“How does . . . how could she kill them?” Daeng asked.
“The boys believe that she crushes their chests while they sleep. In the dream they’re dead, and it’s so convincing there is no point in breathing anymore. The spirit then takes the soul as a memento. She exists in many cultures with many names. But when you peel away her disguises and wipe off her makeup it always comes down to that one, same antagonist: phibob, the evil spirit that’s responsible for most of the damage done to man’s mind.”
Siri tugged at the cord around his neck and pulled out the talisman from under his T-shirt.
“Feel this,” he said.
“It’s hot,” she said.
“They feel threatened by this kind of talk,” said Siri. “We have ours housetrained for the moment. But they continue to live on in the minds of thousands of lonely men around the world.”
“How can you fight anything like that?” Daeng asked.
“I think I have an idea,” said Siri. “I could—”
Daeng screamed and let go of the amulet.
“Hot?” Siri asked.
“I have an imaginary blister,” said Daeng.
“Good, then it seems they know what I’m thinking. I’ve touched a nerve.”
Chapter Five
Darts and Balloons
“I have so much gas in me Madam Nong has to tie a rope round my ankle and hold on to it so I don’t float away,” said Civilai.
“Yes, I’m sure we’re all fascinated by your flatulence stories,” said Siri.
“I didn’t say anything about flatulence,” said Civilai. “Gas is a different beast altogether. Gas is containable and controllable. Flatulence sneaks out at inopportune moments. You won’t be hearing any wind instruments from me this evening. No, Sir. I’ll know when it’s time for me to empty my gas and I shall . . .”
“Civilai, spare us,” said Madam Daeng.
“. . . head off in an orderly fashion, open the valve, release the pressure and return with you all none the wiser.”
“Except now we’ll all guess where you’re going and what you’re doing,” said Daeng. “Even if you’re not.”
“I’m feeling quite off my food already,” said Bruce.
“Ah, Son, you’ll have to put up with a lot worse than this before our film is complete,” said Siri. “This is just a sort of test.”
Bruce, alias Deesabun, had arrived back in Laos the previous week. He was twenty-two with dyed-blond hair, had an earring in his left lobe and carried eight kilograms more than he really needed. He’d been a quick learner in Australia and was already assured a lucrative career in TV production. But in the cutting room at SBS in Sydney he’d seen the conditions in the refugee camps and heard the struggling Lao government’s pleas for qualified personnel to come home. His conscience got the better of him. It was a romantic notion to return to the country of his birth with something of value to offer. His cousin at the Fuji film lab had written to him about a group of visionaries who had written a film script. They had a Panavision camera they couldn’t operate. They needed Bruce.
Upon his return, he’d met Siri and Civilai who had begun their romance with cinema half a century before in France. He was astounded by the depth and breadth of their knowledge of film. Their script, on the other hand—rewritten by the Ministry of Culture to incorporate Comrades Lenin and Marx, altered again by the Women’s Union to raise the profile of women and returned to its original state by its writer, Siri Paiboun—would have been impossible to film in its present state. They had just the one camera, no permission to travel to locations and a budget that wouldn’t have paid for sandwiches and lemonade on a B-movie set in Australia.
What they lacked in resources and ability, they more than made up for in alcohol. The first official executive directorial meeting was convened immediately after the evening noodle rush. The tables were clean, the utensils were spotless and a crate of Bordeaux sat at the feet of Madam Daeng, who wielded the corkscrew. The wine was the last from the cellar of the French Embassy, closed for the past two years due to a misunderstanding: the French thought Laos was still a colony.
Bruce was welcomed formally with a toast although Siri noticed Civilai sipped sparingly from his glass. They’d all warmed to Bruce’s character—a sort of Lao/Aussie blend that made them smile. Siri particularly liked the fact that their cameraman was not afraid to speak his mind.
“Do you have good news for us?” Daeng asked.
“I certainly do,” said Bruce. “I spent the afternoon with your camera, and I’m pleased to say it is now fully functional.”
The directors cheered and drank to the victory. Bruce started to explain such things as fuses and batteries but he could see these details were fluttering hopelessly in the air some distance from the old folks’ ears. So, he entertained them with other good news.
“I told you I had a surprise for you,” he said. “Well, under the auspices of international aid for the third world, I was able to get a donation of a hundred and eighty hours of film and some video equipment. It’s all in a crate sitting at the Customs shed at Tar Deua.”
They stood with their drinks and saluted their cameraman.
“Excellent,” said Siri.
“Our young hero,” said Daeng.
Even sickly Civilai drank to the news.
“I just don’t know how to get it out of Customs,” said Bruce.
“Fear not,” said Civilai. “It used to take a week of paperwork, but the process has been streamlined remarkably this past year. The current policy is for them to hold on to everything until someone shows up with an envelope full of money to thank the official for looking after their goods.”
“Thank heavens for the return of corruption,” said Daeng.
“Simplifies everything,” said Siri.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Civilai, “time is against us. I suggest we read through the opening scenes and put our collective minds together on how to win over the audience from the outset.”
“You might have to take off your sunglasses so you can see the script,” said Daeng.
“These aren’t sunglasses, Madam,” he said. “These are ultraviolet, light-sensitive lenses imported from Eastern Europe. Johnny Halliday wears them.”
“They’re from the morning market,” said Siri. “And they have no more UV protection than beer bottles. And I’m sure even Halliday takes his off at night.”
“All right, it’s an image thing,” said Civilai. “I’m looking for a hat to go with it.”
Given his bad health, nobody had the heart to talk him out of it.
The script began by switching back and forth between the lives of two teenagers—one poor, one rich, but both causing havoc to the French colonial administration in Laos: a jeep disabled here, a phone line cut there. The military give chase but are always one step behind until they learn of the identity of the two boys. They torture the relatives who refuse to give them up. At last the boys meet for the first time at the port in Da Nang, about to stow away on a steamer to France. Both already heroes.
“Just out of interest,” said Bruce, “and it really doesn’t matter to me one way or the other, how much of this script is biographical?”
Siri and Civilai looked at each other and smiled.
“I’d say about . . .” Civilai began.
“At least . . .” said Siri.
They looked at Daeng, whose eyebrows were somewhere up by her hairline.
“A substantial amount,” said Civilai.
“Wow,” said Bruce. “So, the assassination of the French president in the thirties. . . ?”
The old boys laughed.
“Come on, Son,” said Siri. “Who’d be foolish enough to admit to something like that?”
“It would be madness,” said Civilai.
“Ridiculous,” Siri agreed.
“But that reminds me,” said Civilai, “I should take a look in the attic.”
“For the . . . ?” said Siri.
“We’ll need it for the assassination scene.”
“You still have it?”
“The gun?” said Bruce. “Wow!”
Daeng smiled and refilled the glasses. Nobody had an attic.
The group sat together for another seven hours: Siri and Civilai attempted to expand the scope and grandeur of their film, while Bruce attempted to bring them all down to earth. But talking about something they loved was one of the happiest nights Siri and Civilai had spent together for a long time. When the tragedies began, Siri wondered how different everything might have been if he’d taken the threat more seriously. But, as it was, that night, with the warm buzz of expensive Bordeaux in their veins, they stood at the end of the meeting and, inspired by their Aussie cinematographer, they hugged. It was un-Lao but surprisingly therapeutic. Siri could feel all the bones in Civilai’s chest and commented that it was like embracing a xylophone, but he didn’t let go and Civilai was in no hurry to get away. They all felt that they were about to embark on a long hike through beautiful scenery with Civilai stepping into the bushes to throw up from time to time. But that didn’t take away the magic. The completed film was in their heads. They’d started writing their Oscar acceptance speeches. This was a great moment and they all knew it.
Bruce was still negotiating with the government for the return of his father’s property. In the meantime, he was staying at a guesthouse a few blocks walk away. They pointed him in the right direction and pushed. Civilai staggered to his lemon-colored Citroën. They were more concerned about his walking than his driving so nobody attempted to take the keys from him. He’d be alone on the road and the car barely hit forty kilometers an hour. Civilai, probably legally blind behind his Soviet shades, spent some time searching for the slot for the key, but, once engaged, the engine purred like that of a more impressive vehicle. He wound down the window.
“Little brother,” he called to Siri.
Siri walked to the car and Civilai handed him a wad of papers he’d retrieved from the glove box.
“I forgot,” he said. “I got the list. Here! Sixty-four journalists, one of whom is probably here for the sole purpose of killing you slowly and painfully and massacring the rest of us in the process. Their CVs, their blood types, their ages and all the way down to their favorite sandwiches. I’ve called in what few favors I have left to do background checks on them. I have hope we’ll find him before he starts slicing slivers of skin off—”
“We can all imagine how he’ll go about it,” said Siri. “But don’t you worry yourself. I have freedom-fighter Daeng and Ugly the Wonder Dog to protect me.”
Civilai grabbed Siri’s wrist.
“Siri,” he said.
“Yes?”
“My little brother.”
He didn’t let go.
“What?” said Siri.
“I love you.”
Even after three bottles of Bordeaux, there were some things men didn’t say to each other. Siri could see his own embarrassment reflected in the dark of the glasses. Still Civilai didn’t let go. It was as if he was waiting for Siri to say something meaningful back.
“Civilai,” said Siri.
The doctor could feel his heart throb.
“Yeah?”
“Let go of my wrist.”
“All right,” said Civilai, and with two coughs of exhaust from a rusty tailpipe, he was off.
Nurse Dtui, the wife of Chief Inspector Phosy, had what they call an eye for language. She’d studied and absorbed Russian without the benefit of hearing it spoken. She’d learned how to pronounce the words from the six pages at the front of the textbook that laid it all out linguistically like a mathematical table. But that suited her style. She’d done the same with English even though that language was a bugger for inconsistency and exceptions to rules. As a member of the Lao administration team at the Moscow Olympics, she had proven her value as a translator, so it was only natural they’d find a role for her at the fifth anniversary celebration. Interpreters the Pathet Lao could trust were thin on the ground. Those who had learned English from the Americans were either having a dour time up north in reeducation camps or were on their way to the West. German and Russian speakers were starting to return from the eastern bloc with dubious technical skills, but their ability in those languages was a far cry from simultaneous translation. The majority of the press corps in town to cover the celebrations was from socialist countries. The Soviets, like the French before them, were keen to spark an interest in investment in this little landlocked country overflowing with natural resources and potential.
In fact, “potential” rather than “actual” was the adjective du jour in Vientiane that week. The organized visits were mostly to demonstration sites: samples of what a successful project might look like with a bit of luck and better handling. The groups were led by Soviet Embassy officials fluent in the languages of the socialist brotherhood and accompanied by Lao minders. The government officials understood little of the live commentaries that endorsed Laos the way Madam Loulou advertised new girls to her regulars: “She may not look like much, but she has hidden promise and a surprise or two.”
And all this left Nurse Dtui’s little pack of decidedly non-Communist English speakers wondering why they’d been invited at all. She and Phosy had met them that second night at the bar of the Vieng Vilai: the Constellation Hotel of old. It was there that Air America pilots and CIA spies and USAID workers would gather in the days when the landlords of Sodom and Gomorrah still collected their taxes in Vientiane. The boys would down their cocktails at the Constellation before heading off to the late-night sin spots of the after-hours capital. Those were the days when the options were vast in number and bottomless.
No such choice in 1980. The bar of the Vieng Vilai was something of a graveyard. To order drinks one had to drag the manager from the reception desk. He had the only key to the drinks cupboard. Once Dtui had ordered on behalf of her group, it was obvious the manager wouldn’t know an Old-Fashioned from a Vieux Carré. In ’75, the hotels had been left in the hands of men who had never stayed in one. Since then, tourism had been nonexistent, and a number of hotels had been converted to dormitories for cadres and their families. The sudden and random government decision to open the city to tourists had thrown the hotel industry into a panic. The managers had no guest relation skills and no foreign languages. They most certainly could not recommend wines or explain the contents of a cocktail.
So, at the insistence of the chief of police, the manager of the Vieng Vilai handed over his keys, returned to his office and left the group to take care of itself. The journalists looked on in admiration as the policeman climbed over the bar and began to hand out drinks. They’d been there dry for three days. Under Phosy’s management, there was no tab and no limit. The Australians would have ordered beer had the fridge been plugged in but they settled for tall Cuba Librés without ice. This was a third-world country after all.
They pushed two tables together, raised their glasses to Laos, and Dtui began to recite the welcoming address she’d memorized. Given her limited contact with English speakers, she did a fine job but didn’t get very far. They applauded after her third sentence. The other ten would never be heard. During the free-for-all that followed, she realized the limitations of her medical textbooks. She was sadly lacking in vulgarities, recognition of accents, idioms, abbreviations and the words to rugby songs. This shortfall was soon addressed by the journalists as they set about her reeducation.
At one point in the ongoing translation for Phosy, who knew no English at all, she confessed that she had no idea what anyone was saying. And it was at that point that Marvin, a tall, blond Australian leaned forward, and, in fluent Lao, said:
“Perhaps we can help you in that matter?”
“You see?” said Jim, a worldly Anglo-Australian photojournalist with a younger man’s face, “Western newspapers aren’t going to waste their budget on sending idiots to copy down whatever the Party tells them.”
“It’s been over two years since the last foreign journalist was here,” said Sixten, one of the Swedes. “The world wants to know what’s really going on.”
With the bar open and no other guests in the room, the evening progressed in a more traditional Lao fashion with bonds made and secrets shared. At one point, Dtui and Phosy were behind the bar fixing a round.
“I don’t think they know you’re the chief of police,” said Dtui.
“I didn’t tell them,” said Phosy.
“They’re very . . . open,” said Dtui.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, all that about the world knowing what’s really going on,” said Dtui. “Shouldn’t they be a little bit more careful about what they say?”
“I think they’re hoping for a reaction,” said Phosy. “Our secret service people can’t do anything when the world knows its journalists are here. If anything happens to them it would be a public relations nightmare. It would defeat the whole point of inviting them. They can say anything they like.”
The Second Biggest Nothing Page 6