My unit mates sat spellbound and stunned.
“Our Yatsusuki?” said Hokofugu.
“There’s no question,” said Colonel Konko.
“And how do you know all this?” asked the major general.
“You know me as Konko,” said the visitor, “but my pen name was Uso. Before I enlisted I was the chief sumo writer for the Yomiuri newspaper. I can tell you categorically that in your unit you have a brilliant practitioner of the art of sumo. But I beg you all, say nothing of this to anyone. Don’t even tell him you know who he is because I am afraid you will frighten him back into seclusion. Ko-oji is safe here as long as his friends protect him.”
Overnight, Yatsusuki’s size and weight were no longer matters of ridicule. The jokes about his girth abated and he received more compliments about his strength. In some way, that newfound respect transcended language. Although nobody was sure how the word got out, the local people began to treat Yatsusuki differently. The children no longer made fun of him, the girls waved, and even the French administrators looked on with admiration. Yatsusuki stopped jogging and began to carry his weight with pride. It was as if his fat had become his friend. Of course, he had no idea what had caused these changes but he loved his new status.
I met my friend Konko again a few weeks later. I knew him from the theater. He had been a brilliant Kabuki performer. But his dream was to be a character actor in the movies; a role for which he was undoubtedly qualified. I offered to pay him for his role of Corporal Konko but he insisted it was his pleasure. And so, in one sweep, I had given delight to two men.
Chapter Seven
Making Woophi
Mr. Roper had left in his helicopter that afternoon to deliver the Lao Loum couple to their village near Mahaxai. They would stay there overnight. The fussy Lao pilot had been trained by the Thais during the old regime. He was protective of his craft and objected to flying in the dark. It appeared he didn’t have faith in the instruments to see him home. So Siri and Daeng had been entrusted with the task of babysitting the two girls and keeping an eye on the three Bru. The latter were easy enough to control. They were close to home and seemed so relieved to be out of the camp they spent all their time asleep. The girls were another matter. Still they didn’t speak—not even to each other. Madam Daeng pulled her most popular games and tricks from the hat but there was no reaction. When they ate they stared at Daeng like street dogs afraid she’d steal their food. They would not lie together at bedtime; each kept to her own bedroll. She sang them a lullaby, one her grandmother had taught her, about ghost cats that nibble at your cheeks if you don’t go to sleep, and eventually, albeit reluctantly, they dropped off.
Daeng and Siri sat in front of their room. Apart from some silent and mysterious guest in room 4 (the manager had suggested this was a government official writing a top-secret document), Roper’s team was the only clientele. The doctor had brought along a couple of bottles of Daeng’s home brew and some rice snacks and Siri was reading aloud by the light of an old oil lamp. Insects dropped onto the pages and he swept them away with the side of his hand.
“See how much fun his stories are?” he said.
“Yet we still have no idea what he wants us to do,” said Daeng.
“Maybe he’s already told us,” said Siri. “Don’t forget we’re only able to read half his diary.”
He thumbed back through the earlier pages written in Japanese.
“Perhaps our clue is hidden amidst all this beautiful penmanship.”
“Which is where it will have to stay unless you can produce a Japanese translator. I imagine they’re few and far between in Thakhek.”
“Fear not, good wife. Tomorrow our investigation begins in earnest and we can, at last, make sense of the mind of our grounded pilot. All will be revealed.”
Nurse Dtui arrived at police headquarters at seven the next morning with Malee at the end of a rope. The child had learned how to walk but not how to walk at heel. She was a maniac for beelines that took her across roads and through hedges. Admittedly there were few vehicles on the streets but Dtui knew her daughter had to learn how to curb herself and her enthusiasm. Hence the rope. It was attached to a small pack on her back rather than around her neck but it still raised eyebrows from passersby. Dtui led her girl to the reception desk.
“Hello, Dtui. Good morning, Malee,” said the old woman who sat behind it. Reception was still a novelty in socialist Laos. You’d normally walk from office to office until you found the person you were looking for, but Phosy was a leader ahead of his time. He demanded efficiency.
“Any news from Malee’s daddy?” Dtui asked.
“Not yet,” said the woman. “But don’t forget they’re in Vang Vieng. There’s no post office or telephone line.”
“I know,” said Dtui. “But at least he could have left a message with the pilot if he wasn’t going to make the flight back.”
“Look, darling,” said the kindly old lady, a mother and granny herself. “Here’s what probably happened. Sihot went to Vang Vieng and got injured or sick. Phosy found him and arranged to take him to a military base where they have a medic. As soon as he can, he’ll send word via a military wireless network and that news will eventually find its way to us.”
“You’re right,” said Dtui. “My imagination is far too wild.”
“Dtui, they’re in Vang Vieng. It’s a beautiful part of the country and, believe me, nothing bad ever happens there.”
So, there they were; the two highest-ranking policemen in the country and a promising youngster, chained by the ankles to an iron girder that extended from one concrete wall to the other. There was a single door beyond their reach and no windows. The crack around the door provided their only natural illumination, although there was a small lamp constantly lit in the far corner that emitted a yellow glow. The lack of sunlight gave the room an eerie chill. Ouan, the resort proprietor, brought them food and water and emptied the buckets they used for their waste. But despite all their questioning and pleading, Ouan said not a single word. The policemen had exhausted all logical suggestions as to why they were there and what would become of them.
Sihot explained how he’d found his way to that room. He’d gone to meet Ouan as recommended by Ookum, the hippie police sergeant at the intersection. He, too, had been offered spicy food and a cool beer to wash it down. He, too, had fallen unconscious and had come to in this room. He’d watched Ouan drag the comatose bodies of first Phosy and then Jiep to the girder.
“Does this happen often?” asked Jiep.
Phosy and Sihot looked at each other.
“Pretty much a monthly occurrence,” said Sihot. “This and getting blown up.”
“God, that can be annoying,” said Phosy.
“Are you making fun of me?” the young fellow asked.
“Of course we’re making fun of you,” said Sihot. “It was a stupid bloody question. Focus your mind on something helpful.”
“Like what Ouan stands to gain from having us chained here,” said Phosy.
“And where he’d find a concrete building in a village of wooden houses,” said Sihot.
“That I might know,” said Jiep. “I looked through the records. Apart from a busy resort, there was a concrete factory active in Vang Vieng during the old regime. It stopped operation when we took over. I imagine this is one of the factory buildings.”
“See, Sihot?” said Phosy. “This is exactly why I bring in the next generation.”
“You didn’t think to mention that information earlier?” asked Sihot.
“I assumed you’d know.”
“Do you also have a theory as to why a cement factory might need a metal girder and leg irons?” asked Sihot.
“Now that is a little worrying,” said Jiep. “If I was the pessimistic type I’d guess that Comrade Ouan has a deep hatred of policemen. He lures us here by throwing an imp
ortant person off a cliff, knowing we’ll come to investigate. He knocks us out with some fast-acting sedative and drags us here. He’s set up a torture chamber for the sole purpose of killing us slowly and painfully: pliers to the fingernails, electrodes to the genitals. That sort of thing.”
The two older men exchanged another look.
“Then it’s just as well you aren’t the pessimistic type,” said Phosy.
“It’s just that he seems too . . . too gentle to be a psychopath,” said Jiep.
“Some of the sweetest-looking people have been known to slit the odd artery,” said Phosy.
“Or perhaps he’s just the weak-minded assistant,” said Sihot. “The actual maniac drives up from Vientiane on weekends with his tool kit and does the nasty.”
“Enlightening as this conversation might be, what’s clear is that we have to get Comrade Ouan speaking,” said Phosy. “Until we know why we’re here, we can’t talk our way out of it. But I have a plan.”
Mr. Roper and the helicopter arrived in Thakhek early the next morning. The Englishman had planned to return the three Bru to their village on the border and take back the two girls in the afternoon. But he had hit an impasse called overtime. There was a problem with the pilot’s time sheet and he refused to go anywhere until he had it in writing that he’d be paid extra for taking on two trips in one day. The locals had quickly picked up on how to ride the UN’s budget and Roper was not the most skilled at dealing with money matters. So he set off with the three Bru and, once again, left the silent girls in Daeng’s care. They followed her like nervous ducklings.
Siri called upon his knowledge of history. He knew that the crucial year for the Japanese campaign in Indochina was ’45. The six months from March to August had seen Thakhek at its busiest with the launch of Meigo Sakusen or Bright Moon, the Japanese coup-de-force. This was when the occupation became an invasion. French officials had been imprisoned or shot. Some were beheaded. Garrisons were overrun. Businessmen and their families were robbed and confined to their homes and the Japanese took over the administration of the region. After humiliating defeats in the Philippines and Okinawa, large numbers of Japanese troops retreated to Laos and Vietnam in what they referred to as a tactical withdrawal and Thakhek assumed the role of regional hub as had been planned.
Siri and Daeng went to look at the area that had served as the Japanese troop campsite on the edge of town. After thirty-six years there wasn’t a lot to see. It looked like an underdeveloped suburb. There were buildings here and there the locals said had been erected by the Japanese but these were either covered in vegetation or refurbished to store hay or house cattle. Most had not survived the ravages of time.
The two little girls had accompanied Daeng and Siri on this walk around the settlement. One had allowed Daeng to hold her hand. The other flatly refused to let Siri touch her but she did remain a tail-length behind him the entire trip. Just before the old couple were about to give up and have lunch, they came across Beer.
Beer was a friendly fellow who approached them and asked what their purpose was in Thakhek. He was dressed in well-worn clothing, unimpressive but for an incongruous bright red scarf around his neck. He was perhaps sixty, unremarkable in build and height, but he did have a spectacular scar. It started at his hairline, gouged down between his eyes, narrowly missed his nose, and sliced through his mouth, leaving him with four lips and a truly cleft chin. Behind the gruesome scar there was something that sparked a memory in Siri’s mind—one too deep to dredge to the surface.
Beer told them he was a Vietnamese from the days when Thakhek had eight times more Vietnamese inhabitants than Lao. They’d worked for the French administration and had come to take up all the jobs the lazy Lao had refused to do.
“So, what can I do for you?” he asked Siri.
“We’re looking for someone who lived here during the Japanese occupation,” said Siri.
“Then this is your lucky day,” said Beer. “I am your man.”
Siri had seen the technique before. You’d go up to a group of unemployed laborers and ask if anyone was a carpenter. They would all raise their hands. Then you’d ask if anyone could speak Russian and again, they would all raise their hands. Poverty was the real mother of invention and how hard could it be to make a bookcase or speak a foreign language? But Beer was convincing. They sat with him in a noodle and coffee shack and he spouted names and dates that sounded accurate to Siri’s ear.
“Do you have family?” Daeng asked.
“Only in my mind,” said Beer.
“What do you see there?”
“A big house. Servants. A loving mother.”
“Everyone’s dream.”
“Yes, Auntie. Just a dream, I’m afraid. I was born and raised in a gutter. I’ve disappointed everyone since.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Daeng. “What did you do here during the war?”
“I was a laborer,” he said. “I built roads, dug ditches. I watched the Japs come and go. I learned a few phrases in Japanese so they always asked for me. I was twenty-two when they left so my memory of those days is still fresh. I have not yet reached the age of forgetfulness found in older people such as yourselves.”
Siri fondly recalled the Vietnamese trait of uncalled-for honesty.
“What do you actually do for a living?” Daeng asked him. “A well-spoken man such as yourself.”
“I do this,” he said. “I spot strangers. I offer my services for whatever they require. I know almost everyone in Thakhek and across the river. I am the best guide.” He ran a finger down the scar. “At first they take pity on me because of this,” he said. “You see? I have my own souvenir of the Japanese occupation. But soon they realize I have skills. I am the most suitable person to aid you in your quest, whatever it may be.”
“Was anything salvaged after the Japanese left?” Daeng asked.
“There was a sort of mass looting of everything they left behind,” said Beer. “Everything that could be sold or melted down. That’s where the tents went and removable parts on any planes or choppers that couldn’t take off. When the Chinese came through town on the postwar cleanup it was like the Japanese had never been here.”
“So no Japanese stayed on after the surrender?”
“Once they heard the Chinese would be monitoring events on the ground here, most of them decided to take their chances on the Thai side. For obvious reasons, the Japs weren’t about to trust their fate to their mortal enemies. And, of course, there were no officers to make decisions for them. There were a number who stayed in the region to fight against the French but most found their ways back to Japan.”
The girls were eating slowly, glaring out at nothing, mute. Noodle connoisseur Daeng had seen the state of the meal they’d ordered and given up a few spoonfuls into the bowl. Despite all his talking, Beer shoveled down his meal and gladly accepted dregs from the others. It was as if he hadn’t eaten for a long while.
“What do you mean they didn’t have officers?” said Daeng.
Beer shot himself in the temple with his fingers.
“They listened to the emperor’s speech, marched up to the main house, shut the door, and blew themselves up. Every last one of them blown to kingdom come.”
“Bad losers,” said Daeng.
“It was the shame,” said Beer. “They couldn’t stand the humiliation of defeat. It was the first time anyone had heard the emperor’s voice and there he was telling them they were to give up. They’d fought in his name. He was the sun god. They’d let him down. They didn’t deserve to live anymore.”
They arranged to meet Beer later that day at the town council office and walked with the girls back to the guesthouse. It was a dull town that belied its notorious histories; the Las Vegas of the Mekong, the center of the French administration, the hub of the Japanese invasion. All these pasts had been erased to leave a grey and russ
et shadow of itself. Thakhek in 1981 was, like all provincial towns in Laos, unremarkable. The ubiquitous town square with an invariably dry fountain was there—and the market and a modest attempt at a commercial district—but it was as if the place was biding its time, awaiting the return of gamblers and colonists and invaders to give it flavor, to bring it back to life.
The helicopter was parked on the football field out back. Mr. Roper was at the guesthouse waiting for them. He was sitting on the veranda with a glass flagon at his feet. To Siri’s mind its contents looked like the type of diarrhea you got after drinking bad milk. Roper held up a tin mug to welcome the arrivals.
“Hello,” he said. “Come and taste this.”
“It looks like . . .” Siri began.
“I know,” said Roper. “I was reluctant to sample it but I was pleasantly surprised. Fittingly, it’s from Ban Woophi. The family gave it to me in thanks for returning three breadwinners to the village. Normally I would have emptied it over the jungle on the way back but I chanced a sip and, my goodness.”
Without waiting for confirmation, he picked up the flagon and poured a few centimeters into the mugs in front of him on the balcony.
“What is it?” asked Daeng, accepting one mug.
“Goodness knows,” said Roper. “They did try to explain but Bru isn’t my strongest language.”
“Have you considered they might be trying to kill you?” said Siri, accepting a mug himself.
“There are so many faster ways to be rid of me,” said Roper. “Try it.”
Siri and Daeng took a swig and grimaced as the grog bored its way through their intestines and into their stomachs. It was most certainly alcoholic and probably lethal but they enjoyed the spicy liquor.
“Good, eh?” said Roper. “If our pilot wasn’t so mercenary I’d have him swing by the village again and pick up a few barrels of the stuff.”
The Delightful Life of a Suicide Pilot Page 7