The Delightful Life of a Suicide Pilot

by Colin Cotterill

  There was no nod between the two and Siri wondered whether they may have met before. They all sat at the little desks that were planks of wood on tree stumps. The seats were a smaller version of the desks. The visitors felt like giants.

  “So, how can I help?” asked Satsai, sitting on his own, real-size desk.

  “Well,” Siri began. “I’m in search of a Japanese major by the name of Hiro Uenobu, although some may have called him Toshi.”

  He studied the teacher’s face, hoping for a sign of recognition, but there was none. So he summarized the whole story, the diary, the research, the trip to Thakhek, and finally the reason for their traveling through the Tunnel of Love that day. Teacher Satsai looked on in fascination.

  “It’s a marvelous story,” he said. “Wouldn’t it have been a spectacular ending if you’d arrived here to find your soldier in front of the blackboard teaching social studies?”

  “It would have been nice, yes,” said Siri.

  “But I’m sure your guide here has told you how many caves and tunnels there are in our province. You’d need a year to visit them all.”

  “This one just happened to be convenient,” said Daeng. “This was the closest to Thakhek and it’s appropriately called Thum Huk. But as we’re here, could I ask you something personal?”

  “Of course.”

  “Apart from being devilishly handsome”—she and Siri exchanged glances of varying intensity—“you seem to me like a highly educated and eloquent educator. Your blackboard writing is gorgeous. Our country is desperate for qualified professionals. If you were in Vientiane I’m sure you’d be teaching at college level.”

  “And your question is why am I teaching in a one-room school in rural Khammouane?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I was born here in Sawan,” said Satsai. “My father was the headman. Before this school was built, he taught his children at home from old textbooks. When he was young, he’d left the village to get an education in the temple. He returned, married, and passed on what he’d learned to us. He believed that only through education can we develop ourselves and our country.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re still here,” said Siri.

  “I left for a while,” said Satsai. “As I was a rare Lao who could read and write and add up, the French administrators recruited me as a low-level official. Actually I didn’t have any choice, but my father encouraged me to go. ‘Every experience is an education,’ he said. I learned French quite quickly. They liked me because I picked things up easily. They said I was the only Lao they’d met who wasn’t stupid and lazy. That was part of my education too, bigotry and racism. It was only by leaving this village that I could learn to appreciate its simplicity and honesty. We aren’t on the road to anywhere here. We’re isolated, so we’re untouched by all the antisocial diseases that infect the planet. That’s why I came back, to immunize our children and prepare them to survive.”

  “Wow!” said Daeng.

  It was a word she used rarely. Siri took her hand to bring her back down to earth.

  “When did your people settle here in this valley?” he asked.

  “Three generations back,” said Satsai.

  “Really?” said Siri. “I couldn’t help noticing all the buildings here are new.”

  “That’s very observant of you,” said Satsai. “It’s true. Our original village was burned to the ground in ’75. This whole valley was charcoal. The only thing that survived was our village pillar. Its survival inspired us to begin again. We rebuilt, replanted, and remained.”

  “Was it a natural fire?” Daeng asked.

  “No, Comrade. We were attacked.”

  “In ’75?” said Siri.

  “It was a few months before the Pathet Lao took over the country,” said Satsai. “We’d been safe here all through the wars. If anyone comes by river, we hear them and we have time to know how to react. The only other way is to get here by air. And for that we had no defense.”

  “Who attacked you?”

  “Americans,” said Satsai.

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Siri. “No offense.”

  “It is ridiculous, Doctor. Yet it happened. Three US helicopters circled once. The only thing that saved us was that there was only one place they could land and that was on the village square. Most of us were at a meeting here at the school. They started shooting even before they hit the ground. We lost four villagers immediately. The rest of us climbed the hills and took refuge in the caves. There are hundreds up there towards the ridge. We all know the tunnels really well. It was an escape plan we’d formulated with the royalists against the communists but there we were fleeing our old allies. We still don’t know what bad intelligence directed them to our little hamlet but they had a hornet in their helmets about something. We weren’t even politically active here.

  “The Americans were on the ground for an hour. We didn’t know what they were doing. When we heard the choppers take off, we sighed with relief, but we could already smell the smoke. We returned to an inferno. It was still the dry season, so the bamboo burned fast and the vegetation caught immediately. We did our best to put out the fires, but they’d used gasoline. It hung in the air. Every photo, every keepsake, every stitch of clothing was gone. And there was nobody to report it to. The royalists had fled with their tails between their legs and the Pathet Lao hadn’t yet arrived. By the time there was a new administration in place, we were old news. All we could do was start again. But even today we ask, why? What had we done? There were no American servicemen based in Laos. So this team had to have flown over the mountains from Vietnam—a last-gasp effort before they were called back home. But we had no idea what they wanted.”

  The anorexic boatman was there at the dock waiting for them. He complained it would be dark before they arrived back in Thakhek and insisted on another fifty Thai baht to cover the cost of extra fuel. Evidently darkness used up more gas. The ride back through the tunnel network was even more thrilling because the old man’s helmet lamp had become temperamental. It went off at will and returned at just the right moments. Twice they sideswiped embankments. At one point the light did not return and the boatman turned off his engine and listened.

  “Why have we stopped?” asked Beer.

  “I’m taking advice from the spirits of the cave to guide me out,” said the old man. “But they need an offering.”

  “Money?” asked Daeng.

  “That or cigarettes,” said the boatman.

  Beer handed him three old cigarettes from his top pocket and miraculously the light returned.

  “They say they are placated,” said the old man. He restarted his engine and carried on. But with the return of the lamplight, Siri noticed something he’d missed on the outward journey. It was a formidable discovery, one that would turn the whole investigation on its head. When they finally reached the dock in Thakhek, the boatman thanked them for their custom as they climbed out of the boat, but Siri remained aboard.

  “Nice ride,” he said.

  “Thank you, brother,” said the boatman, anxious to be off.

  “I was admiring your helmet.”

  “Isn’t it a beauty?”

  “I couldn’t help noticing the insignia.”

  “The what?”

  “The characters written on the side.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Japanese, isn’t it?”

  “What? Might be. I don’t know.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I didn’t steal it.”

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “It was a present from a friend.”

  “Where did you meet this friend?”

  The boatman was getting more and more flustered with the inquisition.

  “On my boat,” he said.

  “And you’d take him to Sawan from tim
e to time.”

  “It was a while ago. I’m getting old. I can’t remember details.”

  “Do you know what the letters on his helmet spell out?”

  “No.”

  “They spell out the name Uenobu Hiro.”

  These were the characters at the back of the diary. Siri saw them every time he opened it. He knew them by heart.

  “Never heard of him,” said the boatman.

  “No,” said Siri. “I bet you haven’t. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you knew him by his other name: Toshi.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Well, Blow Me Down

  Daeng and Siri were walking back to the guesthouse along a dirt track lit only by fireflies and a grubby moon on the horizon. They’d arranged to meet the boatman the next morning for a return trip to Sawan. They’d assured him he wouldn’t get into any trouble for what he’d told them. Whether he believed them or not they’d know the next day.

  “All right,” said Daeng. “I can think of one or two reasons why he’d lie.”

  “Satsai didn’t exactly lie,” said Siri. “I think if we played back a recording of the conversation, we’d hear he cleverly avoided saying that he didn’t know Toshi.”

  “We’re calling him Toshi again now?”

  “Just to avoid confusion. We can’t keep switching back and forth.”

  “All right,” said Daeng. “The obvious reason is that he had no idea whether we were who we said we were. So he was being cautious.”

  “Yuki-san said Toshi would go to the tunnel during his leave,” said Siri. “What if he met a girl and took her to Sawan for discreet liaisons?”

  “More importantly, now that we’ve established he was a regular at Sawan we should also ask ourselves whether the American attack was connected in any way. If Hiro was—”

  “Toshi.”

  “If Toshi had deserted and was fighting with the Free Lao or the Viet Minh, it’s possible he had a rebel cell based in the mountains. The caves are perfect hiding places.”

  “But it looks like the Americans weren’t there looking for people,” said Siri. “They didn’t make an effort to search the caves. Shooting those four villagers would only have frightened the others into hiding. No, it seems to me they were there looking for something. And, if they found it, they burned down the village to cover their tracks.”

  “But what were they looking for?” said Daeng. “Intelligence information? Records? Maps? They were there for an hour, so they did a thorough search. Satsai said there were even metal detectors left behind.”

  “Let’s think about it logically,” said Siri. “It was a coordinated covert operation by a group of American soldiers acting outside—”

  “But were they?”

  “Were they what?”

  “Were they Americans?”

  “The teacher said . . .”

  “The teacher said there were three American helicopters,” said Daeng. “It was wartime. A lot of US hardware was shot down and repaired. How do we know who was flying the choppers?”

  “You’re right.”

  “I’m always right.”

  The conversation had lasted all the way to the guesthouse. They checked on the girls, who were sleeping soundly in their room on the ground floor, and they walked up the staircase to the balcony. The talisman around Siri’s neck buzzed deep like a wasp with a bad cold but, to his detriment, he ignored it—put it down to a glitch in the Otherworld. He took their room key from his top pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

  Boom!

  There was a muddle of sounds and smells. A scream of “Siri! No!” The smell of hot flesh. Heat. Smoke. Shock. He noticed he was leaving the ground but not landing.

  And next thing he knew, there he was on a bench in an airport. It was a cramped and busy place. The planes parked on the taxiway were all pink and purple. The sun had holes in it. He looked at the man sitting to his left.

  “Oh, shit!” he said.

  “Hello, little brother,” said Civilai.

  “Really?” said Siri. “I don’t hear from you for months and the day I finally get to talk to you is the day I die?”

  Auntie Bpoo, the spirit guide, who was dressed as a highly decorated pilot, stepped up to the microphone to announce a departure and read a list of the passengers.

  “But first,” she said, “a poem.”

  “No,” Siri shouted.

  All the passengers looked at him. Most of them were in a sorry state, missing this or that limb. There were one or two conditions that Siri recognized: a poisoning, a garroting, a drowning. Being a coroner would be of no value at all in limbo. Knowing how you died is of no use whatsoever once you’ve gone.

  “Not a poem on my last day,” Siri yelled at the top of his voice.

  Auntie Bpoo ignored him.

  Who are they? she began.

  To display themselves

  These media elves?

  Celebrities

  Without a skill

  No role to fill.

  Famous dull nonentities.

  “Rubbish,” said Siri.

  “What makes you think it’s your last day, little brother?” said Civilai.

  “Are you serious?” said Siri. “Look around. All these obviously dead people are about to step on a flight. The satire is intense. Auntie Bpoo’s symbolic but hairy hand has never been less subtle. I’m on my way. You’re here to see me off.”

  Civilai laughed.

  “Actually, you’re here to see me off,” he said.

  “You’re already departed,” said Siri.

  “No, I was just sitting here on standby watching the flights leave. Every day I’d give my ticket to this or that granny in a hurry to join Granddad.”

  “So you aren’t dead?”

  “Of course I’m dead. Absolutely. Death by alcohol. No more certain way to kill yourself. But I’ve very kindly hung around here in the transit lounge so we could get together from time to time when you crossed over. Tell a few jokes. Reminisce a bit. Solve the problems of the world over glasses of something tasteless that looks like rum. We sit on a one-dimensional log and look over what I remember the Mekong to look like.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “To tell the truth, Siri, I’m not having that many new experiences over here. I’m not padding out my resumé at all. I’ve been living my death vicariously through you. The spirits you can talk to are the ones that refuse, point-blank, to admit we’re not around anymore. Bpoo will never move on. Some of these old farts have been here in the transit lounge forever. Look at that poor bastard.”

  Siri followed Civilai’s gaze to a dusty old man in a threadbare navy blue uniform with arrows sticking out of it.

  “All ages and types ready to hit the road,” said Civilai.

  Two young boys of about twelve sat in the front row. They were identical down to the shoes and the pigtails. One had his arm over the other’s shoulder. Auntie Bpoo called the flight number and the boys stood and turned to face each other. One boy’s nose was bleeding. The other smiled and wiped away the blood with his scarf, then handed it to the brother as a keepsake.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Bpoo over the loudspeaker. “You can board now.”

  Only one boy was leaving. The other watched his brother exit the lounge and walk to the pink and purple airplane and when he was out of sight the other twin sat. Without warning, his head split in half like a fresh watermelon and Bpoo called for a cleaning crew to mop up the debris.

  “That was messy,” said Siri.

  “I’m ready to board, too,” said Civilai. “There’s peace at the end of this. I thought I’d stay to make you happy but you aren’t. Like you, I’m just clutching at straws. My being on call won’t make you any more content. Best to be off.”

  They stood.
Hugging would have been a waste of time but they didn’t need nerves or body mass to smile at each other one last time. When Civilai was the last passenger in the line to pass through the departure gate, he showed Bpoo his ID. Siri shouted from across the room, “Are you sure I’m not dead?”

  “Of course you’re not dead, you fool,” Daeng whispered in his ear.

  Siri was on a mattress. He was surrounded by people with concerned looks on their faces. The guesthouse owner and his wife were there. There was Roper and the two girls. There were one or two new guesthouse patrons he recognized, not including the guest in room 4, who remained mysterious. There was a man in the top half of a policeman’s uniform with basketball shorts below, and Daeng. And seated back-to-back on the floor, handcuffed together, were two very shady characters who looked like they’d been run over by a herd of buffalo.

  “Are they part of this story?” Siri asked sheepishly.

  “The gentleman on the left, the one with the long greasy hair, that’s Big Daddy,” said Daeng.

  “You don’t say?”

  “He didn’t take the girl-power rebellion in his village very well. He came to town to get his children back and get even.”

  “What happened?”

  “Hand grenade,” said Roper. “Booby trap. Blew the door to your room right off. No idea how you survived it.”

  Siri looked up into the knowing eyes of Daeng and pushed himself into a sitting position.

  “I’ll tell you later,” she whispered.

  “I’m not sure you should be moving,” said Roper. “We tried to find a doctor to look at you but there was nobody at the clinic.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Roper,” said Siri. “I’m a doctor. And I think what I most need right now is a glass of rum and bed rest. Lots of both.”

  “Of course,” said Roper.

  The visitors filed out of the room and the owner returned with a bottle of rum. But Siri was already asleep. It was late when he woke up. Daeng, still dressed, was holding on to him and she was awake. He could see the small ember of a mosquito coil reflected in her eyes. A storm raged outside the room.