Grandad, Thereэ's head on the beach

acquired at my school suddenly felt so inadequate. And to make matters worse, I shared many of my classes with ML Chaturaporn, a young lady of aristocratic blood from a family I had admired all my life. She let me call her by her nickname, Goong. I was surprised at how amenable she was, how friendly and helpful. Not only was she a beautiful person, she was also a brilliant student.'

Noy put down the paper.

'Is this the point where I throw up?' she asked.

'Just keep reading,' I told her.

She sighed.

'…a brilliant student. While I was stumbling through the textbooks, scratching a C here, a D there, she was sailing along with As and distinctions. And yet, for reasons I have yet to understand, she continued to see me as a friend. She helped tutor me on difficult points. She talked to me as an equal. She even helped me through a bad relationship I fell into-through my own naivete-with an American boy. She was there to hold my hand when I cried. She…OK, pass me the bucket.'

To my surprise, Mamanoy told her to keep reading.

Noy's eyes passed from me to her mother, then back to me. She understood that this wasn't a game.

'I can't tell you how close we became,' Noy read. 'Me, the daughter of a schoolteacher. She, of refined birth. I couldn't believe my luck. But then the final exams drew near and I fell into a panic. I considered how it would destroy my parents if I failed. How disappointed it would make my local community. How would I be able to go on living if I didn't graduate?'

'My friend Goong felt my fears and set herself a challenge of tutoring me to excellence. She told me that I had a solid basic knowledge. All I lacked was confidence. During the break before the final semester, we worked every day and late into the night. Bottomless coffees. No sleep. All the theories that had baffled me became clear through her eyes. She was an amazing tutor. And so we were in the final semester and I was full of confidence. I hardly noticed how pale and wan my friend was becoming with every month that passed. She missed classes. Was late with some homework assignments. Yet still she continued to tutor me. It wasn't until just before the last assessments that she confessed to me about her poor health. She had low blood sugar and was taking medication. Our late-night blitz had taken its toll. On the night before one important exam, her body temperature was way down. Her doctor said she had severe hypoglycemia and recommended immediate hospitalization. But this was finals week. She too had obligations to her family. And so we sat those exams. Me with my new-found confidence. She, dull and sedated-barely able to read the words on the paper. It's incredible, given her circumstances, that she was able to pass anything at all that term.'

Noy sighed, not for the first time.

'Well, there's some truth, at last.'

'Final paragraph,' I said. 'Be patient.'

'But I excelled, just as she had promised,' Noy read. 'I felt I had stolen her glory. I was so embarrassed. I knew she would never hold a grudge against me. She's such a kind person. She comes from a fine, upstanding family. All I ask and pray is that Georgetown University can find it in their hearts to give her a second chance. To allow her to resit her final courses and show the world what a brilliant scholar she is.'

Noy laughed.

'Wow,' she said. 'What a bunch of lizard poop.'

'Smelly though it may be,' I said, 'this way you keep your degree, the duchess maintains her dignity, and if we're lucky, you can go home and live your old lives.'

'I think it's perfect,' said Mamanoy.

'Mum, you can't be serious?'

'I am. This is exactly what Jimm says. It's a get-out clause. It's a face-saver. If The New York Times runs this in one of their magazines as a feel-good piece, all the media in Thailand will pick up on it. They'll have you and Goong hugging on national television. The bigger it is, the safer we are.'

'Then she comes out of this as a heroine,' said Noy.

'So what?'

'She's an asshole.'

'It doesn't matter,' I said. 'It's a little late to start worrying about pride. At the end of the day, you end up with a degree from Georgetown. That's all that counts. Once your picture's out of the press, nobody will tie your name to this farce. You'll have employers queuing up to hire you.'

'You expect me to sit through an interview and read all this…crap?'

'No. I want you to tell it as if it really happened. As if you're remembering it. I want you to add little personal details. How you exchanged Hello Kitty e-mails. Taking photos together in a passport photo booth. Late nights in pajamas eating marshmallows. The sloshier the better. I want it all to really have happened. And if it makes you feel better, just imagine how uncomfortable the duchess is going to be when her family forces her to join in with the charade. They'll come out of it smelling pretty sweet if the daughter plays along. I can see you having a grand old time at the TV interview.'

Noy stared at her mother. Mamanoy smiled and shrugged.

17.

And All the Lettuce Was Alone

(from 'Papa Was a Rolling Stone' -NORMAN WHITFIELD and BARRETT STRONG)

It had been a very discreet return invitation. My own verbal invite to our party had been loud and glorious.

'Aung, this'll be great,' I'd said, leaning over him at the metalwork shop, his Thai and Burmese co-workers looking at me from their lathes. The boss was seated at a desk at the rear, counting the minutes to dock from Aung's salary for this lack of production.

'It's a party,' I went on. 'I want you to bring Oh and the kids and all the Burmese you can muster. It'll be the defining moment when Thais and Burmese forget their differences and meet on neutral ground. All those invasions and historical massacres forgotten. We'll drink together and share rice and the world will be a lovelier place.'

Aung looked up at me briefly. The boss docked another minute.

'Jimm, I'm sorry,' he said. 'We have a religious ceremony planned for that date.'

I got the hint. I hadn't yet told him when the party would be. But I understood. Hundreds of drunk Thais? The Burmese were more likely to take their chances against the military junta in Yangon.

The return invitation arrived in the hand of a beautiful, long-haired, powdered-cheek girl on a bicycle. When she was asking for me, she pronounced Jimm like a Western man's name. No rising intonation. She looked away when I took the note from her. It said: 6:30 tonight. Burmese party. Don't bring anyone.

It was written in Thai by a child's hand. I didn't know what to expect of a Burmese party. It was on the eve of our own shindig. I thought I might convince a few to come along. I wanted to know what had become of Shwe and the other sixteen slaves-fifteen, if you didn't count the dead man. I checked the beach every morning, expecting him to turn up. Despite the warning, I had Arny along as my after-dark back-up. We lefted and righted our way through the Pak Nam back lanes until Aung's door cast a yellow glow across the alleyway in front of us. Nobody lifted my skirt as I stood in the doorway, and to my surprise, the little living room was crowded. There had been no indications of a throng from outside. The shoes had been placed elsewhere. There was no music and everyone spoke in a whisper. The Burmese had learned not to make a spectacle of themselves.

Aung welcomed us and cleared us a place on one of the small mats in a circle of shy Burmese. Oh brought us each a glass of warm beer, whose chill factor had been entrusted to a single ice cube. Me and Arny appeared to be the only beer drinkers. All the other guests were sipping tea or had water glasses on the ground in front of them. I looked around and was surprised to see Shwe and his wife two circles away. I waved at him, and he nodded in