sin.
A woman sat cross-legged on top of her cloths in a long Tottenham Hotspur football scarf and earmuffs.
“Sister,” asked Siri, “where might we find Auntie Kwa? She’s a weaver.”
“She’s a common seller,” said the woman with a morose expression. “She’s a mother to ingrates, a wife to a drunk killed in a useless war. She’s the sister to a drug addict. She’s a pauper because nobody has money to buy her beautiful wares. But somewhere deep in all that tragedy, yes, she’s a weaver.”
The reply was somewhat more complicated than the question deserved, but Madame Daeng got it. “You’re Auntie Kwa,” she said.
“To some,” said the woman. “To others I’m dirt.”
Siri unwrapped the half
pha sin
from its plastic bag and held it up. “Did you weave this?” he asked.
Auntie Kwa looked at it curiously, then up at the customers. “Oh, it’s you.”
She climbed down from her perch. “Did I weave that? Yes and no,” she said as she rummaged around in a large pack,finally producing another plastic bag, this one stapled shut. “I’m to give you this,” she said, and handed it to Siri. “Glad to be rid of it. It’s brought me nothing but bad luck.”
Siri doubted whatever was in the bag could curse her life to a greater extent than she herself. He ripped open the staples, reached into the bag and pulled out another
pha sin.
“Don’t open that here,” said Auntie Kwa.
“It’s just a rectangle of fabric,” said Siri.
“It’s never that.”
Siri unfolded it anyway, took hold of the corners and let it drape to the ground. To his untrained and disappointed eye, it looked rather similar to the one they’d received in Vientiane. There were one or two minute differences that he would have called insignificant. He started to run his fingers around the hem.
“Do you know where this is from?” asked Daeng.
“No,” said Auntie Kwa, and looked away.
“It’s Lu, isn’t it?” said Daeng.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” said Siri. “Could I borrow some scissors?”
“What for?”
“Look here,” he said, and handed her the
sin.
“Feel this?”
She reached out and squeezed the hem. “What is that?” she asked.
“I’m guessing it’s a finger,” he told her.
“A what?” said Auntie Kwa, stepping back in horror.
“A severed finger like the one you sent to me in Vientiane.”
“Are you mad? I never did any such thing.”
“Sister,” he said, “I work for the Ministry of Justice. We found a finger in the hem of the
pha sin
you’ve admitted you wove. That makes you a murder suspect.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“If this second one also contains a finger, that’s what weat Justice call a … a double-digit dilemma. You’re in a lot of trouble. Now … the scissors, if you’d be so kind.”
Auntie Kwa handed him a pair of shears as big as his chest. Daeng laughed. “Could you just pick the hem for us?” she asked the woman.
Reluctantly, Auntie Kwa took hold of the cloth and began to pick with a thin blade. As in most markets, this small but significant break from early morning tradition had attracted a silent gathering of curious onlookers come to see what the outsiders were doing. Shoppers in blankets tied at the waist with string or in ex-army trenchcoats crowded in on the old couple.
“I didn’t do this. I didn’t do this,” Auntie Kwa mumbled. She didn’t dare look inside even when the opening was wide enough. She handed the skirt to Siri, who probed into the hem with a pair of tweezers from his morgue kit. He withdrew the object slowly, but it wasn’t a finger he found in there. It was a bullet of a type he didn’t recognize.
“That’s not a finger,” said Auntie Kwa.
“It’s no less incriminating,” said Siri. “It could be the bullet that killed the owner of the finger, for all we know. I think you’d better tell us everything.”
“I had nothing to do with this,” she said. “There’s nothing to tell. I
A woman sat cross-legged on top of her cloths in a long Tottenham Hotspur football scarf and earmuffs.
“Sister,” asked Siri, “where might we find Auntie Kwa? She’s a weaver.”
“She’s a common seller,” said the woman with a morose expression. “She’s a mother to ingrates, a wife to a drunk killed in a useless war. She’s the sister to a drug addict. She’s a pauper because nobody has money to buy her beautiful wares. But somewhere deep in all that tragedy, yes, she’s a weaver.”
The reply was somewhat more complicated than the question deserved, but Madame Daeng got it. “You’re Auntie Kwa,” she said.
“To some,” said the woman. “To others I’m dirt.”
Siri unwrapped the half
pha sin
from its plastic bag and held it up. “Did you weave this?” he asked.
Auntie Kwa looked at it curiously, then up at the customers. “Oh, it’s you.”
She climbed down from her perch. “Did I weave that? Yes and no,” she said as she rummaged around in a large pack,finally producing another plastic bag, this one stapled shut. “I’m to give you this,” she said, and handed it to Siri. “Glad to be rid of it. It’s brought me nothing but bad luck.”
Siri doubted whatever was in the bag could curse her life to a greater extent than she herself. He ripped open the staples, reached into the bag and pulled out another
pha sin.
“Don’t open that here,” said Auntie Kwa.
“It’s just a rectangle of fabric,” said Siri.
“It’s never that.”
Siri unfolded it anyway, took hold of the corners and let it drape to the ground. To his untrained and disappointed eye, it looked rather similar to the one they’d received in Vientiane. There were one or two minute differences that he would have called insignificant. He started to run his fingers around the hem.
“Do you know where this is from?” asked Daeng.
“No,” said Auntie Kwa, and looked away.
“It’s Lu, isn’t it?” said Daeng.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” said Siri. “Could I borrow some scissors?”
“What for?”
“Look here,” he said, and handed her the
sin.
“Feel this?”
She reached out and squeezed the hem. “What is that?” she asked.
“I’m guessing it’s a finger,” he told her.
“A what?” said Auntie Kwa, stepping back in horror.
“A severed finger like the one you sent to me in Vientiane.”
“Are you mad? I never did any such thing.”
“Sister,” he said, “I work for the Ministry of Justice. We found a finger in the hem of the
pha sin
you’ve admitted you wove. That makes you a murder suspect.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“If this second one also contains a finger, that’s what weat Justice call a … a double-digit dilemma. You’re in a lot of trouble. Now … the scissors, if you’d be so kind.”
Auntie Kwa handed him a pair of shears as big as his chest. Daeng laughed. “Could you just pick the hem for us?” she asked the woman.
Reluctantly, Auntie Kwa took hold of the cloth and began to pick with a thin blade. As in most markets, this small but significant break from early morning tradition had attracted a silent gathering of curious onlookers come to see what the outsiders were doing. Shoppers in blankets tied at the waist with string or in ex-army trenchcoats crowded in on the old couple.
“I didn’t do this. I didn’t do this,” Auntie Kwa mumbled. She didn’t dare look inside even when the opening was wide enough. She handed the skirt to Siri, who probed into the hem with a pair of tweezers from his morgue kit. He withdrew the object slowly, but it wasn’t a finger he found in there. It was a bullet of a type he didn’t recognize.
“That’s not a finger,” said Auntie Kwa.
“It’s no less incriminating,” said Siri. “It could be the bullet that killed the owner of the finger, for all we know. I think you’d better tell us everything.”
“I had nothing to do with this,” she said. “There’s nothing to tell. I
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