sold one of my
sin
s to some woman. She gave me twice what I asked for it. Then she handed me this plastic bag and told me an old man would bring back my
sin
one day, and I was to give him the bag—this one. I never even opened it.”
“When was this?” Daeng asked.
“About six weeks ago.”
“What did she look like?” asked Siri.
“Normal. Nothing special. Not tall, not short. About my age.”
The gathered onlookers had begun a mumbled translation for their fellow tribesmen.
“Lao?” asked Siri.
“Far as I could tell. I didn’t check her ID.”
“How was she traveling?” asked Daeng.
“Just turned up on foot here, like you two.”
“Do you know anyone who’s missing a finger?” Siri asked.
“No, I do not,” Auntie Kwa replied.
“All right,” said Daeng. “Then that brings us to the original question. Where was this second
sin
made?”
“Really, I don’t know.”
“Look carefully,” said Siri.
“It’s a cheap rip-off,” she said. “Poor quality. A Lu design, but nothing personal about it. We Lu take a pride in our weaving. It’s a family-based tradition in the villages. This was probably made over the border in a sweatshop. That’s why nobody buys my high-class
sin
s anymore. They go for the cheap ones.”
“Over the border?” said Daeng. “You mean, in China?”
“Yes. No, perhaps not China. You see this fabric? The green hem beneath the brocade? That’s Burmese. Here in Muang Sing we only produce black, indigo and blue.”
“And is there a trade in green fabric between Muang Sing and Burma?”
“No, too far. Not enough interest. If we needed it, we could get it cheaper from the Chinese.”
“So if I wanted to buy Burmese cloth …?”
“You’d go to Chiang Kok, on the Mekhong.”
“Do you know any Lu weavers over there?” Siri asked.
“There’s only the one. Her name’s Peu Jin. She lives by the river.”
“No, wait,” said Daeng. “That doesn’t make sense. You say they don’t produce green cloth here. But the
sin
that was sent to us—the
sin
you wove—has a green hem. So doesn’t that make it Burmese?”
“No, sister. That’s why I said yes and no when you asked me if it was mine. I did weave that cloth, but I used goodold-fashioned Muang Sing spun cotton. Someone’s dyed the hem green, and a shoddy job they made of it too.”
“Why would they do that?” Siri asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine, old man.”
Inspector Phosy had spent the night in his jeep on a remote hill. He’d found paranoia had saved his life on several occasions. In this case, it was more like a shivery touch of the inevitable that kept him away from his boardinghouse. He’d broken the face of probably the most influential villain in the province. Following his initial interviews at the Yao village, Phosy had driven his Chinese guests back to the border crossing at Pang Hai. From there they’d found their own transportation to the trade commission in Meng La.
Lieutenant Tang on the Lao side had been interested to hear of the inspector’s run-in with Foreman Goi. The lieutenant had collected a good deal of information about the toothless one. His interest had been piqued following a visit the foreman had paid him a year earlier. Goi had quite openly suggested mutual rewards in turning a blind eye to certain imports and exports. Ninety times out of a hundred, such a deal would have been accepted, and a Lao military man on five dollars a month could have himself a very cozy life. But Lieutenant Tang was no ordinary soldier. He was one of those rare devout communists who detested capitalist doctrines and the selfish pursuit of money. He could most certainly not be bought. He slept in a rattan hut, drank in moderation and wrote daily to his wife and children. Phosy liked him.
Over coffee, Phosy heard that toothless Goi was actually called Guan Jin. He was Thai Lu but born on the Chinese side of the border. Like the Lao, the Lu race had been cut in half by a
sin
s to some woman. She gave me twice what I asked for it. Then she handed me this plastic bag and told me an old man would bring back my
sin
one day, and I was to give him the bag—this one. I never even opened it.”
“When was this?” Daeng asked.
“About six weeks ago.”
“What did she look like?” asked Siri.
“Normal. Nothing special. Not tall, not short. About my age.”
The gathered onlookers had begun a mumbled translation for their fellow tribesmen.
“Lao?” asked Siri.
“Far as I could tell. I didn’t check her ID.”
“How was she traveling?” asked Daeng.
“Just turned up on foot here, like you two.”
“Do you know anyone who’s missing a finger?” Siri asked.
“No, I do not,” Auntie Kwa replied.
“All right,” said Daeng. “Then that brings us to the original question. Where was this second
sin
made?”
“Really, I don’t know.”
“Look carefully,” said Siri.
“It’s a cheap rip-off,” she said. “Poor quality. A Lu design, but nothing personal about it. We Lu take a pride in our weaving. It’s a family-based tradition in the villages. This was probably made over the border in a sweatshop. That’s why nobody buys my high-class
sin
s anymore. They go for the cheap ones.”
“Over the border?” said Daeng. “You mean, in China?”
“Yes. No, perhaps not China. You see this fabric? The green hem beneath the brocade? That’s Burmese. Here in Muang Sing we only produce black, indigo and blue.”
“And is there a trade in green fabric between Muang Sing and Burma?”
“No, too far. Not enough interest. If we needed it, we could get it cheaper from the Chinese.”
“So if I wanted to buy Burmese cloth …?”
“You’d go to Chiang Kok, on the Mekhong.”
“Do you know any Lu weavers over there?” Siri asked.
“There’s only the one. Her name’s Peu Jin. She lives by the river.”
“No, wait,” said Daeng. “That doesn’t make sense. You say they don’t produce green cloth here. But the
sin
that was sent to us—the
sin
you wove—has a green hem. So doesn’t that make it Burmese?”
“No, sister. That’s why I said yes and no when you asked me if it was mine. I did weave that cloth, but I used goodold-fashioned Muang Sing spun cotton. Someone’s dyed the hem green, and a shoddy job they made of it too.”
“Why would they do that?” Siri asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine, old man.”
Inspector Phosy had spent the night in his jeep on a remote hill. He’d found paranoia had saved his life on several occasions. In this case, it was more like a shivery touch of the inevitable that kept him away from his boardinghouse. He’d broken the face of probably the most influential villain in the province. Following his initial interviews at the Yao village, Phosy had driven his Chinese guests back to the border crossing at Pang Hai. From there they’d found their own transportation to the trade commission in Meng La.
Lieutenant Tang on the Lao side had been interested to hear of the inspector’s run-in with Foreman Goi. The lieutenant had collected a good deal of information about the toothless one. His interest had been piqued following a visit the foreman had paid him a year earlier. Goi had quite openly suggested mutual rewards in turning a blind eye to certain imports and exports. Ninety times out of a hundred, such a deal would have been accepted, and a Lao military man on five dollars a month could have himself a very cozy life. But Lieutenant Tang was no ordinary soldier. He was one of those rare devout communists who detested capitalist doctrines and the selfish pursuit of money. He could most certainly not be bought. He slept in a rattan hut, drank in moderation and wrote daily to his wife and children. Phosy liked him.
Over coffee, Phosy heard that toothless Goi was actually called Guan Jin. He was Thai Lu but born on the Chinese side of the border. Like the Lao, the Lu race had been cut in half by a
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