In Paris, Siri had gone to the fair with his first love, Boua. They’d queued for the actual Tunnel of Love where you traveled in a teacup along claustrophobic passages and around sharp U-turns at four kilometers an hour. And if his lips had not been clamped to hers and his eyes not closed, he would have noticed the occasional illuminated display of stuffed mice dressed as people acting out the natural stages of love; the high school crush, the meeting with the parents, the country walk, the wedding, and, in true French style, the crime of passion with the cuckold mouse lying in a pool of blood, his unfaithful wife leaning over him with a bread knife. This was not that type of tunnel of love, but Siri remembered that Toshi had also made mention of it. In the loose sheet from the diary he’d said, “I have found a way to transport it to you through the Tunnel of Love.” Siri was sure this was the place.

They all squinted when they once again hit sunlight. The jungle beyond the tunnel was lush and there were fruit trees growing naturally on the banks of the river. Very soon they reached a landing. The boatman moored his vessel and his passengers walked into a happy-looking village. The wood, bamboo, and rattan houses were standard but solidly built. Each one was surrounded with multicolored flowering shrubs and fresh vegetables. Fat chickens pecked at the dirt and dogs and cats lazed beneath the bushes, too content to care about the new arrivals.

Siri had no idea where they were going or what they’d do when they got there. But when they passed the first house, they saw a large woman seated at a loom in the shade. She was smoking a cheroot. She showed no surprise.

“Welcome,” she said. “The school’s that way. You’ll see it on the hill at the end of the dirt track.”

They thanked her even though nobody had made mention of a school. On the way they passed some twenty or thirty houses, all of them displaying the same attention to detail, all brightly flowered and clean. If somebody was home, they’d smile and wave and ask after the visitors’ health.

“Have you noticed?” said Daeng to her husband.

“The houses?” said Siri. “They’re all new. There isn’t one old structure in the village.”

Even the village pavilion in the square was pristine. The grass roof was neat and not yet grey with age. The beams were white and had seen no intrusion from insects. The grass around it was freshly mown and the trees were pruned. The tall concrete village pillar, six hands around, stood facing the pavilion. It had been carved with amateurish elephant motifs. It reached a little under four meters. There was a jumble of offerings at its base that suggested spirit worship was alive and well in Sawan.