Only recently had Siri learned the fundamentals of communication with the dead. Portents had shown that he would someday gain control over his innate abilities. But he was seventy-five—a few months off seventy-six—living in a population that barely made it past fifty. He was starting to wonder whether being dead would be such a bad thing. It would certainly simplify matters. What better way to communicate with spirits than to become one?
In the meantime, his only functioning spirit guide was a boisterous transvestite fortune-teller by the name of Bpoo. They didn’t get along. She was sarcastic and rude and even though she saw the future she kept it to herself. She was forever criticizing the doctor for his slow progress as a medium.
Of late, Siri’s social circle had changed somewhat. He spent more time with shamans and healers. During an audience with a witch in the north, for example, he’d made a dubious deal that affected both himself and Daeng. The woman produced elixirs that substituted one condition for another; the witch had replaced Madam Daeng’s chronic rheumatism with a tail. This was an exchange Daeng was delighted with; Siri had no complaints. In fact he found her new appendage somewhat erotic.
The witch’s solution to Siri’s problem, however—that of his inability to talk to spirits—was a little more complicated. And as a result of her elixir he had started to disappear from time to time. He found himself in places created in his own mind. Daeng would turn over in bed to find a warm but empty place beside her. Yet lately, when he was no longer in the same dimension as his wife, he had discovered portals to the other side. He learned that those who resided there believed that the other side was where Siri had come from. All very confusing even to the doctor and not at all helpful when it came to his hobby. Dr. Siri was in fact a most competent amateur detective and as such one should imagine that seeing spirit signs everywhere would be an invaluable asset. Yet only once had he been able to interpret their significance before the case’s resolution. Invariably he was left to his own devices to solve mysteries in the old fashioned traditions of his hero, Inspector Maigret.
Chapter Two
The Words of a Stupid Husband
The old man studied the face of the young fellow sitting opposite. They were in one of those Chinese rooms cluttered with opulent furniture designed to make a visitor feel out of place and inferior. The chairs in which they sat were teak thrones with mother of pearl inlays that cut into the young man’s backside every time he shifted his weight. The only sound was the hum of a hornet trying to find its way back out through the open window.
“I don’t just want him dead,” said the old man.
“No?” said the youngster.
“No. I want him so dead there’s nothing to bury.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“I’m told you have skills,” said the old man. He leaned forward for his glass of cranberry tea. The young man nodded.
“As long as you can get me there,” he said, “I’ll do what needs to be done.”
“Of course I can get you there. I just want to be certain the expense will be worth it.”
“I don’t fail. And as you know I have my own reasons for doing this. It will be a shock for him to see me, assuming he remembers me. And a nasty end is the least I can offer.”
The old man smiled and sipped his tea.
Siri and Civilai were sitting on their log on the bank of the Mekhong eating baguettes that Civilai had baked himself. Since his retirement he’d thrown his wife and their cook out of the kitchen and established a culinary occupation there. Thanks to the current détente with Thailand he’d been able to stock up with ingredients. Today’s baguettes contained processed ham with mustard to be washed down with one more bottle of Chardonnay.
Ugly the dog growled in his sleep at Siri’s feet.
“So, tell me,” said Civilai. “How on earth did your dog make it back from Thailand? I can’t see him chasing the plane from Bangkok.”
“Although I’m sure he could,” said Siri. “But no. We’d left him in Udon with a friend. Once we were sure we wouldn’t be flogged in the dungeons below Chitlada Palace we phoned him—the friend, not the dog. He drove Ugly to the river and launched him back home. He was waiting for us at the noodle shop when we got there.”
“You know most people would just get another dog,” said Civilai. “There are plenty of unpleasant looking strays to choose from.”
“None like Ugly.”
Siri patted the dog’s head and his tail stub thumped against the clay. The old friends ate and drank and looked across at Thailand. The river was running so low grasses had taken over the river bed and there was just a shred of water visible near the far bank. It all gave the false impression you could walk to Thailand. Unlike many great rivers, the mighty Mekhong had its humble moments.
“So, what’s next?” said Civilai. “I imagine once you’ve successfully scammed the junta führer of Thailand there’s nothing more to aspire to.”
“On the contrary,” said Siri. “Daeng and I are thinking about gate-crashing the next Party Convention and nominating each other for seats on the politburo. The elderly can get away with anything. We’re an untapped market. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What menial duties has the committee lined up for you for the next few months?”
Siri noticed a brief uncomfortable sideways glance before Civilai answered. It usually signaled that he was about to be lied to.
“Oh, nothing special,” said Civilai.
“What about unspecial?”
“Well, I don’t know. I might have to go to Moscow in a couple of months.”
“Trade delegation again?”
“Not exactly.”
“What then?”
Silence.
“Civilai?”
“I might . . . you know. The Olympics.”
Siri got to his feet and adopted his most disdainful stare.
“Olympics?” he said.
“Maybe.”
“You’re going to Moscow for the Olympics and you thought it unnecessary to tell me?”
“What’s this? I’m telling you now. We’ve been so occupied listening to your Thai stories I haven’t had a chance to mention it.”
“You don’t think it could be of interest to me, Civilai? Little Laos gets invited to the Olympic Games for the first time in its history, a chance to mingle with the world’s greatest athletes. You don’t think your attendance at such an event might warrant a brief newsflash?”
“I didn’t really want to bring it up.”
“Why not?”
“I knew how you’d react.”
“And how have I reacted?” Siri put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest.
“You’ve automatically decided you’ll be coming with me.”
“And what, may I ask, is so wrong with that? I’m a qualified physician. Every sports team needs medical personnel. I was a highly placed university wrestler and boxer in my day. I have certificates. I’m fluent in French and Vietnamese.”
“The Games are in the Soviet Union,” Civilai reminded him.
“I’m aware of that. They’ll have interpreters, won’t they? I can’t believe you didn’t recommend for me to go with you.”
Civilai looked away and blushed.
“Wait,” said Siri. “You did recommend me, didn’t you?”
“Siri, I . . .”
“What did they say?”
“I don’t—”
“What did they say?”
“They said they’d sooner bring in a monkey than have you represent Laos at an international event. They think you’re a liability. That you’ll embarrass the Party.”
Siri wobbled a little and sat back down on the log. “So who’s going as the team doctor?” he asked.
“Not decided yet. They have a list. All
the overseas qualified doctors at Mahosot with Party membership. Eight of them.”
“Am I not even on the list?”
“You’re eighth.”
“Behind Supasit the optician?”
“Sorry. I’ve requested to have Dtui in the team. She’s a nurse and she speaks Russian. And I’ve insisted there be at least two women in the party.”
“You’ve insisted? So, what exactly is your role in all this?”
“Siri, I . . .”
“I’m waiting.”
“Head of Mission.”
“You’re running the show and you can’t even get me included?”
“It’s political. I don’t really have much power.”
“Yet there you are requesting team members. And you’re not even a sportsman.”
“It’s a diplomatic rather than a competitive mission, Siri. We don’t have any athletes who stand a chance of competing at that level. It’s a public relations campaign. The first time the Olympics will be held in a communist country. The Soviets have invited all their socialist allies to make an appearance. They’re paying for the trip, equipment, uniforms. All we’re lacking is ability.”
“When does it start?”
“We go in June.”
“Isn’t it a bit late to start putting a squad together?”
“They’ve been running competitions in schools and colleges since January. We have visiting Soviet coaches here as advisers.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right then. We’ll win medals for sure.”
“I knew you’d be upset.”
“Upset? I won’t be upset until the Aeroflot flight leaves Wattay without me.”
“Siri, this is one you can’t win. You’ve antagonized everyone on the politburo. None of them likes you and if they find out what you got up to in Thailand . . .”
“Yes? What will they do? Throw me out of a fast-moving truck?” He stood and put his half-eaten baguette on the log.
“Siri, don’t do anything stupid.”
“Stupid is my middle name,” said Siri. “And to be honest I’m a little disappointed you didn’t put up more of a fight on my behalf, Comrade VIP Head of Mission.”
“Siri.”
But Siri was in a huff. He headed off along Mahosot Avenue with Ugly at his side.
“And there’s too much yeast in the baguettes,” he shouted.
“Siri!” Civilai called after him.
“Don’t talk to me.”
“Your sandals.”
“What about them?”
“They’re here.”
A month had passed since Siri learned of his exclusion from the Moscow Olympics. Comrade Noo was hanging on but an intravenous drip was a poor substitute for actual food. His wounds refused to heal and his body lost mass every day. The doctor could find no physical reasons for the monk’s decline. It was as if he’d abandoned hope. Siri had seen it before on the battlefield. In very young boys who never asked to be fighting in a war that made no sense to them, scared and desperate for a way out. Their prayers would be answered by a hand-grenade or a mortar. They’d arrive at the mobile surgery with horrific wounds. Horrific but not terminal. The surgeons would do their work and know that in a month the soldiers would be on their feet.
But they’d died. And they died because they’d decided to. Because being dead was better than having bullets part their hair. Better than watching their bunkmates turned to raw meat. The will to die could be much stronger than the will to live. For whatever reason, forest monk Noo had no fight in him.
“What do I do?” Siri asked.
Auntie Bpoo was always there in his mind pretending she wasn’t. It had been a while since their last conversation. He tried to get through to her every day, like a novice desperate to keep the faith, asking for a sign, but he’d reached a stage where he was just talking to himself.
“I suppose his not being dead makes him the responsibility of a different department,” said Siri. “Live people are none of your business. I need to speak to someone in the limbo office. Must be someone there who can tell me what the hell I should do for him.”
He turned to see Mee in the doorway. They nodded at each other.
“Been standing there long?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the child.
“It’ll happen to you,” he said.
“What?”
“You’ll reach an age when talking to yourself makes more sense than talking to someone else.”
“You have a note,” she said, holding up an envelope.
“Where from?”
“Ministry of Health.”
Cracks were beginning to appear in the system. Party media outed corrupt officials and there were inquiries about abuse of power up to the ministerial level. Instead of being sent to the overcrowded reeducation camps in the north, midlevel cadres were forced to attend seminars at the Vientiane School for Political Theory, whose curriculum had been designed by the Vietnamese. Major purges were in the pipeline but none of this meant a thing to the rural majority. They’d seen it all before and to be honest they didn’t expect much better from the boys in Vientiane.
Like most ministries in Laos, the Ministry of Health looked more like a Caribbean hotel than a place where top-level decisions might be made. It was white and open-plan with external staircases you could walk up without getting permission from a guard or a gruff receptionist. In fact Siri was hard pressed to find anyone at all. He walked into an unmarked office on the second floor. There at a wooden desk sat a woman whose hair was pulled back into a bun so tight her eyes were where her ears should have been.
“The vice minister wants to see me,” he said. “Can you tell me where his office is?”
“Not really,” she said.
“Why?”
“Well, he doesn’t actually have one,” she said. “Two Vietnamese advisers have taken it over for the month. The vice-minister is sort of . . . floating. Oh, wait. There he goes now.”
Siri caught the shadow of a man passing in front of the little office. He ran outside and called the man’s name. The vice minister was young and untidy with the build of a soccer player.
“Ah, Siri,” he said.
“Have we met?” Siri asked.
“I was your student on the emergency field surgery course.”
“Right,” said Siri. It was the only course the Party had successfully coerced the doctor to teach. He hadn’t enjoyed it.
“Yes.”
“And now you’re . . .”
“Vice Minister of Health.”
“Ah, the land of opportunity,” said Siri. “Just think what you might become when you turn twenty-five.”
“I’m forty-seven,” said the vice minister, more eager to correct the math than to tackle the sarcasm. “Come with me.”
They found an unoccupied office with only one chair. The vice minister beat Siri to it. Under his arm he had a file which he placed on the desk in front of him. He flipped open the front cover.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
Siri took particular pains to study the top sheet. “I believe I do,” he said.
“What do you know about it?”
“I read it,” said Siri. “Powerful stuff. It was pinned to the notice board at Mahosot.”
“And downstairs here at the ministry.”
“Well, I commend the ministry for its vigilance in making us aware of the dangers of going to the Soviet Union. An outbreak of pulmonary anthrax, no less. Frightening.”
“But that’s just it, Siri. We had nothing to do with this.”
“Isn’t that a government stamp at the bottom and the minister’s signature?”
“From a distance it would appear so,” said the man. “But if you look closely you’ll see that the stamp has been rendered in red crayon.”<
br />
“My word.”
“And the minister’s signature has been forged.”
“How could you tell that?”
“Because it’s dated April eleventh and the minister, ehr, ceased his duties on the third.”
“Really? Where’s he gone?”
“He’s . . . you know, that’s not really your business. Suffice it to say he’s moved on to another role.”
Siri had a mental image of the Minister of Health in a straw hat digging up cassava in some distant province.
“But why would anyone go to the trouble of forging a health warning?” Siri asked.
“That’s what I’ve been instructed to ask you.”
“Me? Goodness. I wouldn’t have any idea. But this notice put the fear of Satan into me, boy. I can tell you that. There was no way on earth I’d be going to Moscow after reading it. Do you know the symptoms of pulmonary anthrax? It’s awful. You get horrific blisters and sores. Your neck swells up till it’s agony to swallow. Your diarrhea’s soaked in blood and your vomit’s green. Eventually you get deep skin abscesses that eat through to your organs. Only ten percent of victims survive.”
“The poster did mention some of that,” said the vice minister, “but in fact it isn’t true.”
“The symptoms?”
“The eventuality. There had been a small outbreak a year ago in a distant province when a biological weapons factory exploded but it never became a threat to the Moscow region.”
“Who told you that?”
“The Soviet ambassador.”
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he? His job is to wear shiny suits and placate people. They’d keep something like this under wraps. No, son. Somebody knows the truth and as a public service, he . . . or she has warned us. And I salute him . . . or her.”
The Rat Catchers' Olympics Page 2