Anarchy and Old Dogs

by Colin Cotterill

  “And his initials just happened to be SP,” Siri said.

  “Souvan Phibounsuk.”

  “Goodness.” Siri sat on the sink unit and put his hands on his head. “We have a confidential list of military placements and the names of ranking officers—sent in code and written in invisible ink. Are you two thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Some plot’s being hatched,” Phosy said. “This is a list of the officers they’ve talked into joining them.”

  “D-day,” Siri said, half to himself. “That’s it. It’s a coup d’état. August 30 is the date set for an uprising.”

  “It has to be,” Phosy agreed.

  “But this is enormous,” Dtui said. “What do we do? Who do we tell?”

  “Good question, Comrade Dtui,” said Siri, staring at the list on the board.

  “Well, obviously the Security Division,” Phosy said. Unconsciously, their voices had dropped to whispers. “They’re responsible for things like this, aren’t they?”

  “It isn’t that easy, Phosy. Look at the list. They have generals. We don’t know how high this thing goes. If we disclose what we think we know to the wrong person …”

  “They’ll find the three of us tied to rocks at the bottom of the Mekhong. There’ll be river crabs living in our …”

  “Thank you, Nurse Dtui.” Siri smiled. “A little dramatic but the drift is there. The fact is we don’t know whom to trust. And, to be honest, we don’t have any hard evidence that what we’ve found here is actually what it seems to be.”

  “Come on, Doc. What else could it be? Birthday invitations?”

  “I admit it looks ominous, but I think we should go at this delicately.”

  “So what do you propose we do?” Phosy asked.

  The policeman was still swaying like a palm tree in a strong breeze. Siri looked into his friends’ faces, ceramic with fatigue.

  “The first thing I suggest is that you two go home and get some sleep. We need all our wits about us and there’s no urgency. If the note is to be believed, we have until the thirtieth. That’s two weeks. Inspector Phosy, perhaps when you’re refreshed we could take another trip out to Dong Bang tomorrow to see whether the dentist’s wife has kept any of her husband’s notes. Comrade Civilai should be back from Moscow later tonight. I want to run all this by him before we do anything rash. He’ll know how to handle things and he can put us in touch with his inner circle. If nothing else, he knows which people are on his side.”

  There were no objections from Phosy or Dtui. They collected their belongings and trudged to the door. Dtui stopped in the doorway and looked back at Siri.

  “You know?” she said. “I don’t understand how you do it, Doc. Look at you. Older than Angkor Wat, up all night boozing, and you still look as frisky as a prawn on a hot plate. What’s your secret?”

  Siri considered telling the truth, but only briefly. “What can I say? A life without impure thoughts,” he said. “Look and learn, Dtui.”

  It was an odd afternoon. The thick, puffy clouds squatting low over Vientiane weren’t particularly convincing. They were like stage scenery clouds that could be pushed aside at any time to reveal the sun. What Laos needed was rain, not the promise of it. Siri had stopped by Civilai’s office and been told by his typist that he’d be arriving at some unearthly hour the following morning. Siri figured it would be at least lunchtime before his friend was in any fit state to quash a coup. So he scribbled a quick note to say he’d made a lunchtime booking at their riverside log for 12:30—and Civilai should bring enough packed lunch for both of them. He added, “This is urgent so don’t come up with any lame excuses.”

  Siri’s next stop was the Department of Justice, where he was hoping he’d be able to drop his reports on Manivone’s desk before her boss, Judge Haeng, could railroad him into his office for a quick burden-sharing tutorial. There was no love lost between Siri and his much younger boss. Siri didn’t take orders and Judge Haeng didn’t do much of anything other than give them. The national coroner was the only man in the country remotely qualified to do the job, so dismissal wasn’t a threat Haeng could wield with any conviction. Siri dreamed of retirement, of inactivity and peace. He would have loved Haeng to kick him out and the young man would have been delighted to do so. The judge, with his iffy Soviet qualifications, was consumed by the need to maintain face—and Siri had smashed that face to smithereens once or twice. But, as of this week, a shadow even darker than Siri had been cast over Haeng’s department.

  In July, Laos had signed an agreement of friendship and cooperation with the government of Vietnam. Although it was packaged as a way to facilitate trade and exchange information, in fact, it gave the Vietnamese a green light to station military units on Lao soil and to have an even greater influence over Lao policy making. Vietnamese “advisers” had been billeted at Lao government departments, some even being bold enough to have their own desks moved into the offices of the department heads. Such was the case at the Department of Justice, and Judge Haeng didn’t like it one little bit.

  His office mate was a toothless but ever-smiling man who wore his hair greased flat on his head like a matinee idol. Although he sported a large, charcoal gray suit rather than a uniform, he was a colonel in the People’s Army of Vietnam and a senior lecturer in law at the new institute in Hanoi. To Haeng’s chagrin, he could read and write Lao, and under the agreement, every document that passed over Haeng’s desk, “in” or “out,” had to pay a visit to Colonel Phat. Although the colonel hadn’t yet made any direct comments, Haeng watched him out of the corner of his eye as the man shook his head and tutted repeatedly as he pored over the reports. As a result, the judge concentrated doubly hard on his grammar and spelling. He also tried to be out of his office whenever Phat was in, which was most of the time.

  So, to make a long story no less long, that was why Haeng bumped into Siri at Mrs. Manivone’s desk in the typing pool that day.

  “Ah, Siri,” Haeng said, as if he were actually glad to see the coroner.

  “Judge Haeng.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just delivering my reports for the week. I was on my way to—”

  “Good. Glad I caught you.”

  “You are?”

  “Absolutely. There’s a little matter I might get you to take care of for us.”

  “That depends. When?”

  “ ‘When?’ That’s hardly the reaction we expect from a soldier of the revolution, Siri.” Haeng cast a glance toward the clerks sitting around the room. He seemed to know instinctively they were hungry for some homegrown socialist wisdom. “A true warrior would say, ‘Let me at it.’ “

  “He would?”

  “Yes, Siri. A dedicated socialist plunges headfirst into the troubled waters without testing the depth.”

  “Isn’t he likely to bump his head on the bottom?” Siri asked.

  “What?”

  “If it’s too shallow.”

  “I don’t … No. He wouldn’t care. He would—”

  “What if he can’t swim? Like me.” Siri and Haeng both heard a muffled chuckle from behind them.

  “It’s not literal, Siri. It’s a … Look, never mind. Come with me. We have something to talk about in private.” He headed off toward the exit. Siri knew why.

  “Isn’t your office this way?”

  “Yes, but it’s … occupied. We can talk outside.”

  As he led them toward the door, Haeng grabbed a small red book from a large pile beside the souvenir cabinet. He didn’t stop till he reached the edge of the basketball court. Once a happy after-work recreation spot for the American imperialists, the concrete rectangle was now in the process of being reclaimed by nature. Undernourished ivy and morning glories crisscrossed the backboards and curled wreathlike around the rims.

  There came a belch of thunder from overhead that rolled languidly across the stodgy clouds.

  “Looks like rain at last,” Haeng said. It was the first decorous comment Siri coul
d remember hearing from the spotty young man. He was too surprised to respond. “But, anyway,” Haeng continued, “we’ve had a bit of an embarrassment in the south.”

  “Souths are notorious for embarrassing their northern neighbors.”

  “Quite. It appears a deputy governor has managed to get himself electrocuted in the bathtub.”

  “Clumsy.”

  “Yes, I suppose you could say that. But there are complications. I was on the phone with the governor for an hour this morning. He seems to think there are political implications.”

  Siri laughed. “About a man electrocuting himself in the bath?”

  “Siri. Please restrain the levity. The deputy governor was up here recently paying a courtesy visit to the Soviet embassy. I’m sure you recall how their ambassador likes to give away those horrible Soviet-built appliances as souvenirs: irons, fans, soldering equipment, all that type of stuff. Most of it’s built to withstand missile attacks—no removable parts. When any of it breaks down, you have no choice but to sell it for scrap and buy a new one. Well, the deputy governor got a water heater as a souvenir. You know the sort: thick wooden handle with a hook and a long metal element curled into a loop.”

  “I’ve got one. You hook it onto the side of the bathtub, plug it in, and it heats up your water.”

  “That’s the one. It would seem the deputy governor was in the bath while the heater was still live. Stewed himself. I tried to convince the governor that it sounded like his deputy’s own stupid fault, but you know what they’re like down there. He’s accusing the Russians of assassinating his deputy. He believes the heater was rigged, and he’s threatening to write his accusations in a letter to the Soviet authorities if the case isn’t investigated. We certainly can’t have that. I just need someone to go down there and put his mind at ease.”

  “Why me? And I don’t need the warrior speech again.”

  Judge Haeng had tried the line “Don’t question my instructions” before, and knew it didn’t work on a man like Siri. “Because you’re the national coroner, Siri. You’re the only one who can convince him it was an accident. He’ll have to believe you.”

  Siri had become selective about the long-distance cases he accepted these days. They invariably got him into trouble. Traveling to the other end of the country for some ridiculous water-heater accident seemed pointless. There was only one thing that might entice him.

  “What province?” he asked.

  “Champasak.”

  “I’ll go.”

  “You will?” As usual when Siri agreed to obey one of Haeng’s directives, a look of astonishment appeared briefly on the judge’s face. Siri enjoyed watching it arrive and his fight to erase it.

  “Jolly good. Here, take this for the journey.” Haeng held out the book.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book. We’ve had it translated into Lao.”

  “What on earth for?”

  Haeng stifled his frustration and forced the book into Siri’s pocket.

  “A good socialist is not a dustbin, with a closed lid. He is a letter box, always open to receive news.”

  “Well, that explains everything. I’ll do my best to keep my slot open.”

  “Good man. Right. I’ll book you on a flight early tomorrow morning.”

  “No. Can’t get away till the evening. Say six?”

  “Siri, you know there are no scheduled flights at that time.”

  “Judge, that’s when I’ll be free to go.”

  “There’s no way to …”

  “Have you told the Soviet ambassador what they’re accusing him of in the south?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I suggest you do. With the Soviets and the Chinese and the Vietnamese all jockeying for some kind of role in our humble land, it would surprise me if the ambassador didn’t make his old Yak available for a special little trip south. You might mention that the Champasak governor’s threatening to write to Moscow.”

  “I don’t …”

  “Trust me, son. It’s high time the puppet started pulling back on the strings.”

  In Search of a Proletariat

  Siri wondered what the hell he was doing there. He was aware of people walking along the far side of Samsenthai, looking in his direction. He was conscious of the clerk in the Aeroflot office staring out from behind the counter. Hers was one of only three glass-fronted shops on the block, and Siri could see his own embarrassed reflection in the office window. A cloud that had been threatening rain was purplish now, like an eggplant, and so close you could jump up and give it a squeeze. It complemented Auntie Bpoo’s dress, which was crimson crepe and stopped just above her rugby-player knees. Once again, Siri sat in front of her like a schoolboy before the headmistress, waiting for her to deign to speak with him. At last, she stopped meshing her playing cards together and looked him in the eye. A poem.

  Time will blow

  Woe betide—when every man

  And woman can

  Have access to a world

  Of evil and of knowledge all unfurled

  Within a case

  Face to face in every home.

  The transvestite’s stare burned into Siri’s face until he was forced to respond.

  “Right,” he said. “Thanks for that. I was just hoping to ask about your last—”

  “Ten thousand kip.”

  “Eh?”

  “Ten thousand. Cash. I don’t take bank drafts.”

  “I thought you did all this for free.”

  “I tell you your future for free. For interviews I charge.”

  “I’m not interviewing you.”

  “Then stop asking questions and give me a kiss.”

  “What?”

  “Just kidding. I wanted to see the look on your face. Now, Dr. Siri. Dr. Siri Paiboun. The lesser beasts around you seem to have settled down. Am I right?”

  Siri didn’t need clarification. For over a month, birds and insects and small animals near him had acted weirdly. But as of last week, things seemed to be back to normal. The most recent incident he could recall was when he awoke one morning to find a large gecko on the pillow beside him. It was on its back and appeared to be snoring. That had been the last. For some reason he wasn’t surprised that Auntie Bpoo would know this.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Just a little surge of energy. But don’t ignore the animal kingdom completely. Pay special attention to waterborne creatures.”

  “Fish, in particular?”

  “Ten thousand kip.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You will suffer a loss of sensation.”

  “It’s started already.”

  “This too will pass. Your body’s going through certain changes.”

  “Damn, I thought all that was behind me decades ago.”

  The corner of Auntie Bpoo’s mouth creased. It might have been a smile.

  She continued. “You have to expect ascents and descents. These are marvelous times.”

  Quite unexpectedly, she raised the hem of her crepe dress and gave Siri a flash of her naked genitalia. Attached with pink plastic string to the usual goods were four or five additional baubles: one delicate silver globe, two ping-pong balls, and a seashell. At least that was all Siri was able to memorize in the time allotted him. He didn’t recall seeing a penis but it might have been there somewhere among the flotsam. Auntie Bpoo lowered the dress and continued as if nothing had happened.

  “One more thing, old fool. Do not forget this. At the back of every wicked man, there is a shadow. Is that shadow any less guilty than he?”

  Siri sat on the familiar leather seat of his old motorcycle and marveled: seventy-three years of age and still clueless, still a victim of impulse and irrational instincts. Dependent suddenly on a man in a dress who spoke in riddles and left him feeling as small as a head louse. But this grotesque man-woman creature knew it all. She knew what Siri was tuned in to and what was going on inside him. The doctor h
ad no choice but to listen to her words and attempt to make sense of them. The life Siri had been cornered into was a lonely one that even his closest allies couldn’t begin to understand. No matter how queer his new acquaintance might have been, he was determined to make a friend of her.

  * * *

  It was a dream that was black from beginning to end, but it was a dream. It was like a visit to the cinema when the projector breaks down and you sit in the darkness waiting for the projectionist to fix it, and you sit and sit, but the film doesn’t return. Siri could feel himself alone in the viewing room, waiting. He could smell the stale popcorn crushed into the carpet, see the faint margin of light around the emergency exit doors. But there was no film.

  He awoke in his government-supplied bungalow, the sun not yet backlighting the Mickey Mice on his curtain. His dream line to the afterlife was out of order. For some reason he’d become bound to the earth. He suddenly felt vulnerable, and mortal.

  Siri and Civilai sat on their log, staring out across the sand, mud, and low waterline that made up a Mekhong desperate for a rainy season. The rains had come late in China and hadn’t yet started to fill the river downstream. Nobody could recall the water course running so low this late in the year. It was a depressingly dreary view. Even affluent Thailand on the far bank looked impoverished. The ceiling of cartoon cloud continued to hang just above their heads, and the wrapped baguettes sat on the log beside them. The old friends had been silent for three minutes. If the Guinness people had been around, it would have qualified as a world record.

  “Shit,” said Civilai.

  “You’re telling me,” said Siri.

  “What in tarnation do we do about this one?”

  “I was rather hoping you’d have something in mind. It’s not as if you haven’t been involved in a rebellion before.”

  “True, little brother. But if you remember, we were on the side of the people doing the rebelling.”

  “Then it’s easy. All we have to do is put ourselves in the shoes of the tyrants we ousted. What would we do if we were the Royal Lao government?”