Thirty-Three Teeth

by Colin Cotterill

  “In a way, Yeh Ming is in his twilight era. Perhaps that’s why he’s chosen such an unimpressive host.”

  “Thank you.”

  “He has been dormant for a while, am I right?”

  “Apart from the dreams, I didn’t know he existed until last year.”

  “And recently, certain abilities have awoken in you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is what has alerted the Phibob. You should never have taken him back to Khamuan. There were too many memories there, too much hostile spirit activity. The Phibob have the scent now. It’s like the wildcat who senses that the deer is wounded. They won’t settle until they have destroyed Yeh Ming’s final temple.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Not where, who. You are the temple in which he has chosen to end his centuries.”

  “Oh shit. Why?”

  Tik looked up from the reading.

  “What do you know of your father?”

  “Not a damned thing.”

  “Your birth father was Lao Heu, a renowned Hmong shaman and a direct descendent of Yeh Ming. Before you, he had hosted the soul. Between them, they put together a…how can I put it? They put together a retirement plan, and you were it.”

  Siri’s mind was spinning. After seventy-two years, he suddenly had a father and a history. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. Ignorance had served him well enough all those years.

  “I don’t….”

  “As soon as you were born, a ceremony was held to make Yeh Ming your guardian spirit. Naturally, that put you in a very dangerous situation. They sent you away from your home so you wouldn’t suspect you had a connection with the spirit world. Not knowing and not pursuing witchcraft was the insurance policy that kept you and Yeh Ming safe.

  “The life of the soul is cyclical. If left to its own devices, it would never end. You would have carried it, then it would have passed on to another. But Yeh Ming had caused something unheard of in the world beyond. He had created an enemy of the Phibob that over the years became powerful in its own right.

  “It was dangerous and needed to be destroyed. As it was created out of revenge for Yeh Ming, the only way to stop the Phibob was to end the reign of your guardian. It was hoped you would go through your life as a simple man, never calling on the great shaman to perform. It was hoped you would achieve a non-violent death and allow Yeh Ming to crumble peacefully with his temple.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “The details I see here in the bones and the entrails, but the story is already folklore.”

  “I’m a legend?”

  “Don’t be conceited. It is Yeh Ming who is the legend.”

  “How did I cheat death this morning?”

  “Good fortune—or, more accurately, good karma. The Phibob cannot inflict direct harm. No one is physically struck down by an evil spirit. But they are able to get into your mind. There are many unexplained deaths, usually of men in their sleep without plausible cause. This is the mischief of the malevolent spirits.

  “The Phibob can convince a sleeping person he has died. This morning they dragged your mind below the earth, confined you inside a stupa. It was so real, so convincing that your subconscious was certain you could no longer breathe. Once your mind has lost that battle, there is no point in your body continuing to function. It shuts down in defeat. Dastardly clever.”

  “So, how…?”

  Tik used a chicken bone to draw a line of yolk from the egg to the intestines.

  “You had performed a selfless act earlier in the day.”

  Siri thought back.

  “The elephant?”

  “Its soul wished to repay your kindness. The spirit of the elephant is a thing of marvel. The Lord Buddha said ‘Of all footprints, that of the elephant is supreme.’”

  “It kept me breathing?”

  “It reminded you to start again. That and the golden Buddha beneath which you slept. I doubt the Elephant God could have saved you alone.”

  “I was actually dead. I know it.”

  “Welcome back. You appear to have a second sunrise.”

  “What can I do to keep the Phibob from doing me in again?”

  “That’s more complicated. To do their damage, they need a trigger. Is there something that symbolizes them to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “A black amulet. They used it to get to me. It was destroyed in Khamuan, then re-emerged in Vientiane, whole.”

  “It certainly wasn’t the same one.”

  “It was.”

  “Oh, in your mind it may have been. But if you had asked someone else to describe what they saw, it would not have been a black amulet.”

  Siri’s thoughts raced back to the day of the date, to Lah and to the gift. Was it possible she’d given him something else? Was the amulet in the box a mirage the Phibob had put there? He felt foolish.

  “And you saw it again here?” Tik asked.

  “I felt it. It was buried in the destroyed stupa. I didn’t actually see it, but I knew it was there.”

  “Then that is the portal through which the Phibob can enter your soul.”

  “What can I do?”

  “At the source there is usually a reverse image. It could be a mantra or an object that negates the effects of the black amulet.”

  “There is. They gave me a white talisman in Khamuan.”

  “Show me.”

  “I don’t carry it.”

  “You’re foolish. It must be with you always. Where is it?”

  “In Vientiane. In my house.”

  “Then I suggest you get there as soon as you can. I don’t value your chances of cheating death twice. Remember this: if you die a natural death, Yeh Ming can rest in peace; if you suffer a violent unnatural death, he will be cursed to eternal hell amongst the evil spirits. You must avoid the latter at all costs.”

  “Right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  The Man of His Dreams

  It was while he was searching for Mr. Inthanet’s house on Kitsalat, while simultaneously endeavoring to avoid a violent and unnatural death, that Siri ran into the man from his dream. It was so unusual for living people to appear in his dreams that his natural first assumption was that this was a dead person walking along the main street.

  It was the footman who’d served the king beneath the fig tree and exploded messily after introducing the helicopter pilots. He had the same straggly chin beard and hair that hung like a hula skirt around a bald dome. If anything, he looked more Ceylonese than Chinese and, to Siri’s professional eye, very much alive.

  Without putting too much thought into why, he changed direction and followed the man at a distance. He had a confident Western swing to his gait, and his clothes suggested that some thought had gone into their selection. His large stomach was accentuated by the tonic sheen of his traditional Lao shirt. It was as if he wore such clothes through choice, not obligation.

  The man crossed the street and walked along the short drive into the Hotel Phousy. Through the glass door, Siri saw him take a newspaper from the stand at reception, exchange a few friendly words with the clerk, and walk through another door into the dining room. This told Siri one or two things.

  A man would only eat in a sophisticated hotel if he were a guest or comparatively wealthy. As the newspaper was Lao, he wasn’t a foreign tourist. And the cut of his clothes announced that he wasn’t a waiter or cook.

  Siri pushed open the double doors and walked into the small lobby. The receptionist was a middle-aged man whose spectacles only had a lens on the left side. The right was open to the elements.

  “Good day, Comrade,” he said, suspicious of this bagless visitor.

  “Good health. I was just passing and I thought I saw someone I once knew come in here: a dark man with a beard and a stomach.”

  “That would be Mr. Kumron?”

  “Kumron—that’s right. I haven’t seen him for such a long time, I wasn’t sure it w
as him. He’s put on weight. What’s he doing these days?”

  “You can go and ask him yourself. He’s in the restaurant.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to trouble him. I doubt he’d remember me. But my sister would probably be interested to hear how he got on. They once had a…relationship.”

  “I see. Well, she’d be pleased to hear he’s done very nicely for himself, very nicely indeed.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “In fact, until recently, he was an adviser and confidant to…” he lowered his voice “…the Royal Family.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I do. He and the king were like this.” He crossed his fingers in front of his nose.

  “Goodness.”

  It was then that the clerk seemed to suddenly remember some advice he’d once been given about not trusting strangers. Although it may not have been exactly memorized, he did have a speech at hand for such an occasion.

  “The Royal Family has been sucking the blood from the country and its people for centuries. It’s a relief that we’re now free of the tyrant and can work together to rebuild our great land.”

  It was an uninspired rendition.

  “So, old Kumron’s probably on his way to re-education too, if he was part of that blood-sucking.”

  “Ah, no, Comrade. Mr. Kumron is a very intelligent human being. The party has found a way to use his expertise to further its advances in the northern region.”

  “The Party gave him a job?”

  “He’s running several large projects, I believe.”

  It all became crystal-clear: the king’s adviser, the attempted rescue, the removal of the Royal Family, and the payoff. The pilots had said it: “We were betrayed.”

  For what other reason would a living man appear in his dream, if not that he had died in some other way? Siri was no fan of royalty; he wasn’t even that fond of communism; but he was a man of principle. He believed that whatever creed a man chose, he was dependent on the trust and honor of the men and women who followed the same creed. In Siri’s mind, a betrayal of that trust was sinful.

  He’d survived his forty-odd years of jungle warfare not only because of his ability to fight when necessary or run when necessary—any animal could do that; he’d survived because of the people around him. Their lives were interconnected. You had to know that a comrade was good to his word and would sooner give up his own life than sacrifice yours. That’s how it had been in the early days, anyway.

  Kumron had achieved the exalted position of adviser to the king. He had earned a place in the old man’s soul. But in order to save his own status, he’d given up information about the escape attempt. He had ended the Royal Family’s last hope of survival. With so few true friends left, this betrayal would have been a final poisonous arrow in the kwun of the Royals. The man shouldn’t have been rewarded. If honor meant anything in this day and age, he should have been executed. But did anyone know?

  Siri realized that he was still at the counter and the clerk was staring through his single lens, waiting for the next question. He also realized that he was the only one in a position to do anything.

  “You know?” Siri said. “Perhaps I will go and say hello after all.”

  He walked through to the brown wood and red vinyl dining room. Its air was being conditioned by a large grumbling machine along the back wall. The small tables were unlaid, apart from one. There Kumron sat with his back to the door reading the newspaper. In front of him was a sight rarer in Laos than a two-headed naga serpent—a cool bottle of beer.

  Siri knew that what little success this attack might have depended on how cleanly Kumron believed he had gotten away with his betrayal and how guilty he felt about it. The doctor walked around the table and cast a shadow on the newspaper. When Kumron realized he wasn’t the waiter, he looked up.

  “Do you believe in ghosts, Comrade Kumron?”

  Kumron was a calm, dignified man who seemed unflustered by this question from a stranger. He smiled politely. “Perhaps I could ask the name of the person asking the question.”

  “In the long run, my name won’t make any difference. I’m just a messenger.”

  The waiter in a short-sleeved once-white shirt and kipper tie assumed Siri was joining Kumron and dragged over a second chair.

  “Please,” the waiter said, but Siri didn’t sit. The boy retired to the kitchen doorway.

  “On the evening of the tenth, I spent his last night with a mutual friend at an orchard in Pak Xang.”

  “I see. Then won’t you join me?”

  There was something slightly less authoritative about his voice.

  “No. We talked of a number of things. He surprised me at how forgiving he was when it came to the dealings of the PL. He held no animosity toward the local cadres here who had thrown him out of his palace. There was only—”

  “Sir, if this is a private conversation I think it would be better conducted elsewhere. Would you like to join me in a beer?”

  He no longer looked at Siri’s green eyes, which had burned uncomfortably into his own.

  “No. I’m nearly finished.”

  And here came the lie Siri hoped might destroy the destroyer.

  “He said there was only one person he could never find it in his heart to forgive.”

  Although his expression remained passive, Kumron’s face drained of color like whiskey poured from a bottle.

  “You betrayed him.”

  “I don’t know who you are, sir, or why you came to me.”

  His voice trembled. The suddenness of the accusation had overwhelmed him. He’d had no time to compose himself. It was as if the king were standing before him, exposing his treachery.

  “You thought you were too clever to be found out, Comrade Kumron. You thought he would never suspect you, his most trusted confidant. He believed you were a friend. I’m disgusted with you, as was the whole family.”

  “I…”

  Kumron could put up no fight because he was certain he had been undone. Siri walked around the table and leaned into his ear.

  “The reason I asked you about ghosts, Comrade Kumron, is because I believe the remnants of the Royal spirits will ruin you sooner or later. I’m sure you know of their power.”

  And his pièce de résistance, “Prince Phetsarath and I will see to that.”

  And he left.

  He had been about to add “We both have thirty-three teeth,” but as yet he wasn’t sure he did, and he decided enough damage had been done. Through the dining room window he could see the man crumpled in his seat, no longer the successful dignitary. This old man would now have to haul the twin burdens of guilt and revenge. Siri decided that a small battle for loyalty had been won and he dedicated the victory to his gardening friend. He didn’t know whether the king knew of Kumron’s role in his downfall, but it didn’t actually matter. A good lie in the right place can make up for any number of wrongs.

  Dtui had been sitting for an hour in front of the office of the politburo member. She hadn’t made an appointment with Civilai. That wasn’t a particularly Lao thing to do. Appointments were rarely kept. She knew he had to come to his office eventually, and much sooner than she’d expected she was proven right. He walked along the corridor, flanked by two officious men who seemed much more flustered than their boss ever had.

  “Nurse Dtui,” he said. “You brighten my day with your smile.”

  “Comrade Civilai, can I have a quick word?”

  The two aides protested.

  “Why, certainly. I’m informed someone else is on his way to see me, but you’re most certainly my priority.”

  In his office, Dtui told him about the talk with Ivanic.

  “So,” she concluded, “do you think we can call off the ‘shoot to kill’ order on the bear? It’s been worrying me sick.”

  “Dtui, my darling, remember where you are. It’s incredibly hard to get the simplest things done here. But it’s next to impossible to get anything undone. By the time the ord
er’s filtered down to the bozos with the guns, it’ll certainly be too late.”

  “Can we change it to a tiger hunt?”

  Civilai laughed. Despite the difficult life he’d lived, he remained a jocular man who was intelligent enough to take his status and circumstances without too much seriousness. He had the presence of mind to greet all his disasters with a Lao laugh. This attitude worried many of the more somber Party members. Some wondered if he was really interested but, in fact, he cared deeply about most things.

  “The Department of Interior already thinks I’ve got a few screws loose. If I start announcing open season on all varieties of wild animals roaming the city, they’ll have me in a straitjacket. Don’t forget, this is all on the say-so of a Soviet circus performer.”

  He could see that the matter was starting to depress her.

  “Don’t you worry. Our army sharpshooters are all terrible shots. They’ll probably miss.”

  “I know this all looks really silly, but our office is responsible for fingering that bear. I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink if I thought she got herself shot on our recommendation.”

  “When’s your boss coming back?”

  “I’m off to meet him at Wattay now. He got a regular flight, I guess, thanks to you.”

  “It’s who you know. Is this a new morgue service, going to meet Siri at the airport? Or do you just miss him?”

  “He called. He wants me to go and take care of a guest. He’s bringing someone, but he wouldn’t say who.”

  “Whatever next?”

  There was a knock at the door and one of the aides poked in his head.

  “He’s here, Comrade.”

  “All right.”

  Civilai escorted Dtui from the room. In the waiting area a round-faced Chinese-looking man with a paper fan sat on a bench between two others sweating in suits. His curly hair sat on top of his head as if he were balancing a bunch of black grapes there. He was out of shape and wore a tight safari suit that proved it.