Vientiane, the capital, had taken on the appearance of a Miss Havisham: its shuttered shop fronts laced with spiderwebs, its potted plants the color of the dirt roads, its occasional paving stones segregated by gnarled weeds. The jungle was already claiming back the outer suburbs. And yet, through all its failings, the city dug deep for something to smile about. The populace believed that a country was more than the sum of its debts and the rust of its decomposing cars. A country was the character of its inhabitants, and after thirty years of war, the Lao believed they’d earned credit just for surviving it all. And two of the happiest Lao were Dr. Siri and his wife, Madam Daeng. They had fought for independence on the battlefields and had won the right to grumble about everything. They believed also that they had earned the right to travel wherever they wished whenever they wished. The government did not agree. In order to move from one province to another, a citizen had to have a laissez-passer. If the citizen could not justify the trip to the satisfaction of the official in charge of such matters, it was probably easier—as Dr. Siri often put it—to pass a mature coconut through your digestive system. Even would-be travelers with dying grandmothers, soon-to-be-married nieces, or invitations from respectable village heads would have to suffer the humiliation of sitting on a wooden bench for hours while the cadre shifted the application from one side of the desk to the other.

And it was exactly this brick wall of bureaucracy that inspired Siri and Daeng to travel illegitimately as often as they could. They lied with great aplomb, they hitchhiked on aircraft, they claimed to be persons of influence but often they’d just drive through border barriers and wave. The only thing they’d draw the line at was graft. They would never pay beyond the actual price for a document or a service even if it meant watching an application slip to the bottom of a pile. That wasn’t the country they’d fought for. But all around them they were beginning to hear the rustle of brown envelopes passing under tables.

“How do we get there?” Daeng asked, shoveling noodles into bowls, yelling above the happy lunchtime throng.

“Where are we going?” Siri asked.

“Thakhek, of course.”

“We are?”

“Most certainly. You’ve been bored to tears since you resigned. You have nothing to read. Nobody to stimulate you. You hate working in the restaurant.”

“I do not.”

He shifted to his left a little in case there was a bolt of lightning on its way.

“And with no Civilai, you have nobody to provide you with fictional appointments elsewhere. So you’re stuck. And I think it’s time for a vacation for both of us.”

“What about the business?” said Siri, even though he knew only too well that Mr. Geung and Tukta were every bit as competent at noodling as his wife. He looked up from the spoons he’d been polishing for what felt like a great chunk of his life. “Then why don’t we go to the French Riviera?” he said.