I am in the stairwell now, sitting on a step among other debris like myself. I feel like I have been dragged across broken masonry by a team of drunken asses. Indeed I have. My dance with the twig took more out of me than I have to spare. My journey thus far has taken me past three classrooms whose bright lights chiselled out the shape of the doors. From one I heard sobs. The others were silent. Then I passed the room with Teachers’ Common Room written in French in grand letters above the door. That was the room they’d taken me to. The business room. It was dark now. Torment is obviously a nine-to-five job. The torturers had hung up their claw hammers and headed off home to play with the kids. Stroke the dog. Kiss the wife.
“How was your day, dear?”
“You know. The usual.”
They don’t need night sentries at a place like this. One old twig should do the job. The guests are either dead or broken. My feet appear to be bleeding. I should have taken the jailer’s sandals. Smashed glass everywhere. My jungle-hardened feet have become soft after two years in Vientiane. Soft, like my old head. I bleed and I sit and I breathe and another burst of energy arrives. Perhaps I can make it to the ground floor.
As I work my way down I wonder what they’ll ask me at my interview as I pass through the other world.
“So, Yeh Ming, we see you almost got out of S21.”
“Yeah. I killed a man.”
“Just the one?”
What kind of a question is that? Of course just one. Surely they don’t count death by omission? Damn it. I bet they do. They’re tough, these overlords. And they’re right, of course.
∗
I brought the keys with me in case there’s a gate or another locked door but it takes me another ten minutes to get back to my corridor and to the burning lights. I know I’ll regret this decision but it wouldn’t be the first time. I’m mad, don’t forget. Irrational. They’ll smudge over this in my obituary. I open the first door like Alice, not knowing what world I’ll find there. There are three men inside. One is awake and alert. He looks at me with surprise. Another is only half-conscious. He seems to come round as I walk into the room. A third looks dead.
I smile but I’m unable to answer their questions. I hand the hex key to the first prisoner and I check the pulse of the third. Prisoner one unlocks himself and his colleague but there is no point in freeing the third man. I recognised his spirit amongst my classmates. I believe the only chance we have of escape is for us to stick together but I can’t convey this thought to these men. The second prisoner, now conscious, ignores me and limps from the room. I personally think this is a bad option but look where my decisionmaking has led me. That leaves me and prisoner one, whom I shall call Thursday. I have no idea what day it is but Thursday was my birthday. It’s also the day Madame Daeng puts special number 2 noodles on the menu. It’s a good day.
Thursday and I go together to the second room. Adrenalin has recharged me and my hands are steady now. I can unlock the door without dropping the keys. Inside is a pitiful sight. A woman in her late twenties. Beside her, chained to the same pipe is a child of around three. Both mother and child are bruised. Thursday unlocks them, whispering words of encouragement as he does so. He helps her stand and carries the child out the door.
The stench from the third room tells me that it probably isn’t a good idea to go in. I gesture for my fellow escapees to stand back and I open the door. I’m a hard man to astonish, really I am. But the sight I see there takes away what final breath I have. Chained to a floor pipe at the centre of the room is my heavy monk friend. He looks up at me with those same pitiful eyes. But I can tell you, this isn’t one of his staged dramas. This is as real as it can be. Filed around the room like stacks of tapped rubber are twenty, perhaps thirty bodies in various states of decomposition. Two are attached on short chains to the big man’s ankles. He has been beaten. His fingers are bloody.
He speaks first in Khmer, then in French;
“Help me?”
I glare down at him. I hate the man with all my heart but I am not given to revenge. I remove the key from the chain and place it several metres beyond his reach. I tell him how to retrieve it and walk to the door. Nobody deserves to be punished without humanity in this life. He will meet his demons in a future incarnation. I turn back and look at the bodies and I am embarrassed to think of Voltaire at such a moment. I’m afraid that by evoking the words of the writer I might condemn him to the same fate as the books from the library, and the Catholic cathedral and the dove that was just feathers on a rib cage. But he was right.
“One owes respect to the living but to the dead, one owes nothing but the truth.”
I wonder how long these dead souls might have to search for that truth or whether they will understand it when it’s found. I don’t ask the monk what he’s doing there because, in my mind, I know. The gaolers are turning on their own kind. The monster has already started to consume its tail. It’s only a question of time before there is nothing left.
We are at the bottom of the staircase now, me, my man Thursday and mother and child. The effort of reaching the ground floor has drained me dry. My breath sounds like waves hitting a pebble beach. I don’t think I can go on. I need a nice glass of port and eight hours on a soft bed. But the omens bode well. We haven’t heard the sound of our desperate prisoner friend being cut down in his escape. In fact we haven’t heard anything. I’m starting to believe my skinny guard was the only man on duty this night. There are no lights on this level. We pause at the rear exit. Thursday seems to be in charge now. I’m glad. He listens then gestures for us to follow across the muddy yard of the school. The grass is up to our knees. I can’t feel my feet but I have a rhythm now. And we are making good time when Thursday suddenly stops and looks down. I catch up and I look down also. Lying in the thick grass in front of us is a body with a bayonet wedged between its shoulder blades. The blood is still fresh.
Thursday looks at me and sighs. We both know who it is. His cellmate hadn’t made it to the fence. I hear a laugh from the shadows of the building behind us and a very slow, drawn-out ‘tut, tut, tut’ like a disappointed clock. I turn to see the smiley man illuminated only by the lights from above. He is swaying like a boatman. He is shirtless and my talisman hangs around his neck and swings from side to side. He walks slowly towards me, uncoordinated, drunk, and I stagger forward to intercept him. Perhaps I can give my comrades a chance to get away. In silhouette against the dimly lit school, the smiley man would make a remarkable cover for a French noir comic book. The pistol solid in his hand. Black blood specks across his chest. No features visible on his head save a grey smile. Yes, sir, he’s a natural.
“You are a terrible disappointment, Dr Siri Paiboun,” he slurs.
I laugh. Perfect. What an epitaph. What a way to go.
The smiley man takes one more step, so close now I can smell booze on his breath. He hooks one arm around my neck and pulls my head to him. He lifts his gun and shoots. The last thing I hear is the explosion. It thumps into my temple but I feel nothing. It’s all over. One second you are, and then you aren’t. Is this the way it’s supposed to be, my spirit fellows?
20
HAUNTED
After several days of pressure from the Lao politburo, the Democratic Kampuchean embassy in Vientiane was finally prepared to make an announcement. Those in attendance were representatives from the Ministries of Defence and Foreign affairs, Judge Haeng from Justice, a clerk of the central committee, an interpreter, Madame Daeng and, at her insistence, Comrade Civilai. For two days they had been haggling over a location for the meeting. As the Lao refused to go to the shopfront embassy of the Khmer, and the Khmer Rouge ambassador refused to be dragged ‘like a goat’ in front of the Lao, their first secretary and a soldier arrived at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs with a typed statement. This was the first and only comment on the disappearance of Dr Siri.
The Khmer secretary was an older man who sagged from the distress of being alive. He made a brief apology for t
he ambassador’s absence but didn’t bother to make it sound authentic. Then he read:
“The Republic of Democratic Kampuchea offers its respect to the representatives of the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos. We are two nations who share a common heritage and are striving to achieve true democracy in our region. This announcement is in regard to the disappearance of Lao national, Siri Paiboun in – ”
“He’s a doctor,” said Daeng loudly. “It’s Dr Siri Paiboun.”
The secretary ignored her and continued, “in Phnom Penh in May 1978. The Republic of Democratic Kampuchea has diligently and fairly carried out an extensive investigation with regard to the whereabouts of Lao national delegate Siri Paiboun. It is our duty to inform you that the citizen in question is dead.”
There were no sighs or murmurs of shock at that disclosure as, after ten days, they had all arrived at that conclusion. Following Civilai’s revelations, the Vietnamese had been invited to share their own intelligence of the situation inside Kampuchea. On this occasion, the Lao had been more prepared to listen. The rumours from refugees and defecting Khmer Rouge soldiers were not fantasy. Cambodia really had gone to hell. Siri and Civilai, being expendable, had been sent to test the temperature. Only one of them had returned. The secretary continued to read.
“Despite a number of warnings about the dangers of venturing beyond designated zones, it appears that Siri Paiboun illegally entered a part of the city of Phnom Penh not yet cleared of live ammunition dropped by the pitiless American imperialists during the Revolutionary Army of Kampuchea’s liberation of our capital. He was killed when stepping on an unexploded bomb. The Republic of Democratic Kampuchea sends its condolences to his countrymen and to his widow, and we – ”
“Where’s his body?” Daeng interrupted.
The secretary attempted to complete his reading but she cut him off again.
“His body!” she said, loudly.
The Khmer soldier who had thus far remained silent and immobile spoke loudly in Khmer to the secretary, staring all the time at Daeng. The Lao translator was about to interpret but the old man did so himself.
“Our ambassador regrets that the explosion did not leave any trace,” he said.
“Convenient,” said Civilai.
“I’m sure the Khmer are doing their best,” Judge Haeng assured them. “This is a very delicate matter and we don’t want it to affect the relationship with our southern neighbours.”
“No it isn’t,” said Daeng. “It isn’t a delicate matter. It’s a big thumping noisy matter that’s being handled delicately. Why are they still here with diplomatic status, calling themselves ambassadors and first secretaries?”
“Madame – ” Judge Haeng began.
“What are they doing in our country?” she continued. “Haven’t you lot heard enough? Send the bastards home. Better still, lock them up.”
Haeng and the clerk were making a move towards the distraught woman. She stood and lunged at them and they fell back.
“If either of you goons so much as touches me I’ll break every bone in your hands,” she said.
“And she can,” Civilai confirmed.
Daeng stepped back and knocked over her chair. She sneered at the Khmer secretary and spat at the soldier and pushed past the officials on her way to the door. Civilai nodded and followed her out. Judge Haeng finally broke the silence.
“She’s upset,” he said. “You know what women can be like.”
∗
It was midnight and Daeng sat in the Dr Siri memorial library plodding through Inspector Maigret. She couldn’t understand why her husband had been such a fan. She invariably knew who killed whom and why a minute after all the characters had been introduced. Sometimes before. Perhaps it was a French thing. Perhaps there were nuances she lost because she had a dictionary open on her lap the entire time. Or perhaps it was one of those peculiar male traits. It played up to their big male egos to think they could solve a mystery, imagine nobody was as smart as them.
It had been six weeks since Siri had left for Wittay Airport. Six weeks since she told him not to forget his noodles. She hoped they didn’t have show-and-tell nights in the other world or wherever he’d gone.
“And, Dr Siri, what were the last words you heard from your beloved wife?”
She knew she’d have to reopen the shop again soon. She had money put aside but with this crowd in power, her savings were shrinking before her eyes. Perhaps she’d shut up shop and move back south. At least there she’d be spared the sympathy. They had all come to see her. Nice people. They invited her to visit. To stay over. Even offered to move into the shop to keep her company. Brought presents. Yes, nice people. She hated every one of them. Did she really need to know how much they loved her husband? Did she care how sorry they were? Eventually she’d been forced to lock the front shutters and shout her conversations from the upstairs window. And then she stopped shouting and they stopped coming.
She walked along the upstairs landing and into the bedroom. She didn’t bother to turn on the light. She knew where the bed was. She’d lain awake in it for a month. The heroin she’d secreted in her altar to give her relief from rheumatism was currently dulling her grief. It stopped the tears and fuzzed reality, but it robbed her of sleep. She went to the window. The rains had moved south, flooding all their silly collective paddies and creating brand-new disasters for her country. And there was more to come. Monsoons were lashing China to the north and filling her darling Mekhong. Only June and all the sandbanks had sunk and logs sped past her shop with a menace that suggested her river was in a foul mood.
“Don’t even think about swimming to freedom,” it snarled.
Crazy Rajid was back. She could see him in the shadows. He sat on his Crazy Rajid stool under his Crazy Rajid umbrella. She wondered if he was the only sensible one of the lot of them. He hadn’t found anyone. And what you don’t find you don’t lose. He’d slept behind his father’s house when the rains were at their worst but, as far as she knew, he still hadn’t spoken to Bhiku. And she understood. She knew exactly why he held his tongue. Rajid had loved his mother and his siblings and they’d drowned. In his head it was quite obvious that his love had killed them. So how could he continue to love his father? Hadn’t he killed enough people? He had to hate his father because he loved him so much. Just as Daeng hated Siri.
She waved but wasn’t surprised at all when he didn’t wave back.
“Good man,” she said. “Keep your distance. Love stinks.”
She walked to the bed and, fully dressed, curled herself onto the top cover.
∗
He sat on his stool and looked up at the window. His thoughts were slow and his memory affected but he couldn’t forget that sweet woman, Daeng, who was admiring her river. He could understand what she saw in it. It was different every day. The water that passed you this minute would never come back. One chance to see the fallen tree. One shot at the bloated buffalo carcass. Everything was new. It didn’t have or need a memory. He loved the river too but today it had almost taken his life. It wasn’t a valuable life but he’d decided it was worth hanging on to. He was wet through and exhausted. And he was crying. Not many people had seen him cry. Some thought he had no real emotions. Thought he was cold. But that wasn’t true. He was nothing but emotions. His body was just a skin to hold all the emotions in. That’s why he was such a weakling. Why he had to pretend to be what he wasn’t.
He stood, lowered the umbrella, tied the drawstring and walked towards the shop. He’d started to feel the cold and he knew the chill was coming from inside him. It wouldn’t be long before a fever took hold. He needed to eat. He needed dry clothes. But, most of all, he needed to be wanted. He stopped on the pavement beneath her window. A bin for rubbish – half an oil drum – stood there. In it were the broken remnants of a spirit house and an altar. Someone had tried to set light to them but nothing burned in this weather. He stepped up to the grey shutters and a massive sigh shuddered in his throat.
“What if she hates me? What will I do then?” But it was too late to consider the negatives. He raised his fist and banged on the metal. Not one or two polite knocks but thunder, banging so hard that if she didn’t come down he would pummel his fist-prints into the steel. He’d hammer a hole in the metal and step inside.
∗
Daeng might have found rest but she hadn’t expected to find sleep. And when the hammering began she gave up on both. Why didn’t they leave her alone? She put the pillow over her head. It was musty from the stains of tears. If she couldn’t hear the noise perhaps it would eventually stop. But it went on, gnawing through the kapok, ‘thump, thump’. And she might have let it continue but for the memory of Rajid on his stool. The possibility that he might be hungry, or ill.
She went to the window. He wasn’t there. She leaned over the sill.
“Rajid, is that you?”
The banging continued.
“Rajid?”
The sound stopped.
“Rajid! I’m up here.”
Because the view was blocked by the awning, a visitor had to step back into the road to talk to someone at the upstairs window. But he didn’t step back.
“It’s all right, Rajid. It’s me, Daeng. Can I help you?”
A figure stepped from beneath the awning and stood in the deserted roadway, and the breath was sucked from Daeng in one single gust, stolen from her. She fell to the floor fighting to breathe. She bloodied her elbow against the table leg. She felt the tingling of her nerves at her fingertips and in her toes. Her stomach cramped. She was angry, no, furious.
Dr Siri Paiboun: Love Songs from a Shallow Grave (2010) Page 25