I Shot the Buddha

by Colin Cotterill

  “I think I should go and fetch the colonels,” said Suwit. He got to his feet but Phosy continued.

  “Even though the soldier displayed much skill in the martial arts as taught to our elite troops by the Russians, he was overpowered and arrested. During interrogation he confessed he was a decorated soldier but refused to give us the name of his unit or his commanding officer. He was taken to police headquarters, charged and put in a holding cell. In under two hours he was released by the order of my boss, who wasn’t at liberty to disclose who’d put the screws on him to sign the release.”

  Suwit seemed exhausted just listening.

  “I really need to bring in . . .” began the corporal.

  “Here’s where we stand,” said Phosy. “I have written a report outlining all the details of the case. The Thai ambassador is currently in his office awaiting its delivery. The Thai high command is on alert and waiting to hear from the ambassador.”

  “I don’t . . .”

  “But, here’s my dilemma,” said Phosy. He left the sofa, dragged the wooden chair to the desk and sat astride it. “I don’t believe the military is responsible,” he said.

  “What?”

  “It’s true, everything points to you fellows: the leaked information, the identity of the witness, the description of the kidnappers and the admission of the assassin that he had a military background. Oh, and here’s his photograph, by the way.”

  Phosy produced a copy of the photo he’d taken the night of the attack and laid it on the table in front of Suwit.

  “And I’m sure that’s the way the Thais will see it,” Phosy continued. “But I have my doubts.”

  “You do?” said the corporal.

  “Yes. I’m an old soldier, you see. Of course you know that from my file. Twenty years fighting for the revolution. Five years undercover. I’ve given much of my life to the defense of our great nation. I’m one of you at heart, and I don’t want to send my report.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “The ambassador’s waiting for it.”

  Suwit returned to his desk and sat heavily. He was no longer a cartoon.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “Since you first arrived here we’ve been conducting discreet investigations of our own. We are keen to dispel rumors that we may have been involved in this matter.”

  “Meaning you have information as to who’s responsible?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “If I don’t hand over the report to the Thais they’ll assume we’re pulling the old Lao cover-up. Their prime minister’s a military man. We promised there’d be openness in inter-military dealings.”

  “And there will be,” said the corporal. “Give us twenty-four hours.”

  Phosy couldn’t wipe the smile from his face as he rode the lilac Vespa through the barrier in front of the ministry. Tukta had been right. He did have allies. In fact the army was off investigating on his behalf. All he had to do was sit with his feet on his desk and wait for the results.

  Perhaps he should have been giving more thought to his riding because from out of nowhere a monk stepped in front of him. The Vespa was not a Harley, and it had never actually built up enough speed to kill a man. But it could give a monk a hefty thump and bounce him a couple of times on the road. Phosy stopped and looked down at the dusty man.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  As monks were already a rarely sighted species on the roads of Vientiane, Phosy didn’t like to be responsible for further decimating their numbers.

  “I’m fine,” said the monk. He was ugly, but Phosy doubted the collision had much to do with that. He had the features of a horse, which were handsome on a horse but somewhat grotesque on a man. Phosy helped him to his feet.

  “I have a message for you,” said the monk. “From Dr. Siri.”

  •••

  It was probably Dr. Siri’s first official public disappearance. Until that moment he’d vanished mostly in his bed, which often went unnoticed by his sleeping wife. Then there were dematerializations from the bathroom or those that occurred when he was alone. But on this day Siri was not only present at the meeting of elders but was chairing it.

  They’d had a lively hour of good-natured arguments, jokes, scary stories and tea. Madam Daeng had been aware from the first sip that the cup contained something other than tea leaves. It was spicy and gingery, but it had a certain tang that gave them all a pleasant buzz. Perhaps that was why the meeting had gone so well and achieved so little. By 10 a.m., nobody had agreed to go back into what Headman Tham described as “the cesspit of no return.” All of those present had experienced possession by the phibob and had felt the increase in the spirits’ power from mischievous to downright nasty. The phibob had committed acts of spite and cruelty, and there were unexplained incidents that had lead to death.

  On three occasions Siri without his talisman had been a target of the malevolent ones and had lived to tell the tale. Yet despite his assurances that the situation wasn’t nearly as bad as it seemed, he had been unable to sway the group. So, either as a result of desperation or of the tea, Siri vanished. Everyone had been looking at Priestess Thewa at the time, so she was the only eye-witness to the disappearance. But when her eyebrows rose almost to the wooden rafters, everyone followed her gaze and saw the empty space that used to be the doctor.

  “He’s gone!” she shouted.

  Daeng looked up from her notebook and smiled. “He does that,” she said, and returned to her shorthand.

  “Fine,” said Intermediary Cham. “Damned fine.”

  Nobody in the room considered for a second that the doctor might have merely slipped out for a minute to use the toilet. They were professionals. They knew where he’d gone.

  Siri was between the adjoining doors in the dark. He wished he hadn’t come up with the hotel door analogy when he’d first explained the feeling to Daeng. Now it seemed he was doomed to be a casualty of his own imagination. He felt for door handles. There was one behind him, but he didn’t feel like returning to the meeting. He had no good argument, and even if they agreed to delve back into the world of the extreme supernatural he had no way to guarantee their safety. So perhaps the connecting door could help.

  He stood there, patiently at first, checking the forward door for a handle, calling out, “Anyone there?” and clenching and unclenching his fists. As time there didn’t seem to matter, he wasn’t sure whether he’d waited long enough or been too impatient. But he was bored, so he reached behind him and opened the door to where he’d come from. He heard rain dabbing onto a tin roof, which became the sound of hands clapping, and he was back in the meeting receiving a standing ovation for his trick. Even Daeng was on her feet laughing and wagging her tail. Another breakthrough.

  “Remarkable,” said Medium Tian.

  “Yeh Ming, my hero,” said Diviner Song.

  Siri waved down the applause, not because he was modest but because he’d done nothing but stand between two doors for . . .

  “How long was I gone?” he asked Daeng.

  “About thirty seconds,” she told him.

  “Tell us of your journey,” said Headman Tham. “Where did you go?”

  “What did you learn?” said Shaman Lek.

  They sat like first graders at story time anticipating Siri’s tale.

  “I didn’t . . .” he began, but then he understood. He’d disappeared for a reason. This was an opportunity. So he told them of flying through space to a place where the earth was cracked. He jumped into one of the fissures and landed in water, but he didn’t drown because he’d taken swimming lessons at the Lane Xang Hotel pool. He floated for six days and six nights until he . . . Well, it didn’t matter because it was all bull. But they ate it up, even the part where he took on a dozen armed phibob and crushed them to talcu
m powder. Before their demise the spirits had told Yeh Ming his magic was much more powerful than theirs. And when the story ended and everyone sighed with exhaustion, they all agreed there would be a grand séance in the village to cast out the phibob.

  “You made it all up, didn’t you?” said Daeng as they walked back along the haunted shortcut.

  “Yes,” said Siri, who never lied to his wife.

  Siri thought about the mess he was in as they walked. The spirits behind the bushes were whistling pop tunes.

  “Kurosawa,” he said at last.

  “Sounds Japanese,” she said.

  “Correct. Director. Made a movie called Seven Samurai. It’s about a group of warriors in a village that’s about to be overwhelmed by the army of an evil warlord. The warriors harness the skills of the villagers and train them to defend themselves.”

  “And you’re the head warrior?”

  “Metaphorically. We just gave the villagers enough confidence to believe they can overcome the phibob. It’s faith in the most powerful of forces: belief in themselves.”

  At the end of the trail Ugly was there waiting for them, his tail stub waving like a windshield wiper. They gave him some love.

  “So what happened?” asked Daeng.

  “In the movie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I can’t remember.”

  “Siri?”

  “The village was almost totally destroyed, and the head warrior met a horrible death.”

  •••

  Civilai sat on his bed and wondered about the girl who might keep him company. Not how she looked or what skills she’d have but whether she’d saved up enough to buy a motorcycle. He needed one. He’d had plenty of time to think as he waited for the arrival of his team from the ministry. He’d thought about potential allies there in Pak Xan and decided there were none. He’d considered jumping on the next bus to Vientiane and regrouping. He’d considered walking or riding a bicycle the thirty kilometers to Ban Toop. He’d considered hiring a local to ferry him across the river where the odds of successful communication were exponentially greater. In Laos, officials vanished when they went to the countryside. They invariably reached their destination, performed their tasks and had no problems. But their co-workers would not know for sure until they returned.

  And, honestly, what was there to tell? He had no evidence to support his theory. There were no facts. Even if he returned to Vientiane he’d be unable to convince anyone there was evil afoot in the provinces. He took out his notebook for the fiftieth time and looked at the notes he’d written there.

  FRENCH ADMINISTRATOR MARCHE ACCUSED OF PROCURING TEENAGERS. SUSPECTED OF NEFARIOUS ACTS.

  TAKES JOB IN INDOCHINA. BUILDS HOUSE IN COUNTRYSIDE/POWER.

  LOSES JOB SUDDENLY AND IS INVESTIGATED.

  FRENCH POLICEMAN DISAPPEARS.

  He then made a list of the elements of the black mass and connections to Ban Toop:

  INVERTED CROSS/SAWN-THROUGH BUDDHA IMAGE

  REVERSING TEXTS/BAN TOOP POSSIBLE REVERSAL OF THE WORD POOT—BUDDHISM; TASITU REVERSAL OF TUSITA

  WORSHIPPING DEVIL/MARA

  SACRIFICES/MISSING TEENS

  He wondered if he was being ridiculous, trying too hard to match unrelated points. But when he saw the healthy fig, the Buddha tree in the temple, it reminded him of the dying fig tree at the mechanic’s yard with hundreds of rusty nails hammered into its trunk. And as unlikely as it sounded, he was convinced someone in Ban Toop was involved in the dark arts.

  He went to the window and stared at the treetops where the birds twittered and tweeted in their social network. Somebody had put in a claim that Noulak, aka Maitreya, the headman, the mechanic, the liar, was the next Buddha. But he’d done all he could to refute the claim. Nobody in the village was interested. So what if the claimant was a concerned citizen who knew what was going on in Ban Toop? What if he invented the assertion just to draw attention to the village? To get someone in a position of authority to visit and see for himself? What if the purpose for Civilai’s mission was not to investigate the claim, but to uncover a much darker secret?

  The only thing to connect Marche forty years hence to Ban Toop in 1979 was the house. If there were any evidence of illegal activity, that’s where it would be found. He needed to go there to take a look inside. And if any further incentive were needed, it came with a knock on the door.

  “Comrade Civilai,” came a voice, “we’ve found you a motorcycle.”

  •••

  Phosy and Nurse Dtui sat beside the hammock playing with Malee. She was a ticklish child, and her tinkly laughter never failed to fill her parents with joy.

  “Will you tell them?” asked Dtui.

  “The military?” said Phosy.

  “Yes.”

  “You know, I’m not sure anyone knows the Sangharaj has gone. I’ve not seen any memos. There’s been no gossip at the market. I don’t think I want to be the one to break the news. And I’m not sure knowing would help at all in the search for Noo. And if Siri and Daeng are still with the Sangharaj, I don’t want to put them in any danger.”

  Dtui stroked her daughter’s hair. “Do you think we’ll still be having life-threatening adventures when we’re their age?” she asked.

  “I hope not. I’d be happy to spend my old age drinking whisky and fishing.”

  “You hate fishing.”

  “It’s a taste you acquire when you’re old.”

  They were interrupted by a shout from the entrance of the police dormitory.

  “Phosy, you there?”

  “Don’t answer,” said Phosy.

  “He’s here,” said Dtui.

  “You’ve got a parcel,” said the voice.

  The parcel was just a large manila envelope. It was sealed with thick tape, and it took Dtui’s old scalpel to get through it. Inside was a second photograph clipped to the picture of the ninja Phosy had left with Corporal Suwit. The new photo was clearly of the same person, but it placed him in army fatigues and made him four years younger. His hair was longer. Phosy flipped it over and read the handwritten note:

  NAME: MAJOR AGOON PREVIOUSLY STATIONED HOUAPHAN PROVINCE.

  CURRENT POSITION, PRESIDENTIAL SECURITY DETAIL.

  •••

  As Yeh Ming, Siri made the executive decision to call on the spirit of Loong Gan, the last victim of the murderer at Sawan. This was not, of course, as easy as it sounded because in spite of an abundance of spirit doctors in the village, few of them had even fleeting experience of making contact with humans. Most of their work had been spent placating the natural spirits of the earth. Those who claimed to talk to human phantoms had invariably been chosen by the spirit rather than the other way around.

  In Vietnam, the mediums had established a thriving trade by talking to the spirits of dead soldiers. But of the group assembled in Sawan that afternoon, the only experienced ghost communicator who settled matters with ancestors was Intermediary Cham. But even he avoided conducting séances. The medium would ask her assistant spirit guide to run off and discover what the ancestor was so het up about. The ancestor would ask for a little more attention at the altar or for the sacrifice of a chicken, and the matter would be settled.

  Siri had not been able to convince the Sangharaj to help out at the rehearsal. The doctor was sure the old boy would have enjoyed himself, so it was a shame. There was a carnival atmosphere in Sawan that afternoon. They’d decided from the signs that the weather would be kind to them in the evening, so they’d perform the ceremony under the stars. They took down the rattan ball net, and the skilled men of the village were assembling some kind of wooden structure. Paper lanterns were hung all around and colored strings with ghost money dangled from the trees.

  Siri and Daeng had arranged the junior practitioners into teams with an elder in charge. Siri would
pull a group to one side and go over their lines. They talked about escape plans, what to do if they lost control of their respective contributions to the grand séance. What to do if there was a fear the phibob might take over. Everyone had homemade remedies to counter the effects of malevolent spirits: powders and fire water in plastic spray bottles and holy water in buckets for a good dousing. Headman Tham practiced his old pali chants and Fortune-teller Doo overcooked a chicken until its bones were soft and pliable. Rather than promoting one method over another, they agreed to try everything. It couldn’t hurt. The overwhelming sense on the day of the rehearsal was of invincibility. They’d overcome individual phibob in the past, and as a team, a powerful force of spirit doctors with Yeh Ming leading the charge, they would be able to overpower an army.

  The wooden structure turned out to be bleachers, not big enough for everyone in the village to sit but perfect for honored guests, senior citizens, the pregnant and the frail. Everyone else would sit back behind a white-painted boundary rope. As the candle lanterns would offer only an atmospheric glow several wooden pyres were constructed around the perimeter like Neolithic floodlights.

  Of course Siri couldn’t handle a war by himself. But he knew Yeh Ming must have been observing that afternoon. He knew once the almighty battle began, Yeh Ming the thousand-year-old shaman would be there in his battle dress fighting side by side with his great, great—however many greats—grandson, fighting to the death.

  “Ah,” said Siri to his wife, “if only we had a film camera. Can you imagine how glorious this would look on the big screen?”

  Madam Daeng had more faith in Siri as a surgeon, a coroner, a soldier and a thinker than in any man she’d ever met. He was the only man she’d every truly loved. But she had to admit, as a shaman he was somewhat out of his depth.