have a state senator to play with too. He’ll stay in Vientiane tonight then fly up here tomorrow. I’m sorry we can’t get you the president.”
“Wow, a real senator,” said Dtui in her best American accent.
“Why’s everything suddenly moving so fast?” Daeng asked.
“The discovery of the tailplane, I guess,” said Peach. “The scent of a photo opportunity? The helicopter wreck and a whole bunch of ethnic people gathered around. In a day or two he might even have a skull to put on his lap. All powerful stuff.”
“Wall Street,” Civilai mumbled.
Just a little beyond the village, Auntie Bpoo had laid out her grass mat, changed into her bathing suit, and was attempting to catch some rays. The villagers came to look at her. Some of them believed their sorceress was right. The sky had opened and all the misfit angels had fallen down upon them. But they had nobody to blame but themselves. They should have buried the dragon’s tail while they had a chance.
10
The best part about being the only living burglar in Vientiane was the fact that the population had become so certain they’d never be robbed that they’d stopped locking their doors. Admittedly, very few had anything worth risking your neck for. These were frugal times and valuables had long since been exchanged for foodstuffs. Eg missed those nights when he’d have to pick a tricky lock or climb into a precariously situated window. He was built for burglary, was Eg. Forty-something with a face so bland nobody could ever identify him. Not even people who’d known him most of his life. He was slim and knotty with muscles, quick and light on his plimsolled feet. His eyes became used to the dark rapidly so he didn’t use a torch, the downfall of many a burglar. Testament to his skill was the fact he’d never been caught. Whereas all the villains with records languished in the prison islands on the Nam Ngum reservoir, Eg had been left to ply his trade in peace. He had to be careful, of course. The PL patrolled with guns and shot at anyone out after curfew.
Some householders made life so easy for him he wanted to chuckle. Take this morning, for example. A padlock on the shop’s metal grille a four-year-old could open and an advertisement, “Madame Daeng will be away until August 31st. Apologies to our regular customers.” Shops on both sides closed. Nothing but the bloated Mekhong opposite. It was 2:40 A.M. and the street patrols, if they could be bothered, were on the hour. A piece of cake. Eg walked to the side street, hopped over a low wall and crossed the yard abutting that of Madame Daeng. He peeked over the wall. There were a dozen chickens and some big peculiar-looking bird that he imagined would look good on a spit. Obviously somebody came in during the day to feed them all. No dog. No alarm. No problems. And, would you credit it? Leaning against the back wall was a ladder. They wanted him to rob them. It was a community service he’d be providing.
The birds barely squawked when he dropped silently into the yard and edged the ladder across to a window. In seconds he was up and sliding a chisel between the wood and the frame and the window popped open like an old clam. Seconds more and he was inside. There was a musty, schoolroom smell to the place. He closed his eyes tight, counted to five, then opened them. And there they were, all around him-books. More books than they had in the national library. And not just books these, but foreign books with raised lettering he couldn’t read. He sat cross- legged in the middle of the room and grinned. It was his lucky night. Sometimes good fortune just dropped into your lap. Madame Daeng, the spirits bless her, had a whole room full of illegal books. Five to ten years for possession. He knew the Ministry of Culture would be very interested to learn about this. Oh, yes. Eg the burglar was about to embark along a brand new career path.
Cross-cultural integration had become an art form by dinner time at the Friendship Hotel. Almost everybody had a new buddy. Even couples had split up in the cause of socialization. Each table had its own 750 mls of Johnny Walker Red and a battalion of soda bottles. As the Friendship had only three hours of electricity there was no ice but after the third glass it was of no importance. The mood needed elevating. The teams had reached the end of the second day but had come up with not a single molar. Not a rotor or a seat spring. There was one empty table. The men who had traveled to Phonsavan to report the day’s finding were presumably still stuck in the queue at the post office. They’d been there for six hours so their patience would have been wearing a little thin by the time they returned. A smiling Johnny Red awaited them.
Auntie Bpoo had brought a lit candle to the dining room. She had sought out Dr. Yamaguchi and attempted to use her physical presence to hustle him away from the others to a table in the corner-just the two of them. From her wardrobe she had selected a splendid crimson silk gown with noodle-thin shoulder straps.
She was a good five centimeters taller than the pathologist, thanks to a pair of matte-black stiletto heels. Phosy had witnessed this attempted kidnapping and, feeling sorry for the old man, he and Geung went to sit with them. Bpoo was clearly not amused. It took a while to get her to agree to translate. But once she did, Phosy enjoyed his evening with the American. In a still photograph, even though he wore no glasses and his hair was ungreased, Yamaguchi would have looked as Japanese as Emperor Hirohito. He had that same strained expression that comes from carrying the weight of a three-thousand-year-old dynasty. But Yamaguchi was as American as bubblegum. It was evident from the very first moment he swaggered into a room. His posture was good from years of being the nail that wouldn’t be hammered down. But the feature that made him stand out was volume. It was Civilai’s theory that the Americans, like the Chinese, placed their elementary school teachers too far from the students’ desks. As a result they were trained to shout at one another from an early age. Most Lao schools had no furniture so the pupils could sit around the teacher and communicate at a civilized volume. Yamaguchi’s meal banter had a decibel level above that of a foghorn.
At five minutes to nine, the wheezy generator rattled and clunked its intention to retire so Siri, Ugly and Civilai took half a bottle of Johnny to the hotel veranda. The post office gang and their helicopter had still not returned. Siri, locked in an excruciatingly dull evening with General Suvan and his confused reminiscences, had noticed two odd things. One was the distinctive smell of smoke. It had been present earlier but he’d merely assumed it was the cook burning the evening meal. By eight it had become so pervasive that he’d excused himself to walk around the hotel to make sure the place wasn’t on fire. Toua the manager assured him it was probably just villagers nearby burning off the top growth to prepare the fields for planting. Siri was well acquainted with slash and burn agriculture. For centuries, nomadic tribes had burned off stretches of thick undergrowth and allowed the ash to fertilize the soil. The earth would offer up good harvests for three or four seasons until the soil was degraded, then the tribes would move on. In ten years the land would have replenished itself and be ready for the next migrating farmers. The three main crops for the surrounding Hmong were rice, maize and opium, and each required this shifting cultivation. But the manager’s answer didn’t sit right on Siri’s mind.
Then there was the air activity. Shortly after eight the flights had begun, fifteen or so, all told. Siri was certain he recognized a number of different craft. They were all heading west. It was remarkable, given the inexperience of its pilots, that the air force would choose to fly at night. The manager hadn’t been able to give an explanation for that particular mystery.
Siri and Civilai sat on two creaking rattan lounge chairs by the hotel entrance staring out over the Plain of Jars. Except there was nothing to see. To either side of them were the room-bound flashes of lamps and the shadows of candles, but directly ahead was nothing. It was the blackest black they could remember. Civilai commented that it was like staring out at the edge of time. He was remarkably poetic on Scotch whisky. The low clouds had obliterated the moon and stars and, as people retired for the night, one by one the rooms vanished. Soon, there was a perfect quantum state where Siri and Civilai and Ugly were just a part of the universe, blended together in one big black porridge of nature and meta-nature. It was a moving moment spoiled only by one of the ever-attentive maids who brought them a candle in a glass globe. She placed it on the table between them and fumbled her way back inside. The light barely reached the fence posts with their swirling mist foundations. But the two old boys could see each other quite well. It was cold and they wore jackets, but their feet were bare. They watched their toes wiggle, listened to the coughs and yawns of people priming themselves for sleep, and to the slobbering sounds of Ugly cleaning his equipment. They sniffed in the smoky night air and the nectar of the neat whisky.
