our French lords described us as The least urgent souls on earth with a thousand obstacles and superstitions to interfere with the accomplishment of work. Their profits from Laos never amounted to more than one per cent of their total revenue from Indochina. We were a terrible disappointment. In fact we weren’t even a country before the French came along, just a hotchpotch of diffuse tribes stirred together to make the paperwork easier. As I grew up in my mother’s house it seemed like the most natural thing in the world that the pale-skinned, easily sunburned gods should be our masters and mistresses. Like the deaths of newborn babies from preventable diseases and the enslavement of our healthy men, that was just the way of it. It was our penance for being a country too stupid to administer itself. Too lazy to work. Too indifferent to rebel. How fortunate we were that the masters recognized our inadequacies early. They shipped in Vietnamese labourers to build, farmers to work our land, and administrators to keep us in our place. None of the clerks or the section heads at our regional government office spoke Lao. Vietnamese and French were the languages of administration.