"I have to park off the road," he said. "We don't want to be disturbed."
She started to speak but her words were overwhelmed by the restarting of the engine. He didn't put on the lights. He reversed across the road, bumped heavily into a bank of dirt behind them, then aimed at a small gap between an old dead tree and a younger version to its left. There hardly seemed enough room to get through. The side mirror grazed the dead trunk. Wei laughed. It was all part of her fairy-tale adventure. The truck forged through the thick undergrowth, leaves and twigs caressing the windows, branches twanging from the mirrors.
A little way ahead, a pale aura of light beckoned them on. She leaned forward in her seat excitedly to get a better look. They arrived at a sandy clearing barely twice the length and breadth of the truck and he switched off the engine. At the centre of the clear patch of ground was a beautifully embroidered double quilt. It was surrounded by a ring of flat temple candles. Their flames were untroubled by the breeze. At the head of the forest marriage bed was a tray with a bottle of champagne and real champagne glasses and small snacks on a plate. To one side, pink ribbons were tied around a tree trunk.
Wei looked at it all with her mouth open. She had never seen or imagined anything so beautiful. It was a scene from a mythical tale that perhaps she might tell her students: of handsome princes and poor country maids. A lump formed in her throat and tears began to flow from her eyes.
"You don't like it?" he asked.
She finally found words, "Oh, Phan, it's…it's so lovely."
The cheap make-up was smeared around her eyes. She leaned across to kiss him but he was too fast for her. He was out of the door and standing in front of the truck, signalling for her to get down. Her legs wobbled as she walked into the circle. Her posture was bad. He'd already started to notice her failings. He was anxious. He couldn't rush this but he didn't want it to take for ever.
"There's a bucket over there with soapy water," he said. "And a mirror."
"You want me to wash?" she asked.
"Just your face for now. They make brides put on so much junk at their weddings. You're beautiful. I want to see the girl behind the mask, just take off the make-up."
She shrugged and giggled and knelt by the bucket.
"Have you had champagne before?" he asked.
"No."
He kicked off his shoes and sat cross-legged on the quilt. He started to peel off the foil from around the cork.
"There's a shop in Vientiane," he said. It was as if he were just reading his lines but not investing any emotion into their delivery. "They have imported luxury items for foreign dignitaries. You can get a lot of exo — "
His eyes had wandered to his bride. She had unbuttoned the top of her blouse and rolled down the collar so she could wash. Her long neck was exposed and, at last, the feeling came to him. It was like a powerful drug that coursed through his veins and made him feel twice the man he was.
"Enough," he said. "Come over here." He fought to keep the anxiety out of his voice. She walked to the edge of the quilt and stepped out of her shoes. She reached for the silver belt that held up her phasin.
"Should I…?"
"No," he said. "I mean, not yet. We have all the time in the world and I want this to be special. Come and sit here."
He patted a spot beside him and quickly put the glasses there as a barrier. She knelt, then eased herself into a polite sitting position with her legs out to one side. He could see that her hands were shaking. It wasn't a cold night. He knew she wanted him, like they all did. He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath to calm himself.
"One, two…"he began in English.
"Three," she said, and the champagne cork exploded high into the starry sky. He heard it land somewhere at the rear of the truck. He was quick enough to have the sparkling wine in the first glass before it spilled.
"You've done this before," she said and reached for the glass.
"No, wait," he told her. He poured his own drink then put down the bottle before reaching for the small plate of hors d'oeuvres. "There are customs in Europe about how to do this. You'll have to get used to all this when we move there. This is caviar — real Russian caviar. You have to…"
"I've heard of it," she said. "They say it's very expensive. You really shouldn't sp — "
"All right, and one of the customs is that you listen to the customs. There'll be time to talk later." He smiled, embarrassed by his lack of control. "To drink champagne after taking a mouthful of caviar is an experience like no other. You'll think you're in heaven. But the rule is that you have to close your eyes when you eat it."
"So many rules. I'm surprised the Russians — "
"Here," he said, holding out a spoon piled high with small dark pearls of sturgeon roe. "Close your eyes and imagine we're sitting on a balcony overlooking the Black Sea."
She giggled again. He wanted to slap her.
"Go on. Close them."
She closed her eyes.
"Now open your mouth but keep your eyes closed. You have to promise to keep them closed until it's all melted in your mouth."
She opened her mouth. With his right hand he placed the spoon on her tongue and she closed her lips around it. Meanwhile, his left hand reached into his shirt pocket, took out a small envelope, and held it over her glass.
"What's that?" she asked.
He looked at her face. Her eyes were wide open. Rules! Rules had to be obeyed.
"I told you to shut your eyes." He was furious. He poured the powder into her glass and swirled it around. He was somehow able to hold his temper. "It's another surprise," he said. "A love potion."
Her laugh now was less spontaneous, more affected than before. She looked into his angry eyes.
"Where's yours?"
"What?"
"If it's a love potion, shouldn't we both — ?"
He grabbed the bottle and hurled it with all his might at the tree. It didn't break, merely bounced back in their direction. The champagne spewed across the quilt. She squirmed backwards.
"Phan, what's happened?"
"Just drink the damned champagne, will you?"
"No, you're scaring me."
"For Christ's sake! Why is this so difficult?"
He was across the quilt and had his forearm around her neck before she could react. He held her as if she were a calf ready for branding. She tried to pull his arm away but he was fearfully strong. His grip was unbreakable. Still confounded by what was happening, she reached for his hair with her free hand. She tried to yank at it but to her astonishment it just came away from his scalp with a slight tearing sound. She looked up at him, at the candlelight playing off his bald head, at the look of rage in his eyes. She had no idea who this man was.
She kicked and flailed her legs as he dragged her back across the quilt to where the champagne glasses still stood on the small tray. He took hold of her drink and squeezed her neck tightly. He held the glass in front of her mouth, waiting for her to gasp for breath so he could hurl the liquid down her throat.
"Drink it," he snarled. He was crying with frustration. "You've spoiled it. There were rules and you broke them. You've ruined the whole thing."
Her fingernails clawed at his flesh but he seemed not to notice. She clamped her lips shut and he threw the champagne in her face. He kept hold of her glass and smashed it against his. It left him with a stem and a jagged point in his fist. He held his new weapon in front of her face and drew his arm back to get full force. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, waiting for the inevitable.
There came an almighty crack. The grip around her neck loosened and her attacker slumped against her. She opened her eyes in time to see the glass drop to the quilt. Phan was still draped over her but without strength — without life. She fought his body off hers and fell back, panting, onto the quilt. Her shirt was ripped almost off. Her hair had broken free of its bun and hung across her face. Phan lay as if asleep on his side of the bed. His face on the pillow wore an angelic smile, but his hairless skull was cracked like an egg. A puddle of red yolk spread beneath him.