When the Fanta was gone and the reception was over, the ministry people shook Civilai’s hand and went home to contemplate his rat catcher theory. The athletes and team leaders had been allotted accommodation in the American compound, which now housed mostly Party members and their aides. A small block behind the old stables had been put aside for the Olympic heroes. Ivanov walked General Suvan back to his room but Siri, Dtui, Daeng and Civilai remained behind in the high school gymnasium to go over administrative issues. This activity was sometimes known as drinking a lot. Madam Daeng had a friend at the morning market who was currently importing a most delicious Thai rice whisky.
“That, brother, was probably the most pathetic team building speech I’ve ever heard,” said Siri.
“I thought it was inspiring,” said Dtui.
“I promise you the team members are all in their beds formulating a new philosophy of what is ‘victory,’” said Civilai.
“I promise you they’re all in their beds feeling queasy from the warm Fanta and images of rats the size of pigs,” said Siri.
“Enough, boys,” said Daeng. “Let’s raise our glasses to a worthy cause.”
“To incomprehensibility,” said Siri.
“To the Olympics,” said Dtui.
“To the Olympics,” they all repeated.
They drank and savored and sat back in their chairs.
“Shouldn’t the whole squad have been together for this first night?” said Dtui.
“That isn’t such an easy thing to accomplish,” said Civilai. “The boxers are up in Vang Vieng running up mountains and I’m not even sure the army has finalized its list of shooters yet. Each battalion has nominated its champion and they have to get that number down to seven without offending the commanders. I get the feeling their team won’t get together until we’re on the flight to Moscow.”
“So that’s it?” said Daeng. “Shooters, boxers and runners?”
“And a walker,” said Siri.
“What about football?” said Dtui.
“The qualifying rounds were a year ago,” said Civilai. “You can’t just slot in a team at this late stage.”
“Swimming?” said Dtui.
Siri laughed. “Anyone with swimming ability would be on the other side of the river by now,” he said. “No, what you see is what you get. Twenty men and women with no hope of winning. They’ll travel to Moscow, do their best and return with open hearts and minds and a more positive view of the world.”
“It’s a pity we can’t dress the central committee in nylon tracksuits and take them with us,” said Civilai.
“I wouldn’t go if that happened,” came a voice.
They turned to see Chom the rat catcher in the far doorway with a bottle of clear liquid in his hand.
“I sincerely hope that’s coconut water you have there,” said Civilai.
“The best rice whisky Savanaketh has to offer,” said the runner.
“You’re in training,” said Siri as he reached out for the bottle.
“To lose,” said Chom. “This helps.”
Two of the teenaged girl sprinters had followed him into the gym. Their offering was a bottle containing some light brown liquid with lumps in it.
“Millet beer,” said Nat, the elder of the sisters.
“Puts hair on your chest,” said her sister, Nah. The girls were, in fact, not related but the Lao concept of sisterhood did not preclude having different parents. The two had spent the day hand in hand and still they refused to break the link.
Within ten minutes the entire track team had arrived with their offerings. They ignored the chairs and the table and sat on the ground sampling one another’s hooch. It was like a French wine tasting except the alcohol level was higher than the Eiffel tower. After two tumblers the athletes and their minders were closer than kin.
At one stage Siri raised his glass and proposed a toast of his own. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “Remember, the road to success is paved with potholes and buffalo dung and broken beer bottles and unexploded ordnance. Sometimes it makes more sense to sit under a tree and have a drink.”
The athletes cheered but they were in the mood to cheer anything.
“Marx said that,” Siri added.
“He did not,” said Civilai.
“Well, he seems to have said everything else,” said Siri.
Chapter Four
To Russia with Lahp
There was a brass band playing at Wattay airport and half the population of Vientiane had turned up to see off the Olympians. An official photographer snapped the sportsmen and -women individually with the Aeroflot jet in the background, then in their specialty groups standing on wonky chairs with the officials in front of them.
Apart from Gongjai’s sister, Tong, who’d stayed behind to monitor the slow decline of Comrade Noo, Siri’s household was there in their Sunday best, except it was Thursday. Even Crazy Rajhid had hitched a ride on the house motor scooter. He was wearing shorts and had found a burst bicycle inner tube which he wore as a tie. He hadn’t found a shirt so he was bare-chested. Blind Pao and his granddaughter Lia waved a hammer and sickle pennant. Inthanet and his fiancée were dressed in red, white and blue to match the national flag. Inspector Phosy, who was not one for public displays of affection, didn’t even attempt to hold Nurse Dtui’s hand while she cuddled their daughter. Their relationship had been strained these past few weeks but Phosy had yet to apologize for his sulking or to accept his wife’s right to head off overseas by herself. Mrs. Fah had her children salute for the cameras and Gongjai brought a bunch of flowers for Madam Daeng. Ugly the dog lay depressed at their feet as if he knew what little chance there was of getting on board a Soviet aircraft.
The prime minister was there briefly. He shook hands with each of the competitors and administrators and made several comments that were inaudible against the roar of the jets. He wouldn’t be staying long enough to hear that the band only had a repertoire of three patriotic tunes played on a loop.
During their training, the Lao team had received some splendid news. In protesting the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, the Americans had voted to boycott the Games. In turn they’d bullied sixty-five other countries to stay home. Others, like Great Britain, were leaving the decision to participate or not to its athletes. The news delighted the socialist bloc and especially the Lao, who would now be able to boast of finishing seventh in their event rather than twelfth as there would be fewer competitors.
The final photograph was of the entire squad seated on a hurriedly put-together bleacher. Civilai was between the prime minister and General Suvan in the front row. As they waited for the cameraman to find a focus, Civilai looked around at the familiar and unfamiliar faces of the athletes. He had spent much of his career traveling around the country and he had a remarkable memory for faces. In a country of four million people, on any given day there was a strong likelihood of bumping into someone you knew or were related to. It was the first time the military shooters had been together as a group. They were still being introduced to one another. In the third row, Civilai recognized an officer called Lien he’d had dealings with in the past. At that time, Lien had been a captain but had since reached the rank of major. Civilai nodded at him and the major nodded back. The soldier smiled as if remembering some past adventure they’d shared. It appeared that Lien was one of the shooting team, which pleased the old politburo man no end. They’d be together for over a month in the Soviet Union and would have time to relive those good old days. Civilai pointed to the plane and the major put up his thumb.
The taxiing area was crowded and even after the Olympians and the officials had boarded the plane the onlookers refused to budge. They waved at the now familiar faces whose photographs had graced the front page of Pasason Lao and mouthed, “Good luck.” As Aeroflot did not equip its planes with horns, it was left to the Russian co-pilot to
open his window and wave away the unruly throng so the plane could make its way to the end of the runway. The crowd continued to wave even as the aircraft left the ground and carried their hopes up into the sky and away to the great Soviet Union.
Even on a calm, cloudless day, flights out of Wattay could find a bank of turbulence. Most of the passengers had never flown on an airplane before so when the beast dropped forty meters with no warning, the scream could be heard back at the airport. White clouds of air conditioning gushed from overhead and to the uninitiated looked exactly like smoke. Nurse Dtui wrenched Siri’s arm from its socket.
“Don’t panic,” he said.
“Don’t panic?” she said. “This is exactly why I avoid airplanes. Challenging the fates. Putting myself in a tin box and throwing myself into the sky. Defying the gods to knock me down. It’s unnatural.”
Civilai leaned forward from the seat behind and said, “The odds of having a buffalo fall on you from a tree are greater than dying in a plane crash.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better at all,” said Dtui.
The aircraft dropped again and for the next five minutes it flipped and flopped like a sandal in a tumble drier. Even when the pilot said the turbulence was over and passengers could unfasten their seatbelts, nobody did. Except, that is, for Civilai. He rose from his seat and headed back through the cabin.
“Bladder,” said Siri to his wife. “Thank goodness airplanes have toilets.”
But Civilai seemed in no hurry to relieve himself. He walked slowly along the aisle looking left and right, nodding and making comments. When he reached the last row of seats he confirmed that the lavatory was not in use but didn’t avail himself of its amenities. Siri and Daeng had no idea what he was looking for. They watched him pass them again, this time heading for the front of the plane. There he leaned over the senior military officer, a handsome middle-aged man in a brand new uniform, and engaged him in a brief conversation. The officer stood, counted the military contingent, consulted a list and saluted Civilai before retaining his seat. By the time he was back in his own seat Civilai seemed thoroughly confused.
“Met everybody?” asked Daeng.
“It’s the damnedest thing,” said Civilai.
“What’s the problem?” asked Siri.
Civilai knelt on his seat and leaned over Siri’s seat back.
“Back at the airport when we were having the team photograph taken with the prime minister, I saw an old friend,” he said. “From his uniform I could see he’s a major now, but he was a captain when I first met him. He was sitting behind us with the shooters. He recognized me and we smiled and I gestured we should get together on the flight and he agreed. But he’s not here.”
“So you didn’t actually talk to him?” said Siri.
“It was chaotic,” said Civilai.
“So he might have been just a trainer or a VIP there for the photo shoot,” said Dtui.
“No, I mean . . . yes,” said Civilai. “I mean, it’s possible, but he was dressed exactly like everyone else in the shooting team down to the red Olympic armband. And he was in the team photo. And he was keen to talk on the plane.”
“Or that’s what you understood and he just went along with it,” said Siri.
“I know when a man is enthusiastic,” said Civilai. “You see it so rarely in our country.”
“Perhaps he wanted to talk to you before you got on the flight,” Daeng suggested.
“Look, that’s not impossible either,” said Civilai. “But to tell the truth it didn’t surprise me at all that he’d be on the team. He was always brilliant at the range. He was already instructing when he was in his twenties.”
“Then that’s it,” said Siri. “He’s a non-traveling instructor. Came to say goodbye to his boys. What did the uniform at the front have to say about it?”
“He asked me what the major’s surname was but I couldn’t remember it. We called him Lien, but there was no Lien on the team list. Nor was there a name that contained the word Lien. No Lienkum. No Bounlien.”
“Then that’s the end of it,” said Daeng. “Senility. Memory loss and the misinterpretation of standard signals.”
“I was just so certain he . . .”
“He’s not on the flight, uncle,” said Nurse Dtui.
“No,” Civilai agreed. “He’s not on the flight.”
•••
The so-called “virgin countries,” those that had never been at the Olympics before—Angola, Botswana, Jordan, Laos, Mozambique, and the Seychelles—had been invited to come to the Soviet Union two weeks before the games proper began for what the organizers called “intensive coaching.” But it was more of an acculturation program making sure they knew how to flush toilets and not eat with their fingers. No amount of sports coaching would bring the little teams up to international standards.
The Lao athletes disembarked at the brand new Sheremetyevo Airport, a glary white building that seemed to exist only for them. After one minor incident at Customs, where an athlete was not allowed to enter the country with a tub of homemade fish lahp, they were met by a reception committee of interesting characters. There were chubby women in ethnic costumes carrying leis. Large men in suits with hairstyles that looked like toupees. Military officers in flat hats so broad you could land a helicopter on them. And, most importantly, breaking free of the crowd came Comrade Baronov. The young man’s hair was constantly flopping over his eyes and the act of clearing a path through the fringe gave the impression that he was waving at everyone. He was a notable member of the reception committee in the eyes of the Lao because he spoke their language. The Lao delegation stood in awe as he walked from handshake to handshake wishing each athlete good luck, asking them about the weather back home, and showing concern as to whether they’d eaten yet, all in beautiful standard Lao.
One might have felt a fog of pity for a young man who chose to spend his allotment of educational opportunity learning a language that would allow him no professional or financial advancement. A language that even forty percent of those living within the Lao borders had yet to master. But without doubt all the team members and administrators fell in love with this white-skinned, over-weight, unfashionably attired Soviet.
The shooters were gathered up and whisked away by the Red Army representatives and they wouldn’t be seen again until the opening ceremony on July 19th. This was of concern to Civilai, not only because he’d been charged with creating a Lao team spirit but also because he was still disturbed by the disappearance of his friend. He scanned the faces again as they boarded a coach. Perhaps it was true that the major was merely a non-traveling trainer, but Civilai’s instincts told him otherwise.
The others were ferried from the airport in three luxurious vans driven by men in pale blue uniforms. There were two unarmed Soviet guards on each vehicle. Siri couldn’t help thinking that everything had been unwrapped for the first time, including the hospitality. Both Siri and Civilai had been to the Soviet Union before but neither had experienced a smidgen of warmth. Meanwhile, the Lao who had never been overseas gaped silently through the windows. It was the size of everything that struck them dumb. Coming from a country with only one building of over three stories, they felt as if they themselves had been shrunk. The route from the airport took them past grand, earth-colored blocks with spires, interrupted here and there by slab-like structures that didn’t stop at the clouds. They’d never seen so much concrete in their lives. The streets were broad with neat, even footpaths and there was no litter, not one pile of molding food or roadwork debris. And all the vehicles were painted in primary colors like toys.
When the vans pulled up in front of the thirty-story skyscraper on the north bank of the Moskva River, the runners and pugilists assumed they were visiting a grand palace. They stepped down onto the driveway with their government-donated instamatic cameras and began snapping away. They barely noticed t
he train of bellboys in matching uniforms who marched to the rear of the vans and began to offload the team luggage. They even ignored the two middle-aged managers in oversize silver-grey suits who stood on the front steps beckoning for them to come inside.
“You’ll have plenty of time for photos,” said Siri. “Save your film.”
“Why, granddad?” asked Maen. He was the best looking and most conceited of the boxers. In their brief spell together in the van he’d already attempted to woo one of the sprinter sisters, Nah. The male runners had gathered around her like a pack protecting its youngest from a tiger. And Maen was certainly a tiger. On the flight he’d even been bold enough to remind Nurse Dtui she’d be away from her husband for a month and he’d be happy to keep her company on those chilly Moscow evenings. She’d reported the approach to Civilai but following her acrimonious departure from her sanctimonious husband she may have allowed herself to flirt a little. It was invigorating that a young man with a well-defined musculature might find her sexually attractive.
Siri objected to being called “granddad” by such an unpleasant young man.
“Because this is your hotel,” he said. “You’ll have over two weeks to take as many photos as you like to send to your network of women of dubious taste around the world.”
Jaws dropped, mouths gaped all around.
“We’re staying here?” said Khamon, the walker.
“According to the itinerary,” said Siri.
Their eyes scanned the cliff face of windows all the way to the spire. This was the Ukraina Hotel on the west side, one of Stalin’s many flights of architectural fancy. A thousand rooms with suites and apartments and domed ceilings and plush imported carpets. And this was where the sons and daughters of rice farmers would be spending their first fourteen days in Moscow.
The Rat Catchers' Olympics Page 4
