Where are you coming from? the US customs woman said.
London.
OK. Wait a minute. No other baggage?
Nope.
On his card she scribbled "CET."
This code will get you right through, she said. Otherwise they'll be suspicious about the absence of luggage.
Thanks, he said.
Don't mention it.
At the exit, the lady who took cards read "C.E.T.," stopped dead, and sent him to the special agent's desk.
Where you coming from?
London.
How long were you there?
A week.
Purpose of trip?
Business.
What kind of business?
Journalism.
I see you were in Bangkok, said the customs man, flipping through his passport very lazily. Earlier this year?
Yep.
You like it there? I bet you really liked it there.
It was all right.
I lived there ten years, the customs man said.
What part of Bangkok?
You wouldn't know if I told you. I bet the only places you know are Pat Pong and the shopping mall.
What shopping mall? said the husband defiantly.
The customs man had unzipped his backpack and was turning it inside out. The husband almost admired him, because he was impervious to the husband's dirty underwear, squeezing every wrinkle so gracefully, looking for contraband. .
And the husband thought: Have I only lately become a sleaze to them, or did they always think I was a sleaze?
He stood in a dream until the agent let him go.
Hello, Sien. I hear you wanted me to call.
Yes, sir. I have some news for you. You know sir we contact Cambodia go disco show picture your taxi girl they say no one like that is working there now. They say no one like that ever worked there.
She's not there anymore?
No, sir. When she working there? Long time ago?
September.
September is not long time. I don't know why, sir. I think maybe your letter was too heavy. We enclose the four photos of you and the four photos of her. When it got Phnom Penh my contact say only one picture of her and one picture of you in there. Letter was too heavy.
You think she's dead?
I don't know, sir. I think maybe no news is insufficient news. We must try another way.
By now, through the weird and inverse pointillism of so many other influences, Vanna's image had disintegrated and dispersed in the blackness of his mind like the dust of a losing protostar.