The Tale of the Lazy Dog

by Alan Williams

‘No other family — wife or kids?’ The boy spoke as though he were personally concerned.

  Murray shook his head: ‘Nobody you’ll have to worry about if anything happens to me. You or Air U.S.A. or anybody else. With me it’ll be like a stone in the ocean.’

  The American stood turning his glass slowly round in his hand; he was drinking iced tea. ‘If there’s any trouble,’ he said at last, ‘I think I can fix it through Colonel Buchbinder. He has the last word on all aid flights.’

  Murray shot him a quick, reassuring smile: ‘Thanks, Luke. But try and see if you can do it without Colonel Buchbinder. I want it official, of course — but not too official. I don’t want to find myself doing a straight PR job for Air U.S.A. — “Hands Across the Sea” and all that crap.’

  ‘I know just how you feel,’ Luke said, full of earnest understanding. ‘I think I can get it fixed on the level, Mr Wilde. You’re staying at the Friends’ Bawdy House, I guess?’

  ‘Certainly.’ They grinned at each other, man-to-man. ‘When do you think you’ll know?’

  ‘If it’s on, I should know by tomorrow noon.’

  ‘Just call the hotel bar and leave a message.’ Murray hesitated a moment, reaching out for a fresh drink off a passing tray. ‘By the way, Luke, do you know someone here called George Finlayson?’

  ‘You mean, Filling-Station?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s what he’s known as here — never without a drink in his hand, and no one’s ever seen him drunk yet. He’s a Britisher, you know. The man with the best job in the world.’

  ‘He works for the International Monetary Fund, doesn’t he?’

  Luke laughed: ‘Well, IMF pays his salary, if that’s what you mean. He’s actually employed by FARC — Foreign Aid Reserve Control. One of these crazy outfits that try to keep the Laotian economy going. The IMF backs it, with most of the funds coming from the U.S., Britain, France and Japan. The idea is to stabilise the kip by buying it up with foreign exchange at a free rate of five hundred to the dollar.’

  ‘And what exactly does Finlayson do?’

  ‘Finlayson is FARC — literally. Sole employee, along with a very dishy little Vietnamese girl who’s supposed to work the telex. Once a week the National Bank of Laos sends him a note of how much the kip has dropped through the floor — usually about ten to fifteen million — and Filling-Station gets off a telex to the IMF man in Bangkok who arranges for the deficit to be made up in hard currency. After that, his only job is to drive down to the Bank on Fa Ngum Street — a little villa with two rooms and a vault — and collect the money in sacks which he takes back to his own house and burns in a special incinerator we built for him in the garden.

  ‘To tell the truth,’ he added, ‘when FARC first started operations, they were dumping the money in the Mekong and the fishermen were catching it as far down as Thakhek. What was known as “keeping the kip afloat”. It could only happen in Laos.’

  ‘How come they gave the job to an Englishman?’ (All Murray knew about George Finlayson’s past was that he had been a banker in Hong Kong.)

  ‘I heard he got it through an ad in the London Times. Anyway, he sure landed himself a deal — one hell of a salary for about half a day’s work a week, with no tax — and not paid in kips either! But you’ve never met him?’

  ‘Not yet. Although he did invite me here this evening.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ The American was smiling again, adding in an undertone: ‘He’s standing right behind you.’

  CHAPTER 3

  ‘Ah, how d’you do, glad you could make it. Sorry I was late showing up — pressure of work. Got in safely? No crash-landings or anything? And your room at the hotel all right?’

  George Finlayson was a stout man with a large sombre face, nicotine-stained moustache, hair receding from a broad damp brow. His manner was deadly earnest, his voice low and measured, with the slightly off-course accent of the expatriate. He reminded Murray of one of those melancholy weathermen on British television. Except that weathermen do not wear heavy chain-bracelets of 24-carat gold.

  ‘The electricity’s cut off every night at nine, you know,’ he went on, staring gloomily into his champagne. ‘It’s the old French generator — packed up completely after the big flood last year. The Russians promised us a new one, but it hasn’t arrived.’

  There was an awkward pause, in which Murray was uncomfortably aware of the tall stooping figure of Luke still between them. ‘So what happens?’ Murray said at last.

  ‘No light, no air-conditioning. Except for the Americans — they’ve got their own generator.’

  ‘But what about before nine o’clock?’ Murray asked, glancing up at the half-lit chandeliers.

  ‘That comes from the Thais — cable across the Mekong. Only the stuff’s rationed, of course. Lot of trouble up in north-east Thailand at the moment. Communist insurgents, opium wars. Usual bother.’

  ‘It’s a damned scandal,’ Luke broke in: ‘The Russians got the deal all lined up, then they welshed because they said Souvanna’s Government’s been leaning too close to the Free World. They were supposed to deliver two months ago.’

  ‘So what about the Free World?’ said Murray. ‘Can’t we afford a generator?’

  Luke Williams laughed and wagged his head: ‘Oh, we’re doing better than that, Mr Wilde! We’re building them a dam. Fifteen million dollars’ worth of construction at Nam Ngum, just twelve miles north of here. Nearly five hundred feet wide and a reservoir more than two hundred feet deep when it’s finished. It’s going to transform the whole economic structure of Laos, believe me!’

  ‘I do,’ Murray murmured, but he was thinking of more than the economy of little old Laos. The American’s words had planted in him the seeds of an idea. ‘How far have you got with this dam?’

  ‘They’ve been at it for three years,’ said Finlayson: ‘It’s a question of the jungle versus the mud versus inflation. At the moment all three are winning.’

  ‘The main barrage’s already complete,’ Luke said defiantly, ‘and the reservoir’s up to a hundred feet deep since the rains. It’ll only be a few more months before blast-off.’

  George Finlayson made no comment, for at that moment the band of the Royal Lao Army which had been drawn up in darkness outside the French windows, looking like a cross between bell-hops and miniature Napoleonic hussars, broke into a chaotic rendering of what sounded like ‘Colonel Bogey’ — until Murray realised that the room had grown very still, everyone standing rigidly with glasses raised. They were listening to the Lao National Anthem. It seemed to go on interminably, a monotonous, toneless blaring and booming, while Murray noticed a Laotian in a smart business suit mounting a rostrum at the end of the room, followed by the Canadian ambassador.

  The anthem was over at last. Finlayson, who had been standing as stiff as a sentry, hurriedly consulted a huge gold watch. ‘Speech time,’ he muttered. ‘Only half an hour and they’ll be cutting the lights. We’ve paid our homage — how about slipping out for a spot of dinner?’

  Luke had moved away, and above the flutter of applause there was a sudden disturbance by the rostrum. In the centre of a growing crowd stood a diminutive, barrel-chested Laotian in a scarlet and green uniform ribbed with gold braid and oversized medals. He was shouting, in a high sing-song voice, eyes glaring red, gums flashing gold. The ambassador had paused on the steps of the rostrum, listening gaunt and stricken.

  ‘Trouble,’ Finlayson murmured. ‘That’s General Oum Rattiboum, commander of the Northern Province. He had one of his opium factories burnt down last month by the Chinese Nats — the Kuomintang mob who stayed on after Chiang Kai-shek pulled back to Formosa. Some row about paying Oum too high a levy after the last harvest. Oum’s answer was to send in a squadron of T-28’s of the Royal Lao Air Force and bomb the hell out of them. There’s talk of five hundred dead. The Americans and the ICC are bloody furious. They’ve been trying to get the Government to sack him.’

  They were making their way towards the d
oor now, while across the room a chorus of voices — shrieking Lao and plaintive European — was swelling dramatically.

  ‘It’s always like this,’ said Finlayson. ‘There’ll be more whisky and champagne, speeches and toasts, and it’ll quieten down — for the moment. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Oum attempts another coup — waits until Souvanna goes to Paris for his operation next month, then moves his troops down from the north.’

  ‘I thought they’d banned the coup?’ said Murray. They had crossed the cement lobby, down the steps past the cyclo-pousse drivers who were awake at once, running at them like dogs after a bone.

  ‘That won’t stop Oum,’ said Finlayson. ‘He’s already tried two coups in the past four years. And the last one damned nearly came off — except he wasted six precious hours at a dinner party with some Frenchmen up in Luang Prabang, when he should have been marching on Vientiane.’

  ‘What sort of coup — right-wing, left-wing?’

  Finlayson shook his head. ‘Neither, old boy. With Oum it’s strictly personal.’

  Murray grinned. ‘Are you a friend of his?’

  ‘Nodding acquaintance, shall we say? We have a few things in common,’ he added mysteriously, as they reached his car — a big dusty Mercedes, its leather seats shrunken and cracked like a weather-beaten skin. ‘Hop in. There’s a little French place along the river where they do one quite well — for Vientiane.’

  Murray climbed in beside him and the car started with a long wheeze. ‘So Oum Rattiboum’s engaged in an opium war up north — besides the other war, of course?’

  Finlayson shrugged, jarring the gears. ‘Anybody’s guess. No one really knows what goes on in this country — not even the generals. The Royal Lao Army’s supposed to be fifty-thousand strong. All balls of course. Lucky if it’s got fifteen thousand. Oum and the other generals simply draw pay for thirty-five thousand non-existent troops,’ he added, as they accelerated away in a swirl of dust and gravel.

  ‘So there’s no trouble bribing them?’

  ‘Bribing them? More difficult offering sweets to a child!’

  They had reached the gate between the stone elephants, driving on the wrong side of the track, when a long black car flying the Royal Lao flag swept round in the opposite direction, missing them by inches. Murray realised that had either car been on its correct side there would have been a head-on collision.

  Finlayson drove with disconcerting calm, the car clanking and careering over the potholed mud along the margin of the broad dark river. After a moment Murray said: ‘Do you know Mrs Jacqueline Conquest?’

  ‘Jackie? But of course! Lovely creature, isn’t she? Poor fish.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Out of water, old boy. Married to the CIA, so what can you expect? You met the husband?’

  ‘I didn’t talk to him.’

  ‘Not Vientiane’s most engaging citizen. Fortunately he’s going back to Saigon soon. You’ve come from there yourself, haven’t you?’

  ‘Via Phnom Penh.’

  Finlayson raised his eyebrows: ‘I didn’t think journalists were allowed into Cambodia? — ever since one of your chaps wrote up Sihanouk’s mother as running all the brothels?’

  Murray smiled, watching the track curving away in the headlamps. ‘I’ve got “University Professor” down in my passport.’

  Finlayson nodded: ‘Ah yes, I think Charles Pol mentioned it. You lectured in Vietnam — up at Huế, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. Reading, writing, and rioting.’

  ‘What made you pack it in for journalism?’

  ‘I didn’t. The university packed it in after the Tet offensive. They closed the Foreign Language Faculty.’ Finlayson swerved violently to avoid a dog — a mangy, crouching creature — and for a moment Murray was back on that morning in the low damp streets of Huế when they’d just mortared the university buildings and he’d run out, dodging, limping, his buttocks torn by shrapnel, and been driven away in a jeep through the warm rain by a white-faced Marine corporal who’d gone on mouthing the same prayer over and over again, with the streets crackling with gunfire and Murray sitting up beside him, awkward and bloody, when they turned a corner and came on the dog, lean as a greyhound, ribs clear through the skin, its head down gnawing at the belly of a corpse — swollen Vietnamese in wet grey trousers, one hand flung out in the mud like a bunch of over-ripe bananas. Then the smell had reached them, cloying sweet and sour in Murray’s throat with the taste of bile clinging to his hair and clothes, while the Marine drew up and shot the dog with one burst from his M16, swearing with tight-lipped puritan anger, as Murray leant out and vomited into the mud.

  ‘So you’re a chum of Charles Pol?’ Finlayson said suddenly, and Murray shook himself back to reality. ‘How’s he getting on in Cambodia?’

  ‘He makes a living. When did he get in touch with you?’

  ‘About ten days ago. Said you needed someone to show you round, make contacts, meet people — that sort of thing.’

  ‘Hence the reception? Couldn’t we have met in some quiet bar instead?’

  ‘There aren’t any quiet bars in Vientiane at night, old boy. Much better to have it out in the open. And you did get the chance to meet Luke Williams and Buchbinder — not to mention Mr and Mrs Conquest.’

  Ahead a light glimmered through some trees and Finlayson swung the car off the road, up on to a sandy verge beside a low brick building with a verandah and a red neon sign: ‘La Cigale — Genuine Cuisine Française’. Finlayson led the way in, his gold bracelet glinting like handcuffs under the light.

  It was still fairly empty inside, with candles on the tables and rows of multicoloured bottles behind the bar. Finlayson chose a table in the corner and began to consult a large handwritten menu. ‘They do very good deep-fried prawns,’ he said. ‘And there’s a wine that’s surprisingly good — young and very fresh.’

  Murray let him order from the waiter, noticing that he spoke French with the same colloquial ease as Hamish Napper; and in the same way as with Napper, this oddly altered his character, making him seem more serious, less the comic Englishman abroad — a man of substance, yet of some mystery. He ordered Ricard as an aperitif, fish soup, white wine and river prawns; then sat back facing Murray, solid, complacent, filling his whole chair. ‘Ah well. So you met old Charles Pol down in Cambodia? You don’t mind telling me how?’

  ‘He didn’t tell you himself?’

  ‘Not the details. Only the more important matters. But the details are important too, I think — if we’re to be entirely in each other’s confidence.’

  ‘Quite so. Well, I was down in Phnom Penh last month, on a sort of unofficial working holiday, and ran into him in a restaurant. It was a late lunch — we were the only Europeans in the place — and he asked me to join him for a drink.’

  ‘And you confided in him then?’

  ‘No. Not until a couple of days later. He’d hired a car to go up to Angkor Wat and asked me to join him. I accepted.’ Murray paused, reflecting now — as he had done so often in the last month — that the decision to go on that trip, taken so casually at the time, might yet prove the most fateful of his whole life.

  ‘And what was your impression of him?’

  ‘Fat.’

  Finlayson chuckled: ‘Yes, my God he’s fat!’

  Murray thought Pol probably the fattest man he had ever seen: the Michelin man alive, tyres of fat squeezed into a damp ill-fitting silk suit with huge thighs sagging over the edges of his chair — a flamboyant, garrulous gourmet of a man with a goatee-beard and a preposterous kiss curl plastered down over one eye; his talk, erudite but funny, punctuated by a shrill, almost girlish laugh.

  At first Murray had likened him to one of those joke-professors in a nineteenth-century farce; but over the next couple of hours of that first meeting — and the best part of a bottle of excellent cognac — he had learnt that Charles Pol had fought as an Anarchist in Spain, had been a double agent for the Free French during the war, and two decades
later had reappeared in North Africa during the death-throes of Algérie Française, working for the Gaullist secret service against the O.A.S.

  Pol had refused to specify what he was doing in Cambodia; but from a few unguarded hints Murray guessed that he was working as some kind of ‘adviser’ to Cambodia’s volatile ruler, Prince Norodom Sihanouk — the all-purpose dictator, film director, actor, clarinet-player, poet, pop-singer, and political one-man band who went so far as to edit his own opposition newspaper in which he attacked himself once a week. Murray approved of Sihanouk, and he was intrigued by Pol. He had decided to stay close to the Frenchman for the next few days, which was one of the reasons why he had joined him on that trip to the ruins of Angkor Wat.

  Finlayson, who had the habit of breaking off the conversation and relapsing into long silences, was now busy lapping up his soup. Murray finished his Ricard and tasted the wine, thinking: How fitting that it should have been in Angkor that the whole idea had taken root — that vast sunless place full of temples of leprous stone rising out of the jungle like some deranged Versailles. For here, resting on a terrace overlooking a lake of dead water, Murray had told Pol the story. He hadn’t thought it particularly important at the time — just an interesting anecdote out of a war that was full of anecdotes, funny, brutal, absurd. This one had been a straight recitation of fact as told him by a lonely American boy over too many drinks in an R-and-R bar in downtown Bangkok. Murray had repeated it just as he had been told it himself; but the Frenchman had been panting and sweating so much that Murray thought he hadn’t been fully listening.

  Only later, as they drove back through the darkening countryside, did Pol bring the subject up again. And what he said had brought Murray bolt upright in his seat, hardly knowing whether the Frenchman were joking or not. Of course he was joking — it was madness, a fantasy inspired by the weird wonders of Angkor, followed by too much wine at the tourist hotel. But somehow there had been something in Pol’s manner — some hint of secret authority, of hard practical ruthlessness — that gradually made it seem neither mad nor fantastic. From that moment Murray had thought of little else. At work, in bed, in restaurants, aircraft, talking, drinking, doing nothing, his mind had been turning over, exploring every possibility, probability, until gradually the whole crazy scheme had begun to come alive with a dangerous reality, like suddenly finding oneself living — in detail — an obsessive, recurring dream. He only wondered how much Pol had confided in George Finlayson. And if he had, just how seriously Finlayson had taken it?