landscaped and friendly, and he wouldn’t have minded staying there forever. But as a reward for his heroics, his name was elevated on the housing list: in a month, he’d have his own place. He wouldn’t have to share a door, or a hallway, or a bathroom. It sounded lonely.
He had a couple of hours before his date, time to rest and get cleaned up. As he only had one change of clothes, he didn’t have to spend time deciding what to wear. He lay back on the bed and smiled. The briefcase was beside him, so he unlocked it and pulled out his top secret file. His life was no thicker than a block of soap.
It would afford him some enjoyable reading over the next month. He flipped through it; typed pages, hurried handwritten notes (
He felt his heart close up like a knot as he read:
My darling Siri,
What’s happening to me? I can’t explain. Why have I destroyed everything wonderful we had? Why can I only reward your love and patience with anger? Why can I no longer speak the words we used to find so natural?
I can’t control this depression. It’s like a vine that’s choking the life out of me. It’s a disease that limits what I can see in front of me. I can only see the failures of our political struggle, even though I’m sure there must be successes. I can only see selfish and corrupt Party members around me, but I know there has to be good, somewhere.
But most of all I can only see an irritating husband who constantly reminds me of the hopeful, pretty girl I lost somewhere on the endless jungle treks to nowhere. But I know you are the best thing in my life.
Can you ever forgive me for what I’ve done to you, and for what I have to do this evening? This is the only escape for us two.
To my dearest and only love,
Boua
On the back, someone had handwritten
They’d found her suicide note. They’d found the key that would have unlocked some of the guilt, some of the doubts, that had shackled him for the past eleven years. And they’d kept it from him because it was ‘negative’.
If only they knew how negative life had been without it.
Tears rolled freely down his cheeks. Some were tears of sadness. He was so sorry that she’d been unable to stop her misery any other way; that he hadn’t been able to bring her back from the edge.
But some tears were nothing short of ecstasy. She had loved him. Even at the end she still loved him, and she knew he loved her. That was all he needed to know.
For an hour and a half he cried. It was only the wind against his face that was finally able to dry the tears. The Justice Department had fixed his carburettor and he sped off on his beloved motorcycle along the Dong Dok road, through the untouched fields that belied their closeness to a capital city. He yelled at the top of his voice in harmony with the engine. He was free.
By the time he turned back for the city, he was at peace. There were no coincidences any more in his life. The file had found him. The note found him on this day, at this time. Boua was letting him know it was all right. He didn’t have to feel guilty that another woman was in his heart.
He turned onto Samsenthai Avenue and immediately saw Lah standing there at the end of the alleyway. When she saw Siri on his sturdy old bike, like some white-haired knight, she smiled more brightly than the tilted streetlights along the roadside. She wore a purple
He stopped at the curb in front of her and smiled warmly. She walked over on unfamiliar high heels and kissed him on the cheek. In her left hand was a delicate handbag studded with rhinestones. In her right, she held a small box. It was wrapped in green paper to match his eyes, and tied with a dark green ribbon bow.
“Are you bringing sandwiches?”
“It’s a present.”
“For me? Can I open it now?”
“You have to. I’m not getting on that bike until you do.”
He couldn’t stop smiling as he ripped the paper and plucked off the bow. The cardboard box inside had a lid. He looked up at her face, excited like a child at a birthday party.
She really was very beautiful. She looked at him, then back at the box. “Hurry up. I’m hungry.”
As soon as he opened the lid, his smile faded. Whatever joy that had surrounded them vanished like incense smoke. Lying in the box, like a charred corpse in a coffin, was the black prism on its leather thong. Not some other black prism, the one worn smooth from years of hands. The one that had been destroyed and scattered on the land in Khamuan.
“Given the bad luck you’ve been having lately, I figured you could use a lucky charm. Like it?”
