Disco for the Departed

by Colin Cotterill

  The visitors stared into an empty freezer in a body-less morgue and wondered what they were doing there. Judge Haeng was glowing. It was as if he wanted to shout his delight, but somebody beat him to it. The deathly cry came from one side of the room, from behind the door that led to the samples store. That door suddenly flew open, inflicting a blow to the shoulder of a senior police person, and the most incredible sight presented itself. There was an audible intake of breath from every visitor. A dark-skinned man, perhaps of Indian origin, shirtless and unshaven, waded through the crowd of frightened onlookers to stand beside the judge. He wore only a very brief sarong and in his open palm he carried what appeared to be a human brain. It dribbled fluid onto the spotlessly clean concrete floor. He appeared to be laughing but no sound came from him.

  Comrade Nguyen, the Vietnamese coroner, was the first to speak. “Judge Haeng,” he said indignantly. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  It was clear from Haeng’s expression that he’d suddenly recognized the half-naked man. Wasn’t this the nutcase who strolled aimlessly around the city begging for food scraps? Wasn’t this the serial flasher who had been arrested repeatedly and spent several nights in jail? This was the man they called Crazy Rajid. What was he doing here in the morgue?

  “Siri, what’s the meaning of this?” Haeng demanded.

  “Gentlemen, I suppose I should explain,” Siri said. “You’ll have to forgive the appearance of our new morgue technician.”

  “New morgue … ?” Haeng began. He felt obliged to laugh, to convey the impression that this was a joke and he’d been party to it all along. Siri heaved himself up onto the cutting slab and began to address the audience.

  “You see,” he began, “Mr. Rajid here is the only person we could find who’d agree to work for the half salary we are allocated for this position.” Rajid had sunk to the floor and was molding the brain like silly putty into the shape of a mushroom.

  “I don’t think …, “ Haeng began, still smiling but unable to form a sentence in Vietnamese with sufficient aplomb to rescue himself.

  Siri continued. “We used to have a well-qualified—in fact, brilliant—technician who was perfectly happy to work for a pittance. He had more experience than either I or Nurse Dtui here.”

  “What happened to him?” Nguyen asked. The other delegates had shuffled forward, entranced by the first authentic show of their visit.

  “Well, I’m sure he had a good reason, but Judge Hae—I mean, the Justice Department—fired him.”

  “I didn’t actually fire h … .” Haeng tried again. His smile was wilting.

  “Why?” Nguyen asked. “Why fire a perfectly good technician?”

  “Because …” Siri paused for effect. “Because he had Down syndrome.”

  A mumble rose from the group.

  “You fired a man because he was a mongoloid?” the leader of the delegation asked with an expression of disbelief on his face. It was conceivable he would have done the same— probable that none of the assembled dignitaries would have hired the handicapped in the first place, but group dynamics work wonders for one’s indignation.

  “I … I didn’t fire him,” Haeng said. “I reallocated him.”

  “Why?” Nguyen asked. “Wasn’t he serving in a valuable capacity for the socialist state? Wasn’t he contributing to the community?”

  “He certainly was,” Siri replied.

  Rajhid had put the brain on his head and was now modeling it as if it were a hat. One of the generals looked at him in disgust, then turned to Siri. “Can we talk to this retard— see for ourselves?”

  “I’m afraid you can’t,” Siri told him. Both the doctor and Dtui lowered their heads. “You see, he was shipped north under armed guard. He was sent all the way to Luang Prabang but such was his loyalty, such was his love of his job and his responsibilities here, that he turned back. He walked—yes, Comrades, he walked—all the way back to this morgue. For ten days, beneath the biting summer sun, he marched “—a sob was heard from the direction of the freezer—” three hundred punishing miles he walked. But, as you can imagine, the journey weakened him, and on the way he contracted dengue fever. When he arrived here he was barely alive. He collapsed right there behind you.”

  The crowd turned back as if expecting to see the body still there on the concrete. Siri took the opportunity to look up at Haeng, whose teeth were so tightly clenched they could easily have been welded together. The delegation turned back to see the young nurse with tears rolling down her round cheeks.

  “He’s dead?” someone asked.

  “He might as well be,” Siri replied. “It’s touch and go.” He could see the Vietnamese glares slicing through the judge, who stood exposed and unarmed beside him. Siri expected one last defensive volley from him and he wasn’t disappointed.

  “We … we’re doing everything we can to keep him alive,” Haeng said, not terribly convincingly. He’d had no idea the moron had come back. “If he makes it, naturally we’ll honor him for his courage and dedication.”

  “Let’s hope you do,” said the senior cadre. “This is exactly the type of spirit we want to see in a socialist state. It would be a marvelous incentive for normal people. If a mongoloid can show so much dedication to the Party …”

  “Exactly,” someone agreed.

  “A medal at least,” said Dr. Nguyen.

  “Walked all that way—marvelous,” said the policeman.

  Soon the morgue was awash with enthusiasm and hope for this slightly defective but nonetheless courageous soldier of the revolution. Someone suggested they visit the brave warrior to show their support. They trooped out of the morgue and across the hospital grounds to the intensive care unit. Crazy Rajhid joined the pilgrimage, so the only ones left in the cutting room were Dtui, Siri, and his old friend Dr. Nguyen.

  “I think that went quite well, don’t you?” said the Vietnamese.

  “Thanks to you,” said Siri. “I’m in your debt.”

  “I’ll think of something, don’t worry. Maybe ask you to send me some of these pretty nurses.” He smiled at Dtui. “I think I should join my team, don’t you?”

  They laughed and shook hands, and Nguyen walked jauntily out of the autopsy room.

  “Well,” said Dtui. “I had no idea what you were all talking about, but I can still see bits of Haeng’s face littering the floor so I know it worked.”

  From the shadows of the vestibule came another figure. Haeng’s chief clerk, Mrs. Manivone, walked out into the fluorescent lighting, slowly shaking her head. She’d watched the whole thing from the wings and knew her boss only too well.

  “He’ll never forgive you, you know.”

  “I know,” Siri said and smiled his most devilish smile.

  “I’m serious. He can make life very difficult for you, Dr. Siri.”

  “You don’t suppose he’d fire me and banish me to the countryside?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Manivone started to laugh. She walked over to the coroner and sniffed at the air by his cheek. A Lao no-contact kiss. “I suppose you know you’re my hero,” she said.

  Siri squeezed her hand, blushed a little, and walked out of the cutting room. Manivone put her arm around Dtui.

  “How’s Geung, really?”

  “He’ll live,” Dtui said. “In fact, this morning he was looking a little too flushed. Dr. Siri had me talcum-powder him down.”

  “You want to swap bosses?” Manivone asked.

  “Not on your life, sister. Not on your life.”

 

 

 
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