“We should invite them to Daeng’s shop,” said Dtui. “I’d love to see them lock horns with Siri and Civilai. They’d really have something to write about then.”

“We’ll see,” said Phosy.

She kick-started the Vespa. The engine spoke up like the only voice in the whole of Laos. She wondered whether any of the English speakers would make it up in time for the early bus. She knew she wouldn’t be meeting Jim and Marvin there. What she didn’t know was that she’d never see them again.

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Civilai’s Own Brigitte Bardot

Siri’s second threat arrived in the pouch of a postal worker early the next morning. The envelope was foolishly small like one of those wedding invitations impoverished couples sent out to save money. There were two stamps, both Lao: one with a picture of Lenin and one with the words Royaume du Laos with Royaume struck through. The old postman didn’t leave. He was dressed in civilian clothes, with an armband and a battered hat as his only uniform.

“What are you waiting for?” Siri asked, “A tip?”

The old man’s eyes and nostrils were already feasting on Daeng’s breakfast noodles. Like the teachers, he hadn’t been paid for several months. The modest Soviet funding hadn’t stretched to the end of the year. Moscow and Hanoi were talking about reactivating some of the old opium plantations in order to cover government salaries in Laos. Siri stuffed the envelope into his shirt pocket and showed the postman to an empty stool. One more en-suite bathroom for Siri’s charity penthouse apartment in heaven.

It wasn’t till after eight, the office workers sated and at their desks, that Siri and Daeng could finally take a break.

“Tell me again,” said Siri.

“They’ll be back in seven days,” said Daeng.

“What could they possibly do for two weeks on a honeymoon?”

“Well, during the day, they’re learning vegetable cultivation,” said Daeng. “The rest you’ll have to use your imagination.”

“Can’t we . . . you know . . . hire someone till they come back?”

“Why, Siri? Don’t you enjoy watching me work?”

“I do my share. And you know I love watching you work. You are the prima ballerina of noodles. But I would love it even more if I could sit at a back table with a strong coffee and a good book. I’m retired.”

“You’re sounding more like a Mandarin than a forty-something-year paid-up member of the Communist Party. Lording over the staff indeed. Shame on you. It’s good for you to labor from time to time. Learn new skills.”

“What’s wrong, Daeng? Did my table-wiping ability not please you today?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re being grumpy.”

“I’m not being grumpy. I am being both angry and anxious.”

“Why?” he asked.