“‘Because the samurai sword can sense when its carrier is being disrespectful,’ his father told him.

“And year after year the samurai took his sword into battle and was victorious. Momoyotsu entered his teens, and probably because he had an absentee father, he got into bad ways, listening to racy music, smoking, and chasing girls. And one day he completely forgot about collecting the sword from the blacksmith. He was with a pretty village girl as the sun was setting when he remembered. He leapt from the haystack and started to run, forgetting his belt. He sprinted to the blacksmith and banged on the door, waking the owner. He grabbed the sword from its rack in one hand and ran for all he was worth to the barracks. It was dark. The road was rocky and pocked with potholes. He’d been drinking strong rice wine so he didn’t see one particularly deep divot. He tripped, his trousers fell to his ankles, the sword spun from his hand and sliced off his penis and testicles with such precision the medic at the barracks was certain Momoyotsu was a girl child.”

There were tears from my audience that night, mostly from the men. Every one of them had reached instinctively to his groin when the story was told. The following morning, not only did the headman’s daughter report early for work at the major general’s house, not only did the headman deliver her himself, not only did he bow to the major general, but he also brought him a freshly picked jackfruit, which he handed to the general with a knowing nod.

Siri looked up from the diary to see Phosy standing over him.

“Good read?” asked the policeman.

“I’m not sure,” said Siri, getting to his feet. “Have you heard of Noh?”

“The word?”

“The Japanese performance. I went to see it once in Paris. In my mind it went on for weeks. It’s conducted at a pace that would make snails envious. You stay in your seat because you think something is bound to happen but it rarely does. You go to the bathroom and when you come back they still haven’t completed the sentence they started before you left. It’s like watching a rock erode.”

“And the diary’s like that?”

Phosy unlocked his office door and gestured for Siri to enter. A secretary ran in after them with a ledger full of papers to sign. The official day had begun. Phosy sat at his nice teak desk, a memento from one of his less-than-honest predecessors. Siri sat on the sofa opposite.

“He writes very nicely,” he said. “He’s reached a proficiency in Lao that should make us all hang our heads in shame. But there are endless pages where he goes into great detail about clearing bushes and swimming in the river with his dog and getting the right balance of manure to mulch his infuriating vegetable garden. He’s just started to tell stories, which is fun, but I’m over halfway through the diary and I’m starting to lose faith in him.”