Hokofugu ran so fast and so far he was listed as AWOL. But when he finally returned after a week spent in a cave, he was a changed man and he vowed never to touch another drop of alcohol in his life.
I passed on the news to Colonel Konko, who, with thick makeup and a change of wigs, had been most convincing as a woman especially under the shadow of darkness and in the eyes of a drunk. Then I went to see Nay Pom, who tamed animals to perform at temple fairs. I gave him a hamper of foodstuff in return for the loan of his duck and his orangutan and his bear.
Siri’s eyelids were heavy and the lamplight was growing weak. He smiled with pleasure at the conclusion of Toshi’s last story and would have lain on one side and fallen asleep were it not for one thing. The story was complete but the writing continued on the final page. The date was March 1945 and something peculiar had happened in the life of Kangen Toshimado. Siri read it silently to himself.
I suppose it’s only natural that living together in a small group is likely to cause some friction. I have left the dormitory and moved back to my tent to collect my thoughts and for my safety. Corporal Yatsusuki has continued to grow. We get complaints from the French from time to time saying that . . .
There was only one more page but it did not continue Toshi’s account of changes in the camp. In fact Siri had reached the stubs of pages that had been ripped from the diary. All that remained beyond the vandalism was one final sheet. It was dated 8/14/1945 and it said,
Tomorrow, I rise.
The lamp had reached the end of its wick. Siri lay flat on his mattress hugging the diary to his chest. No mysteries had been solved from his reading. No answers had been given as to the point of his mission. In fact he was more baffled than ever. Naturally he’d already read the last page. He was Siri Paiboun, the detective, after all. It was one of the first things he’d done. But he thought that by reading the rest of the diary, the meaning behind that final phrase might reveal itself. It did not. He slept for a little while but was awoken by the sound of the doorknob squeaking. He hadn’t locked it. There was no light in the room but he could visualize the door opening and his wife stepping inside. He knew Daeng too well. He knew she’d never be able to sleep in another room knowing he was so close. She would crave that kiss from her Adonis, the touch of his warm hand upon her.
“I want you here naked, now, beside me,” he said, patting the pillow.
There was a long pause.
“Well, if you insist,” said Beer.
Chapter Nine
The Kyoko Protocol
The standoff showed no sign of letting up. Three policemen in leg irons were holding down a kidnapper in tears. They’d tried to get him to talk but his pathetic sobbing wouldn’t let up. They’d gone through his pockets but there was no key. Time crawled by, and as if the situation couldn’t get any worse, the lamplight gave out.
“You know? Even if there was a comprehensive handbook for policemen,” said Sihot, “I doubt there’d be a section that got remotely close to this.”
“All we need is patience,” said Phosy. “Eventually we’ll get words out of him. The only way matters could get worse is if we accidently killed him, so I suggest you loosen the arm lock.”
Sihot let go and Ouan pulled away.
“Not so loose that we lose him,” said Phosy, who still had hold of the captive’s leg.
“What if he has an accomplice?” asked Jiep.
“Or a gang of them?” said Sihot.
“Let’s remain positive,” said Phosy. “Since our arrival we’ve only seen one person. He’s the one who drugged us and he’s the one who feeds us.”
“Then how did he get us here from the resort without help?” asked Jiep.
“Second Lieutenant Jiep,” said Phosy. “If you’d been observant you’d have noticed that all three of us have sores and abrasions on the back of our shoulders and dirt on the backs of our shirts. We have dried blood and bumps on the backs of our heads and our hair is dirty. But our legs appear to be fine. As none of these conditions existed before we arrived it suggests that Comrade Ouan here stood between our legs, picked them up like the handles of a wheelbarrow, and dragged us here feetfirst. Isn’t that right, Comrade?”
The man groaned.
“If he did have an accomplice, they’d have taken an end each. As we aren’t concussed and drenched in blood I assume this place isn’t so far from the restaurant. How am I doing, Comrade Ouan?”
There was no reply.
“But the time has come for you to engage in some form of communication,” Phosy continued. “I’m assuming from your obvious distress that things haven’t gone the way you intended. As you can see, the situation we find ourselves in is rather bad for all of us but not without its funny side. We obviously can’t let you go without finding out why we’re here. So it’s possible that unless we can start a conversation all of us will starve to death. I have a theory, so I’ll go first. I hope you can sob and listen at the same time. It occurs to me, given the rarity of major crime in this vicinity, that the death of the Vietnamese and our abduction are in some way connected. You’ve generously given me time to formulate my theory so here goes.
“A local girl accompanied the Vietnamese to his favorite picnic spot with its charming view of the valley. She may have gone innocently, fascinated by the arrival of someone exotic and far more interesting than the boys she’d grown up with. Her intentions may well have been pure enough. But the Vietnamese died. The girl was overwhelmed with emotions. She ran home to her village and came to you, her boyfriend, to expl—”
“Her father,” said Ouan damply through the tears.
“I’m sorry?” said Phosy.
“I’m not her boyfriend.”
“Now there’s progress,” said Sihot.
“To her father, right,” said Phosy. “And her father knows only too well that the police are not to be trusted in this country. They would never believe the word of a poor country girl when she says she wasn’t responsible for the man’s death. They’d put her in handcuffs and parade her in front of the rich people’s court and say, ‘We have our killer!’ And what do you know? A policeman arrives from the big city asking questions about local girls.”
“So you panicked,” said Sihot, taking up the reins. “You drugged my beer, dragged me here, and chained me up to give yourself time to make a plan.”
“But what else do you know?” said Phosy. “Two more policemen turn up with the same questions. And we get the same treatment. Because frankly you don’t know what else to do. You’re not a killer and you’re smart enough to know that more and more policemen will come looking for us. You can’t kill the entire police force.”
“So you’re in quite a pickle,” said Sihot. “And you know why that is? It’s because you didn’t give us a chance to tell you why we’re here.”
“You’re here to take my girl,” said Ouan.
“We’re here to explain why we know she’s innocent,” said Phosy.
“Liar,” said Ouan. “That’s a policeman trick.”
“I agree this would be a good moment to introduce a trick,” said Phosy. “In fact we’d do or say anything to get out of here. But in this case the truth works even better than a lie for all of us. You see? In Vientiane we have a doctor friend who’s very smart. He can look at dead bodies and tell how they died. And do you know what he found in the hair of the Vietnamese?”
Phosy left a gap for an answer but didn’t expect one.
“He found a feather,” he said. “It was the feather of an owl. And there were deep scratches on the scalp of the victim and we did some research. There are a lot of eagle owls nesting in the karsts at this time of year. And there’s nothing a female owl wouldn’t do to protect her young. And she’d be mighty pissed off if anyone invaded her territory. I can’t imagine anything more frightening than having a five-kilogram bird dig its talons into your sca
lp.”
“She was scared to death,” said Ouan.
“I know she was,” said Phosy.
“She’s only seventeen,” said Ouan.
“And suddenly there she is on a cliff and this guy’s staggering around trying to fight his way free,” said Sihot. “He tries to cover his head with his hands. He knocks over the bottles and screams for your girl to help him but what can she do? She’s out of her depth.”
“She ran,” said Ouan.
“Anyone would have,” said Phosy.
“She watched him fall,” said Ouan. “The bird let go and the man screamed all the way down. It’s something she’ll never get out of her head. She hasn’t slept since it happened.”
There was a long, dark silence in the concrete room.
“So, what happens next?” said Jiep.
The helicopter left at 8 a.m. sharp. Both Roper and the pilot were sticklers for time. On board were the two quiet girls, the pilot, Roper, and Madam Daeng. If the pilot had his way, the noodle woman wouldn’t have been allowed on the flight. She’d been given clearance only as far as Thakhek and back to Vientiane. But that morning she’d whispered something in the pilot’s ear that obviously made him more receptive. Siri had watched from the guesthouse window and he made a mental note to ask her which particular threat to life or limb had worked on the shifty little man. She could be quite frightening.
Siri was on his way to Thailand. The small misunderstanding of the previous evening had been sorted out. Beer had gone to Siri’s room with good news. He had found a Japanese. JICA, the Japanese aid agency, had begun operations in the Thai countryside and they had placed a volunteer in Nakhon Phanom, across the river from Thakhek. Beer had arranged to meet her. River guards on both sides were on the lookout for refugees fleeing Laos but the sight of an old man and a younger one with a messed-up face in a rickety rowboat didn’t raise an eyebrow. Whenever Siri crossed the river, it always felt like time travel; a visit to the not-so-better future.
Kyoko was short even by Japanese standards but everything seemed to be in proportion. What she lacked in mass she more than made up for in beauty and bon humeur. Her smile was bracing and it came naturally and often. Her laugh was contagious. She’d graduated the previous year in Thai language and culture from Osaka University of Foreign Studies, which had left her with a somewhat narrow career path. And, as if to prove it, there she was in the distant northeast teaching handicrafts to people with disabilities—as a volunteer.
Siri and Beer met her for lunch in a canteen with buffet-style meal choices that looked like paleontological samples. Kyoko’s Thai was grammatically perfect and amusingly accented. She was a simple linguistic puzzle. Once Siri had cracked her pronunciation he was able to wade into a conversation.
“I am very excited to meet you, Doctor,” she said. “Mr. Beer told me all about you.”
“I’m amazed he found you so quickly,” said Siri.
“I am happy to be found.”
“Did he tell you what we need?” Siri asked.
“In a way,” she said. “Better you tell me.”
Siri hoisted a small fishing net from the floor and onto the empty seat behind him. From it he produced Toshi’s diary.
“This,” he said, “is the diary of a Japanese pilot.”
He went on to explain how it had come into his possession and to summarize the Lao language section. Kyoko was due to teach a class in paper folding so Siri had to keep it brief.
“I’d like you to read the Japanese part at the beginning,” he said. “We need to know if there are any clues as to what happened to Toshi before he came to Laos.”
“Dr. Siri?” she said.
“Yes, dear?”
“Why are you doing this?” She was thumbing through the early pages.
“Because it’s a mystery, Kyoko. My wife and I are easily intoxicated by them. Someone sent me a diary and asked for help. We flew to Thakhek to start to put it all together. Then we found you, another piece in the puzzle.”
“You do know that the earlier dates in this volume coincide with some disturbing events in our history? And Toshi was a military man. There are likely to be some unsettling entries, I’m certain.”
“If you’d sooner not . . .”
“No. No. I’m already fascinated. Many people of my father’s age and older know nothing of what actually happened during the war. It’s only recently that old soldiers have started speaking up. Reading this diary will be an education for me also.”
“Well,” said Siri. “If it’s education you’re looking for . . .”
He reached into the fishing net and pulled out a dozen folders. He explained how he’d come by them at the district office in Thakhek and how they were relevant to his search.
“If you get a spare moment,” he said. “I have another sixty folders back in my room.”
Kyoko laughed, which caused a tingle in Siri’s old heart.
“I hope you don’t want a written translation,” she said.
“Just a brief summary would be fantastic,” said Siri. “I want to know everything about his life.”
“Then we should begin with his name,” she said.
“His name?”
“Here on the first page dated July seventh, 1937. His name isn’t Toshimado. He begins with, My name is Uenobu Hiro and I am proud to have once served as a pilot in the Imperial Army Air Force in the service of our great emperor.”
Chapter Ten
Enthusiasm Is a Hard Lie to Keep Up
When the helicopter touched down in the small village square at Vangin, the girls became animated but clearly not from excitement. Daeng could see that they were shaking with fear. She tried to comfort them but they pulled back from her. When the rotors came to a stop Roper put down the steps, but they refused to leave.
“Come on now, girls,” said Roper, attempting two or three languages but there was no reaction. He and the pilot resorted to wrestling them from their seats and carrying them off the chopper. Some thirty people from the village had gathered around, smiling, waving, obviously overjoyed to see the girls, who were soon engulfed by the crowd and swept away. Roper spoke their language but Daeng did not. After five minutes of back-and-forth, Roper told Daeng that the father had not yet returned from a hunt. The villagers would take care of the children until his return. But Daeng knew the girls’ names from the official file and had noticed that nobody had used those names. The pleasantries appeared to be more for the benefit of the Englishman than the children. If they were truly pleased to see the girls they kept their feelings in the soles of their feet.
“Do you see this?” Daeng asked Roper.
“See what?”
“This is not a happy homecoming. Nobody’s really excited. It’s a show.”
“It’s because we’re here,” he said. “You have to understand ethnic culture. The tribespeople are reluctant to show their true emotions in front of strangers. We’ll get out of their hair as soon as we’ve attended a brief reception.”
The reception was designed to be as brief as possible. In the central pavilion, on a table, there were five plates of moldy-looking sweets and five plastic beakers of something too orange to be potable. The headman, who strongly resembled a bulldog on its hind legs, ate one of the sweets and took up one of the beakers. Roper did the same. The pilot documented it all on an 8mm recorder as per Roper’s instructions. Daeng took a step toward the table, then shouted, “Oh, I forgot my camera. Won’t be a minute.”
“The pilot’s filming the whole thing,” said Roper.
“I’d like some photos for my album,” said Daeng.
And she ran back to the helicopter.
The headman gave a painfully slow speech. Roper nodded in agreement with some of the sentiments. They all sipped politely from the beakers, all except Daeng, who had returned without a camera and remaine
d behind in the shadows. With the speech over, Roper said a few words in response. The villagers smiled at the tall white man who had wasted his life learning their language. And it was all over. The girls were nowhere to be seen. The visitors climbed aboard the chopper and retained their seats. Roper waved from the open doorway. Daeng did not. The pilot put on his terribly cool Ray-Bans and attempted to start the motor. Nothing happened. There wasn’t so much as a cough of ignition. He tried again. Nothing. The villagers were getting restless. Some were already walking away. Enthusiasm is a hard lie to keep up.
The pilot took an aluminum ladder from stowage and climbed up to stare at the engine. Daeng shouted, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing I can see,” he replied.
“Do you need any help?”
“Not from you.”
“Fair enough,” she said and walked away. What value was an ex–freedom fighter who couldn’t disable a helicopter without leaving a trace?
“It’s probably nothing serious,” said Roper, whose face belied his cool optimism.
“At least it gives us more time to take in the village,” said Daeng.
She set off on a tour, smiling at the householders but receiving only suspicious glares in return. The happy faces that had welcomed them were nowhere to be seen. She felt a heavy undercurrent of anger from the men as she trespassed over thresholds and allotments. Unlike any other villages she’d ever been to, there were no giggling children or curious dogs following her. In fact she saw no children over three and no dogs whatsoever. Only the wary eyes followed her. At one point at the back edge of the village she stubbed her toe on a shallow root beneath the dust. But what she kicked up was no root, it was a black electric cable. She knew she was being watched but she pulled the wire out of the earth and traced its source. Not very far into the thick undergrowth she found a bamboo hut that housed a brand-new Cummins generator. It was a very sophisticated piece of equipment for such an isolated place. She turned back toward the village and found herself staring into the barrel of a homemade musket.
The Delightful Life of a Suicide Pilot Page 9