“It just occurred to me this evening. All the bits joined together. Your father was rich and he had great plans for you. I’d never really looked at your face. I suppose most people get no further than the scar. But now I can see the similarity. I believe that you had a brother, perhaps a twin. And the two of you were two sides of a coin, as close as could be, but opposite. Your father was a traditional Vietnamese—”

“I don’t—”

“He discovered something about you that shamed him. He learned that you preferred men to women. It was unacceptable. You were expected to further the family line. He banished you. Disowned you. Sent you to work as a laborer in a foreign country. And he made you ashamed of what you were. You saw no worth in yourself. But your brother, in spirit, never left you. He was your protector. He stayed with you until his death in Laos three weeks ago.”

Both Siri and Beer were crying. The drink was at their feet, forgotten.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” said Beer.

“In a way, he didn’t stop living. I couldn’t understand why his hair and nails continued to grow but now I realize it was because you were still alive in him, just as I believe he continues to live in you.”

“How . . . how do you know all this?”

“I have a curse on me that allows me to see the dead. I learn things about them,” said Siri. “I usually complain about coincidences. It drives my wife mad. But I understand now that we can create them. We have the ability to draw people and events together. I was visiting a dear friend who’d passed on and you and your brother were there. I saw you as children. You were as close as any two people could be. But your brother was due to leave this world and you were there to say goodbye just as I was there to bid farewell to my friend.”

“I had that same dream,” said Beer. “I saw you there. It was at an airport.”

“With pink airplanes.”

“That’s right. All my airplanes were in pastels when I was little. I was a very orthodox gay even then.”

“And when the flight took off you—”

“My head split in two.”

“That’s right. You’d been forced to see yourself without his guidance. That scarf was the last gift he gave you. Your last physical memory of him.”

“I don’t suppose you met him when he was alive?”

“No, but I learned a lot about him. He was a good man, popular, like you.”

“Do you think he knew he was looking out for me all those years?”

“No idea. But I am sure the belief kept you alive and safe. I’m sure he’ll be really pissed off if you screw up.”

“I’ve already let him down.”