“I travelled to Bangkok with Henry. We went to the Australian embassy. At the time I wondered why he’d want me to go to Australia rather than America. It was several years before I really understood.”

Siri’s senses were returning. First came his sense of smell. The lighter fluid wasn’t on the skirts. It was on him. He felt Daeng’s index finger tapping against his hand. Dom, the boy who was not Bruce, droned on.

“I took tests in Bangkok that were obviously designed for idiots. I was embarrassed at how easy they were. And the next thing you know I’m on a Qantas flight to Sydney. Then the blur. The classes. The bullying. The cultural explosion. The A grades, the distinctions and, wham, I’m accepted at Sydney University to study medicine. And the only thing that kept me centered through it all were the monthly letters from Henry. My mother couldn’t write so I learned of their life through him. They were such happy letters in the beginning. Every semester, money arrived in my account to cover my study fees. I didn’t socialize so my income was more than enough. My only two objectives were to graduate and go home.

“It was 1972 when I received the letter that changed everything. Henry’s condition had deteriorated to the point that he had to go to Vietnam to see a specialist.”

Siri tried to say something but the words crumpled together before he could organize them.

“Yes, Good Doctor Siri,” said Dom. “I can feel your excitement. Because now is when you appear in this story. Daeng, my darling, this is the bit I want you to hear. The specialist was you, Siri, remember? Educated in Paris. Trained in tropical medicine. How could he fail to find you? As I was into my second year of study, Henry decided that I was ready to learn about his condition, echinococcosis. He described it in detail. It was a horrible, debilitating disease but it was curable. If Henry had come to Sydney he would have recovered. But he didn’t. He found you instead. He was in your clinic for four months being treated for something erroneous. You withheld his letters to me during that time. He sent me no money because you were draining his account for medicine unrelated to his illness. He sent that same medicine to my mother who had the same disease. By then he was too sick to go to America so he returned to Ubon. And there he found that my mother had died in his absence. A disease that would have been cured if you had prescribed the correct medicine.”

“All . . . bull,” Siri managed at last. It was barely audible but the Thai was too engrossed in his own story to notice the interruption.