Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

were now whimsically calling The Dr Siri Memorial Library. Daeng was the carpenter in the family. Siri just handed her nails when told to. He was impressed at how well her late-afternoon sawing was fitting neatly together.
    “I thought perhaps you’d know,” he replied.
    “I wasn’t there, was I? Nail! I’d need to have been there. Was it an embarrassed smile? A ‘don’t be ridiculous’ smile? An ironic ‘wouldn’t you like to know?’ smile? Nail!”
    “It was just a…you know? A smile.”
    “Then you have to ask him again. And next time, read the smile.”
    “Why doesn’t Dtui ask him herself?”
    “She’s already made her mind up. Nail!”
    “I don’t – ”
    “Siri, concentrate. That was a toothpick.”
    “Sorry. I don’t feel comfortable interfering. They haven’t exactly asked for our help, you know.”
    “Neither did any of the strays and orphans you’re putting up at your house free of charge. Neither did Mr Geung or Crazy Rajid who you’ve probably frightened clear across the river. These are our friends. Nail! They don’t always have to ask for help.”
    “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll invite him out for a few drinks, loosen him up, tell him about the myriad extramarital affairs I’m involved in and he’ll feel an instant camaraderie and come out with his story all by himself.”
    “Now you’re thinking. Nail!”
∗
    It was mid-morning and Siri was in the morgue office sitting at his desk with a magnifying glass trying to match the fingerprints on Jim’s épée with the very smudged print he’d found on the bottom of the vitamin bottle. All three swords lay parked across his desk. Nurse Dtui was at her own desk studying Russian. She hadn’t entirely given up hope that, one day in the future, she might continue her studies overseas. This épée case – three women given scholarships – had caused her to wonder how her own course in the Soviet Union might have been progressing if only…
    She’d been on her way, tickets booked, woollen hats crocheted, when, ‘wham’, hit head-on by events. A little bit of lust induced by a powerful but foolish crush, a determined sperm, rampant biology, and there she was: with child but without mate. Her sperm donor had felt obliged to do the right thing and she’d said ‘Yes’. Clearly her mistake. Beautiful baby, womanising husband. One out of two wasn’t bad. She was feeling resentment towards the three women who’d studied overseas. It was as if they’d taken her place but not taken full advantage of their good fortune. Wrong and irrational, Dtui, but better to channel your disappointment into three dead people than one live one who, let’s be honest, hadn’t really promised her that much.
    “What are you doing, Dtui?”
    “Trying to understand the instructions on all this equipment the Soviets keep throwing at us. The freezer’s been here since last year and we still don’t know how to turn it down.”
    “Good. That can wait. Come and take a look at this.”
    She walked across to his desk and leaned over the magnifying glass Siri held over the vitamin bottle.
    “In your opinion,” he asked, “is this a thumb-print or a smudged fingerprint?”
    “It looks a little…”
    “Yes?”
    “A little bit like the face of Ho Chi Minh.”
    “Dtui, I’m being serious.”
    “It’s a miracle. Uncle Ho has returned – ”
    She was interrupted by the sound of the door banging against the filing cabinet. Mr Geung walked into the office drenched as a water rat, obviously in a poor mood.
    “What’s wrong, hon?” Dtui asked.
    “Nothing,” he replied, and slumped down at his little desk in the corner. He shook the rain from his head. His perm looked like a crepe.
    “If nothing’s wrong,” Dtui said, “where are the two cups of coffee you went to the canteen to buy?”
    Geung looked at his hands to confirm they weren’t holding a tray.
    “Oh,” he said. He stood, started for the door, then had second thoughts and returned to his seat. He was obviously being pulled in two different directions by the oxen of conscience.
    “Mr Geung, did something happen?” Siri asked.
    “No!”
    “Geung?” Dtui pushed.
    “A…a…a…a woman,” he said, agitated and animated.
    “Yes?”
    “In the can, the can…the canteen. She…she…”
    “She what, hon?”
    “She…she’s feeble-minded like me.”
    “Mr Geung, how many times do we have to tell you? There’s nothing feeble about your mind. You