Near the foot of the steps was some sort of policeman with plimsolls and a revolver, who was too preoccupied watching a dog licking its private parts to take much notice of Murray as he stepped out into the hard yellow sunlight and began ambling across the tarmac, but not immediately in the direction of the terminal.
It was late afternoon and very hot. The windsock at the end of the runway drooped like a burst balloon. He passed two more Dakotas similar to the one he had arrived in, both bearing the name of the national airline in curly Sanskrit lettering. A tiny brown-faced mechanic, working on one with a hammer, looked up grinning as he strolled by. He went on past a row of white prefab huts and reached a shed with a sign: HI-LO SNACKBAR. OPEN 0500-2100 HRS. AIR U.S.A. PERSONNEL ONLY. KIPS ACCEPTED. He had crossed into alien territory. But still no guards, no floodlights, watchtowers, electrified fences, minefields round the perimeter. Just one lewd policeman and a happy mechanic.
He paused, sweating. The airfield was more than a mile across, the far side lined with arc-roofed hangars and rows of silver transport planes drawn up on the shimmering tarmac like shoals of fish. Nothing stirred. Even the snack-bar seemed deserted. It was the lull before dusk, when the last flights would begin returning, and there would be a couple of hours’ busy activity while the planes were serviced and refuelled in readiness for the first missions at dawn.
This was the quietest corner of the airfield — the part that handled only civilian traffic. The terminal looked like a provincial French railway-station; there was an old-fashioned clock on the control tower and a wrought-iron balcony for spectators, which was empty. A couple of black-clad women with pigtails squatted by the entrance, not even looking up as he passed inside, under a notice in four languages: ‘Hatred Never Ceases Save by Eternal Love’ — The Lord Buddha.
The last passengers had already gone through Immigration. He went up to the desk where three very small officers with white piping on their shoulders pored over his green Irish passport, with the gilt harp and Gaelic lettering worn off, most of its pages stamped and overstamped with visas and immigration seals of four continents. They went into a huddle over the page listing his personal details, until one of them cried, ‘Professeur!’ and they all gave him wide smiles as they waved him through.
In the Customs hall there was a noisy argument going on about the pig who, divested now of its sackcloth, had already fouled the floor in several places. The officials looked bored as they chalked Murray’s grip-bag without asking him to open it, and he walked out through the scrum of half-naked children fighting to carry the bag for him, under a notice across the door: 50 KIP PER BAGGAGE. MERCI.
The taxi was a brand new Toyota, and its driver, in a drip-dry shirt with gold cufflinks, kept their speed up around a hundred kilometres an hour, driving in the middle of the road with his hand down on the horn. Streams of acrobatic cyclists flicked past; cars swerving to avoid them like dodgems through the dust; off the main airport road with its rows of shanty-huts raised on stilts above pools of stinking water, into the sudden shade of tall planetrees down an unpaved boulevard. Faded, rusting shop signs: Coiffeur de Paris, Le Jockey Tailleur, Cafe Tout Va Bien, Tiger Beer. The spell was momentarily broken.
They crossed the only traffic light in town — still not working since his last visit here just over a year ago — and turned into the main street. Single-storied, open wood-frame shops heaped to the roof with the bounties of Big Power aid: American detergents, French cosmetics, Scotch, gin, bourbon, king-size cigarettes, cocktail biscuits, electric shavers and hairdryers, washing machines, watches, cameras, transistor radios, even portable TV sets, although the nearest transmitting station was more than six hundred miles away.
And gold. Gold laid out like fruit on market stalls. Gold from pale yellow to deep bronze; slim bands, chunky signet rings, bangles, bracelets, earrings, pendants, chains, lucky charms, ornate statuettes, plates, cups, bowls, whole tea sets of gold.
The taxi pulled up in front of one of the town’s most imposing establishments: a three-storey stucco building with balconies and a red awning marked Bar des Amis. Just above, almost illegible on the peeling yellow paintwork, was the word HOTEL. Murray paid the driver one dollar, stepped over an uncovered drain and through the open door into the bar.
It was very dark after the sunlight, with the air stirring from some unseen fan. A boy in a smart white tunic was behind the bar, doing the crossword from a French newspaper. Murray spoke to him and he nodded towards a girl sitting further along behind a cash register. She was small and plump. Murray went over and told her in French who he was — that he had cabled for a room from Phnom Penh.
‘Monsieur Wilde?’ She reached behind her and handed him a big iron key and a vellum envelope with no stamp, addressed in typescript to M. Murray Wilde, Hôtel des Amis, Vientiane, Laos. Inside was a gilt-edged invitation from the Canadian Embassy, one of the countries on the International Control Commission, asking him to a reception that evening to celebrate National Independence Day.
He turned it over, frowning. It seemed his had not been the only cable from Phnom Penh warning of his arrival in Laos. On the back was scrawled:
