I Shot the Buddha

by Colin Cotterill

  “But I’ve been here, too,” Siri continued. “In this office. Or, you know? The funny thing is I don’t think I’ve been here yet. I think I’ve been here . . . later. And I’m not sure that’s a bad thing because it means I’m alive in the future. I’ll probably have to work on the grammar to explain this properly.”

  “You’re doing this inside my head, aren’t you?” said Suthon.

  “What am I doing, son?”

  “Your tricks. The mind games. Your hypnosis. It won’t work, you know. I’m stronger than you.”

  “You’re probably right. But at least let me finish. You see? I’ve made an amazing discovery here. Time isn’t linear on the other side. Do you know what I mean?”

  The sound of a dog barely distracted the doctor. Distant shouting. Siri continued.

  “What I mean is I’m here now, and I’ve been here before. But that visit hasn’t happened yet. There’s no bloodstain on the floor. Your leather chair isn’t ripped. There’s no broken plaster by the door.”

  “Yes, this is exactly what you people do,” slurred Suthon. “You create doubts, cause confusion, then attack.”

  “Oh, shut up and listen,” said Siri. “The other side thinks that we are the other side and vice versa. When I was over there I thought the other side was a different place. But it wasn’t. It was just a different time. Perhaps with some alterations. The door, for example. I enter or shall enter this office from that direction. But there is no door. Isn’t that fascinating?”

  He looked up to see the prosecutor standing beside his desk holding a pistol.

  “And that too,” said Siri. “If you shoot me there would be blood here, all over the chair. And there wasn’t any. So you don’t shoot me here. And as I can’t walk you’d have to drag me across to your desk and shoot me there, which wouldn’t make any sense at all.”

  “Stop it,” said Suthon, waving his gun.

  “So as the blood was by your desk it’s more likely you’ll shoot yourself or somebody will shoot you.”

  “I mean it. Shut up.”

  Siri’s green eyes glowed brightly in the light from the overhead fluorescent lamp. His face beamed with happiness. The prosecutor looked at him, bewildered.

  “Oh,” said Siri. “This is so beautiful. What if somewhere in the future I learn to control these travels? What if I were able to decide where to go and when to arrive? I could come and go through time as I please. It means . . . Oh.”

  “You’re a dead man, Siri,” said the prosecutor aiming his pistol at the doctor’s head.

  “No, son. I’ve already explained why I’m not. And I think beneath your fear you’re as fascinated by all this as I am. I’m a child, and I’ve just taken my first step. You’re a father. You know how that feels.”

  Suthon began to squeeze the trigger.

  “This is the moment,” came a voice from across the room.

  The prosecutor spun around but there was nobody to his right. Only a blank wall.

  “Who was that?” he shouted.

  “It was me,” said Siri. “Isn’t this all just beyond belief? How marvelous.”

  “Can you hear me?” said the Siri who wasn’t yet there.

  “Stop it,” said the prosecutor.

  “Loud and clear,” said Siri. “I could use a little help here.”

  “It’s coming,” said the wall.

  Suthon shot the wall.

  Plaster was flung across the room.

  “You should control that temper of yours,” came a voice from the desk.

  Suthon almost jumped out of his skin upon seeing a fat man in a halter top and shorts sitting on his chair. In panic he fired a shot. It could not possibly have missed, but the fat man merely looked disappointed.

  “Ouch,” said the fat man.

  “Is Auntie Bpoo there yet?” asked the wall.

  “She’s here, but she just got shot,” said Siri.

  “She’ll get over it,” said the wall.

  The prosecutor staggered backward swinging his gun toward Siri, then the wall, then the transvestite at his desk not knowing who or what to shoot. There was a loud banging at the office door. Suthon shot in that direction but missed by an arm’s length.

  “Put that away,” said Auntie Bpoo. “Or somebody’s going to get hurt.”

  The prosecutor put a second bullet into his chair.

  “See? Now I’ve broken a nail,” said Bpoo.

  The door was broken off its hinges and Ugly tore through the gap. The prosecutor took a shot at him, but the dog was used to idiots with guns and ducked down behind the metal filing cabinets before re-emerging from behind the desk. He buried his teeth into the prosecutor’s ankle. Suthon cried in agony and instinctively shot downward, hitting his own foot and bleeding like a harpooned whale. When they finally got the broken door off its hinges, in rushed Madam Daeng brandishing a knife, two men in uniform and Boh. The prosecutor’s wife remained back in the shadows. The scene they witnessed was odd but not as bizarre as it had been a few seconds before. Siri sat handcuffed to a chair, smiling generously. The prosecutor lay unconscious in a pool of blood with a dog chewing on his ankle.

  Daeng walked up to him, held her knife at his throat and said, “Not all dogs are obsessed with sex.”

  17

  A Sting in the Tale

  Siri put down the phone and frowned.

  “What news from Civilai?” Daeng asked.

  “Not good,” said Siri. “They haven’t found Noo yet. We might have to take up the prime minister on his offer.”

  “We’re not scheduled to see him again till Thursday,” she reminded him. “I thought we were making our big escape tomorrow. Tomorrow evening’s the Supreme—”

  “I know. I’ll try to get him on the phone. He gave me his private number. I wonder what I’d have to promise him for a favor of this magnitude.”

  “Noo’s a Thai citizen. Our PM wants to keep the Thais happy, and the Thai PM wants to keep you happy temporarily. It might work.”

  “It’s Noo’s only chance, especially if he’s the spy they say he is. If we’re lucky there’ll be someone they want to exchange him for.”

  “You know the prime minister will shoot us if he ever finds out what we’re doing.”

  “It’ll be worth it. We’ve had a nice few days.”

  “Very nice.”

  “You got to see your Grand Palace and our Emerald Buddha and float on the river. We’ve eaten like royalty—albeit early in the day. And everyone’s been so polite.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s been marvelous really. But I would like to live long enough to boast about it back home.”

  “Don’t worry. We will.”

  He picked up the remote and turned on the TV for the eightieth time. The Dusit Thani had all the Thai channels and an in-house movie on a loop with subtitles. There was also a brand new VCR with a stack of films with Thai subtitles. Siri only left the room if he had to. They could not complain about the absence of room service after lunchtime. Nor the fact they’d been dying for a cold beer for three days. But Daeng, a mistress of disguise throughout the revolution, had warned her husband about the dangers of slipping out of character.

  “I think . . . Can you turn that thing down a bit?” she said.

  Siri lowered the volume.

  “Thank you. I think I’ll go to see Noo’s daughter alone this evening.”

  “Why?” asked Siri.

  “Because it’s going to be hard enough for her without all this.”

  “All this” was Siri and Daeng without hair or eyebrows. It was a saffron robe drying in the bathroom over the king-sized bathtub. “All this” was the fake Sangharaj of Laos and his nun personal secretary defecting to Thailand. It was a guaranteed week of luxury and sightseeing before the formal interviews and the debriefing began. It was Siri and
Daeng’s greatest scam.

  In the temple in Sawan, Siri had not mentioned his far-fetched idea to the Sangharaj, as he’d expected and deserved an angry reproach. But Siri remembered the night he’d seen the Sangharaj digging in the garden. Of course to a man like Siri the temptation of investigating such a strange event had been too much. He’d waited until he was alone that night and discovered what the old monk had buried there. It was himself, or rather it was his old self. In a pouch he found the Sangharaj’s citizen identification card, some personal letters and a pair of glasses. He’d returned the letters unread, but kept the ID. He didn’t consider it stealing, as he believed it was the monk’s intention to bury and forget his old life. Before receiving two thousand boxes of contact lenses of assorted sizes in international aid the Sangharaj had worn glasses. He wore those glasses in the photo on his national ID card and carried them with him for sentimental reasons. It was a poor photo that could have been anybody. And, most importantly, with a shave and a haircut it could have been Siri. Nobody looked too closely at men over seventy. So the old monk had unknowingly donated his ID card to the sting.

  Siri and Daeng had waited in Udon long enough to be sure Prosecutor Suthon would be getting his just desserts. Old Boh and Abbot Somluang knew enough devout policemen between them to begin proceedings. The police force was constantly berated by the judiciary for its inefficiency, so it was a delight to turn the tables. A conviction against the prosecutor was looking more certain given the young man’s sudden demise. Something had happened to him that night in his office. His mind seemed to have imploded. He’d become a jabbering idiot. The wife he’d selected for her looks and mothering potential had been only too keen to give evidence against him. She told the police what she’d heard through the locked door that night. She’d been terrorized by the man for five years and was glad for her and her daughters to be rid of him.

  So with the Udon police in control, Siri and Daeng had phoned the Buddhist council, apologized for getting cold feet and agreed to resume the defection. In order to avoid the snowy-white soldiers they’d made fun of in the Udon bus station they agreed to go directly to the airfield where they were met by air force officers, loaded into a helicopter and whisked off to Don Muang. There had been a look of resignation on Ugly’s face as he watched the helicopter take off and soar over the tree line. Not even his great cache of hunting skills would be enough to track his master. But Boh had agreed to keep the dog company until their return.

  In Bangkok they were welcomed by the director of the Office of National Buddhism and a delegate from the lower ranks of the royal family, neither of whom had met the Lao Sangharaj. They were temporarily taken aback at the sight of the monk’s so-called personal secretary, but . . . Laos . . . what could one say?

  They were driven in limousines with a police escort to the Dusit Thani, ensconced in two penthouse suites and spent half an hour with a government official planning their activities for the week. They had no choice but to meet the prime minister the following day but had been able to put off a reunion with the Thai Supreme Patriarch until day four. That was the point where their covers would be blown. The two old patriarchs had met several times.

  So their escape was planned for the morning of day four. The military minders—supposedly bodyguards—were stationed by the elevator on the penthouse level, and in the lobby. Nobody was on the fire escape. They counted five men, maybe six. But, really, what were half a dozen Thai soldiers to a couple like this?

  “Fancy a Toblerone?” said Daeng, rooting through the fridge.

  “I don’t know,” said Siri. “What’s a Toblerone?”

  Epilogue 1

  They’d been drinking, the boys of the presidential security detail. They liked their booze. They’d spent the night in a hostess club dancing with pretty Lao girls in traditional costumes. It was mostly circle dancing, but at the end of each set there was a slow ballad. In the dim cellar there were a lot of dark shadows for fondling.

  The short-haired major staggered out into the parking lot with his mates. They said their goodbyes and Agoon went to his jeep. He was fumbling for his key when a bow-tied waiter from the club limped over to him.

  “Sir, sir,” he said. “Lucky I caught you. Thank goodness.”

  Agoon turned to look at him. The waiter was overweight and sweaty and his hair was far too long.

  “What do you want?” said Agoon.

  “Sir, you left your belongings on the table. You have to be careful in places like this. A lot of dishonest people. Someone might have walked off with your wallet.”

  “Don’t you get it in your head you’ll be rewarded for this,” said Agoon.

  “Oh no, sir,” said the waiter. “I just want to do my civic duty.”

  The waiter held out his hands, and the soldier held out his. He looked up briefly into the waiter’s face, but he recognized him too late. He hadn’t seen Phosy since the night he’d stuck him with a blade. He heard the click and felt the warm metal around his wrist. He was suddenly aware of the unusual weight at the end of the chain. The hand grenade had been welded to the last link of the single handcuff. The inspector held up the pin, smiled and jogged calmly away raising his wig like a hat as he went.

  The soldier yanked at the cuff, pulled frantically at the chain. He cursed and spat, but his final five seconds on earth passed remarkably quickly.

  Epilogue 2

  “I don’t care if I-I-I don’t ever see another noodle,” said Mr. Geung.

  “Madam Daeng will be here tomorrow,” said Tukta. “You can go back to entertaining customers.”

  “I can’t wait. I can do my new d-d-dance.”

  He demonstrated it and made her laugh. He loved making her laugh. They were cleaning up after the evening session. As usual they’d had a full house and there’d been no rest. Dtui was upstairs counting the money. The evening silence was disturbed by the growl of a jeep. The sound of a vehicle had come to signal trouble in Vientiane. Geung and Tukta stared at each other, willing the jeep to pass by, but it slowed down in front of the noodle shop. They heard the sound of a thump like a sack of turnips falling off a truck, and then the jeep roared off.

  “Don’t go,” said Tukta. “It’s a bomb.”

  But Mr. Geung was already at the shop shutter looking out into the darkness. All he could see was an outline drawn by the glow from the upstairs window.

  “What was that?” said Dtui, running down the stairs.

  “It’s a bomb,” said Tukta.

  “It’s a person,” said Geung, and he walked out into the street.

  Dtui followed. The crumpled body was ungainly, limbs disorganized like an octopus out of water.

  “It’s Comrade Noo,” said Mr. Geung. “The monk.”

  Dtui felt for a pulse.

  “He’s alive,” she said. “He’s alive.”