his time either napping or being completely asleep. Even when he was awake he had that saggy facial skin that made him look as if his features were permanently drowsy. Judge Haeng and his cousin Vinai, the Lao interpreter, were sharing a double. Mumbled secrets could be heard through the stucco walls of their darkened room. These three had been the only “non-negotiable” members of the Lao delegation. Minister Bounchu had to maintain some face, after all.
At the furthest extremity of the east wing, a circle of lit candles inside a circle of people illuminated a dozen bottles of rice whisky. The bottles had handwritten labels and cardboard stoppers wrapped in plastic so their pedigree was in no doubt. The taste, however, was exemplary. The mixer of choice was locally produced papaya juice and the finger food was corned beef from cans and graham crackers, both pilfered from the huge stock of supplies brought in by the Americans.
“Exactly how long are they planning to stay up here?” asked Civilai. The ex-Politburo pain-in-the-backside had beaten his best friend Siri into retirement by twelve months. He’d spent most of that time eating. For many years no more than a stick figure with a balding globe at its apex, Civilai’s parts were slowly starting to swell, led most triumphantly by his stomach. Not fat by any stretch of the imagination but the old gentleman carried his paunch around proudly like a monk with a new silver alms bowl.
“Theirs is an eating culture,” Siri explained to him. “Like the Thais. Whereas we’re more of a drinking culture. Good luck!”
He raised his glass and all those seated around on the grass floor matting mirrored the gesture and echoed “Good luck” in hushed but enthusiastic tones. They swigged their fruity nightcaps.
“And here’s to Malee,” Siri continued. “Beautiful daughter of Nurse Dtui here and her handsome beau, Inspector Phosy.” Again the group raised their glasses and swigged. “Malee is experiencing her first week away from her parents. Let’s hope she doesn’t get into any bad habits at the state creche.”
“Here here,” said Dtui.
“And,” Siri said, “as the scene at Wattay airport was characteristically chaotic and I didn’t get a chance to introduce him properly, allow me to welcome our old friend, Commander Lit from the security division. The Minister insisted we have someone from security on the team and I could think of nobody better.”
The applause was deliberately muffled as nobody wanted to alert Judge Haeng to their soiree. Lit was a tall, gangly bespectacled man, stiff as a teak plank. His smile was easy and his eyes keen.
“Lit has recently been promoted and transferred to the third garrison in Vientiane, “Siri added. “I had the pleasure of working with him in Vieng Xai and I know he’ll be a most splendid member of our team.”
Siri could have added more. He could have mentioned, for example, that the young officer had been so taken with his Nurse Dtui during that trip that he had asked her to marry him. As Dtui had turned him down and as her current husband was now sitting beside her, Siri decided nothing would be gained from that announcement apart from a little sport with Inspector Phosy. But that could wait. “Lit,” he said, “there are some people here you don’t know. This gentleman to my left is our morgue expert and the most hard-working person in Vientiane: Mr. Geung Watajak. Geung, you really don’t have to stand u-oh, very well.”
Even though he was drinking nothing but papaya juice, Geung made standing up look difficult. The flickering of the candles seemed to disorient him. His balance secured, he held up his glass and said, “I … I … am very proud.”
With that he knocked back his juice like a Glaswegian downing a dram of Scotch and they never did learn what he was proud of. Given Geung’s “situation,” Siri had expected him to take time over agreeing to accompany them north, or even to refuse to come. But Geung’s loyalty to the Mahosot morgue, a commitment which had on one occasion almost killed him, was unshakeable. He’d never been invited on a field trip before. He was always the man left behind to sweep away the cockroaches and welcome new guests into the freezer. So when they announced he’d be coming along, his face had lit up like the floodlights at the That Luang Festival. Romance was obviously a minor league activity for Mr. Geung. He’d been able to talk of nothing but the trip for two weeks and had taken that long to pack. It was astounding how a man with no possessions could fill a large suitcase as he did. The morgue seemed a lot emptier once he’d loaded up his bag. They all toasted him, upended their glasses and leaned into the circle of light for refills. Geung lowered himself back onto the mat and Siri continued the introductions.
“Beside Nurse Dtui, who you know,” he said with a wink, “is Vientiane’s one and only competent police officer, Inspector Phosy.” Phosy always looked a lot smaller than he was when compared to his large rosy wife. But he was all muscle and brawn. He received his applause with a deep, overly respectful
“Next,” said Siri, “a legend in the underground resistance forces against the French, a spy of many faces, never discovered by the enemy, a woman with an intellect so high that she married me”-riding the groans-“and the maker of the best noodles on this and probably every other planet, I present you, Madame Daeng.”
After accepting her applause, Daeng reminded Siri that the candles had grown a lot shorter since he started speaking.
“Right,” he agreed. “Which fittingly brings us to the last of our team, a young lady who-”
“What do you mean, the last?” said Civilai most indignantly. “What about me?”
“What about you?”
“Don’t I deserve an introduction?”
“You always told me you’re a man who doesn’t need one, old brother.”
“That only applies to people who’ve heard of me.”
“I thought everyone had heard of you. Good and bad.”
“I’ve been out of circulation. Even the memory of the brightest star fades in the night.”
“Very well,” said Siri. “This old gentleman, this fading starlet, used to be Comrade Civilai of the Politburo. He was once fully twinkling-a somebody. He is now commander-in-chief of the larder. A politico of pies and pastries. A diplomat of the dining room table. A-”
“They get it,” said Civilai, helping himself to another cornedbeef canape.
“And now to our guest,” said Siri. “We welcome to this informal first night meeting, Miss Peach Short. Yes, undoubtedly a spy from the far west wing, but as Judge Haeng has already discovered, a spy easy on the eye.”
After very polite thanks at being invited to join the Lao team, Peach looked seriously around the table.
“You do realize I’m underage for all this drinking, don’t you?” she giggled.
“Ha!” said Civilai. “Age is far too abstract a concept to be “under.” This is Laos. We mature much faster over here. Nurse Dtui’s daughter has already won the creche cocktail mixing competition two months running. And this is an initiation. This is where we find out just how Lao you are. You can obviously talk the talk, but can you drink the drink?”
“He’s right,” said Daeng. “Unless you’ve made a complete fool of yourself in public at least once, you can’t really be called one of us.”
“At least once,” Civilai added.
Peach took a deep breath, threw back her drink in one gulp, and reached for the bottle. The cheer was a little over the top. With luck, the sound of the Americans yelling at each other might have drowned it out.
“Exactly how old are you?” Dtui asked.
“Seventeen and eleven months.”
“You see?” said Civilai. “If she was from the tribes she’d have four children by now. But how did the daughter of a missionary learn to drink, little daughter?”
“Mom and Dad did the remote village thing,” she told him. “They schooled my brothers and sister and me at home and let us run wild with the local kids. When we grew up they trusted us to have the common sense to know what was right. But by then our right was more the village’s right than theirs. We did stuff we still haven’t gotten around to telling the folks about. Best they don’t know, I say. I guess it’s what you deserve for naming all your kids after fruit.”
“Boys too?” Civilai asked.
“Melon and Mango.”
“Poor lads.”
“And where’s your family now?” Daeng asked.
“They were asked politely by the local cadre if they wouldn’t mind leaving the country. Most of the independent missionaries were thrown out when the PL took over. They were too poor, I guess. Your authorities only turned a blind eye to the religious groups with enough money to invest in development projects.”
