Slash and Burn

that could wait. “Lit,” he said, “there are some people here you don’t know. This gentleman to my left is our morgue expert and the most hard-working person in Vientiane: Mr. Geung Watajak. Geung, you really don’t have to stand u—oh, very well.”
    Even though he was drinking nothing but papaya juice, Geung made standing up look difficult. The flickering of the candles seemed to disorient him. His balance secured, he held up his glass and said, “I … I … am very proud.”
    With that he knocked back his juice like a Glaswegian downing a dram of Scotch and they never did learn what he was proud of. Given Geung’s “situation,” Siri had expected him to take time over agreeing to accompany them north, or even to refuse to come. But Geung’s loyalty to the Mahosot morgue, a commitment which had on one occasion almost killed him, was unshakeable. He’d never been invited on a field trip before. He was always the man left behind to sweep away the cockroaches and welcome new guests into the freezer. So when they announced he’d be coming along, his face had lit up like the floodlights at the That Luang Festival. Romance was obviously a minor league activity for Mr. Geung. He’d been able to talk of nothing but the trip for two weeks and had taken that long to pack. It was astounding how a man with no possessions could fill a large suitcase as he did. The morgue seemed a lot emptier once he’d loaded up his bag. They all toasted him, upended their glasses and leaned into the circle of light for refills. Geung lowered himself back onto the mat and Siri continued the introductions.
    “Beside Nurse Dtui, who you know,” he said with a wink, “is Vientiane’s one and only competent police officer, Inspector Phosy.” Phosy always looked a lot smaller than he was when compared to his large rosy wife. But he was all muscle and brawn. He received his applause with a deep, overly respectful nop .
    “Next,” said Siri, “a legend in the underground resistance forces against the French, a spy of many faces, never discovered by the enemy, a woman with an intellect so high that she married me”—riding the groans—“and the maker of the best noodles on this and probably every other planet, I present you, Madame Daeng.”
    After accepting her applause, Daeng reminded Siri that the candles had grown a lot shorter since he started speaking.
    “Right,” he agreed. “Which fittingly brings us to the last of our team, a young lady who—”
    “What do you mean, the last?” said Civilai most indignantly. “What about me?”
    “What about you?”
    “Don’t I deserve an introduction?”
    “You always told me you’re a man who doesn’t need one, old brother.”
    “That only applies to people who’ve heard of me.”
    “I thought everyone had heard of you. Good and bad.”
    “I’ve been out of circulation. Even the memory of the brightest star fades in the night.”
    “Very well,” said Siri. “This old gentleman, this fading starlet, used to be Comrade Civilai of the Politburo. He was once fully twinkling—a somebody. He is now commander-in-chief of the larder. A politico of pies and pastries. A diplomat of the dining room table. A—”
    “They get it,” said Civilai, helping himself to another cornedbeef canapé.
    “And now to our guest,” said Siri. “We welcome to this informal first night meeting, Miss Peach Short. Yes, undoubtedly a spy from the far west wing, but as Judge Haeng has already discovered, a spy easy on the eye.”
    After very polite thanks at being invited to join the Lao team, Peach looked seriously around the table.
    “You do realize I’m underage for all this drinking, don’t you?” she giggled.
    “Ha!” said Civilai. “Age is far too abstract a concept to be “under.” This is Laos. We mature much faster over here. Nurse Dtui’s daughter has already won the crèche cocktail mixing competition two months running. And this is an initiation. This is where we find out just how Lao you are. You can obviously talk the talk, but can you drink the drink?”
    “He’s right,” said Daeng. “Unless you’ve made a complete fool of yourself in public at least once, you can’t really be called one of us.”
    “At least once,” Civilai added.
    Peach took a deep breath, threw back her drink in one gulp, and reached for the bottle. The cheer was a little over the top. With luck, the sound of the Americans yelling at each other might have drowned it