I Shot the Buddha

by Colin Cotterill

  Before they went their separate ways, the team members summarized the status of events. Siri read them only the second note from Noo, and everyone shouted down Inspector Phosy when he pointed out the illegality and danger involved in crossing over to Thailand. He mentioned the latest river guard practice of launching innocuous-looking floating objects attached to mines.

  “They put them into the river upstream,” he said. “If they don’t explode on contact with those illegally fleeing the country, they’ll be collected in a net down river, returned and relaunched.”

  “Can’t say I’ve heard any explosions,” said Siri.

  “And what does that mean,” asked Phosy, “‘the Lao sentries will be neutralized’? Eh? What are they planning to do, exactly?”

  “They’re Buddhists,” said Daeng. “First precept: ‘I undertake the rule to abstain from killing.’ They’ll probably just get them drunk like you do.”

  Phosy was in no position to argue with that.

  Civilai spent most of his allotted time describing the food he’d prepared for the weekend “picnic” he’d be enjoying with his wife. They all made light of the alleged purpose of the trip and looked forward to one hell of a good story when he came back.

  The report from Dtui and Phosy was far more serious. They described the cordial seller’s account of the kidnapping and the inspector’s ongoing attempts to discover where the Thai monk might be held. There was no trace of him in police lockups around the city and the immigration department had categorically denied any involvement in his disappearance. Their officials had even offered to assist the policeman in the search. It occurred to Phosy that in a country nobody wanted to come to, an immigration department must have been somewhat underused.

  The final item on the agenda was Ugly. Whenever they’d tried to farm him out to reluctant dog sitters, he’d escaped and caught up with his trusted master. No chain or leather bond or wooden cage had held him.

  “You sh-sh-should take him,” said Mr. Geung.

  “To Thailand?” said Dtui.

  “If that’s what he wants, why n-not?”

  “Because he’s a dog,” said Civilai. “It’s not like the movies where your faithful dog helps you out of scrapes and saves your life. He’ll complicate things. We have a dog-proof high fence behind our place. I’ll have my housekeeper look after him. It’s time to show that dog who his master is.”

  There came a growl from beneath the table.

  5

  Mellow Yellow

  A lot of couples crossed the rusty metal footbridge to Donchan Island to watch the sunset and perhaps steal a kiss or two when it was dark enough. The island, just beyond the hairy water tower at kilometer one, was a large chunk of land that had withstood years of torrents and never been washed away. The locals used it as an allotment for fruit and vegetables, so the scent of ripe tomatoes and papaya wafted around the couples on the evening river breezes. For citizens in a landlocked country, Donchan, in some small way, provided the missing awe of being surrounded by water. But Siri and Daeng weren’t there to dream of romantic islands or canoodle in the semidarkness. They were there to complete Noo’s mission: to meet a mysterious monk and float with him across the river.

  They’d arrived before sunset so as not to arouse suspicion in the eyes of the bridge guard. There were a number of rustic homes on the island but the authorities had recently extended the curfew to Donchan. Even the farmers had to leave after dark. Siri and Daeng found a comfortable spot with a view of Thailand and watched patiently as the others left: first the families with children, then the couples, then the sad people with nowhere to go. An hour after sundown, they were alone and invisible on the dark bank of the river.

  “So,” said Madam Daeng, “we have seven and a half hours to kill. The mosquitoes are armed with Kalashnikov rifles, the water snakes are in search of warm dry grass and the Lao border guards patrol the island every hour after nine and arrest curfew violators. Any suggestions as to how we might fill our time?”

  As always, Siri’s travel baggage amounted to a small cloth shoulder bag with wool bobbles dangling from it. But everything he needed on a journey could fit comfortably into that bag. This evening it was oddly bulky. He reached into it and produced a bottle of whisky, and not just any whisky: Glenfiddich. Daeng welcomed it into her arms like a mother being handed her newborn for the first time.

  “This is your plan?” she said.

  “Our plan, my dear,” he said, “is that we sip it sparingly. When anyone comes to drag us away he sees a feeble old couple of drunkards. We invite him to join us to celebrate our grandson’s graduation from the Communist Leadership Program in Hanoi. We talk of how you were the prime minister’s primary school teacher and how I, as a surgeon, saved the leg of Pornlamy Makdaeng, the Lao national center forward who went on to score four goals in the World Cup of Socialist Nations tournament semifinal. We keep talking until he’s drunk and unconscious. The monk steps out of the shadows. The boat arrives. Nobody gets hurt.”

  “Unless, alternatively, he shoots us on sight and runs off with our whisky,” said Daeng.

  “In which case we should drink it as quickly as we can.”

  Both plans were fraught with potential disaster, but they had rice cakes and dried fish, and you certainly had to wash those down with something. They had water, but . . . well, water isn’t Glenfiddich.

  Four hours into the wait they’d already attained a scotch-inspired confidence. They hadn’t been bitten or shot and their whispers had risen to a self-assured volume. Their laughter, even stifled behind their palms, was enough to alert the sleepiest of guards.

  “We need to keep our wits about us, Siri,” said Daeng. “Just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “In case we lose sight of our wits.” She giggled. “I love this, Siri,” she slurred. “Mystery. Intrigue. I mean, noodles are fine but you can’t beat a good garroting. There’s nothing to compare to castrating a would-be attacker or going into a knife fight with your bare hands.”

  “You know we’re merely escorting a monk to Thailand?”

  “So you say. So you say. How do we know? We’re already part of a monk-smuggling cartel. Noo’s probably being tortured to give up our names. He won’t hold out. There could be a helicopter landing here any second. Door-mounted machine gun, blatblatblatblat. Us cut to pieces. Ah, the good old days. Don’t you feel that thrill of the unknown? How close we are to the edge of the abyss?”

  In fact, Siri had accepted the job to overcome the boredom of domesticity. He’d not considered being cut to pieces. He knew his wife’s whisky tolerance levels. She’d reach a peak of excitement then sleep like a lump of concrete for half an hour. Euphoria—concrete, euphoria—concrete, until the bottle was gone. She was a woman. She needed a good man by her side who could really drink.

  Siri was drooling. He was in a long, flat, dark sleep, but still he could feel his face being slapped. It wasn’t an unpleasant experience. It might just as well have been someone else’s face. It wasn’t the slapping that brought him around; it was the heavy weight on his chest. His eyes were hyphenated and all he could see were lights far off and a dark shape on top of him. One more slap.

  “Siri, we have to go.”

  It was Daeng, straddling him. Slapping him. All too blurry and confusing for him to retaliate. A warm tongue licked his face. Behind the outline of his wife he made out another shape, standing. It could have been a monk . . . or a monkey or a stone statue. Beyond the shape, movement. Somewhere in the distance, a whistle.

  “Can you stand up?” Daeng asked.

  Although he couldn’t coax the words from his mouth, he thought how he’d been standing since he was nine months old. It occurred to him he was drunk as a flock of bridesmaids. He attempted to show how good he was at standing, but he couldn’t find the ground beneath him, couldn’t feel his legs. Another charact
er was helping Daeng lift him to his feet. They walked him to the water where an uneasy-looking fiberglass rowboat bobbed, no removable parts. They sat Siri on a molded seat and Daeng took up a pivotal role beside him. Scenes blurred in and out. An old monk trotting down the bank. The boatman with ping-pong paddles for oars. Daeng with their two shoulder bags around her neck. And, from nowhere he remembered the French version of “A Life on the Ocean Way.” He was only one stanza into it when his wife slapped her hand over his mouth.

  And they launched the tiny boat with three table tennis players looking for their balls in the black water. And on top of the water—the head of a dog. And a distant whistle. And a hand patting his back after he’d thrown up overboard. And the close-up of a floating mine on a foam raft with its Russian warning engraved on the casing. And the head of a dog.

  And the head of a dog.

  And the head of . . .

  •••

  Civilai and his lifelong wife, Madam Nong, arrived at Ban Toop just as the sun was beginning its arc to the horizon. Officially, his mission was to interview a man and test his credentials as a prospective reincarnation of the Buddha. Civilai considered it a foolish notion but a good enough excuse for a short vacation. He would write a brief report and submit it to the politburo. He’d already composed the message in his head. The government jeep had been comfortable, but the road was too unpredictable to build up any speed due to the unending roadwork. Suddenly the dirt surface would open into a gash and send the passengers’ teeth into the base of their brains. So the hundred-kilometer journey had taken them the best part of a day.

  Ban Toop was another flatland village surrounded by untended paddy fields. The road that ran through its center was more like a dried-up riverbed. The houses on either side seemed to have been erected in a hurry many years before but never renovated. The gardens were unflowered and the dogs unfed. It was a thoroughly disappointing place. Civilai had been expecting flags, at the very least, a street tarpaulin under which village officials had sweated throughout the day in anticipation of the arrival of an ex-politburo man. There was no school band, no jasmine lei on a silver platter, no accidental nop from the village headman (the prayer-like gesture had been banned but country folk tended to forget its banishment). He would have settled for a little respect, recognition, interest, anything. But there was nothing.

  The jeep pulled up in front of an incongruous French colonial house. It was the only structure with any permanence in the village. Such buildings throughout the country had been claimed by the government and crammed with families who watched as the house deteriorated around them. Yet this place stood proud. The roof tiles were all in place, and none of the shutters hung like broken wings from the windows.

  Civilai sent in the driver to ask where they might find the local cadre and the reception committee. He returned with the news that the headman and most of the senior villagers were off at a cockfight in the next village. The woman he’d spoken to had no idea where the guests might stay as there was no guesthouse, and, as far as she knew, nobody had been alerted there would be visitors. She suggested they go back to Pak Xan and spend the night there.

  “Well, they obviously don’t know we’re here,” said Civilai in a huff. “They must have got the days mixed up. We’ll wait.”

  Madam Nong squeezed his hand. “Lai, they don’t want us here.”

  “Certainly they do.”

  “Let’s take our picnic to Pak Xan like she says and check in to a nice guesthouse and have a glass of wine to wash the road from our throats.”

  “I can’t start a mission by losing face,” he said.

  “You’re not. Nobody knows you’re here. They haven’t even seen your face. We can return tomorrow, refreshed, and they’ll all be embarrassed about today and your face will be intact.”

  It annoyed him that his wife was so often correct in her appraisals. Reluctantly, he agreed to head back the way they’d come onto the main road for the trip to the nearest town. Pak Xan, at the confluence of the Mekhong and Xan rivers, was what you might expect from a highway truck stop. It clung to the road like barnacles on a rope. It had no noticeable downtown and no street lamps. The jeep’s headlights cleared a path through the darkness to a small shanty of huts down by the Xan River where the driver knew of a guesthouse. It was the only two-story place around. It had no sign and no semblance of activity but after one or two inquiries they discovered it had Thai beer chilling in a tin bathtub of cold water, so they stayed for the night.

  •••

  Siri awoke from a deep Glenfiddich sleep with a surprisingly clear head. So clear, in fact, that it contained few recollections of the previous night. Apart from flashes of a boat trip, his memory had been erased. Now here he was flat on his back on one of three wooden benches in a public gazebo. The sun was low, so the roof overhead did nothing to block its rays. A torn advertisement for a moneylender was nailed to a post. It was in Thai. He was in a foreign country. This was Nong Khai, the little Thai Nirvana where tourists came to eat river fish and drink Mekhong whisky and look across the river at Laos. There was nothing exotic about the scenery on the far bank. No buildings were visible apart from the concrete ferry port, which was closed more often than it was open. But still they’d take photos of themselves dangerously close to an evil Communist country and buy souvenirs that said made in laos even though they weren’t.

  On the next bench, Madam Daeng lay on her side, smiling in her sleep. And opposite lay an elderly monk, so motionless he might have been a corpse. Ugly, the uninvited dog, none the worse for wear from his swim, lay on the wooden boards below Siri.

  The doctor eased himself into a sitting position and smiled at the familiar bone joint percussion. He squinted against the dazzling sun to make out the scene across the street. A shirtless coach boy was hosing down an orange bus and scrubbing it with a broom. He sang as he worked: Thai pop, no less off-key than the original.

  When Siri stood the boards creaked and Ugly’s eyes sprang open. In seconds the mutt was on his feet, his deformed tail wagging, his tongue unfurled. All he ever needed was a morning pat on the head and his day was made. Siri collected his thoughts. Here they were, three Lao with no legal documentation, but, he hoped, enough savvy to get away with it. Thais of his generation often traveled without identification just to maintain their independence. Every country had its stubborn old coots. And no checkpoint police were going to harass an old couple and a monk. The elderly still commanded respect from their juniors. This was the ploy they’d be pursuing.

  He stood over his wife; so beautiful. Her hands cupped beneath one cheek like a Botticelli cherub. Her eyelids twitching. He imagined a marvelous film being projected onto them from the inside. He never once failed to admire Daeng of a morning, to take in the glory of her. He was a lucky man.

  He shuffled over for a closer look at the monk. The old man lay on his back, sleeping with his palms together like the stone tomb carving of a French knight. His breath was barely perceivable. His expression was blissfully sweet. But beyond the smile, Siri saw something surprising. Civilai had always claimed to have trouble identifying monks. He said with soldiers he had no problems. Even in the same uniforms with the same haircuts they had character. But monks, he said, were like penguins. Once the eyebrows were gone, he couldn’t make out one from the next. But Siri didn’t have such face blindness because he always looked first into a man’s eyes. It was there you could find his true identity. It was in the eyes that all the joys and scars floated like lotus leaves just below the surface of a pond.

  But this monk did not need to open his eyes because even in sleep Siri recognized him. He’d seen the face in photographs in the Pasason Lao newsletter. He’d run his fingers over the likeness carved in miniature on good-luck talismans. This was the Sangharaj: the Supreme Patriarch. The head honcho of Lao Buddhists was unconscious at a Thai bus stop and Siri had been charged with his well-being.


  “Heaven help you,” said the doctor.

  •••

  Inspector Phosy had been handed two uninteresting but complicated cases by his superiors at police headquarters, which made time juggling a little difficult. He had to either pursue inquiries into the disappearance of Noo on his own time or find some way to have the new cases overlap. And that’s exactly what happened at the Ministry of the Armed Forces. Phosy had been looking into accusations that an army officer had made lewd advances to the wife of a central committee member. As it turned out, the issue was not the officer making approaches to the wife, but his rejection of impolite suggestions from her. Phosy was at the ministry to see whether the military board would be prepared to issue a mild statement of censure against the officer—one that would not appear on his record but would placate the wife. Phosy had been afraid there might be some posturing by the top brass. But as it turned out they considered the matter so trivial he was allowed to dictate the statement himself. They didn’t even ask the typist to use carbon paper. A passing general signed the document, and it was all over.

  The military building was by far the most imposing of all the ministries. From the street it looked like a first-class hotel in one of the stuffier Communist countries. Even on official business it was hard to get into. However, once in, nobody stopped you from wandering the corridors. So Phosy wandered and considered his next move. He’d come up blank with the police and immigration departments so the army was the next logical port of call. The question was which of the many doors he should step through to get answers. After ten minutes he settled on one. It was one of the few closed doors and was marked appropriately: army and police liaison department. He’d had no idea such a relationship existed. His tour of the building had given him time to formulate a plan. He knocked before stepping inside.