Love Songs from a Shallow Grave dp-7

by Colin Cotterill

  "That's what I admire about you politicians. Figures at your fingertips. Debates won at the drop of a made-up number."

  He found his hand caressing the silk coverlet.

  "I really had been expecting something more austere," he confessed. "You know? A wooden cot in a concrete room. That strikes me as more fitting for Chinese revolutionaries."

  "That really wouldn't have achieved anything, would it?"

  "Do you suppose we're being…?" Siri mimed headphones and a microphone.

  "Probably. And…(Civilai mimed the use of a hand-cranked movie camera) no doubt."

  "So, then romance is out of the question?"

  "Wait, I'll turn out the lights. Our love cannot be denied."

  Both men laughed at the thought of the poor translator reaching this point in the tape and rewinding, and rewinding. Were the two old men speaking in code or were they actually…?

  Sobering up, Siri finally managed to describe his meeting with mass-murderer Neung.

  "Very impressive. He's either a very very good liar — and don't forget, psychopaths can convince themselves to believe what they're telling you, even fool lie detectors — or…"

  "Or somebody really did set him up."

  "And you believe the latter."

  "I didn't say that. But I convinced him…at least I think I did, to tell his story to Phosy exactly as he'd told it to me. He was reluctant. I think Phosy had given Neung short shrift during the interrogation. But I told him Phosy was a friend and a good policeman. Then I woke Phosy and told him to shut up for half an hour and just listen to Neung's version of events."

  "Too bad we won't be back in time for the trial."

  "No, but we'll only be away for four nights. We should be back in time for the execution."

  "Mm. Something to look forward to."

  "No, I mean it gives us time before the execution to follow up on some of Neung's claims. I'm hoping Phosy's sense of fair play might push him to reconsider whether this is a closed case and take another look at the facts."

  "Good. That's settled then. And, in the meantime we enjoy a little holiday, drink a bit too much, embarrass ourselves and our country, and take lots of nice tourist shots as evidence that we actually went."

  "Hear, hear to that."?

  The enthusiastic Lao-speaking guide who'd offered Siri and Civilai fourteen-year-old badminton partners the previous night knocked on their doors at six a.m. He forced them into partaking of a full morning of breakfast, sightseeing, meeting people who didn't want to be met, and early lunch. The meal was another eight courses with fruit wine which left the Lao delegation so bloated they were certain they'd exceed the baggage allowance on the afternoon flight. Scheduled to leave at three forty-five, the airplane left at three forty-four and, as far as they knew, nobody was left behind at the airport.

  Their fears that Civilai might embarrass the Chinese delegation, and himself, were put to rest when it became apparent the Chinese diplomats were all in the front section of the plane, separated from Siri and Civilai and a number of state media representatives who had the rear all to themselves. A red curtain — polyester rather than bamboo — had been drawn between them even before take-off. The members of the media spoke amongst themselves. They'd brought their own dinners on plates clamped together and tied in cloth. They seemed to know there would be no service, no meal, and certainly no in-flight film. All three lady air cadres were busy in first class.

  When they landed on the bumpy tarmac at Phnom Penh airport, the Chinese left the plane first. Civilai watched through the window. Five jet-black limousines had driven out to meet the plane with their headlights blazing. Three heavy-set Chinese-looking men and two dowdy Chinese-looking women were at the bottom of the portable steps to shake hands and hug the delegation. They hung limp mimosa lei around the visitors' necks and smiled a good deal. On the short walk to the cars, the Chinese either handed the smelly necklaces to their aides or surreptitiously dropped them on the runway. The cars consumed the guests, turned in formation, and headed in a direction that appeared to contain nothing but the beams of the limousines.

  "Is this our stop, do you think?" Siri asked.

  "I didn't see a sign," Civilai replied. "In fact there's nothing outside the window but blackness."

  The press corps had fled at some stage and none of the Mao-jacketed stewardesses had brought them barley sugar to suck or little metal aeroplane badges to pin on their lapels. In fact, but for the propellers whirring slowly, there was no sound. The two old comrades laughed.

  "Do you think we should get off?" Civilai asked.

  "I'm not going out there to stand on a dark wet runway," Siri said. "If they want us, let them come and get us."

  After five more minutes the pair was starting to believe they weren't wanted. But then a short man appeared from behind the red curtain. He was dressed in black pyjamas and had sandals made of thick chunks of old car tyres on his sunburned feet. Around his neck was a faded black and white checked scarf. His hair was slick and angled across his forehead in the style of Adolf Hitler. But his face was boyish, not yet ready for a moustache. In his hand was a large grey card with the names Dr Siri Paiboun and Comrade Civilai Songsawat written in pencil, camouflaged, grey on grey. In the wrong light it might have been illegible but the cabin lights reflected silver off the carbon letters.

  Siri and Civilai raised their hands and the young man nodded. They collected their baggage from the overhead container and followed him down the steps and across the runway. The old fellows attempted one or two questions along the way, in Lao, then French, then Vietnamese. Then the odd phrase in Burmese, English, Chinese, and Mauritian Creole (Civilai had learned to say 'I would like to meet your sister' from a very personable Mauritian he'd met at a conference in Havana.) Their guide responded to none of these.

  Their own limousine was parked beside a wire fence. They sat, the three of them, in the rear seat, the scent of the leather hinting that the cow had not long been slaughtered. Siri and Civilai exchanged a glance and chuckled. The limousine, lit only by the distant lights of the aeroplane, was missing a driver.

  "I've read about this," Civilai whispered. "They're remote controlled. This fellow pushes a button and it heads off all by itself."

  But then a skinny man with a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip, wearing his black pyjamas and scarf with less panache than their guide, walked out of the darkness adjusting his crotch. He stopped, looked at the shadows in the back seat, and took one last puff of his cigarette before flicking it over his shoulder He climbed in the driver's seat, slammed his door and started up the car. He glared into the rear-view mirror with eyebrows hacked from old door mats.

  "If they ever come to visit us I'm not sure we'll be able to match a reception like this," Siri whispered.

  "I can't begin to imagine all the planning and expense that went into it," Civilai agreed.

  The new limousine started silently and the gear lever danced from first to second without effort. When they reached and passed the fortified guard post, the guide also slipped into gear. His Lao was fluent but accented. Somewhere from the border up towards the Kong Falls. The product of a mixed marriage, they guessed, although something about him suggested one of his parents was a machine.

  "Welcome to Democratic Kampuchea," he began. There had been no eye contact and even now he stared straight ahead at the driver's bald patch.

  "And we're very happy to — " Civilai began.

  "Our two countries have a great and mutually respectful history," the guide continued. "As the two honoured guests know, we are the first two Marxist states to have shaken off the shackles of Therevada Buddhism, leaving our peoples free to think without superstition and religious propaganda."

  "What's your name, son?" Siri asked.

  There was a confused moment like a tape sticking in an old recorder, but it was fleeting. The boy continued.

  "We are happy to receive such honoured representatives from the People's Democratic Republic of
Laos. I am your guide, Chan Chenda and I will be accompanying you during your visit here. While you are — "

  "I think I detect an accent in there," Givilai said. "Don't you, Siri?"

  "I picked it straight off," Siri agreed. "I'd wager one of your parents is Lao. Am I right?"

  "My family…I am proud to serve Angkar," the guide said, flustered. He glanced briefly at the two guests then looked away, embarrassed.

  "I bet you are," Siri said, not really knowing what Angkar was. "Such a lovely place. Travelled around much, have you?"

  "Thank you," said the guide. It was the type of 'thank you' heard at the cinema when somebody's trying to hush up a chattering couple. Siri and Civilai recognised it at once and they shut up.

  "Here in Democratic Kampuchea," the guide continued, "we have drawn upon human resources to develop the ambitious aims of our great country. Through direct consultation with our Khmer brothers and sisters, we have reached an exciting period in the development of cooperatives. As laid out in our four-year…"

  The boy droned on like an automaton, leaving the guests with no entertainment but the occasional brown light of a wax lamp glowing from a passing hut. It was too dark to read so Siri left Camus in his bag. The old friends had endured enough government propaganda sessions to know a prepared script when they heard one. The guide was on 'play' and they wouldn't get in a word until he reached the end of the reel.

  "…laid out in our four-year agricultural template for the future, drafted in 1976, collectives will be the key to unlocking the door to independence and prosperity. We have almost tripled our rice yield and in five to ten years we anticipate that eighty per cent of farms will be mechanised. In fifteen years we should have established a base for industry. We currently have…"

  "Any idea how far the airport is from the city?" Civilai asked Siri.

  If the guide was upset by the interruption he didn't show it.

  "…of our new National Technical college which already has three-hundred students and will…"

  "No more than twenty minutes, according to the map," Siri replied.

  "Could be one of those Einstein twenty minutes," Civilai sighed.

  It was only the sight of one or two large buildings showing off with actual electricity that signalled their arrival in Phnom Penh. Most of the city was black blocks and empty unlit streets. There were no other car headlights to guide them. At last, the large wooden sign, HOTEL LE PHNOM was exposed in the full beam. Half hidden beneath untrimmed trees, it seemed to issue a plaintive plea for help rather than a welcome. Siri recalled the hotel from his previous visit. It had been a gay, noisy place then, with elegant French high-socialites taking cocktails around the pool. Fawning French-speaking servants in starched white uniforms running back and forth with trays. Floodlights flaunting the new white paint of the facade and highlighting the greens of the tropical garden. Two uniformed guards in white caps had stood guard at the front barrier to keep out riff-raff. Siri and Boua hadn't been allowed inside. After speaking to them rudely in Khmer, the prim bouncers had asked in French;

  "Are you guests?"

  "Mais, oui," Siri had lied.

  "Show me your receipt."

  "It's in our suite. My personal French secretary has it in her purse."

  The guards had eyed their peasant clothes, their sandals and their cloth shoulder bags and laughed at them. They'd laughed right in their faces and pointed to the street. Phnom Penh had been a city back then in which natives were not welcome. The Khmer made up ninety-three per cent of the population but the Chinese had all the money and the Europeans handled the culture. The Khmers cooked and cleaned and begged and threw scum out of luxury hotels. Such was their lot.

  The floodlights were gone now, the grounds overgrown. Only one or two lights glowing from rooms here and there gave any suggestion of the size of what the guide told them was no longer Hotel Le Phnom, but House Number Two. They pulled up in front of the large entrance but nobody came running down the steps to open the door for them. The driver switched off the engine but the guide was still running.

  "…that worklessness no longer exists in Democratic Kampuchea. All our citizens work with vigour to the hours of the sun. There is no longer salaried employment and our Khmer brothers and sisters voted unanimously that we should do away with money. We use a system of…"

  "You don't have money?" Civilai asked.

  "We are a…"

  "So we can't give him a tip," Siri lamented, climbing out of the car. "Too bad because he's been so helpful and informative."

  The guide continued to drone on in the background.

  "Then we'll show our gratitude in some other way," Civilai decided. "We'll tell his president what a good guide he is."

  The guide stopped.

  "We don't have a president," he said.

  "No? What do you have?"

  "We have Brother Number One."

  "Is that so?" Siri asked. "And does Brother Number One live in House Number Two?"

  "No. He lives in House Number Three."

  "I might have known. Then it is Brother Number One whom we shall inform of your diligence."

  "It is my pleasure to serve Angkar," the boy said.

  "I bet it is."

  The car pulled away and there was faint but undeniable pride on the face of the guide as he peered from the rear window. But it quickly became clear they shouldn't have dispatched their interpreter so soon. From that moment on they could communicate with nobody. The hotel staff, or at least the figures standing in strategic positions around the reception area, were dressed exactly as their guide. The women had short hair and stern faces. The men glared accusingly. There was not a pretty or handsome one amongst them. Nobody smiled. Nobody was animated. It was like a visit to a slowly melting waxworks.

  Siri and Civilai pointed to their names on the hotel guest ledger and a serious man with a limp led them up to the second floor. He unlocked two doors and left the keys in the locks and the guests in the hallway.

  "Is this weird enough for you yet?" Siri asked.

  "I suppose room service is out of the question," said Civilai, looking up and down the deserted corridor.

  "There's still half a ton of Chinese inside you. You can't be hungry?"

  "I was thinking of a nightcap."

  "Perhaps they've left us a little something in the rooms. Sandwiches and a bottle of Beaujolais perhaps?"

  "Now, why do I doubt that?"

  In their rooms they found beds, chairs, cupboards, unlabeled bottles of water and slightly grimy glasses.

  "What time is it?" Civilai asked.

  "The only working clock in reception said it was eight o'clock in Mexico City."

  "Well, assuming that's eight a.m. then it's only about nine a.m. here. Fancy a stroll around town before bed?"

  "I can't imagine what else to do."

  They emptied their bladders in their respective bathrooms and regrouped in the hallway. As they walked along the light green carpet they heard a loud squeaking, grating sound coming from the floor below. It was unmistakably the sound of Godzilla chewing on a Volkswagen Camper. They walked down a dimly lit stairwell to a reception area whose lights, all but one above the desk, had been extinguished. The staff had fled but for one of the male cadres. He was now shirtless and tending to some business behind the counter. The entrance to the hotel had been blocked by a huge metal roller-grill. Phnom Penh beyond was apparently out of bounds. They were trapped.

  They walked to reception and discovered that the clerk was connecting a mosquito net. One end was tied to the switchboard, the other wound around the neck of a stone statue, a poor copy of one of the apsaras from Angkor Wat. He seemed annoyed to have been disturbed. After ten minutes of mimes and gestures; bottles, drinking, staggering drunkenness, then down the scale to eating, rice, peanuts, bananas, the cadre was positively livid.

  "My brother, Civilai," Siri said at last, "if our friend has a weapon of any sort down there behind the counter, I feel he's reached the p
oint at which he'll use it."

  "Then, I'll say goodnight."

  "Goodnight and sweet dreams," they wished the scowling receptionist.?

  There was no sweetness in Siri's dream that night. That same disconcerting nightmare was waiting for him. But everything was so much more vivid. The streets through which he walked had acquired a scent, a rancid smell he knew well from his work. The song came at him from everywhere like a sensur-round soundtrack with strings and a harmonious backing group. But it was certainly the same eerily beautiful song.

  The boy-soldier who approached him with his pistol raised had a history now. He had a family, brothers and sisters, all hungry, others dead because there were no medicines to cure simple ills. He had been drafted into the military because his mother had no rice to feed him. Siri knew all this, not because he'd been told, but because, in the place where dreams are produced, this was a logical plot development. It made the character more dimensional. We now had reason to feel sorry for the antagonist, to side with him. It created an element of conflict in the conscience of the viewer, in this case, Siri. Something in him wanted the boy to pull the trigger. And, with so much unexpected support, that's exactly what he did. Siri's head was gone. Splattered like a kumquat on a busy highway. And the dream-Siri was filled with dread, not because he was headless — inconvenient though it was — but because he was afraid he might stumble into the singer and that would be the end of mankind. He knew there was nothing to pull him back. Finding the origin of the song would signal the end of all hope, worse than anything he'd ever experienced.

  The explosion of the gun had reduced the soundtrack to a single beautiful voice. Headless Siri was on his hands and knees. He reached a plot of earth where the sounds climbed up through the dirt and lingered there like invisible music plants. He began to dig down. Something beneath the ground was attempting to dig upwards. Siri was overwhelmed by the wonderful song. The refrain squeezed at his heart strings, squeezed blood out of them, squeezed until they snapped, one by one. His heart, stringless, broke away from his chest like an untethered blimp and was carried off by the music plants, rising, lost in the blood-red sky. As his seventies cultural attache, Dtui — self-confessed addict to Thai pop magazines — would say, it was all very Beatles.