“Yes,” he said.

And when Geung extracted his fingers he looked at his own hand and shared a Eureka moment with the doctor. His expression went from monochrome to full-screen Technicolor. Under the nail of his index finger was a tiny piece of evidence that explained the whole damned thing.

10/2/1943

Hello my love. How are you? I miss you and the children. I have grown a small beard since you last saw me, and I look like a goat. But do not expect milk from me. I am back at the Chinese border in Lang Son on a mission. I have confirmed that our treasure is safe. I am not surprised they didn’t discover it. It was officially buried under a mountain of documents. I have found a way to transport it to you through the tunnel of love. Do not be surprised when you see it. I shall be home soon. Do not worry about me.

“How did you rescue it from the river?” Phosy asked.

“It didn’t make it that far,” said Daeng. “We have a guardian angel, don’t forget.”

“Crazy Rajhid?” said Dtui.

Daeng smiled. Rajhid, the occasionally mad Indian, lived on the riverbank, where he climbed trees, impersonated frogs, and swam naked, mostly at night.

“We can’t get any privacy,” said Siri. “Madam Daeng and I go down to the riverbank often . . .”

“To catch clams,” said Daeng, smiling.

“But we can never be sure of any personal moments because he’s always there,” said Siri. “Or at least the threat of him being there is always hanging over us.”

“He has saved our lives on more than one occasion,” Daeng reminded him.

“Which is the only reason I don’t shoot him,” said Siri.

“And he did rescue your loose diary page,” said Dtui. “What do you make of it?”

Nurse Dtui was walking around the restaurant with her little daughter, Malee. The tables were skyscrapers and the aisles were streets. In this game, Malee was blind for some reason and her mother was a guide dog. Dtui was certain her daughter would be a novelist when she grew up.

“We haven’t read the whole thing yet,” said Daeng.

“And half of it’s in Japanese,” said Siri. “But we’re plodding through the Lao. Cross-referencing events in the diary with events during the Japanese occupation.”

“The page you just read was obviously cut from the diary with a sharp blade,” said Daeng. “We assume it was important for some reason. There was a short message stapled to it. It said, ‘Dr. Siri, we need your help urgently.’ Grammatically correct but untidy, probably not written by a native Lao.”

“What are you planning to do?” asked Phosy.

“Nothing until I’ve read the whole diary,” said Siri.

“And he’s painfully slow,” said Daeng.

“One sips at a fine wine, my dear,” said Siri.

“And in the meantime, we won’t know who sent us the diary, who needs help, or what help he or she needs,” said Daeng.