“Must be mad,” said Civilai, returning with another half bottle of whisky, which he plonked down on the table like a memento of war.

“You could talk the crutches off a legless man,” said Daeng. “How do you do it?”

“Those young fellows just need to know who’s boss,” said Civilai. “Look important. Don’t say anything. Walk behind the bar. Pick up the bottle. Simple.”

He sat at the table, his revolutionary fire apparently doused.

“And speaking of who’s boss,” said Daeng, “where’s Madam Nong this evening?”

“My wife does not enjoy watching me drink,” said Civilai. “She seems to think I devalue myself when I allow alcohol to make decisions for me.”

“Whereas Madam Daeng here knows only too well that I am at my brightest and most perceptive with the Hundred Pipers playing the background music,” said Siri.

“Sadly, as the music grows louder and the perception reaches a crescendo, the passion is known to wane,” said Daeng.

There was a long silence at the table.

“We all know this is Daeng making a joke, right?” said Siri.

“I’m not so sure,” said Dtui.

“Daeng, tell them,” said Siri.

Daeng looked around the room.

“Daeng?”

The embarrassment was blurred by the voice of somebody leaning too closely into a badly wired microphone. Like announcements at the national airport, nobody knew exactly what had been said. But it was the signal for Siri’s crew to down their drinks and head to the exit. It was speech time and their finely tuned instincts naturally sent them in the opposite direction.

It was only a short walk to the noodle shop, but Siri must have told them a dozen times that his wife was joking about his waning ardor. Still she kept mum and they were all shedding tears of laughter by the time they reached the closed shutter. High in a tree opposite perched Crazy Rajhid, the Indian. They could only see his silhouette against the moon, but it was obvious he was as naked as on the day he was born. They waved. He ignored them. He still believed that if he kept perfectly still he was invisible.

It was the time of the evening when the dusty streets were usually deserted and no other sound could be heard: no television, no radio, no hum of air-conditioning. But on that evening their drunken voices were carried across the river to Thailand to show the enemy that socialist Laos could still have a good time once in a while. In an hour, when the curfew took hold, their voices would be silenced too, but right now was as good a time as any to stand on the riverbank and yell abuse. It was nothing personal, just a friendly diatribe against a nation with an ongoing animosity toward their inferior northern neighbors. It was therapy.