Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

couldn’t hide his devastation.
    “But what’s the message?” he asked. “Struggle, struggle, struggle and you’ll end up with a dead boyfriend?”
    “All right. I’m not quite at the end of the film yet. Wei Loo had died constructing a dam. We get this in flashback through sepia lenses. There’d been a freak flash flood and he’d rushed to the site, rescued all his colleagues, and sacrificed his own life to prevent the dam being washed away. Once she’d recovered from the shock, Ming Zi understood there was more to life than personal relationships. She realised that love for a mega-project and the development of the country was more satisfying than mere love for another human being.”
    “Rot.”
    “She found solace. As, coincidentally, she was also a qualified hydroelectric engineer, she applied for the position of project coordinator on her fiancé’s dam. Of course she didn’t play the sympathy card. She didn’t tell anyone who she was. She was appointed purely on her qualifications and experience. She was a conscientious worker, very popular with the men and women under her. But on the eve of the grand opening of the new dam…”
    “Oh, don’t tell me.”
    “…there’s another storm and another unprecedented flash flood.”
    “Which had been precedented.”
    “Exactly.”
    “And Ming Zi saves the planet.”
    “Just the dam and twenty comrades.”
    “Of course she dies?”
    “Penultimate scene.”
    “Holding a red flag?”
    “She was underwater but she held on to it.”
    “And the closing scene?”
    “The grand opening of the Xiang Wu Irrigation Plant with the lovers’ photographs displayed on easels on either side of the starter button.”
    “Reunited in death. Oh, I wish I’d seen it.”
    “Everyone was in tears.”
    “I bet.”
    “Even the Chinese ambassador and he’d seen it twice.”
    Siri sighed and rolled off the bed.
    “If only life were a film,” he said. “Birth, life, love, adventure and death in under two hours. Nothing superfluous. Succinct, simple dialogue. Nothing boring. No roles for characters outside the main plot.”
    The window was open and rain dribbled down from the top awning in strings of pearl droplets. Through them he could see Rajid sitting on a stool under the umbrella on the river bank.
    “He still there?” Daeng asked.
    “At least he’s under the umbrella now.”
    “Did he eat his supper?”
    “I can’t see the plate. Do you think he ever sleeps?”
    “What’s he doing?”
    “It’s dark but if he’s doing what I think he’s doing, I don’t think you’d want to know.”
    “Virile young man, isn’t he?”
    “Very.”
    He was about to make a comment like, “Perhaps we should find him a girlfriend,” but it occurred to him he was slowly sliding into the role of auntie to the masses since he’d married Daeng. He wanted to help everyone; Mr Geung, Phosy and Dtui, the Hmong, the starving people in Bangladesh, whales, and now here he was fretting over a street Indian. How would he ever find a mate for a non-speaking, self-abusing flasher from Delhi? Not even beautiful Ming Zi with her perfect skin could find true love. Siri started to wonder whether he was the only lucky romantic on the planet. No, he couldn’t find romance for Rajid but he could attempt to replace the blown fuse in the relationship with his father. A young man shouldn’t go through life hating someone who loves him. Siri had attempted to talk to Rajid before but not with any great belief in his own ability. Now, after several evenings with Sartre he was beginning to believe anything was possible, or at least, that if he didn’t solve problems himself, nobody else was going to solve them for him.
    “Won’t be a minute,” he said, heading for the door.
    “Take an umbrella.”
    Daeng was always one step ahead of her husband.
    Siri joined Rajid under the beach umbrella. They were sharing a small rainless cylinder of space and the little man was unpredictable. Sometimes he’d sit with you. Others he’d run and hide like a street cat. This was a sitting night.
    “OK, Rajid,” said Siri, sinking down to squat on the back of his heels. “Let’s assume you understand everything I’m saying because I think you do. I know you can write because your father translated your poems for me. And if you can write, you can think, ergo , you can understand.”
    Rajid’s concentration was already flagging. He seemed to be looking around for some other place to