“I don’t refuse to know,” Mister Pech said sternly. “I recognize it for what it is—an appendage of the Viet Minh conspiracy, a force we can’t cope with because the young men are all in dance halls!” Mister Pech turned from his son. To Vathana, in a pleasant voice, he said, “I’m very busy today. I came only to see my grandson and to give you this.” From his pocket he pulled a bracelet with a Buddhist prayer carved onto an ebony charm. “I don’t have leisure time to waste on anti-Khmer talk.” He smiled broadly. “I am a patriot. I would expect that of my son, but he...what does he call himself?—Epicurean. He cares not for the nation. I blame myself. Let this little one hear you talk, see you do business. Don’t swaddle him like his grandmother did to...did until he’s a twenty-two-year-old infan
