Siri was on a bench in front of Phosy’s office at police headquarters. He hadn’t made an appointment and nobody knew where the chief inspector was. And anyone in Laos knew that making an appointment had very little effect on success in meeting the person you’ve come to see. But Siri had Toshi’s diary so he was in no hurry. The mold from the diary cover seemed to be spreading to the doctor’s skin. No amount of carbolic soap, no number of horsehair brushes would remove the stain. But he wouldn’t stop reading even if he caught the bubonic plague from the thing. The Japanese had started to be more creative in his writing. He still mentioned the flowers and trees and the bloody birds ad nauseam, but he’d started to tell fables. It was as if Toshi had suddenly become aware of an audience.

12/17/1941

I was walking by the river with Taigou, taking in the scents of the wildflowers, when ahead I saw Major General Dorari sitting on a rock looking far too grey for such a colorful day. I approached him and saluted.

“Major General, why are you looking so sad?” I asked.

It wasn’t my place to ask such a question to a senior officer so I expected a rebuke. But Major General Dorari had been a schoolteacher in his civilian life and I could see there was gratitude behind his scowl.

“Toshi,” he said. “I am in trouble. I moved to that large colonial house on the skirt of the hill but it was too big to take care of alone so I hired a young Lao girl to clean and cook for me. She is beautiful and reminds me so much of my granddaughter whom I miss terribly. I befriended her. But the father of my maid found I had recruited the girl and he believes the worst. He has threatened to kill me for defiling his daughter.”

I knew my general would never do such a terrible thing so I took it upon myself to help him. That evening, I had been invited to a wedding party for one of our road builders. I had become friendly with the Lao and was invited to celebrations often. As ever, I was the only Japanese in attendance. I knew all the village headmen would be there including the father of my general’s maid. I do not drink a great deal, unlike the Lao, who drink to excess. But they have good reason to do so. I placed myself in such a position that I was certain most of the guests could hear me and I began my anecdote in my most polished Lao language.

“Major General Dorari Momoyotsu, our commanding officer, is the son of a samurai,” I began. I knew I already had my audience rapt.

I continued.

“Before the samurai headed off to battle, he would have his oldest son, Momoyotsu, deliver his sword to the blacksmith for cleaning and sharpening. His father’s only instruction was that he should always hold the sword in two hands and walk carefully, looking down always for stones and potholes.