“Once they heard the Chinese would be monitoring events on the ground here, most of them decided to take their chances on the Thai side. For obvious reasons, the Japs weren’t about to trust their fate to their mortal enemies. And, of course, there were no officers to make decisions for them. There were a number who stayed in the region to fight against the French but most found their ways back to Japan.”

The girls were eating slowly, glaring out at nothing, mute. Noodle connoisseur Daeng had seen the state of the meal they’d ordered and given up a few spoonfuls into the bowl. Despite all his talking, Beer shoveled down his meal and gladly accepted dregs from the others. It was as if he hadn’t eaten for a long while.

“What do you mean they didn’t have officers?” said Daeng.

Beer shot himself in the temple with his fingers.

“They listened to the emperor’s speech, marched up to the main house, shut the door, and blew themselves up. Every last one of them blown to kingdom come.”

“Bad losers,” said Daeng.

“It was the shame,” said Beer. “They couldn’t stand the humiliation of defeat. It was the first time anyone had heard the emperor’s voice and there he was telling them they were to give up. They’d fought in his name. He was the sun god. They’d let him down. They didn’t deserve to live anymore.”

They arranged to meet Beer later that day at the town council office and walked with the girls back to the guesthouse. It was a dull town that belied its notorious histories; the Las Vegas of the Mekong, the center of the French administration, the hub of the Japanese invasion. All these pasts had been erased to leave a grey and russet shadow of itself. Thakhek in 1981 was, like all provincial towns in Laos, unremarkable. The ubiquitous town square with an invariably dry fountain was there—and the market and a modest attempt at a commercial district—but it was as if the place was biding its time, awaiting the return of gamblers and colonists and invaders to give it flavor, to bring it back to life.

The helicopter was parked on the football field out back. Mr. Roper was at the guesthouse waiting for them. He was sitting on the veranda with a glass flagon at his feet. To Siri’s mind its contents looked like the type of diarrhea you got after drinking bad milk. Roper held up a tin mug to welcome the arrivals.

“Hello,” he said. “Come and taste this.”

“It looks like . . .” Siri began.