Barnard had been given little choice. He’d needed to be at the scene of the fire to identify the old whore from her recent photograph. He’d needed to be here to follow her and to kill her. But there were few Westerners in Vientiane and his presence amongst the gawking crowd would have stood out. Hence the car. He’d watched the flames. They were a spectacular sight. Fire had a hunger for old buildings. Most of the properties along the river were closed but a group of onlookers had appeared from nowhere and stood and watched. They’d oohed when a window popped and ahhed with every falling rafter. He’d expected a human chain with buckets. The river was just across from the fire. But, no. They stood. And they watched until the last flaming moth flew off to the heavens and there was only smoke. And not until then did the insignificant policemen arrive. And then the more important ones. And then the boss, resplendent in Bermuda shorts and sandshoes, came to conduct an unimpressive investigation in the dark with failing torches. But where, oh where, were the owners?
Barnard had arrived at eight for his appointment with the little man at the address he’d been given. There were no lights on in the shop or upstairs. No sound. No passers-by. There was a note pinned to the metal grate. He couldn’t read it but he assumed it to say the owner was out. Barnard didn’t know where she’d gone or for how long but he had only three more days before he was out of medication. He’d had to expedite matters. The fire would bring her back in a hurry. If not this evening, then the next day. She’d travel home to mourn for her little shop and he’d have her.
He couldn’t stay at the Lane Xang now, of course. He’d drawn attention to himself by handing out his room number at the market. He doubted this God-awful place would have an efficient police force but, even if it did, he’d done enough to cover his tracks. They’d find the body in the burned-out building. The comrade’s little wife or his little mother would report him missing and, assuming they could count, the police would put two and two together. The dead man had an ongoing feud with the couple. Barnard didn’t know why and didn’t care. The little comrade had burned down the shop in revenge and was trapped by his own fire. Or, with a bit of luck, they’d suspect the shop owners of murdering him. Even more reason for them to return to clear their names. In a civilized country they would perform a post-mortem investigation and make the gruesome discovery of his death. But a country ruled by a university dropout half-breed was hardly likely to know what a pathologist was. He felt the odds had finally swung in his favour.
The flight following the course of the Mekhong was a hairy one. The young pilot lacked the confidence you’d like to sense in someone controlling, what Civilai often called, a heavy metal coffin with an egg whisk on the top. The boy pilot had been set the challenge of navigating the river as low and as slowly as possible. Somebody had been attempting to talk to him on the radio but he’d ripped off his headphones as the tension dug in. No longer connected by microphone, the mechanic was yelling at the top of his voice, pointing this way and that. The Mi-2 helicopter was cleverly designed so as not to be able to look downward without balancing on its nose in mid-air. The mute brother clung to the back of the seat, his knuckles as white as the bones they contained. But Madame Peung rode the air currents like a girl at the funfair. She whooped and laughed and would, no doubt, describe her flight as exhilarating.
Siri was too preoccupied to be nervous. Not for the first time in the past three years, as Yeh Ming, the one-thousand-and-two-year-old shaman, slowly moved into Siri’s life, the doctor was pondering yet another dream mystery. They’d been there again, the naked Frenchmen. Not a pretty sight. They were huddled together for warmth, staring directly into the lens of the dream camera, yelling their tetes off, shouting directly at Siri. It was as if they knew he was there watching but they couldn’t understand why he wasn’t taking notice of them. Why he wasn’t acting on what they were telling him. But for Siri it was exactly like watching a television with the sound off. He could hear nothing. He saw the Frenchmen break out of their penguin huddle in order to use their hands, because what true Frenchman could make himself understood without hand gestures? This was even more confusing. Six mimes all backwardwalking and imaginary-wall-feeling and banana-unpeeling. Siri had no idea where to look. But the bitter cold proved too much for them. Their joints froze. They turned frosty white. They crumbled to the ground like crushed ice and were blown away. Siri felt somehow responsible. He found himself looking at a snow storm. Waiting. He was contemplating what he’d have to do to change the channel when he was suddenly aware of the shape of a figure walking through the blizzard in his direction. It was a man’s outline trudging slowly through the snow. As he walked closer, Siri could see a long white gown edged in gold. A white suit beneath. But who …?
The man stood directly in front of the lens, his face filling the screen. Siri recognized him, an acquaintance who had become significant in Siri’s personal Otherworld. During his cynical years, Siri had always mocked the fact that mediums throughout Asia had a hierarchy of spirits. Shamans might dress like a king or a royal consort and messages to the beyond would begin through the ear of the departed aristocracy. He’d always considered that to be somewhat classist. But, of late, he’d come to realize there was some logic in it. The kings and princes always surrounded themselves with the most powerful shamans. Thus they had a direct line to the beyond. It was only natural that the royal courts would have a thriving afterlife community. In death as in life, the royals would rule the roost.
The recently departed king’s face hogged the screen. He spoke. Siri heard nothing. But this was not the usual contact where the spirits came into the doctor’s world through his head and spoke using his voice. This was more a portal that he was being invited to step into. He had no idea how. He wanted to get closer but this was a dream. There was no actual television. No sofa. No living room. The king raised his voice. There was something. It was faint, like listening to the neighbour through a drinking glass pushed up against the wall. He couldn’t make out words but there were sounds. This was a breakthrough. But the king soon became frustrated as he realized his words were not passing over. He stepped back and considered the situation. He then held up one finger. Then nine, one, and then he formed a zero with his index finger and thumb. 1910. It was a year. Siri committed it to memory. Before the king turned back into the blizzard, there may have been a roll of the eyes, a dip of the head. The gestures a schoolmaster might make in the presence of a remedial pupil.
When he woke that morning, Siri had prodded his wife’s shoulder but she was already awake. He’d asked her, ‘Daeng, what happened in 1910?’
She’d smiled and turned to him.
‘Most women are awoken first thing on a Sunday morning with erotic requests and all I get is a history test.’
‘Consider the erotic request the first prize for the first person in this bed who can tell me what happened in 1910.’
‘Siri, I don’t know. I wasn’t born yet.’
‘Damn. I need an historian.’
‘You’ve had a dream.’
He sat up on one elbow.
‘Just once,’ he said. ‘Just once I’d like to decipher the dream clues before I’m forced to resort to my huge intellect. Because it won’t be very long before my intellect goes the way of my ebony-black hair and rock-hard pectorals. Life would be so much easier if I could just wake up with the answers.’