We ate a late lunch at the prefect’s table as we celebrated the rescue of Vietnamese national treasures. We drank probably the most expensive wine I’d ever tasted, toasted again and again by a late visitor, General Jacquot. It was true he did not have a sense of humor, but he had a remarkable capacity for wine. With such a victory under their belts thanks to us, the future of both men in national politics was assured. Whenever we met after that we drank to our success, but I never did forget the threat or the cold look of hatred on the face of the man who made it:

“I shall crush you and destroy you, and I shall enjoy every second of your pain. It will be the fulfillment of my life’s ambition to see you suffer.”

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

The Succubus Conductor

“So, if I’m reading this addendum to the screenplay right,” said Bruce, “at a crucial moment in the battle, you and Civilai rip . . .”

“The two characters who may or may not be me and Civilai,” said Siri.

“Right, anyway, these two characters rip off their shirts, grab the nearest machetes and charge down into the valley to confront the French forces at Dien Bien Phu.”

“That’s correct,” said Siri.

“Why would you . . . they do that?”

“Good question,” said Daeng.

“I mean, why machetes?” said Bruce. “There were guns everywhere.”

“And why rip off their shirts?” said Daeng.

“It’s cinema,” said Siri. “It’s symbolic.”

“It’s symbolic of insanity,” said Daeng.

“I’m afraid I have to agree,” said Bruce. “The movie’s already two hours too long. Can’t we just stick to the original script?”

“Things were getting dull,” said Siri. “I wanted to inject a John Wayne moment.”

Bruce seemed to be finding it harder to keep his team in order and focused. Civilai was taking more and more time off, and Daeng seemed preoccupied with other matters. Only Siri showed an unwavering commitment to the project. But then even he disappeared. Bruce turned toward the street for a second when a rare car went by, and when he looked back, Siri was gone.

The doctor found himself on a film set he recognized but couldn’t immediately name. He was standing before a throbbing pink spaceship in a landscape of dry ice. He resented the fact that he was still not in control of these spiritual summonses. He knew who had called him to the other side and that he’d have to put up with more of Auntie Bpoo’s mood swings. The old transvestite was his spirit guide. It was she who should have been at Siri’s beck and call, not the other way around. Aladdin didn’t have to go spelunking into the lamp to get things done.

“All right, I know you’re here,” said Siri. “Let’s get this over with. I have a film to make.”