Dr Siri Paiboun: Love Songs from a Shallow Grave (2010)

by Colin Cotterill

  “Sustain, Siri. Take whatever they give you for sustenance.”

  When the lights were still burning I was able to add the modest nutrition of cockroaches to my cocktail. Steve McQueen taught me that trick. Papillon.

  “Your time will come soon enough, Siri,” Steve tells me. “Your opportunity to die heroically. Take down six of the blackguards with you as you fight for your life.”

  Perforated postage stamps with my face peering out. Primary school textbooks telling of the day Siri took down twelve, no, fifteen armed guards as he fought for his freedom. Siri the hero. A band around his head. “Fifteen in one blow.” The year 2010. “Yes, my grandfather knew Dr Siri Paiboun. He massacred entire armies with his bare hands. They finally finished him with a poisoned épée through the heart. It was the only way you could bring down a Siri.”

  I have been catching myself more frequently engaged in such prattle, but I can only blame that Siri fellow. No self-control. Showing weakness. I’m open to attack. My protection against the phibob is gone but they haven’t yet come. They haven’t begun to torment me into harming myself, or stopped my heart from beating as they do to the day labourers in their sleep. Busy, no doubt, troubling the souls of all those who are dying in this school building. This rotten school building.

  “A school? Surely a school is a place for growing…for acquiring. Surely a school should be a step forward, not a step back. A place for giving life a kick-start, a push, a roll. Surely a school shouldn’t be the last place you see in your life?”

  “I was a teacher,” the smiley man said in his neat but unexpressive French.

  Surely not here. Surely not in this ‘end of everything’ high school.

  “I learned more as a teacher than I ever did as a pupil,” he said. “I learned that students need guidance and sometimes that guidance has to be cruel in order for it to be effective.”

  “I’m not your student,” I told him. “I’m your superior.”

  Yes, I’m the grand emperor of knowing when to keep my independent mouth shut.

  “If that’s true,” said the man. “Why are you in chains while I am free to walk out?”

  “Because you’re a despot,” I told him, “and despots act out of panic. History shows us that a tyrant’s reign is short because it’s conducted in an atmosphere of fear. You’ll always be looking over your shoulder. You’ll always make mistakes. Despots invariably end up with a burning poker up their rear ends.”

  The smile on the face of the smiling man sagged momentarily. Then, from the cloth bag over his shoulder he produced another sheet of paper and another pencil. He held them out to me.

  “My student,” he said, “you would be surprised how few people in here get a second chance. But I believe that even the most naive student wouldn’t fail to learn from a mistake. And so I am giving you a second chance. If you get it right this time it will make your passage to freedom very simple. I can even give you the answers to your examination questions and you can walk from the room with a degree and honours.”

  I had to laugh at that. I said, “Great master, tell me the answers. Show me the light.”

  The last of the unconvincing compassion drained from the man’s eyes.

  “You are a foreigner,” he said. “And we don’t want to involve you in our struggle. All you need to do is write what my superiors want to read and you are free to return to your country.”

  I took the pencil and paper and sat poised to write.

  “I’m ready, oh masterful one,” I said.

  “All I expect is that you tell us your real name and describe in detail when the Vietnamese first recruited you as a spy. Tell us the name of your coordinator in Hanoi and what information he told you to gather. As simple as that. You write it. We file it. You go home.”

  I did my best to match the man’s smile tooth for tooth. And, yes, I did, I considered writing his confession. I wondered what the odds were of being released if I made up a story and names and places. But, deep in my soul, I knew there was no point. They could either execute me as a confessed spy or just shoot me or torture me to death as the fancy took them. I’ve heard and seen too much of what they’re doing here. I will never see the outside of this school.

  “Any chance of a bit of lunch before I start?” I asked. “Writing fiction can really take it out of a person.”

  The man sighed and carried his heavy smile to the door. He stood there and watched me tear off strips of paper and put them into my mouth.

  “It has no nutritional value, of course,” I told him between mouthfuls. “And all that glue and chemicals won’t do me a lot of good. But it should quiet the grumbling in my gut for an hour or two. If I close my eyes it’s just like eating noodles.”

  The smiling man slammed the door behind him.

  It’s dark now and I feel an ache in my stomach. I wonder whether it’s dark because I ate my homework and I’m being punished, or because the world has come to an end and there’s nobody to turn on the power. And as I lie back contemplating being the last person on earth, starving to death in a classroom, something moves in the darkness and takes hold of my hand.

  ∗

  “…and he was dead.”

  “He was dead?”

  “Completely.”

  “He was dead?”

  “Is your needle stuck?”

  “What happened to the Hollywood ending?”

  Siri and Daeng lay on their mattress. It was one a.m. Whatever bribes needed to be paid to whomever on the Thai side of the river had been paid and the street lamps burned yellow there. The glow shimmied across the Mekhong and crawled up the Lao bank. Despite the drizzly clouds that masked the starry sky, there were no longer any completely black nights. Even by the dim light that filtered through the rose-patterned cotton curtains Siri could see his wife clearly and she could see him. There would be no mistaken identity on that bed.

  “It wasn’t a Hollywood film, dear husband,” she reminded him. “It was pure Chinese propaganda and Wei Loo was dead as a beefsteak by the end of it.”

  “But Ming Zi had spent two hours looking for him.”

  “Tough! It epitomised the futility of false hope.”

  Siri sat up on his elbows and was starting to wish he hadn’t chosen this time to have Daeng tell him the story of the movie he’d missed, The Train from the Xiang Wu Irrigation Plant. He couldn’t hide his devastation.

  “But what’s the message?” he asked. “Struggle, struggle, struggle and you’ll end up with a dead boyfriend?”

  “All right. I’m not quite at the end of the film yet. Wei Loo had died constructing a dam. We get this in flashback through sepia lenses. There’d been a freak flash flood and he’d rushed to the site, rescued all his colleagues, and sacrificed his own life to prevent the dam being washed away. Once she’d recovered from the shock, Ming Zi understood there was more to life than personal relationships. She realised that love for a mega-project and the development of the country was more satisfying than mere love for another human being.”

  “Rot.”

  “She found solace. As, coincidentally, she was also a qualified hydroelectric engineer, she applied for the position of project coordinator on her fiancé’s dam. Of course she didn’t play the sympathy card. She didn’t tell anyone who she was. She was appointed purely on her qualifications and experience. She was a conscientious worker, very popular with the men and women under her. But on the eve of the grand opening of the new dam…”

  “Oh, don’t tell me.”

  “…there’s another storm and another unprecedented flash flood.”

  “Which had been precedented.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And Ming Zi saves the planet.”

  “Just the dam and twenty comrades.”

  “Of course she dies?”

  “Penultimate scene.”

  “Holding a red flag?”

  “She was underwater but she held on to it.”

  “And the closing scene?”

>   “The grand opening of the Xiang Wu Irrigation Plant with the lovers’ photographs displayed on easels on either side of the starter button.”

  “Reunited in death. Oh, I wish I’d seen it.”

  “Everyone was in tears.”

  “I bet.”

  “Even the Chinese ambassador and he’d seen it twice.”

  Siri sighed and rolled off the bed.

  “If only life were a film,” he said. “Birth, life, love, adventure and death in under two hours. Nothing superfluous. Succinct, simple dialogue. Nothing boring. No roles for characters outside the main plot.”

  The window was open and rain dribbled down from the top awning in strings of pearl droplets. Through them he could see Rajid sitting on a stool under the umbrella on the river bank.

  “He still there?” Daeng asked.

  “At least he’s under the umbrella now.”

  “Did he eat his supper?”

  “I can’t see the plate. Do you think he ever sleeps?”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “It’s dark but if he’s doing what I think he’s doing, I don’t think you’d want to know.”

  “Virile young man, isn’t he?”

  “Very.”

  He was about to make a comment like, “Perhaps we should find him a girlfriend,” but it occurred to him he was slowly sliding into the role of auntie to the masses since he’d married Daeng. He wanted to help everyone; Mr Geung, Phosy and Dtui, the Hmong, the starving people in Bangladesh, whales, and now here he was fretting over a street Indian. How would he ever find a mate for a non-speaking, self-abusing flasher from Delhi? Not even beautiful Ming Zi with her perfect skin could find true love. Siri started to wonder whether he was the only lucky romantic on the planet. No, he couldn’t find romance for Rajid but he could attempt to replace the blown fuse in the relationship with his father. A young man shouldn’t go through life hating someone who loves him. Siri had attempted to talk to Rajid before but not with any great belief in his own ability. Now, after several evenings with Sartre he was beginning to believe anything was possible, or at least, that if he didn’t solve problems himself, nobody else was going to solve them for him.

  “Won’t be a minute,” he said, heading for the door.

  “Take an umbrella.”

  Daeng was always one step ahead of her husband.

  Siri joined Rajid under the beach umbrella. They were sharing a small rainless cylinder of space and the little man was unpredictable. Sometimes he’d sit with you. Others he’d run and hide like a street cat. This was a sitting night.

  “OK, Rajid,” said Siri, sinking down to squat on the back of his heels. “Let’s assume you understand everything I’m saying because I think you do. I know you can write because your father translated your poems for me. And if you can write, you can think, ergo, you can understand.”

  Rajid’s concentration was already flagging. He seemed to be looking around for some other place to be.

  “And, let’s assume,” Siri continued, “that you’re here watching over me because you’re grateful that I saved your life. By the way, I’m glad I did save your life because I think it’s a life worth saving. We’d all be sorry not to have you around. But you’re right. You owe me. A life is a big debt to owe so I’m asking you to repay that debt. I want you to talk to – ”

  Rajid sprang from his seat as suddenly as a cricket, but Siri had been expecting it and his reflexes were still sharp. He caught hold of the Indian’s wrist and held it tightly. Rajid squirmed and growled like a trapped animal but Siri wasn’t about to let him go until he was finished with his speech. He anchored his free arm around the umbrella stem and focused on his breathing until the wild man calmed down. It took some while.

  At last, Siri continued, “I want you to talk to your father. I know you can speak. I’ve heard you. Your father didn’t kill your family, Rajid.”

  The man shook violently but couldn’t break the doctor’s grip.

  “The ocean killed them,” said Siri. “The unsafe, unregistered boat killed them. Fate killed them. Hate all of those if you like, but not your father. He suffered even more than you when it happened. But every day he sees you like this he has to relive your family tragedy. I know you see it too. I know you have that same nightmare. I know what you saw disconnected some mechanism in your head and I’d bet you’re as confused as anyone can be. But your father loves you and you’re breaking his heart by punish – ”

  Rajid wrenched his arm from Siri’s grasp and twisted his lithe body. He crashed into the umbrella and sent it tumbling into the damp undergrowth. His body fell sprawling onto the mud but he recovered before the doctor could get his bearings and scurried down the river bank and vanished in the darkness. Siri sighed, righted the umbrella and collected the plate of half-eaten dinner. He trudged back towards the shop and looked up to see Daeng enjoying the show from the upstairs window.

  “Nicely done,” she called.

  4

  BILLBOARD TOP TEN

  The rain had let up briefly sometime on the Monday morning and the toads and frogs were yelling their delight like an orchestra of bedsprings and didgeridoos. All along the river bank young children in their school shirts were scooping the happy beasts into cardboard boxes and cement sacks and escorting them home to the larder. With so little to be had at the fresh market, families grew whatever they could around their homes, raised chickens and improvised. A lot of the stomach-turning but nutritious fare once considered the mainstay of the ignorant country folks had made a comeback on the kitchen tables of the city.

  Toads, if one remembered to remove the poisonous skin and eggs, tasted vaguely of duck. Pa dtaek, fermented fish sauce, was so pungent it had to be stored in earthenware jars as far from the house as possible. Snakes made an interesting stew. Then there were the little creepy critters; fat white grubs that smelt bad but tasted fabulous, scorpion claws, fried termites, beetles, grasshoppers, and the absolutely delicious – Michelin five star – red-ants eggs: squishy heaven in every bite.

  As Siri walked along that oh-so-noisy river bank on his way to work, he saw a pelican gliding above the surface of the water. It was a marvellous bird, proud and resourceful, and he imagined how it would taste with a little chilli paste and fresh yams. Hungry people made poor environmentalists.

  Before reaching the hospital he passed two of the new billboards. If 1977 had been the year of the drought, 1978 had to be the year of the government billboard. They’d sprung up everywhere urging the population to work harder, be honest, love the nation, and grow bananas. A kind critic might have called the artwork naive. Siri had three or four adjectives of his own to describe it. He believed if some archaeologist four hundred years from now were to uncover only billboards as evidence of an ancient civilisation, they would be forced to assume the Lao had been a wooden, asymmetrical, poorly proportioned race with no necks. Their schoolchildren, even at seven or eight years of age, had the traumatised expressions of forty-year-old addicts. And there was no way to distinguish between male and female adults apart from hairstyles or hats. Short-haired, hatless beings were asexual.

  If there had been a department of billboards somewhere, it was very likely vying for the role of ministry because it was frighteningly prolific and without shame. At the entrance to the lane leading to Vientiane’s largest mosque was a board encouraging everyone to breed pigs. Not twenty metres from the Lao Patriotic Women’s Association was another board proudly boasting ‘WOMEN – DEVELOPING OUR COUNTRY AS MOTHERS AND LABOURERS’. Siri had hoped the rains would erase all the silly propaganda and let the population think for itself. But they were standing up to the weather better than the leaning front fences and posts.

  Inspector Phosy and Sergeant Sihot were waiting for Siri beneath the arch at the mouth of the lane that led into the hospital. The water was ten centimetres deep there and both men had their shoes in their hands and their trouser cuffs rolled up.

  “Couldn’t you have found a drier place to wai
t?” Siri asked.

  “Your hospital’s under water,” Phosy complained. “Anywhere else and we’d need oxygen tanks. Are you ready?”

  “Ready for what?” Siri asked.

  “We thought you’d like to come out with us to visit the crime scenes,” Sihot said.

  “You have permission from K6?” Siri asked.

  “Must have been good wine,” Phosy said.

  It was fortunate that the Intelligence Section’s Willy’s jeep had a high wheelbase and four-wheel drive because the road out to K6 was porridge. Phosy drove slowly and Siri sat in the rear seat with Sihot, catching up on the news of victim number two. Sihot was a solid, military type, more chipped out of rock than created. You wouldn’t want to hit him on the head with a mallet for fear of damaging the mallet. He lost one page of his notebook in a stormy gust of wind but he assured Siri it contained nothing of any importance.

  “Victim number two,” he read, shouting above the roar of the troubled engine, “named Khantaly Sisamouth, nickname, Kiang. Age thirty-two. Single. Born in Xieng Khaw, way up north. Taught primary school in the liberated zone for ten years then was sent to Bulgaria to study library science.”

  “Who did she offend to get that assignment?” Siri asked.

  “It sounded like hell to me, too, Doctor.”

  “Library science in Bulgarian. Poor thing.”

  “She was there for two years and came back with what they call a certificate in information technology.”

  “And how did you identify her?”

  “Her mother, Doctor. Said her girl hadn’t come home on Saturday night. She filed a missing person report at the local political office and they contacted us. She identified her daughter from our Polaroids.”