Black Buddha

by Richard Waters

  We walked the short way to the temple, its walls flickering with burning joss sticks and candles. Orange robed monks held out alms bowls, people prayed and bowed, depositing money and boiled eggs within them.

  ‘Christmas time for the baldies,’ Lou smiled, ‘let’s go inside.’

  Ragged-looking tribespeople sat drinking from brown bottles; women in ceremonial dress with silver necklaces dangling from their necks. A sea of people poured into the temple, reverentially sticking balls of rice to the walls before praying.

  ‘Just keep holding your hands together and bowing a lot, they like that.’

  But no one seemed to notice us. Seated at the rear of the main temple was an enormous bronze Bhudda, flanked by two standing statues. Then I heard screaming.

  Outside a monk in a brown tunic was praying beside a woman, beside herself on the stone floor. There were other women too, less prone but also wiping away tears. ‘More theatrics?’ I said to Lou,

  ‘Nah. She’s in mourning for her kid.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Cos I speak Lao, cos the priest is mumbling an exorcism to keep the Blackheart away. Afterwards she’ll go to a baci ceremony where they bind the various parts of her soul together so it doesn’t stray like her son’s.’

  Something about the woman’s eyes still haunts me; panic mixed with utter sadness, as if perhaps she might not be able to breathe without her child beside her. ‘What happened to the child?’

  ‘Kid got taken, it’s been happening in the mountains from time to time.’

  ‘People traffikers?’

  Lou shook his head, ‘Nah, bit stranger than that. Dragons.’

  My jaw was hanging open. Incense smoke wafted by, a withered crone patted me affectionately on the arm, her mouth a mess of black stumps. Surrounded by the low moan of the monks, the tinkle of bells outside and whine of the carnivalesque xylophone, none of it seemed real.

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘About dragons? Horseshit… about as real as your Loch Ness monster. Still, no smoke without fire, right?’

  ‘Indulge me.’

  ‘Ah locals disappearing, people claiming to see things at night.’

  Wasn’t the cult King associated with Carabas something to do with kids being taken from their villages and turned? ‘What have they seen?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure say “what” a lot don’t you? Journalists don’t know how to have a conversation - everything turns into an interrogation, huh? They allege they saw creatures, whatever that means, around a place called Black Dragon Mountain. It’s a coupla hundred clicks north of here.’

  I must have looked pretty interested as he swiftly wagged a cynical finger at me, ‘Listen, the jungle’s full of stories and opium-induced hallucinations, you don’t take these things seriously – especially not from a bunch of horseshit crocked up Hmong or Akha tribesmen who’ve been smoking all day.’

  ‘You say horseshit a lot.’

  His face cracked into a shabby grin. ‘This is true. Excuse me.’ He said joining the Laotians clustered around the burnished Bhudda. I watched him pin a rotten thousand kip note to the money tree then light a candle.

  While he was gone I experienced something oddly comforting; the smell of incense, the soft murmuring of the monks and dark gold walls seemed to fill me with a sense of peace and in a very real sense, I felt as if Skip was hovering close beside me and watching my back. It was gone as quickly as it had come.

  ‘Sure beats the hell out of a hundred Hail Marys,’ Lou said, breaking my thoughts.

  On the outskirts of the temple we stopped by a man beneath a huge banyan tree, about him a dozen cages containing sparrows. My companion bought two, one for each of us. ‘Instead of that cigarette I owe you,’ he smiled and passed me a cage, ‘Go ahead and let her go. It builds merit for the next life.’

  I watched the bird fly star ward, circling around the top of the central stupa before it was gone.

  ‘I can go to the whorehouse with a free conscience now,’ he laughed, ‘need a lift back?’

  Lou dropped me by Nam Phou fountain, keeping his jeep running. I noticed that but for the tuk-tuk drivers gathered in a small brood by the corner of Setththirat St, the place was empty and figured I’d better get inside.

  ‘Thanks, it was fun.’ I said,

  ‘No problem Limey. You look like someone’s spooking you. Just then I mean.’

  I shrugged it off. ‘I’ve only been here a few hours and even by my standards, that’s not enough time to make an enemy.’

  ‘You should spend more time with me.’ He laughed.

  ‘Lou, you may be able to help me with what I’m researching.’

  He waved me away, ‘Might cost you a couple of cigarettes, but time is something I have in plenty.’

  ‘So where do I reach you?’

  He gestured to the wood-panelled café behind him; in the poor light of the street lamps, the bakery looked as if it was made of pastry. ‘Like a true New Yorker, I take Danish and espresso for breakfast and generally stretch them out till around midday when it gets too hot and I’ve finished reading the Bangkok Post. See ya.’ He rattled away with a trail of blue smoke.

  I looked up at the window, the lights in our room were off. Maybe she was back? After all it was gone one pm. I felt a rush of excitement, my skin tingling for her. I let myself into the guesthouse climbing the warped stairs to the top of the building. I was thinking about the disappearing kids Lou mentioned when I noticed a trace of amber light under our door.

  ‘You’re here, finally.’ She said through the door. Hard to tell if she was miffed or not, I didn’t think so. Giselle sat propped up in bed, a pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose and oddly incongruous with what she had on, namely a pink camisole and pair of white knickers.

  ‘I was worried I might have to come looking for you in the bars.’

  ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘Oh, just local history, this is quite a creepy country. Where’ve you been? No, don’t tell me, the Ravens Bar right?’

  ‘No, I thought it would wait till tomorrow. I went exploring with a local.’

  ‘Was that a good idea? How do you know you can trust him?’

  She was right. Anyone could have spotted and dispatched me in that crowd of thousands. Giselle fished in her handbag for a cigarette. ‘Don’t bother about the Ravens Bar by the way… it’s shut down. I already checked for you.’

  ‘When did it shut?’ I sat on the edge of the bed, touched that she’d gone to any effort on my behalf. I stroked her leg.

  ‘I’m not sure, the tailor next door said the owner left a while ago. Apparently businesses open and close like they’re going out of fashion round here. Sorry to give you bum news, but to be honest I’m relieved… I mean you can’t go up against these people unaided - you haven’t got a plan and they could be waiting for you around the next corner.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have put yourself in danger for me, Giselle. They could have been watching the place, waiting for me or anyone asking questions.’

  ‘Now you’re being really paranoid. Why would they find it odd that an Oriental girl was talking to a tailor?’

  ‘But what if they saw us leave the airport together,’ I trailed off.

  Her eyebrows knitted endearingly, I stroked her arm, and felt a rush of warmth between my legs. Her eyes were fiercely blue as she smiled at me.

  ‘I still need to take a peek inside the Raven’s Bar, those matches were left for a reason.’ I said, ‘And if I have to break in there I will.’

  The smile swiftly disappeared. ‘Don’t you believe me?’ she said exasperated.

  ‘Yes, of course, but that bar is all I’ve got to go on.’

  ‘I’m tired now.’ she said, as she climbed beneath the sheet and t
urned her bedside light off.

  I took off my t-shirt and settled beside her, her body stiff and ungiving. For the next hour we seemed to toss and turn, then finally I said, ‘Giselle, you still awake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did I say?’

  She moved further away. ‘I feel like an idiot.’

  ‘Why?’ I said, trying to turn her softly around.

  ‘I came all the way here with you so we could travel together and maybe get to know each other a bit more but you’re like a closed book - I can’t figure you out.’

  That makes two of us, I thought, but said nothing. Maybe tomorrow we’d go our separate ways. I wasn’t getting stuck in her Circean charms any longer than necessary. But that’s what Odysseus said and look what she did to him. I was just dropping off when she said. ‘I know you’re frightened, I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘My best friend’s been murdered, of course I’m scared.’ I got up and lit a cigarette by the window. Outside, the fountain was deserted.

  ‘I hoped things would be different between us. You’re so secretive and I only wanted to help you.’

  Even now the map and key were hidden beneath the heavy cupboard we’d dumped our clothes in - unbeknown to her of course. Do the right thing and let her go, I thought to myself, but as I looked at her I knew I wanted her again and I’d have to earn it. That sounds terrible, it wasn’t just an exchange of flesh I wanted, but company too, something to still the ill wind that blew through me as soon as I woke.

  ‘Ok.’ I sat back on the bed, lit her a cigarette and handed it to her. We smoked in the darkness and I told her my story; everything, from the Khao San alley murder, to King and the cult of Jai-Dam.

  ‘Can I see the map?’ she said with a whisper. The atmosphere had cleared, her voice almost chirpy as she snuggled closer to me. ‘It’s hidden, I’ll show you tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s too strange for words. You think this cult whatever it is, is in Laos?’

  ‘Apparently that’s where it originated so it points to that.’ I answered. ‘Only tonight I heard kids are disappearing again further north. It’s as if events are building up to something.’

  ‘Behind the boutique hotels there’s something dark about this country.’ She murmured.

  As I shut my eyes I could see the handsome face of my dead friend; he was watching me walk past his body in the piss-stinking alley off the Khao San Rd. Giselle curled her arm around mine, her other hand holding a fresh cigarette. When she inhaled I could see the orange glow of her beautiful face.

  I felt better for the confession. ‘Sorry I’m a closed book,’ I said, ‘I’ve got to learn to trust my instincts again.’

  She traced a finger upon my cock and held it there as it stiffened to her touch. ‘What do your instincts tell you about me?’

  Why some of us feel compelled to purge ourselves of intense feeling as if it’s a thing that must be expelled before it overwhelms us, I’ll never understand. ‘That I’m falling for you.’

  She pulled me close and kissed me on the mouth with her warm, smoky lips, her hand closing on me, squeezing, guiding me toward her as she dogged the smoke and briskly removed her panties. This time her eyes were open wide, ‘Fuck me like a warlock… as if you were about to die.’ She hissed.

  Again, the weirdness; it was like taking pleasure with a disciple of De Sade. Afterwards we fell against the pillows in one another’s arms, listening to the cicadas in the trees outside our window as we fell asleep. Giselle wasn’t normal.

  - 23 -

  I opened my eyes to see her staring at me, chin propped on her fist, the now familiar scent of cocoa drifting from her brown skin. My watch read 7:20am. ‘How long have you been awake?’ I asked.

  ‘A little while, I’ve been watching you. You look like a little boy when you’re asleep. There’s mist coming off the Mekong, it’s really atmospheric.’

  ‘Let’s go get some breakfast,’ I suggested, hoping we might run into Lou so she could meet him.

  She walked to the window and pulled back the muslin drape, the dawn light silhouetting her peach-shaped buttocks and athletic physique. ‘In a minute,’ she said, her lip curling into a wicked smile as she skipped girlishly back to the bed removing her knickers. ‘I need to be fucked again.’

  9:30am, the circle around the fountain was littered in festival detritus. No one was clearing it up either. We took croissants and coffee at the JoMa bakery over the road from Nam Phou. It seemed almost too easy - baguettes, cakes, bacon, salads… not as I had pictured Laos at all.

  ‘Don’t be fooled by this façade, outside of the cities you’re in the darkness,’ said Giselle reading my thoughts. ‘ Anything happens, you’re a long way from help.’

  Monks were ambling between temples, the tree-lined boulevard of Setthathirat St was peppered with hungover travellers. I envied these fresh farangs and the simplicity of their travels; their blog sites, the collection of passports stamps to look at in years to come when they were claimed by dull jobs.

  ‘Did you see the procession last night?’ I asked.

  ‘Some of it, I took a few photos and came back. I spoke to my Ed - he went crazy about me coming here without telling him. He wants me back to go to Koh Chang but I told him I’d be here another week.’

  A week? The thought of her having a life and profession elsewhere in another country was already creating a jealous soup in my stomach.

  ‘Where did you go, Al?’ She swished her finger around the edge of her cappuccino and deliciously placed the froth in her mouth. She hadn’t called me Al before, it brought us closer.

  ‘The temple of That Luang, it’s a few miles north of here. I met an old guy who used to be a journalist during the Vietnam War, funny old bloke called Lou. He took us in his jeep. I wished you’d come but you’d already disappeared.’

  She looked at me intensely, blue eyes flaring as if the gas dial had been turned up in them. A man on a motorcross bike rolled past our alfresco table and parked up at the minimart next door, his face covered in red dust. He looked like he’d been riding for days. She covered her mouth with her Khmer scarf.

  ‘He told me some weird stuff.’ I said.

  She lit a cigarette and coughed, ‘God it’s dusty here. Sorry, what did he tell you?’

  ‘Some crap about locals disappearing… rumours of creatures up north in the woods.’

  She gave me a look as if to suggest I was losing the plot, “Creatures?” she laughed, ‘what, you mean like tigers?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So let’s go there, starting in Luang Prabang, the place you told me about on your map. Even if it leads you no nearer your friend’s fate, it’s an amazing place, much nicer than here,’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not here to enjoy myself.’

  ‘Come on, Al, it’ll give you a chance to put some kind of plan together. There’s temples, elephant rides, waterfalls, neat little guesthouses for us to… and food to die for. Please,’ she said almost in desperation. ‘Hey, maybe we can hire a guide or something to take us into mountains? This place, Black Dragon Mountain, maybe it’s nearby.’

  ‘We might get eaten.’

  ‘And I thought photographers were dramatic!’ She smiled, lifting her left foot out of its sandal and poking my crotch with her pointed toe. She didn’t seem to mind the discrediting look the old woman opposite her was giving us, nor that most of the time the focus of her conversation seemed to be about having sex. I didn’t mind, I hadn’t been physically active for months, but the change in her was slightly unsettling. I noticed a fresh plaster on her leg.

  ‘So come on, what do you think?’ she smiled.

  So far Vientiane had presented no problems; which either meant I was cold on the trail or whoever killed Skip was unaware of my arrival here. If my lead to the Ravens Bar
went nowhere perhaps I should visit Luang Prabang and focus on my father’s time there and his map? And what would the Ravens Bar tell me anyway? I guessed there was only one way to find out.

  A woman dressed in tribal garb with bells on her headdress scampered across the circle like a ragged black ghost, her nut-brown face turned away from us. Giselle held my hand in hers. ‘What was Skip like?’ she asked quietly.

  Hearing someone else mention his name made me think he’d appear round the corner with his silly grin and curly hair. ‘You would have like him, most girls did.’

  She giggled, ‘Even more than you?’

  ‘Definitely more than me, he had an easy charm about him.’

  Then I was miles away. Giselle seemed to reach into my thoughts, ‘Ravens Bar?’

  We walked away from the traveller’s hub of Nam Phou and Setthathirat St toward the dull grey arch of the Patuxai, the heat gathering momentum. There were plenty of people around, travellers on rented bikes, monks, urbanite expats and tribal folk. I stopped at an internet café and asked for the address of The Vientiane Times, the state-run national newspaper. Giselle waited impatiently for me, her lip curling at the side as it did when something was annoying her or she had something deviant on her mind. The newspaper was situated near Nam Phou place, close by our guesthouse, so I’d visit later. We walked on past the Morning Market, the air dusty and redolent of rotten fish, it made me want to gag.

  The fairground was a melee of Lao, rich and poor; over-painted, politburo wives teetering on stilettos through a tide of styrofoam cups, while the regular Lao played on flashing bumper cars and giggled excitedly outside freakshow tents. Giselle didn’t seem too impressed, her Nikon encased in its case throughout. She looked at the address scrawled in biro on my hand: ‘Ravens Bar, Thanon Pangkham’.

  ‘Jesus, Alain, which part of “it’s shut” you having a problem with?’

  ‘I need find out who ran it – look, whoever left the postcard at my Nan’s, wanted me to go there.’