“Oh, I don’t know,” said Civilai, attempting to cut the rope with a nail file. “How about, ‘All good things come to an end.’ I like that one. Or, there’s always, ‘Don’t trust people who drink too much.’ Which reminds me, I’m supposed to warn you and Daeng to cut down on the rice whisky intake. I know there’s a canary’s chance in a jet engine that you’ll take any notice of that. I certainly wouldn’t.”

“So, let me get this straight. You’re dead?”

“Brilliant.”

“How does it feel?”

“Death?”

“Yes.”

“It feels like . . . I don’t know. It feels like I’m a part of the big it.”

“A part of what?”

“Mass.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Well, you know when they take the unexploded ordnance to the smelting works and melt it all down and it sort of blends together and you can’t tell what was a bombie and what was a wok because it’s all one? Well, that’s what this is except there are no unexpected explosions. You can’t tell a tree from a Boeing 747 from a toothbrush. It’s all a big blancmange. I was going to do the tennis racket gag to give you a laugh, but there are none over here. Or, at least, they’re no longer identifiable. Shame. It would have been a good exit line.”

“We had some good times,” said Siri.

“A million of ’em, but let’s steer clear of clichés, shall we?”

“Are you scared?”

“A little bit.”

“I’m sorry you had to go first.”

“A bit sooner than the universe had in mind, but we’ll be together soon enough.”

“Thank you for making this easier for me.”

“What are friends for?” said Civilai. (Although he vehemently denied having said it.) “All right. You get back there to your devastation and grieving, and I’ll catch up with you on the set of a much better movie sometime soon.”

The nail file severed the rope and the backdrop became a long, stretched-out lava lamp display and Civilai was sucked into it. He shouted, “Wheeeeh.”

And he was gone.

Dr. Porn’s fifteen-year-old motor scooter sounded like a Harley Davidson in the silent compound. The heavily armed guards at the gate had been undecided as to what to do, so they waved the bike through. Elderly Party members and their wives tended to look alike after seventy. You could never be too cautious. The lights were all on at Civilai’s house. Porn stopped in front of the gate. Madam Nong was on the front steps hugging her knees. Sitting beside her, mirroring her actions, was Rajhid, the crazy Indian. He was dressed, which seemed appropriate, and his hair was greased up into a point like a pencil. How he knew . . . how he got there . . . what he was thinking, nobody would know. But he was there.