Anarchy and Old Dogs

by Colin Cotterill

  They had half an hour to spare before they were expected to prepare lunch. Dtui couldn’t bring up the topic that was burning in her mind unless it occurred naturally in the conversation. But no end of steering brought them around to it. With only five minutes to go before the resumption of women’s work, Dtui was certain she’d missed her chance. Then the girl said, “My sister wrote that every home over there has an oven. Even the slums.”

  “Over where?”

  “America.”

  Dtui held on to her deadpan expression. The woman’s husband had told Phosy they had no relatives in the U.S. She knew she was on the right track. “Well, that’s good. You’ll be going soon, won’t you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  Her tablemate looked at the water dripping from the corrugated roof. “It’s just … it just isn’t convenient.”

  “Ha. You don’t have to tell me about ‘not convenient.’ I’ve got brothers in Australia and I’m not even allowed to tell the Australian Aid people I have connections there.”

  “Not allowed? Who by?”

  “By … no, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Come on.”

  “No, really. I’ve said too much already.”

  “Your husband doesn’t want to leave the camp, does he?”

  “I promised him I wouldn’t say anything. Damn my big mouth.”

  “It’s all right. You can tell me. I understand.”

  A tear came to Dtui’s eye. “Just promise me you won’t spread it around. My life wouldn’t be worth living, really.”

  “I know exactly what you’re going through.”

  “I doubt that.” She looked around at two old men who cowered over their coffees like undertakers. She lowered her voice. “Because if you did, you’d know what torture it is to be married to a man so single-minded. Phosy’s fixated on getting the Pathet Lao out of power. He’d do anything. When he was with the RLA, he—”

  “I thought he was a carpenter?”

  “Oh, shit. My mouth.” Dtui really seemed to be crying now. “He’ll kill me, I swear he will.”

  “Dtui!”

  “I just wanted to get out of here, go to Australia. Find some peace.” The girl took Dtui’s hand and smiled for her to continue. Dtui spoke in a barely audible whisper interspersed with sobs. “Phosy was with the Central Command. He trained under General Ouan. He was one of the undercover agents on special duty around the central region.”

  “Why didn’t he just tell everyone when he got here?”

  “Are you kidding? He knows for certain there are over a hundred PL sympathizers spying here at this camp. How could he be certain who to trust? He’s waiting to catch sight of one of his old RLA mates, someone he knows. But most of his senior commanders and colleagues are overseas already. He’s getting desperate, but I have to give him credit, he’s a patient man, is my Phosy. He’ll wait months if he has to until he’s sure who to confide in.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me? Of course I’d prefer to be in my own country under a safe RLA government than off catching lunch with a boomerang. But until that can happen, I’d sooner be sitting it out in a suburb of Sydney than stuck here. But not Phosy, he’s driven. He can’t settle until he wipes out every one of the bastard Reds with his own hands.”

  Dtui’s friend suddenly remembered the time and rushed off, but not before swearing on the soul of her grandmother that she wouldn’t divulge a word of what she’d just heard. As soon as she’d run off to shuck her peas, Dtui smiled to herself. She knew Granny was doomed to eternal damnation.

  The Insurgent Volleyball Club

  Siri sat, wheezing, on the balcony of the Pakse hospital. He was whiter than anything else in the town but he was headed for recovery. Dr. Somdy, his allocated physician, was evidently the region’s authority on near drownings. She told him she’d pumped so many fishermen back to life and earned so many fish in lieu of payment, she’d started to check the mirror every morning for gills.

  She was an eight-shaped middle-aged lady with a Chinese face. She’d been hired initially by the French and had stuck with Pakse hospital through all the conflicts. She’d avoided communist reeducation only by being indispensable. At the end of her shift she sat drinking tea with Siri on the balcony. They watched two policemen corner a boy of about sixteen on the street below. One of the officers grabbed the youth by the arm while the other produced a pair of scissors and proceeded to give him a haircut. It wasn’t a particularly professional cut—he looked more scalped than groomed—but they didn’t charge him for it.

  “Do they do makeup and give fashion advice as well?” Siri asked, straight-faced.

  Somdy laughed. “Isn’t it this silly in Vientiane yet?”

  “I haven’t seen them actually resort to hairdressing,” he said. “They’ve issued a number of edicts: no long hair on boys, no short hair on girls, no holding hands, no female trouser wearing, all that kind of thing. And I think they’re all still paranoid enough up north to do what they’re told. I can’t recall seeing the authorities do anything about miscreants, though. That was quite impressive.”

  “You know television watching is illegal here, don’t you?”

  “How can they stop it? Go door to door with big-eared dogs listening for Thai soap commercials?”

  “They don’t need to, Doctor. At five every evening they bring down the antenna.”

  “Bring it down?”

  “Literally. Ten men with ropes lower the reception tower to the ground. In the morning they hoist it back up. It’s the only way they can be sure the locals aren’t feasting on Thai entertainment. Pakse’s a crucible for every silly rule the people in Vientiane come up with. I think it’s punishment for Champasak being a renegade province for so long. The effects are so concentrated because the administrators only actually control a twenty-mile circle around the city. They overregulate everything in town as compensation because they can’t regulate anything at all outside.”

  “You do realize you shouldn’t be talking like this to one of the elders of the Red Revolution?”

  “Oh, Siri.” She smiled and put her hand on his arm. “You think it’s every bit as ridiculous as I do. I know you too well. You have no idea who I am, do you?”

  He looked more closely at her broad, content face, but nothing registered.

  “No.”

  “I was one of your kids, Dr. Siri, at the camp. I did the basic medic training with you and your wife. I sat in your tent at night and swelled with pride listening to you tell us of the great things my countrymen had done. I was there on the parade ground punching my fist into the air, swearing allegiance to the Lao Issara and destruction to the French. You were my idol. I became a doctor because of you.”

  She saw tears forming in the old man’s eyes. She squeezed his hand.

  “Dr. Siri, I know deep in my heart that everything you’ve ever done and whatever you believe today is for our benefit: me, my husband, my children. You don’t see any more sense in these petty regulations than I do. This isn’t the system you fought for. I know you’d never compromise your ideals. You taught us to say what we believed without fear and fight for the right to do so. When they wheeled you in this morning, all that pride came flooding back to me. I felt like a disciple at the feet of Jesus.”

  “Somdy,” said Siri with a smile on his face, wiping away the tears with his hand, “I don’t think Christian symbolism really applies in this situation, particularly as I failed to walk on water. Did you find God after I left?”

  “I found lots of them, uncle. If you want to survive here, you believe in them all. A little bit of Catholic aid here, a little bit of Zen medical assistance there. After a while you learn how to convert to all of them to keep your patients alive. In a way that’s what you’re doing with politics. Am I right?”

  “Nice to see some of my cynicism rubbed off on you, too. Just be careful. The big Reds in Vientiane don’t take kindly to religious zealots. But tha
nk you. I can’t pretend this little chat hasn’t done me as much good as your medical care.”

  When she left to sleep off her busy night, he sat alone on the balcony, fingering the newly plaited talisman around his neck. Phosy’s friend, Kumpai, the soldier, had gone to collect it from the hairdresser that morning. Siri couldn’t risk being exposed to the wiles of the malevolent ghosts for any longer than was necessary. They’d almost finished him last night, almost dispatched him and his resident shaman spirit to a watery grave. They were becoming more malignant, and Siri wondered how long it would be before he needed to upgrade his stone amulet to a more powerful model.

  He watched the schoolchildren sliding in the street mud, turning their white shirts dark red like the naughty before and after kids in Thai Fab detergent commercials. He wondered how long it would be before they lost their happy innocence. Who would the role models in their lives be? And he thought about what Somdy had said: “I know you’d never compromise your ideals.”

  He wondered what his ideals were exactly. He wondered if he could define his moral stand or his beliefs anymore, wondered how many times he had in fact compromised for selfish reasons since those idealistic days at the youth camp. One time sprang to mind: Tuyen Quang.

  It was the conference of aligned Lao resistance groups in Vietnam. The day he’d sold out. The day they’d all sold out. It was supposed to have been a great event, the gathering of all the disparate Lao Issara units who’d fought to the last bullet in their resistance against the French invaders. Old warriors were reunited and cooling embers of rebellion were stoked once more. These were survivors—hunting rifles against howitzers and armored vehicles—and somehow they’d stayed alive. There were enough of them left for a rousing party on the eve of the conference. Good food, free-flowing drink, soft beds, and rekindled dreams of a free Lao homeland.

  In the morning the mood had been high and hearty, even though only the senior Lao Issara officers had been invited to the opening ceremony. Siri, a major general in the Free Lao Medical Corps, was seated four rows from the rear. His generals and senior advisers sat in the row in front of him. On the raised platform far in front, only the Red Prince, the renegade royal once of the Lao Issara, was familiar to them. The other men at the table sat stony-faced and anonymous. The veteran at Siri’s side had turned to him and asked, “Who are the spooks up on the stage?”

  Siri had shaken his head. He had no idea. “Vietminh? Senior Vietnamese?”

  But it turned out the men at the raised table were Lao. Civilai was one of them. It was they who’d organized the conference. They called themselves the Lao Patriotic Front, and to the assembled fighters they announced the launch of the Lao Resistance Government. Siri and his colleagues were still pumped up with the adrenaline of the previous evening. They cheered and looked forward to the vote that would piece together a united command of true patriots. This was to be a great day for their country.

  But there was no vote. The men on the platform explained that with Vietminh financial aid and expertise, a strong Lao resistance had been trained in the north of Vietnam. Through cooperation between their two great countries, the Gallic invaders would be driven from the borders of Indochina. They read the names of the men who would form the central committee of this great alliance and there was not one Lao Issara name on the list. Not one. Not one. Siri had been speechless for one of the few times in his life. He’d looked along the ranks of Lao Issara to see mouths open on either side of him. The Lao resistance that had been fighting and lobbying unaided for nine years had been hijacked.

  That was it. That was the moment when all the Free Lao men and women at the meeting should have jumped to their feet and heckled and remonstrated. There should have been a commotion that left the strangers on the platform no choice but to hear their complaints. But that was neither the Buddhist nor the communist way. The Lao Issara had brooded quietly, perched at the rear of the hall, and meditated. “Was it such a bad thing, this powerful alliance? Perhaps we don’t deserve a leading role. We’ve struggled and failed for so many years. Perhaps this is our destiny.”

  So that was how Buddhist fatalism had allowed the powdery Lao Issara to dissolve. The bond had been formed that would eventually lead both countries to socialism, the end proving the means to be justified. Those Free Lao who didn’t abandon the fight and flee to Thailand were absorbed into the giant guerrilla war force. Siri, with a different uniform beneath his white coat, worked on his Vietnamese language and his wife gladly indulged her passion for communism.

  “They pumped all the fish out of you yet?” Siri was snapped out of his reminiscences by the voice of his best friend. “You look soulful.”

  “Good timing. I was just thinking about the old days.”

  “All our days are old days. I’ve heard living in the past is a sign that you don’t have long to live.” Civilai sat in the chair vacated by Dr. Somdy.

  “Well, it’s nice to see you’re back to your old cheery self. What’s put you in such a good mood?”

  “We’re getting news from the front line.”

  “What do we know?”

  “Your men Phosy and Dtui have reached the camp in one piece. They’re safe. I have someone keeping an eye on them.”

  “You didn’t tell me you had a contact in Ubon.”

  “I just found an old ally at the camp. I got word from him this morning. They’ll be looked after now.”

  “What date is it?”

  “Come on. You were under water three minutes, not three days.”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “It’s the twenty-sixth.”

  “Then we have four days to stop whatever it is from happening. I think it’s time to step it up a notch or two.”

  “Siri. I’m not trying to sound condescending here, but, despite what you believe, you aren’t Bruce Lee. You’re just an old fellow with a lung full of river water.”

  “I’m glad you steered clear of condescension. I might have been insulted if you hadn’t.”

  “Well, all right. Let’s just say in your present condition you aren’t going to be much help.”

  “I’ll be out of here tomorrow.”

  “Oh, good. So we can look forward to what? A guided temple tour? A visit to the museum?”

  “All right. I agree my tourism day wasn’t that well thought out. But I’m serious now. We’ll locate Phosy’s soldier friend and …”

  “There you go with the ‘we’ again. Siri, it’s all being taken care of. I’m on top of things. Rest your lungs. Go and visit your fisher family. Solve your mystery. It’s what you do well. I’ll take care of the political stuff. OK?” He stood and put a bag of fruit and sweets on the chair in his stead. “I’ll let you know everything as it happens, I promise. You can wipe that nasty look off your face. You know I’m right.”

  “We don’t have the concept of nasty on my planet,” Siri growled.

  “Good boy. Eat your fruit.”

  And Civilai was gone. Siri sat sulking. He deserved this after his Chaplinesque exploits of the past forty-eight hours, but that didn’t make him any less resentful. History had repeated itself: the big communist bully had overwhelmed the honest fighting man. He opened the bag and started on a banana. He ate it skin and all, just to show he could. It was awful, of course.

  “More breakfast, sweetie?” Dtui said loudly so the neighbors could hear. They wouldn’t hear her poke out her tongue and pretend to spit in the rice.

  “OK, but don’t make it so salty this time,” Phosy replied from his perch on the wooden doorstep. “God, I miss my mother’s cooking.”

  Dtui smiled, mumbled under her breath, and took her husband his second helping. She leaned down to fill his plate and put her mouth close to his ear.

  “Do you know what the Thais call this place?” she whispered. He shook his head. “Suan Lao. That’s Lao Field in English. Ubon Lao Field. ULF—from the note.”

  “Looks like we’re in the right place then.”

  Wh
en she turned back into the house he squeezed her bottom.

  “Do that again and they’ll have to pull your pants down to find that spoon, mister.”

  “Why’d I ever marry you?”

  “ ’Cause nobody else would have you.”

  Their morning sport was interrupted by the arrival of a small boy in a T-shirt that reached his feet. He was about six. “You Phosy?” the boy asked. He had a smoker’s voice. “No. I’m Mr. Phosy.” “That supposed to be funny?” “No. It was supposed to be a lesson in politeness.” “You want this note or not?” Phosy looked up and down the lane, then nodded. The boy had nothing in his hands but somehow he managed to make a note drop to the ground from somewhere inside his shirt. He kicked it toward the step and ran off. Phosy put his plate down, collected his cup, some orange rinds, and the note, and took them all inside. Dtui was relaxing with a Thai magazine.

  “Who was that?”

  “Just some kid wanted to know if I had any errands for him to run for five baht.” He held up the note and she stood beside him to read it.

  Dear Phosy,

  The sports committee members have looked over your application for a tryout with the volleyball team and we are impressed with your experience. We are delighted to invite you to our training session on Court Four, Area Sixteen, at ten o’clock on August 24.

  Yours sincerely,

  Minmong Yotha, team captain

  “You apply for the volleyball team?” Dtui whispered.

  He shook his head. She raised her eyebrows and nodded. This was it. The walls had been breached. At nine thirty, Phosy was walking alone through the camp, asking for directions to Area Sixteen. It was a decent walk across the sprawling base, and the rain had been falling constantly for an hour. It was a bad day for volleyball. What the nearest family assured him was Court Four turned out to be a rectangle of mud. No net, no lines, no players. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected to find an actual volleyball practice going on. It just seemed like a fitting way to round out the subterfuge. He sat on a plank nailed to two stumps that probably served as the bleacher, his back to a bamboo fence. Twenty minutes later he was still there. The rain had soaked through his clothes and was working its way through his skin. A camp dog had joined him. Live dogs were always a good sign in a refugee camp, proof that there was enough to eat without getting desperate.