A few more steps and it was all over. They reemerged into the daylight like passengers on a funfair ghost train bursting through the final black doors. The old friends broke away from their queue mates and squinted beneath a midday sun. Civilai prodded the old woman as she passed them but she didn’t seem to notice. She held onto her beatific mask.
“Any idea why we queued an hour and a half to view a body?” Civilai asked.
“None whatsoever,” said Siri.
Chapter Six
The Friends of Socialism Ball
Vientiane seemed to have forgotten the euphoria of Olympic departure day and had returned to its doldrums. A joint Vietnamese-Soviet study had recommended Laos give up its ambitious cooperative rice farming program and Thai entrepreneurs were taking advantage of the open border policy by trucking thousands of tons of timber out of the country. In return, the Lao markets were filling up with shoddy clothing and Thai junk food—unidentifiable morsels in brightly colored plastic bags.
Inspector Phosy had looked at the photographs of the shooting team. One was taken on the bleacher with the seven shooters, their Soviet coach and their minder, Colonel Fah Hai. Then there was a series of photos of the athletes climbing the steps to board the flight. They’d been told to stop on the platform, turn and wave at the crowd. The shooters in their military dress uniforms and distinctive red armbands were easy enough to spot. By comparing the two sets, Phosy was able to find the man who had replaced Major Lien. Whereas all the other shooters smiled at the camera, this one frowned and looked down. He did not have an armband. His was a nondescript face with a military haircut. The only identifying feature, if it could be called such, was his unusually long neck.
Phosy had pointed it out to his young daughter at teatime and she’d compared the man to a tortoise whose long neck reached far out of its shell. She was many streets ahead of her age group linguistically. The inspector loved nothing more than telling stories to Malee and listening to her peculiar interpretations of them. The only person he loved more than Malee was his wife, Dtui. Yet still he found it hard to tell her so. To his first wife he’d confessed his love every day. He’d hugged his children so tightly they often complained they couldn’t breathe. He’d told secrets and confessed his frailties because he was certain they’d all be together until the children had children of their own and he and his wife would sway together on rattan rocking chairs. But suddenly she was gone. She took his children to a refugee camp without a word. There was no trace of them. No way to find them. No knowing what he’d done wrong. So, although Dtui filled his heart he would never tell her so for fear she too would betray him.
The next morning he dropped Malee off at the crèche and went to the office of Pasason Lao. It was their official photographer who’d shared the Wattay pictures with him. The inspector had an idea but he needed cooperation from the newspaper editor, Savang, who answered directly to the Ministry of Information. Phosy sat with Savang and the Vietnamese media adviser and pitched them an idea. The families and friends of all the Olympic heroes had turned up at the airport to wish them well. But one man, one army marksman, had been ignored by the crowds. No loved ones had come to see him off. He’d stood in the shadows until it was time to board the flight and here was his photograph, looking sad and lonely. Who was this modest Lao hero? Didn’t he deserve the same plaudits as everyone else?
The Lao editor hated it. His was a newspaper of information, he said. Of statistics and figures. There were occasional interviews with model socialists who led by example. There were facts. There was propaganda. What it most certainly was not was a Thai-like sensationalist broadsheet that ran tacky competitions and gimmicks.
“Absolutely not,” he said.
The Vietnamese adviser smiled. He pointed out that the Pasason Lao was distributed weekly to post offices and learning institutions but that nobody actually read it, mainly for the reasons that Savang had just outlined. An unread newspaper was a metal safe that nobody could open, he told them. You had to give the combination so the contents could be enjoyed. What it needed was a little human interest on the front cover. The nameless hero angle was exactly the type of thing he’d been trying to introduce since his posting at the newspaper. And as he was a Vietnamese adviser whose advice few Lao dared question, it was decided that the photograph would appear on the front page of the newspaper two days hence.
•••
An announcement came over the intercom that the flight would soon be leaving and the passengers should stow their tray tables and return their seats to the upright position. But neither the tray nor the seat was adjustable. The intercom voice was clearly that of Auntie Bpoo. As was his habit, Siri sat back and waited for the show. He was currently upside up. The aircraft began to move, the engines booted, the force pushed him back into his seat and they were airborne. In fact there were no other passengers and no visible crew members. It was one of Siri’s least entertaining dreams.
He thought about the last conversation he’d had with Bpoo. She’d told him, not to put too fine a point on it, that he was a wimp. She’d said this other world he glimpsed from time to time was of his own making. If so, that must have included this private Aeroflot. He was traveling in a metaphor. She said he had to take control but didn’t mention how to go about it. Perhaps this was his chance to steer his own ship.
He unfastened his seatbelt and started to walk toward the cockpit. The voice over the intercom told him the seatbelt sign was still on and he should immediately return to his seat or there’d be trouble. He ignored it. He’d show them who was a wimp. He was taking control. He heaved open the temple door and, as he’d expected, the pilot and co-pilot seats were empty. Through the front window he could see a mountain getting nearer. It was his moment. He sat in the pilot’s seat and noticed there was no joystick. In fact there were no dials or meters or switches at all. There was just one red button. The other side was making it easy for him.
The mountain was getting closer, so close he could see goats on ledges and ice melting. The button began to glow. Control was at the tip of his finger. He pressed the button and . . . a small ceiling fan began to rotate above his head. It had barely reached full speed by the time the aircraft slammed into the side of the mountain.
He came to in the Ukraina’s twenty-four-hour restaurant. His nose was pressed up against a grand Ionic pillar. He looked from side to side. There were no diners. The staff sat at tables knitting or reading novels. A guard in pale blue with a non-threatening truncheon in his belt was standing behind the doctor with a look of pity on his face. He mimed his rendition of a drunken man staggering to the elevator and sleeping off whatever had got him into such a terrible state.
A week after their arrival in Moscow, the boxers and runners were no more likely to win medals but they weighed a lot more. Everyone complained of the Soviet plot. They were being poisoned with butter and lard and sugar and sweet pasta. Yet none could refuse to eat the stodgy meals served free at the Ukraina restaurant. The very fact the food was free made it desirable. Families back home were starving and here was a buffet full to bursting. Like squirrels storing nuts, the Lao filled themselves with carbohydrates for the days after their return home. They’d be able to live off the fat through the harshest of dry seasons. They were starting to take luxury for granted and had already tired of riding the elevator.
Maen the conceited boxer boasted that he’d bedded two of the hotel staff and had set himself a target of eight. Khamon the walker had gone out every day to pace the twenty kilometers of his race walk along the banks of the Moscva River and study the terrain. Chom the rat catcher had been to the older suburbs and was fascinated by the number of stray dogs around the city. Roger had explained that Muscovites of old were wont to have guard dogs. As the small dwellings of the city were ploughed into the foundations of ever-taller skyscrapers, the dogs were let loose and today’s strays were the descendants of those discarded guard dogs. Not even
the intensive facelift for the Olympics had been able to rid the streets of their dogs.
In their free time, Nut and Nah and the other sprinters had taken to the water, where they enjoyed free ferry rides along the eighty-some kilometers of river that wound its way through the city. Of a morning, the Soviet coaches would take them to a nearby tartan track where they’d learn the art of ejecting from starting blocks and pushing their chests forward to gain advantage at the tape. In that matter the lady runners already had a disadvantage when compared with the buxom Europeans. The boxers pummeled sandbags in a high school gymnasium and were introduced to ropes that did not chafe. But most importantly they were taught the English numbers from one to nine and told that once face down on the canvas they should listen and not attempt to get up until the last number was called. There was a reason why they were flat out and that reason would repeat itself if they attempted to get to their feet.
On their last night at the Ukraina, the hotel sponsored a reception for all the virgin country athletes who’d stayed there. They were three days away from the opening ceremony and everyone would be moving to the Olympic Village, which was finally complete.
Madam Daeng was admiring her latest turban in the mirror when the door burst open and Civilai, out of breath, entered the room.
“A gentleman would knock,” she said.
“Sorry,” he said. “Where’s Siri?”
“Defecating,” she said.
“Finished,” came a voice from the bathroom. Siri emerged wearing a towel around his waist that dragged along the floor. “What’s up?”
At that moment, Dtui also entered through the open door of the suite.
“I’m here,” she said.
“Listen, all of you,” said Civilai. “I want us all together because something important has come to light. Dtui, please shut the door.”
“We’re in a Soviet hotel room,” said Siri. “If it’s important, shouldn’t we speak on the balcony or turn on the bath tap or something?”
“You read too many spy novels,” said Civilai. “We’re Lao. What threat do we pose to the Union of Soviet States?”
“What’s happened?” said Daeng.
“I’ve just heard from Phosy,” said Civilai.
“That’s more than I have,” said Dtui. “How is he?”
“I didn’t ask him,” said Civilai, “but he—”
“Did he send his regards to his wife, by any chance?” she asked.
“Look, this is important,” said Civilai.
“Sorry,” said Dtui.
“Phosy put a photo of our imposter on the front page of Pasason Lao,” said Civilai.
“Nobody reads that,” said Siri.
“Which is why it took so long for someone to notice it,” said Civilai. “A post office worker in Houaphan recognized the shooter and contacted the newspaper to claim her prize.”
“What was it?” asked Daeng.
“The prize? I don’t know. A coconut or something. It doesn’t matter. The man in the photograph was her cousin. His name is Sompoo. That name is not on the handwritten list the colonel gave me on the flight; neither is it on the official Games roster list which was issued this morning.”
“So Sompoo is on the team under an assumed name,” said Daeng.
“Didn’t they give you photocopies of the identification cards of the shooters?” asked Siri. “You are the team manager.”
“I know that, but it seems the military doesn’t. My request for team member IDs has been lodged since before we left Laos. I’ve had no response.”
“Did Phosy come up with anything about Sompoo?” Siri asked.
“A lot,” said Civilai. “The battalion he was attached to in Huaphan was trained in guerilla warfare to counter the threat of Chinese incursions on the northern borders. There are a lot of Vietnamese troops up there convinced the Chinese plan to invade Laos as a stepping stone to get to Hanoi. Sompoo is evidently one of their best men.”
“So he’s a trained killer, a gunman with Vietnamese connections,” said Daeng. “Why would they send him to Moscow?”
“To kill somebody?” said Dtui.
“They have gone to a lot of trouble to get him here,” said Daeng.
“All right,” said Siri. “Although it’s far more likely his wealthy relatives wangled him a trip to Moscow for a holiday, let’s pretend he’s here to assassinate somebody. I’d need a lot of convincing they’d send someone to commit murder on Soviet soil. Who would the target be?”
“The obvious target would be a high-ranking Chinese,” said Civilai. “At least that’s who I’d shoot.”
“But the Chinese have boycotted the Games,” said Daeng. “And we knew a while ago that they would, but Sompoo still came.”
“Right,” said Siri, “I doubt he’s here to bump off a Russian given that they’re the only friends we have at the moment. And he’s not going to come all this way to put a bullet in the head of any of us in the Lao delegation. I paid two visits to the bathroom at Wattay airport. He could have shot me there.”
“Me too,” said Civilai.
“So, do you think he’s here to eliminate somebody who’s coming for the Games?” Dtui asked. “An athlete or official?”
“It’s what the Palestinians did in Munich,” said Civilai.
“They made a political point by taking Israelis hostages and killing them,” said Siri. “Vast audience. But can we introduce some common sense here? What political point does Laos have to make on the world stage? It would be a disaster for our country and our reputation in the world.”
“Then it’s simple,” said Daeng. “We tell the Soviets about our suspicions and they send him home.”
“We don’t have any suspicions,” said Siri. “We’re just making this up. It would be unfair to have Sompoo kicked out if he was here legitimately. What if the major was bumped for something more serious than buying petrol? What if Sompoo’s here at the invitation of the Soviets? His background means nothing. How many on the shooting team don’t have guerilla training? They’re all expert gunmen for a reason. Until we have something concrete to show them I think we’ll be making fools of ourselves to go to the Soviets with this.”
“If he’s so innocent why’s he traveling under someone else’s name?” Dtui asked.
“I’m not saying he’s innocent,” said Siri. “There’s certainly something fishy going on. But we need to know what that is. Tomorrow we’ll be at the Olympic Village with the shooters. We’re all obliged to wear our picture IDs. This is what we do. We find our mystery shooter, Sompoo, and we keep him under surveillance. There are four of us. We can take shifts. If he breaks away from the pack we follow him. If he does anything naughty we’ll have something concrete and we can go to the authorities.”
The Friends of Socialism Ball was held in the Ukraina’s function room. There was a stage at one end and a tribute band called the Meatles (the Moscow Beatles) was providing the music. The athletes from the virgin countries had nodded at one another in the funfair elevator and the lobby and the training grounds but no actual communication had taken place. Maen the conceited boxer had used the language of love to woo a gymnast from Mozambique but everyone else had run headfirst into that linguistic iron curtain.
But at the ball things were to change. Each team had its own Roger and even before the alcohol started to flow it had become a ball without borders. Bung, the Lao bantamweight, had a group of Angolans enthralled with his animal impressions and one of the Jordanians was a remarkable magician. The interpreters were working overtime and were by far the most popular characters there. Some athletes found it possible to dance without alcoholic stimulation and others refused to imbibe as it would set back their chances at the Games. Many were tippling secretly. Only the team officials, prancing around like teachers at the prom, failed to appreciate the source of this sudden elation. Most team lead
ers had insisted alcohol should not be available at the ball but that edict had not made its way to the hotel managers. Booze was everywhere.
The Lao delegation naturally had no alcohol restrictions. When the cocktail waitresses arrived with their Sterling silver trays and daringly short skirts they became the athletes’ darlings. The dancing grew more eclectic as the evening wore on, as much fun to watch as to participate in. It astounded Siri how his country’s best athletes could be so lacking in coordination.
“Our team has no rhythm,” he shouted above the din. “How can we run if we can’t hear a beat? The world’s best sprinters are those raised to the sound of the tom-tom.”
He was about to go into a physiological explanation but was interrupted by Chom the rat catcher, who pushed into the administrative circle with his arm around a man darker than coal.
“You won’t believe it,” said Chom. “This is Sammy. He’s from Botswana.”
“And why would we not believe that?” shouted Daeng. Her turban had started to get a little itchy and she’d taken to poking a wooden meat skewer up through the band to scratch her scalp.
“Absolutely believe it,” said Siri. “Classic Botswana.”
“No,” said Chom. “What I mean is you won’t believe what Sammy does for a living back in Botswana.”
“Something to do with elephants?” Civilai guessed.
“We were getting to know the other ethnics,” said Chom, “and Roger was doing the introductions. And I announced that I’m a vermin eradication officer and Sammy here jumps up and shouts, ‘That’s what I do too!’ Except he said it in English and it took a while to get back to me. Who’d have thought it, eh? Two rat catchers at the same party.”
“The odds against it are immeasurable,” said Daeng.
“Incredible,” said Siri. He looked up briefly to see conceited Maen heading for the exit hand-in-hand with the gymnast. The boy looked over his shoulder and winked at his fellow boxers. Siri had no respect for men who ticked off their conquests on public scorecards. The boxer had no class and he was headed for trouble.
The Rat Catchers' Olympics Page 6
