Anarchy and Old Dogs

by Colin Cotterill

  “Come on. You enjoyed it.”

  “I would have, under other circumstances.” He killed the engine and climbed down from the jeep. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  They found the man who’d recovered the body. As was often the case, pulling a drowning victim from his nets had plunged the fisherman into a deep depression. It was a curse that could only be lifted by several days of shouting at one’s children and being unreasonable to one’s wife. Mr. Keuk was into the fourth day of his penance. His chocolate leather skin was baggy from inactivity. For some reason, he took a visit by two old men from Vientiane as a good omen. He rose from his bamboo litter for the first time since his gory discovery and sat at the back of the jeep all the way to his allotment.

  It was a simple setup. The deep nylon nets were strung from bamboo posts sunk into the riverbed. The principle was that the fish would come hurtling toward the net and score themselves like soccer goals. They’d be too traumatized to swim against the current to get free and would tangle themselves in the netting. With so many traps dotted around the islands, a fish would have to have the luck of the Lord Buddha himself to make it through.

  Keuk took them to the net that had trapped the body of Sing. It still hung wrapped around the post and split, not catching a thing. Siri, Civilai, and Keuk squatted on the bank, looking at it.

  “You come to collect the fish every evening?” Siri asked.

  “Used to,” Keuk answered with a long face.

  “And on that particular evening, you found the body tangled in your net?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What state was it in?”

  “You want me to describe it?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Keuk slowly and deliberately described the body exactly as Siri had seen it in the house in Pakse.

  “Where’s this line of inquiry leading?” Civilai asked.

  “I’ve just lost another theory. I wondered if the splinters came from the back of the truck they shipped him home in. It appears they didn’t. I can’t figure it out.” He looked at Keuk. “Has this ever happened to you before?”

  “Not to me personal. It’s not uncommon, though. The old-timers tell me there was times when there was more bodies than fish. Like when the French was getting their own back on the Lao Issara. They say they fished a mountain of patriots out then.” Siri and Civilai looked at each other. “But not recent, no. I did have a catfish once—it broke the net—and a pa kha.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Something sparked in Siri’s mind. Pa kha was the Lao name for the river dolphins that once played in the Mekhong from China all the way to the delta. There were well-worn tales of pa kha saving the lives of drowning boatmen and guiding longboats through rapids. But overfishing and pollution had since wiped out the dolphins from most of their old habitats. The myth that killing the pa kha would bring catastrophe to a family had never been as strong as a villager’s need to feed his children. She had become a menu item, the pa kha: the mermaid of the Mekhong.

  “What did you do with the dolphin?” Siri asked.

  “Rescued her, of course,” Keuk said. “You could bring a curse on the whole town if you let one die. There’s them don’t believe it no more, but I do. I took her downriver to the depths beyond the islands. That’s where they like to be. It’s safe there.”

  “Before the falls?”

  “Want to see?”

  Mermaid Rodeo

  The path down to the river had been too narrow to drive so, ever grumbling, Civilai had parked in a patch of tall lemon grass and the three men made their way to the riverbank. It was quite a trek and they stirred up nests of hungry insects on the way. At one point they disturbed a small flock of black-hooded river terns.

  “Them’s sida birds,” said Keuk. “They go where the dolphins go. The pa kha are here for certain.”

  Finally, they reached the broad, slow-moving expanse of river at the end of the trail. The sight was oddly cathartic to the old doctor. He seemed to recognize it from a different life. It was one of the Mekhong’s few secret places. It made him feel slightly stoned: a few-good-puffs-of-ganja buzz.

  “So,” said Civilai, sitting on a smooth rock, watching the hornets hover above the silver-gray surface of the river. “We’re here to visit the river dolphins?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s going to help you solve the mystery of the young boy’s death?”

  “No. Yes. Look, I don’t know, all right? Don’t ask me things like that. I had a dream.”

  “Oh, marvelous. You can’t dream up how to save the country but you can make a few fishermen feel a little bet ter about their clumsy son.”

  Siri looked at Civilai in surprise. “That wasn’t very nice.”

  “I know.” He sighed and looked to the heavens. “I’m just feeling … all these detours are making me a bit irritable. Oh, Siri.” That was the moment Siri understood. Several heavy realities fell on him one after the other like thick leather-covered tomes from a shelf. He could tell from his friend’s expression that he was more lost than Siri could ever have imagined. The world he’d built was, like the palace, being taken apart by looters, and there was nothing he could do about it. Siri knew this diversion was doing him more harm than good.

  He went to sit beside Civilai. “Brother, I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Now what have you done?” Civilai didn’t look up. His watery eyes stared at his hands. Siri had never seen him looking so old.

  “Sirs!” Keuk was standing beneath a hairy mistletoe tree, his arm extended toward the river, his eyes as round as Indian roti.

  The gray-green sheen of some large creature had become visible just above the surface of the river at the far bank and was moving now directly to where the old men sat. The dolphin’s head emerged not far from their feet. Its mouth was curved into a smile. It looked up and blew a spout of water from its long pointed snout that hit Civilai square in the chest. The politburo man looked with amazement, first at the animal, then at Siri, and burst into laughter. Siri joined in. The pa kha, sensing a receptive audience, belly flopped back and forth in front of them. Siri put his arm around his friend’s shoulder and enjoyed the show.

  “I’ve never seen nothing like that,” Keuk said, stepping out from the shade of his tree. “That’s something. That’s really something.”

  “You know what?” Siri said. “I think she wants us to join her.” He walked to the water, kicked off his sandals, and rolled up the legs of his trousers. The clay bank dropped suddenly downward and he sat on its edge with his feet dangling in the passing Mekhong.

  “You won’t forget you can’t swim, will you, Siri?” Civilai shouted.

  The pa kha came immediately to the bank and rubbed herself against Siri’s knees. Then she floated on her back in front of him, looking expectantly.

  “I’ve never in all my days …, “ said Keuk.

  Siri threw caution to the current and leaned over to stroke the dolphin’s belly. It was like running a hand over a large wet pickle, but not altogether unpleasant. The dolphin tossed back her head, meowed, and rolled onto her front.

  “I think she likes me,” Siri said with a big smile on his face. Hooking one arm over the animal’s back, he slid slowly into the water.

  “Siri?” Civilai shouted and walked hurriedly down to the bank, where his friend lay embracing a large waterborne mammal. “You do understand what you’re doing, don’t you?”

  Siri looked up at Civilai and his smile turned to astonishment as the dolphin set off into the river with him on her back.

  “Siri!” Civilai was more anxious now. “Remember the Sirens. Get back here. Your life is in the hands of a fish.”

  Siri gave an uneasy smile in response. He was almost at the deepest point of the river. “It’s all right, old brother. I’ve never felt safer in my life. This is—”

  And at that moment the dolphin dived, taking Siri down into the water with her. So swift was their descent th
at within a second or two, the surface of the Mekhong had erased all evidence that the national coroner and his mount had ever existed.

  The rain beat so heavily on the tin roof of their single-room home that Phosy and Dtui had given up trying to speak. Odd scents tangled together in the pitch-blackness and made Dtui’s head swim: the musty chemical smell of the creosoted plank walls, the bitterness of the banana-leaf matting that covered the raised-earth floor, the wholesome rain, and the sweet smoke of the mosquito coil. She lay, fully dressed, atop the inch-thick foam mattress. The hammering rain made her shudder but her side of the one double blanket remained beneath her. Although she was temporarily blinded and deafened by Mother Nature, she knew that Phosy lay covered in that same blanket just six inches from her side. Like most men, he wore only a gingham sleeping cloth knotted at his waist.

  They couldn’t have slept separately. There were no locks on the doors and windows, and the cracks between the wooden slats were wide enough to poke a finger through. They were a married couple. They had to fit in, play their parts. She’d done well enough, convincing the other women she was just one more faithful wife following her older husband to a new life. She’d even made Phosy believe she was strong and courageous. Made him think she didn’t need his protection, she could do just fine without him. But on their first night alone in a camp on foreign soil, all her doubts found their way to her stomach. She wasn’t trembling from the cold.

  There were many reasons she’d been unable to escape into sleep that night. She was hopelessly awake and alert.

  The timpani on the roof contributed, the strangeness of the camp, the potential dangers. But even if these factors could be wished away by a well-placed prayer, she knew she’d still hear the morning cockerel with her eyelids wide open. She felt a tenseness she’d never be able to explain to anyone, a tenseness that only a twenty-five-year-old woman who had never spent the night in bed beside a man can feel.

  Siri Goes to Heaven

  The same range of clouds that was currently drenching the camp in Ubon was undecided as to how seriously it should rain on Khong across the border in Laos. It had dropped one serious deluge, then dribbled embarrassingly for several hours. The black jeep had benefited from the wash. Its daytime coat of red earth lay in ruddy puddles around its tires. It stood sleek and proud beneath Khong’s only streetlight, but its confident look was all bluff. The old American war wagon had carried its last general, fled its last conflict. A lack of oil, an overheated piston, a small imploding crunch, and suddenly one of man’s most brilliant inventions, the internal combustion engine, was no more than four hundred pounds of solid scrap metal.

  If “lucky” was a fitting word to describe their plight, they had been lucky. It could have happened in a more isolated spot far from help. But Civilai had just dropped the enlightened fisherman at his shack and the jeep was passing through the center of Khong on its return journey to Pakse when everything seized up. Fortunately, the town had a guesthouse, and, as luck would have it, that guesthouse was a short wrench toss from the dead jeep.

  Siri hadn’t suffered at all from his brief dip beneath the surface of the Mekhong. He’d had the good sense to hold his breath and not let go of his hostess. He had a feeling she’d soon have him back breathing oxygen. But during his five-second dousing, Siri had been afforded a vision—or, more accurately, a sensation. Just for a moment, he’d been young Sing—cold, shuddering, and alone. It was nighttime and above his head hung a huge circle of light as if a UFO were hovering over him. That was all. This told Siri that the boy’s soul had continued down the river and come to rest in the pa kha. To the fisherman, Keuk, this was tremendous news. Now he could be civil to his family and return to the drudgery of catching fish. But it didn’t get Siri any closer to solving the riddle of the boy’s death.

  They lay side by side now, Siri and Civilai, under a huge tent of mosquito netting in the guesthouse bedroom. It wasn’t the most lavish of accommodations. There was a coffee shop and small reception area downstairs and one bedroom above. Luckily, it had been unoccupied. Civilai’s mood had sunk to new depths since the demise of the jeep. It was the final straw. He had gone to bed at seven, refusing food, drink, and conversation. Siri had walked around in the mud for an hour, enjoyed a slow delicious fish supper, and finally retired at nine thirty. He knew his friend was only pretending to sleep when he climbed onto the creaking bed, but something told him he was better off joining the charade.

  Guilt kept him awake: the feeling that this away day had been more than an excuse to relax. Perhaps it was an escape. It had entered his head as he stood looking at the somnambulant Mekhong that perhaps, just perhaps, he’d lost the will to fight. What if the rebellious young man had slowly deteriorated into a cantankerous old coot with nothing to offer but complaints and sarcasm? He wondered if the lime had been too long on the tree. With so many negative thoughts going through his head, he should have avoided sleep. He should have known that the dream world might be hostile if one entered it with a self-inflicted inferiority wound. But he was powerless to avoid the drop.

  He was walking in a beautiful place. Everywhere were crystals of ice, like blossoms frozen in a mystic frost. Beneath his bare feet was a thick carpet of snow. A Nordic elk stood on the horizon watching him. Siri wore only his old Thai boxing shorts and he could see the few white hairs on his chest were frozen stiff, but he felt no bite from the cold. He was invincible, a warrior of Laos braving the extremes of Scandinavia with no ill effects.

  He crunched onward through the snow until he reached the edge of a vast lake of cotton wool cloud. He recognized the picture. He’d seen it before in temple scrolls. Although he was surprised to find it in northern Europe, this was Nirvana. Across the clouds he could see the green and gold roof—the sun glinting off the glass ornaments. It was a place where all his suffering would end—where the inexplicable would become clear. This was the peace he craved.

  He stepped gingerly onto the cloud. It looked as if it might cave in like meringue but it took his weight. Another step and his confidence grew. Just a short walk across to …

  The clouds parted and he dropped like a stone into water. His consciousness altered. He could feel the cold now, feel the water against his face, but could see nothing. He gasped and suddenly his lungs filled with liquid. It was too uncomfortable to be fantasy. He gagged and took in another bitter mouthful. Panic. He thrashed his arms and legs, wanting to expel the water inside him, but knowing it was impossible. Knowing he would instinctively take another breath and that would be his last.

  He’d reached the bottom now. His feet plunged into soft, warm mud. If this were to be his last moment, he decided he would go in peace, enjoy the feel of the clay oozing between his toes. His last thought should be one of pleasure. His watery chest felt heavy, and, as his eyes began to close, as he gave in to his fate, a gray shape loomed before him in the murky water. He thought he felt a probing hand against his face, imagined he saw eyes glaring into his. There was a grab at his wrist, a yank, and then everything stopped.

  When Siri was finally restarted, he found himself spewing out river water and coughing up phlegm. He felt strong hands on his chest and looked up to see the smiling face of the tight-skinned military man.

  Stuck for a funny line, Siri resorted to the predictable. “What happened?”

  “You walked into the river, sir,” said his savior.

  Siri heaved again and produced bile but very little water.

  “Why did I do that?” he asked.

  “I thought perhaps you might know that yourself, sir.” The soldier had a hold of Siri’s wrist and was looking at his watch. “But it looked like you were sleepwalking.”

  “You didn’t just happen to be here in Khong waiting for a suicide attempt, did you?”

  “No, sir. I followed you here.”

  Siri worked himself onto his side and coughed several times. His chest felt like the engine of their jeep. “Under whose instructions?”

  “Comrade
Phosy, sir.”

  “You’re one of his men?”

  “Used to be, when we were in the northeast. I’m based in Vientiane these days. The colonel and I have been through a lot together. We help each other out. He asked me to keep an eye out for each of you.”

  “Well I …” Siri vomited violently and the soldier wrapped his jacket around the doctor’s shoulders. “I can’t say I’m disappointed. Presumably you didn’t follow us here on foot, my friend.”

  “I have a jeep, sir.”

  “Then I think I need to ask for one more favor.”

  “I’m at your disposal.”

  “This little adventure’s made me a prime candidate for pneumonia. My lungs aren’t at their best anymore as it is. I need to get to the hospital in Pakse as soon as possible.”

  “Should I wake up Comrade Civilai?”

  “Yes, but be careful. You might want to wear a helmet.”

  Dtui was at the watering tank filling her buckets. In her head she was calculating how many bucket trips she would have to take to lose twenty pounds. There was a formula to calculate weight loss in one of her books, but it had gone completely from her mind. She’d been through all the medical texts, English and Russian, and memorized great chunks of them. She read through them every night so the facts would stick before her trip to Moscow in the new year. And here she was, just a few days away from her studies, and she’d lost a formula she’d taken a personal interest in: calories burned per second, over body weight, times … What on earth was it? If she couldn’t remember this, what hope did all the unimportant facts have?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice from behind her.

  “Leave some for me, sister.” And then a giggle.

  It was no coincidence. Dtui had watched the pretty young wife of section representative Bunteuk and studied her habits. Dtui knew this was the time she collected her water. They fell into a shallow line of chatter and laughed a lot, with Dtui being especially careful not to say anything too intelligent. They delivered their water to their respective house tanks and regrouped at the corner stall for coffee. Coffee chats were a habit they’d picked up from their husbands, and, after a few tentative sips, they both admitted they secretly hated the taste of the stuff. They poured their coffees onto the street mud and ordered warm red soda, Dtui’s treat.