“Look, Siri, she’s gorgeous. She’d make any man’s heart turn somersaults. And there is no doubt she’s intelligent or that she loves her country. I see no problem with her whatsoever. The only problem I see is you.”

“I’m not good enough for her?”

“Like me, she obviously recognizes just how good you are. You are unique and supremely talented. But you don’t believe in what she believes.”

“I believe.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“Convince me.”

“What?”

“Convince me that you share her passion.”

The cognac had warmed my blood and was making me disagreeable. I took off my muffler. I hadn’t been planning to tell him but he’d left me no choice.

“I’ve joined,” I said.

“Joined what?”

“The Party.”

“Nonsense.”

“It’s true. I went to a few meetings with Boua and thought, well, this isn’t so bad, is it? And I decided that, with a bit of work, this communism thing has a chance. So I paid my dues and got my card. I can show it to you if you like.”

“I don’t want to doubt your motives . . .” he said.

“I love her, Civilai. I’ve loved her since the first day I saw her in class. She’s the most . . . the most substantial Lao woman I’ve ever met. She has dreams. She has unselfish ambitions. She smells nice. She can change the world, and I want to be beside her while she’s doing it.”

“Then all I can say is congratulations,” said Civilai, and, as a fitting subject break, a coal cart was pulled over by a fat policeman right in front of us because the horse wasn’t wearing blinkers. In protest, the horse shat all over the boots of the policeman who arrested the driver. He in turn protested that it was the horse that did the damage, not he. Some of the more intoxicated onlookers applauded the horse.

To my mind, our conversation became a little less amicable after that. We didn’t part on the best of terms. If we’d known how long it would be before we’d meet again, we’d probably have drunk one more glass for the road, said au revoir with a handshake and wished each other luck. In retrospect, I wish we had because then I would have been late for my appointment and not become embroiled in one of the most unpleasant events in French history. Instead, still miffed about his comments, I told Civilai I had to leave in a hurry to pay a visit to the Hotel de Rothschild, where there was a sale of secondhand medical textbooks. But I made the mistake of mentioning that the main event of the book exhibition was its opening by the president, Paul Doumer, himself. I knew that would irritate him.