Jade Read Free

that’s right my alley. They thought of me because the research would be a follow up on my PhD work. That’s the most tempting offer I’ve gotten so far even if it’s only a short contract.  
    The fact is that I’m spoiled with too many opportunities; I can’t come to a decision. 
     
    ❦

 
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER THREE
     
    THE PLANE ROLLS BY A few hangars, and stops close to a long building, the terminal. James helps me with my suitcase and my carry-on, and he’s very talkative. Oriental languages are his thing; he’s been working as an interpreter for Agatha and many other Europeans in the area. He tells me about his various clients. I shake my head, and hope I’m making the appropriate sounds of approval. 
    Hey, maybe I can pull this normal shit off. 
    Then again, maybe not, because all the locals stare at me. I was told that it was going to happen, but knowing it and experiencing it are two different things. 
    I’m not only a “farang”, which means stranger or foreigner, but I’m also a “Pome Sii Dang”: a red hair. In the Laotian pantheon of supernatural creatures only the demons have red hair. So they stare at me the same way we would stare if we saw a guy with red skin and a tail walking in our streets. 
    Once a freak, always a freak.
    We pass through the check-point, where Agatha waits for us. She moves her arms and jumps up and down like a cheerleader on crack. I can’t help myself; she makes me laugh out loud. 
    As we get closer, she squeals to the both of us, “I’ve missed you so much! I’m so happy you’re here!” But she does not touch us.
    I’m sure she’d like to hug me, and I guess she’s dying to put her hands on James, but she can’t. In Laos public displays of affections are unacceptable. 
    We walk out of the terminal, and, within seconds, I’m a sticky mess. It’s hot, and more humid than a Turkish bath. 
    I watch with fascination the endless line of cycles rolling down the street. I’ve seen pictures of this, but seeing it in person is amazing. In Laos, motorcycles are a collective mode of transportation. I watch a group of four kids drive by on a Chinese scooter. There’s a boy, a girl, another boy and another girl; they are like sardines in a can. You could hardly have a more complete physical contact between them, but, for some strange reason, that’s just fine, while it’s indecent to hug for three seconds or just to hold hands. Go figure!
    The inconsistencies of the artificial rules that collective life forces upon us are amazing; I’m about to open my mouth to point this out when Agatha stops me.
    “Stop it, Jade. Whatever you’ve noticed, I don’t want to hear it.”
    James’ head shoots back and forth between the two of us in surprise. I shrug, and get in the car without saying a thing. Sometimes Agatha is spooky; it’s like she can read my mind. 
    We pile up in the antique machine. It’s a tribute to the strength of rust. The chauffeur and the luggage are in the front, and the three of us are in the back with no safety belt. Who cares, though, the car goes at a whopping 20 miles per hour. Agatha is in the middle, between James and me. He’s got one arm wrapped around her shoulder, and she has a hand on his knee. Yep, they’re an item.
    “I told Jade that we would go swimming at the waterfalls if we get home before night,” says James.
    “Sure, why not? It will do all us good and Jade loves cascades.”
    I do. I love water. If I could live in a pool of fresh water or in the ocean, I would.
     
    ❦
     
    The drive is not very long, and we soon reach what they call the camp. There are a few wooden constructions around a large solid-looking building. It was probably erected by the French, in the 19th century, when this part of world was known as Indochina. 
    It’s one of those collective structures that you can identify at once in any part of the world; the shape of the building is dictated by its purpose. Initially it may have been a