Death to the Oppressors was postponed if not abandoned completely given the circumstances. There was a cremation to arrange, and the greatest challenge was to relieve the Politburo of the responsibility of organizing a state funeral for an ex-Politburo member. Nong and Siri and all who loved Civilai, and Civilai himself, wanted a quiet, intimate ceremony so they could say goodbye in their own way. No cavalcade. No trumpets. No insincerity. No long meaningless wait.

Daeng had kept close to her husband these past two days, watching his smiling eyes, hearing his witty banter with the customers. Even when Mr. Geung and Tukta returned from their vegetable honeymoon and resumed their duties at the restaurant, Siri stuck around, wiping tables, washing bowls, hanging thirty kilos of blanched chicken bones on the lines in the back garden. But he didn’t leave the building through the front entrance in all that time. It was as if the road outside might drop into the river at any moment.

On the third day after the Ferrari deaths, Phosy and Sihot arrived at the shop. It was the eve of the grand ceremony of the fifth anniversary of the republic—what Siri had begun to refer to as “the second biggest nothing.” The news of the two dead journalists had been met with sadness in the West, but, given the recklessness of their accident, not much respect. The obituaries mentioned their wild pasts as if it were inevitable they’d have sticky ends. “It’s how they would have wanted to go.” No mention that perhaps they didn’t want to go at all. Articles leaned heavily toward apologies to the Lao for spoiling their celebration. The bodies were sent to Australia and the case was closed.

“Is he in?” Phosy asked.

Daeng was presiding over the usual madness of noodle primetime.

“He’s upstairs,” she said. “Try to get him out into some fresh air, will you?”

“Do you think he can handle any more bad news?” Phosy asked.

“I don’t know what he’s thinking or feeling,” she said. “It’s as if he’s inside a big puzzle, and he’s trying to think himself out of it. He’s certain one of the stories from his past has sparked something here in Vientiane. He’s sure the death of the journalists is connected to the two letters and the man who sent them. But now that Civilai’s death is a part of it too, he can’t seem to rest until he’s worked out the how of it.”

“Well, Daeng, what I have to tell him isn’t going to make him feel any better,” said Phosy. “I think you should come up and hear it too.”