Six and a Half Deadly Sins

by Colin Cotterill

  “They do it every now and then,” said Tang. “The Chinese. They get a new directive from Peking and shut border crossings. Then they show off with their technical skills. It’ll all be back to normal in a day or so.”

  With no observers and no police escort, Phosy returned to the Akha village at Ban Bouree. He parked well off the main road behind a patch of untidy banana trees. From there he walked along the track leading to the village. At one point, he passed a small gaggle of women dressed in threadbare costumes that didn’t seem to represent any clan he’d ever seen. The women were carrying baskets of firewood on their backs. The basket straps formed a band across their foreheads. Phosy nodded. The older women ignored him. The younger ones giggled and probably made some ribald comments in their language, because everyone laughed.

  It was a young girl at the back of the group who caught his attention like the tongue of a cartoon frog lassoing a fly. She was stunningly beautiful, but not in a modest girlish way. She was about fifteen, sweet and ripe as an orange mango, and she walked as if she’d learned the arts of grace and poise at a finishing school. He stopped to watch her pass. She looked back, smiled, rolled her hips and licked her lips. Phosy’s heart bunched like a fist.

  It had been a brief encounter, the details of which he would most certainly not be sharing with his wife when he returned to Vientiane. He was disturbed by how the girl had made him feel. Phosy was not a flirtatious man, and very rarely was he excited at the sight of a teenaged girl, no matter how pretty. But this young vixen had made a papaya salad of his hormones and thrown in a handful of chillies. Any other man would have been flattered and stimulated by such a show. But the inspector was embarrassed. He thought he was past such adolescent weaknesses. He was still unsettled when he arrived at the village.

  Most of the adults were out cutting sugarcane. The girls of ten or eleven had been entrusted with the care of the younger children. They were playing with toddlers or rocking babies on hips not yet fully formed. One of the girls remembered him from his visit the day before. She waved. She’d tied a tin can on a string to the tail of a young pig and set her three small charges the challenge of being the first to strike the can with a stick. The pig, quite naturally, kept its distance from the stick, and the game seemed unending. The girl had probably played the same game when she was three or four. With the exception of the pig, it seemed to thrill everyone.

  “Hello, Uncle,” the girl said.

  “Hello, little mother,” said Phosy.

  She laughed. Her teeth already showed signs of a sugarcane diet. Phosy sat on a tree stump and watched the game. “You’re a policeman,” she said.

  “Yes. Do you have anything to confess?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?”

  “You see that one?” she said, pointing her chin at a chubby child who was throwing clods of earth at the pig. “He makes me angry. I might kill him.”

  Phosy laughed. Had there been schools up here in the wilds, this girl would get the education she deserved and become the Minister of Culture. There was no doubt about it. As it was, she would dutifully await marriage at far too young an age and fade out of the landscape of potential. “Do you suppose someone got angry at Headman Panpan?”

  “No.”

  “Really? It looked like someone didn’t like him.”

  “Only Headman Mao.”

  “Headman Mao didn’t like Headman Panpan?”

  “They used to be best friends. Then one day they broke up. They started arguing a lot.”

  “What did they argue about?”

  “Don’t know. They only ever argued in Lao. I don’t speak Lao.”

  “Can you think what might cause two men who were close friends to suddenly stop liking each other?”

  “Mama said it was the potion. When a man drinks the potion, he doesn’t know what’s right.”

  “What kind of potion was it?”

  “Don’t know. Mama said I’m too young to drink it. I’m guessing it’s like Coca-Cola. I drank a bottle once, and it made me throw up.”

  “Did your headman ever fall over and say silly things when he was drinking this potion?”

  “No, you’re thinking of rice whiskey. That just makes people drunk. The potion makes people stupid.”

  Phosy didn’t get any further with the potion theory. He thanked the girl and told the chubby kid to be good. The chubby kid threw a clod of earth at him.

  “Go ahead,” Phosy told the girl.

  The inspector walked down the winding path that led to the clearing. He passed along tight jungle tracks where the leaves reached out to caress him on either side. Where anything could have been lurking around the next bend. Where the sounds of birds and insects took on human form. Reaching the crime scene came as something of a relief.

  He sat again on the log. The clothes had been removed now. The sharpened bamboo poles were gone. He’d told Sergeant Teyp and his men to take everything to the police office. They’d looked at him as if he were mad when he handed them the plastic gloves and insisted they touch none of the evidence without wearing the gloves. Many of Dr. Siri’s methods stuck. So now Phosy had only the crime scene and his skill at visualization. It had been early morning when the men died. No signs of alcohol. A meeting in a place where there was no work to be done. It’s cold in the morning, yet they removed their shirts and hats. What could …?

  “The potion,” he said aloud. All of a sudden the parts fit neatly together. He was embarrassed that it had taken him so long. Dr. Siri would probably have worked it all out in his sleep.

  It was a tragedy, but the important point was that the scenario he’d arrived at had nothing to do with the Chinese road builders. He could sign the statement now with a clear conscience. China was innocent.

  Phosy walked through the forest toward the work camp, not with the intention of announcing this fact, more to burn up the adrenaline that pumped through him when a case was solved. It still remained to be seen why toothless Goi had been so keen to clear China’s name. Given the man’s record of illicit dealings, Phosy doubted the motivation was purely, or even partly, political. But that was a larger issue and one he wasn’t about to tackle.

  When he arrived at the camp, it was deserted. The shanties stretched out before him, but there were no people. He assumed he’d come before the end of the work detail, that the men were still at the road site. But as he walked from hut to shack, he saw no personal effects. No bags. No bed mats. The volleyball nets had been taken down. There were no pots in the mess tent. In the twenty-seven hours since he’d last seen them, 1,117 Chinese road workers had disappeared.

  5

  Chasing Skirt

  There were three motorized vehicles in Muang Sing—all jeeps. One belonged to the police. One to the military. And one to a nebulous aid group by the name of Physicians Eschewing Agendas. The group had supported the Pathet Lao enthusiastically in the international press during the struggles. Like the Quakers and the Mennonites, PEA had been invited to stay on in the country and do … whatever it was they’d been doing before the takeover. Nobody was too clear exactly what that was. But brotherhood had to be rewarded.

  All this Siri had learned from a hot berry drink seller at the market. He and Daeng had spent an hour there thawing out and pumping in vitamin C. It wasn’t working. They were still in need of transportation to the Mekhong, sixty kilometers west.

  The consensus at the market was that there was nothing faster than an ox cart heading in that direction. They could see no earthly chance of wresting jeeps from the police or the army, so they followed directions to a quaint old wooden building on stilts behind Xieng Yeun Temple. They arrived in the middle of a rendition of “Jingle Bells” sung by twenty small children seated beneath the house. The choirmaster was an elderly balding version of what Santa Claus might have looked like after a crash diet. His hair was long, and his beard bore two plaited strands that looked from a distance like dribble. When the song was over, he introduced himself i
n Lao as Bobby from California and sang the word “Lola.”

  Lola, his wife, came down the staircase with a tray of pancakes cut into small triangles. Siri had never met Henry Kissinger, but he’d seen photographs. Lola bore such a resemblance, she could have been his mother. She wore a frock with a hibiscus print that made her look like a garden trellis.

  Within minutes, Siri and Daeng had been hugged and shaken and squeezed until they were intimates. Lola and Bobby, Siri learned, had been holed up in this house for six months because the government hadn’t yet decided what they were allowed to do. They were both qualified and experienced doctors, but they were kept away from the understaffed hospital, couldn’t see patients at the house and were not allowed to “teach, train, fraternize or proselytize.” This was spelled out in their letter of welcome from the government that now hung framed on their kitchen wall. The same letter concluded, “We respect PEA for its ongoing support of the Pathet Lao revolution and thank you for your continued assistance to the poor in remote areas.”

  In short, PEA could stay in their Muang Sing home, chat to health care workers and conduct singalongs with the kids, the lyrics of which were “picked up” rather than taught. And, of course, they could make pancakes. The kids treated the snack with great deference and refused to eat it in one sitting. They left reluctantly for home, jingling all the way.

  Despite the couple’s overindulgences in the area of bonhomie, Siri and Daeng rather liked them. Bobby gave Siri some of their stock of herbal cold medicine as a gift and, having heard of the visitors’ need for transportation, he led them out back. In the rear corner of the open yard was a large object wrapped in burlap sacks and rope. As Bobby peeled off the sacks, he explained, “This beauty belonged to Dr. Tom Dooley back in the sixties. When they moved on, the Lao staff at the clinic didn’t know what to do with her. None of them could drive. So she sat there. Medico—the sponsors—said we could use her. I rescued her just in time. Her name’s Agnes.”

  He yanked at the last rope, and the sacking fell away to reveal a Willys Jeep in remarkable condition.

  “They don’t make ’em like this any more,” Bobby continued. “I’m a car guy. We’ve been sitting around here twiddling our thumbs, so I put all my energy into this baby. It works just fine. But the local cadres won’t let us go anywhere in it. I drive it around the grounds when nobody’s looking. The carburetor hums like a hive o’ hornets. You’ll have to find gas for it, but you’re welcome to use it.”

  “I feel like I belong to some tribe of cave dwellers,” Siri told Daeng later. Bobby was polishing his Willys. Lola was cooking them lunch. The cold remedies had swaddled Siri and Daeng in a cocoon of cotton.

  “Well, technically, you do,” she reminded him. “The revolution was conducted from the caves of the north.”

  “But not in one million BC, Daeng. We’ve got a hospital up here that’s still practicing bloodletting and chicken sacrifices, and we have two experienced, Lao-speaking doctors waiting to help, and they’re all tied up in PDR red tape. It makes me sick.”

  “I know it does, dear.”

  “I want to—”

  “I know you do, dear.” And she watched as Siri’s outrage dissipated into one more coughing fit.

  Even though they’d only known the new arrivals for three hours, the Americans provided an emotional goodbye. Lola sobbed into her handkerchief as she and Bobby stood on the front step waving them off. “Our hearts go with you,” shouted Lola.

  Sitting proudly at the wheel, Siri watched them shrink in the rearview mirror.

  “Do you suppose they’re that enthusiastic with everyone?” Daeng asked.

  “It’s the grapes,” said Siri. “California. Wine. It makes people love each other. Look at France. L’amour every damned where.”

  “The French aren’t nearly so gushing,” said Daeng.

  “They’ve been doing it a lot longer. They went through their gushing period. History irons gushing out. Now they only have romance. The Americans will get there.”

  Daeng leaned over and kissed his ear.

  “What?” he said.

  “I love it when you talk rubbish.”

  “I’m not …”

  “What do we do for petrol, my husband?”

  “That will take care of itself. I have a good feeling about all of this.”

  At Muang Sing’s only petrol pump at the old China road intersection, the proprietor announced boldly that they weren’t accepting kip that day. Siri stared at him. He was tall and nicely postured like a matinee actor in hard times.

  “Have they moved the border since we got here?” Siri asked.

  “A lot of Chinese vehicles heading home today,” the proprietor replied. “They’re in a hurry. They can’t be bothered to count out all those small bills in kip, so they hand over wads of yuan. It usually works out better for me to have foreign currency. Our people are forever devaluing.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Siri. “What happens to the poor Lao who don’t have yuan?”

  “That’s not my problem. I’ve been told to get the Chinese out as quickly as possible.”

  Daeng leaned across her husband. A full logging truck cast a shadow over them and blasted its horn. “Surely there’s some way to get petrol here without using foreign currency,” she said.

  “No,” the proprietor barked. “Now do you want to pull over so this guy can get filled up?”

  “I’m not moving,” said Siri.

  “Suit yourself, Granddad,” said the man. “Those trucks have bull bars the size of Alaska.” He waved the truck driver forward.

  “Don’t you have parents?” Daeng asked. “Can’t you help an old couple get to Chiang Kok to visit their dying grandson? He only has half a lung.”

  The proprietor held up his hand to the truck driver. “You’re going to Chiang Kok?” he asked.

  “We’re trying to,” said Siri.

  “Well then there might be a way, after all,” said the man. “If you’d be prepared to take a passenger.”

  “We could be persuaded,” said Siri.

  The truck driver blasted his horn again.

  “I’ve got this important politburo man out back,” said the proprietor. “He’s been here all day. He’s asked me to keep an eye open for anything headed west. He’s on some top-secret mission, or so he keeps telling me. I imagine he’d have a petrol budget if he’s as important as he says. He’s had no trouble paying for the end of my stock of Tsingtao beer.”

  “Show us the way,” said Daeng.

  The truck started forward, and Siri pulled aside. The fumes weren’t helping his condition. The proprietor put some petrol in the tank and was counting out his yuan as he led Siri and Daeng to the rear of the pump building.

  “What’s happening in China?” Daeng asked him.

  “What?”

  “You said everyone’s in a hurry to get back.”

  “You’re joking, right, lady?”

  “If I was I wouldn’t have found myself particularly funny,” she said. “Just answer the question, young man.”

  The proprietor stopped and looked back at the old lady. “You really haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “China’s invaded Vietnam,” he said. “The Vietnamese are putting pressure on Laos to kick out all the Chinese. The Chinks are getting out all their heavy equipment so it won’t be confiscated as war booty. Some of the work teams have left already.”

  “China invaded Vietnam?” said Siri. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Don’t you listen to the radio?”

  “All I can hear is Chinese.”

  “They have a program in the Lao language. They reopened the channel and announced it officially a couple of hours ago. Their army’s already captured two provincial capitals in Vietnam. The locals are dropping like fireflies.”

  “And what’s Laos doing about it?” Daeng asked.

  “The Chinese reckon all the hill tribes are siding with them, and units of Lao mil
itia have already defected. But I imagine that’s Chinese propaganda. You can’t believe a word those bastards say. I suppose you’d have to ask the politburo guy for the real story. He just arrived from Vientiane. He’ll probably know.”

  They followed the proprietor around the back of a small cottage and heard him say, “Hello, Uncle. I think I might have found you a ride out west.”

  When Siri and Daeng arrived at the veranda, they saw an old man sitting on a porch swing with a bottle on his lap. He looked up at the arrivals and smiled.

  “Civilai?” said Daeng.

  “Hello,” said Civilai.

  “What are you doing here?” Siri asked.

  “You know him?” asked the proprietor.

  “I’m the honorary war attaché for Luang Nam Tha,” said Civilai. Siri sat beside him and started to swing the seat. “Steady. You’ll spill my beer,” said Civilai.

  “What happened to the Chinese Relations Committee?” Siri asked. Daeng sat opposite on a good solid bench.

  “It folded,” said Civilai. “It’s really hard for one to have relations with people who are waging war with one. Or at least with one’s ally. There’s more than the usual chaos in Vientiane. Nobody knows how to react. Do we send greetings cards to both sides wishing them the best of luck? Or do we take up arms and defend our borders? We didn’t know about it until the Chinese were twenty kilometers into Vietnam and it was a bit too late to lodge strong objections to the buildup of troops.”

  “Is that why you’re up here, Civilai?” Daeng asked. “Defending our borders with a beer bottle?”

  “They call it a nonaggressive diplomatic mission,” he said. “I’m just here to observe and report back. I’m having a few drinks because it’s a very stressful job.”

  “Did you have a choice?” Siri asked.

  “They did offer me the ambassadorship in Phnom Phen again.”

  “Again?”

  “For the third time. Nobody wants it. You might even qualify by now, Siri.”

  “But you refused,” said Daeng.

  “I most certainly did, Madame.”