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 out.
“Exactly how old are you?” Dtui asked.
“Seventeen and eleven months.”
“You see?” said Civilai. “If she was from the tribes she’d have four children by now. But how did the daughter of a missionary learn to drink, little daughter?”
“Mom and Dad did the remote village thing,” she told him. “They schooled my brothers and sister and me at home and let us run wild with the local kids. When we grew up they trusted us to have the common sense to know what was right. But by then our right was more the village’s right than theirs. We did stuff we still haven’t gotten around to telling the folks about. Best they don’t know, I say. I guess it’s what you deserve for naming all your kids after fruit.”
“Boys too?” Civilai asked.
“Melon and Mango.”
“Poor lads.”
“And where’s your family now?” Daeng asked.
“They were asked politely by the local cadre if they wouldn’t mind leaving the country. Most of the independent missionaries were thrown out when the PL took over. They were too poor, I guess. Your authorities only turned a blind eye to the religious groups with enough money to invest in development projects.”
Siri smiled. She was fearless. If ever Haeng stopped drooling for five minutes to listen to what she was saying, he’d hate her.
“Why didn’t you go with them?” Phosy asked.
“Where to? Indiana? No way. I wouldn’t know what to do there. I don’t know those people. This is my home. I applied for a teaching job on local rates and got it. Not enough to live on but these little junkets sustain me when they come along. Mom and Dad are pissed at the communists. They’re fund-raising right now to support the insurgency. How Christian is that?”
“I don’t think you should be telling us,” said Dtui.
“What can I say? You can’t choose your father.”
“A father’s goodness is as big as a mountain,” said Daeng, who had a Lao saying for most occasions.
“I had my own ears and eyes, auntie,” Peach replied. “First you hear it, so you must see it. Once you’ve seen it, so you must make a judgement with your heart. This is my judgement. I’m staying here.”
A counter Lao saying.
“Very well,” Siri said. “As Madame Daeng quite rightly points out, candles are not forever. So, before we are forced into our bunks, probably to be blown to kingdom come if any of us walks in our sleep, I’ve asked Peach to tell us what she’s learned from the American contingent about the mission we’re here for.”
“At last,” said Comrade Lit.
“I’m glad somebody knows,” said Civilai.
“All right,” said Peach. “Your Judge Haeng was supposed to pass all this on but he’s not in the mood, for some reason. He asked me if I’d do it. This is what I’ve learned. Or, at least, what they told me at the briefing. We are here to find one Captain Boyd Bowry or his remains. When he disappeared in 1968 he was twenty-four years of age, which would make him thirty-four if he’s still alive. He was a helicopter pilot attached to the Air America program out of Udon Thani in Thailand. I assume you all know about Air America?”
“Perhaps you could give us a quick overview so we know how the Americans see it,” Siri suggested.
“OK,” Peach went on, “I hope I can remember it all. Briefly, Air America was—still is, for all I know—an airline funded and operated by the CIA. They flew what they called “aid” missions
“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 out.
“Exactly how old are you?” Dtui asked.
“Seventeen and eleven months.”
“You see?” said Civilai. “If she was from the tribes she’d have four children by now. But how did the daughter of a missionary learn to drink, little daughter?”
“Mom and Dad did the remote village thing,” she told him. “They schooled my brothers and sister and me at home and let us run wild with the local kids. When we grew up they trusted us to have the common sense to know what was right. But by then our right was more the village’s right than theirs. We did stuff we still haven’t gotten around to telling the folks about. Best they don’t know, I say. I guess it’s what you deserve for naming all your kids after fruit.”
“Boys too?” Civilai asked.
“Melon and Mango.”
“Poor lads.”
“And where’s your family now?” Daeng asked.
“They were asked politely by the local cadre if they wouldn’t mind leaving the country. Most of the independent missionaries were thrown out when the PL took over. They were too poor, I guess. Your authorities only turned a blind eye to the religious groups with enough money to invest in development projects.”
Siri smiled. She was fearless. If ever Haeng stopped drooling for five minutes to listen to what she was saying, he’d hate her.
“Why didn’t you go with them?” Phosy asked.
“Where to? Indiana? No way. I wouldn’t know what to do there. I don’t know those people. This is my home. I applied for a teaching job on local rates and got it. Not enough to live on but these little junkets sustain me when they come along. Mom and Dad are pissed at the communists. They’re fund-raising right now to support the insurgency. How Christian is that?”
“I don’t think you should be telling us,” said Dtui.
“What can I say? You can’t choose your father.”
“A father’s goodness is as big as a mountain,” said Daeng, who had a Lao saying for most occasions.
“I had my own ears and eyes, auntie,” Peach replied. “First you hear it, so you must see it. Once you’ve seen it, so you must make a judgement with your heart. This is my judgement. I’m staying here.”
A counter Lao saying.
“Very well,” Siri said. “As Madame Daeng quite rightly points out, candles are not forever. So, before we are forced into our bunks, probably to be blown to kingdom come if any of us walks in our sleep, I’ve asked Peach to tell us what she’s learned from the American contingent about the mission we’re here for.”
“At last,” said Comrade Lit.
“I’m glad somebody knows,” said Civilai.
“All right,” said Peach. “Your Judge Haeng was supposed to pass all this on but he’s not in the mood, for some reason. He asked me if I’d do it. This is what I’ve learned. Or, at least, what they told me at the briefing. We are here to find one Captain Boyd Bowry or his remains. When he disappeared in 1968 he was twenty-four years of age, which would make him thirty-four if he’s still alive. He was a helicopter pilot attached to the Air America program out of Udon Thani in Thailand. I assume you all know about Air America?”
“Perhaps you could give us a quick overview so we know how the Americans see it,” Siri suggested.
“OK,” Peach went on, “I hope I can remember it all. Briefly, Air America was—still is, for all I know—an airline funded and operated by the CIA. They flew what they called “aid” missions
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