Don't Eat Me

by Colin Cotterill

  “What do we do now?” Siri asked.

  Rajhid smiled. It was that frustrating trained dog moment that Siri had seen so many times in the movies; the point where the dog barks and her owner knows what it means. But Rajhid didn’t bark and real life didn’t come up with easy answers.

  “What is it, Lassie?” said Siri. “What are you trying to tell us?”

  But in Rajhid’s mind his work was done and Siri watched him run off in the direction from which they’d come. Siri looked at his Olympic wristwatch. Despite all the drama of the day it was still only 7:30 a.m. The first flight wouldn’t be departing until ten, or whatever time it chose to leave. He wheeled his bicycle into the airport grounds. There was no guard at the gate. Siri knew from experience there’d be a night watchman somewhere behind a locked door and you’d not be able to rouse him until the official opening time. The terminal building was quiet with an empty car park in front of it. Some night creature had overturned a bin and spread garbage all around. The sun had risen but three electric light bulbs still burned at the front of the building.

  Siri wheeled across the car park and wondered why there were a hundred spaces marked on the concrete when there weren’t even a hundred functioning vehicles in the capital. Ugly peed against a concrete post that held a government announcement speaker aloft. Siri had taught him to do that.

  “Good boy,” he said, and patted the dog’s head.

  Sure enough, the doors leading to the airport interior were locked. The terminal had an open-fronted waiting room not unlike that of a rural train station in France. There were wooden benches at its center and Siri sat on one of them wondering why Crazy Rajhid had delivered him there. The unfortunate young man was the eyes and ears of the riverfront community, but why would he think Geung and Tukta might want to come to the airport? Ugly soon got bored and went off in search of another speaker post leaving Siri alone, or so he thought. There came a groan from one of the empty benches behind him. Siri jumped to his feet and took a few steps back. What he thought was a shadow beneath the bench slowly developed a form and somebody rolled out.

  “Bugger it,” came a voice.

  “What are you doing down there?” Siri asked.

  The shape cracked a few knots, groaned and got to its knees. It was a man of about thirty with medium length but disastrous hair that sprung off in every direction. He was skinny but carried his bones well. He wore a grey safari suit common among public officials.

  “Benches aren’t wide enough,” he said. “I’m a sleep roller. Kept falling off. So, I moved to the ground floor. Can’t fall off the ground, can you?”

  He stood, shook hands with Siri and they sat on the front bench.

  “Siri Paiboun,” said Siri.

  “Sommad Somlith,” said the man.

  “You work here?” asked Siri.

  The man laughed. “I’ve spent enough time here to consider it work,” said Sommad. “But no, I’m deputy director of the Pakse education department.”

  “Then what brings you to a bench in Vientiane?” asked Siri.

  “I’m in transit. I’ve been in transit for six days.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Just here so far.”

  Ugly had sensed human contact and returned to protect his master by lying down on his foot.

  “That yours?” asked the man.

  “Probably more accurate to say I’m his,” said Siri. “Where are you supposed to be going?”

  “Luang Prabang. I had my bookings confirmed; arrive Vientiane ten-fifty, leave for Luang Prabang two-twenty. That was six days ago. But I got bumped.”

  “Who by?”

  “A whole queue of people. You know. The usual. Every day it’s the same. People of influence. And then there’s flights cancelled ’cause of crop burn offs. Sometimes a wheel falls off. The pilot’s too drunk. No end of reasons not to travel. And I couldn’t get a flight back to Pakse, so I’m stranded. What about you?”

  “I’m just here looking for some friends,” said Siri. “You might have seen them.”

  “What flight were they on?”

  “They weren’t on a flight, or . . . I don’t know. They might have been. But it’s unlikely.”

  “Then what were they doing here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “They look like two people with Down syndrome.”

  “Geung and Tukta,” said Sommad.

  Siri leaned back. “That’s right,” he said. “You talked to them?”

  “Too true. We had a nice long conversation.”

  “Did they say why they were here?”

  “Said it was top secret,” said Sommad. “Spy work, they called it.”

  “And where did they go?”

  “Well, they obviously weren’t planning to fly anywhere. They arrived about seven p.m. yesterday. The last flight had left. The truck arrived about eight. I assumed that’s what they were waiting for.”

  “They went somewhere on a truck?”

  “I’m guessing they did. When it arrived they went to check it out. They were gone for about twenty minutes. When they didn’t come back I walked around a bit to see where they’d gone. When you’re in permanent transit there’s not a lot to entertain you. A few trucks arrive at night with cargo for the next day. They just leave the crates and packages and stuff out there behind the terminal. The night watchman comes out and counts the boxes and he and the driver exchange signatures. So anyway, I stood and watched. The truck was unloaded but I didn’t see any sign of Geung and Tukta. I suppose they could have gone off somewhere else. When it was empty, the truck drove out.”

  “Do you remember which crates were unloaded?”

  “Yup.”

  They walked around the building to an untidy ghetto of boxes and packing cases. Some were covered in tarpaulins, others open to the elements.

  “These,” said Sommad, pointing at five large crates. Two were big enough to hold three or four motorcycles, the others were the size and shape of coffins. They were wooden, probably coconut, and solidly constructed. But on the sides, there was a gap of a few centimeters between the slats. There was no sound or movement from inside the crates, but Siri could sense life . . . and death.

  Dtui had told him of the chemical smells from the skeleton, and here at the loading bay the stench of disinfectant and repellent was overwhelming. But more natural scents reached out from the crates. It wasn’t just the odor of bodily functions and rotting flesh; once it has submitted to fatality a body gives off a scent of defeat. That’s what he could smell. Recently he had become used to the sight of the spirits waiting for their moment—for the paperwork to clear so they could move on. He’d seen the soul of his old dog Saloop, but he often wondered why he’d not seen the spirits of cows and monkeys. Creatures were dying all around him. Every day he’d pass by the skins of snakes, the corpses of rats, the broken birds that flew into the windows. And the insects. Millions died in light bulb genocide every night. He’d swatted flies and mosquitoes with no qualms whatsoever. Why did they not all come back to haunt him? Why were his sightings only of the spirits of people? And why, now in the shadow of Wattay Airport, did the spirit of a Malay bear appear to him? It lay on its back on the top crate with its legs in the air. It ground its haunches into the rough wood as if it were taking care of a lifetime of itches.

  “What do you suppose is in there?” asked Sommad peeking in through the slit.

  There was no answer. The transit man turned around only to find himself alone. His new friend had disappeared.

  If ever Siri took control of his other world the first thing he’d do was fire his transvestite spirit guide and hire someone less complicated; someone who gave straight answers to questions, someone less prone to imagery.

  Siri was on the ice-cube shelf of a huge refrigerator.
The door was shut but the light was on, which showed Auntie Bpoo had done no research at all on refrigerators. The spirit guide was in there with him, still in her polar bear skin coat. It was starting to go green with mildew. She sat cross-legged between the beers on the door rack.

  “I’ve lost Mr. Geung and Tukta,” said Siri.

  “None of my business,” said Bpoo. “Seems like you’re losing a lot of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “At your age your body mass is being replaced with flab, your gums are receding, your prefrontal cortex is shrinking, you’re losing fifty-thousand brain cells a day, half your taste buds have gone. Now I don’t know where to start about your sexual performance.”

  “Then don’t. Just tell me how to find my friends.”

  “That’s not what I do.”

  “Be helpful?”

  “Find missing morons. I’m not a lost and found officer.”

  “What is it you do, exactly, apart from insult people?”

  “I take your crumbly old hand and lead you one step at a time through the precepts of the other world. You barely passed the first test, that of taking control of your own destiny, and here we are still stuck on awareness.”

  “I’m a very aware person.”

  “You think you are, but you’re not.”

  “Test me.”

  “Shut your eyes.”

  Siri did so.

  “What’s the brand of the beer on either side of me?” asked Bpoo.

  “Heineken. Easy. Next question.”

  “Perhaps it was too easy,” said Bpoo. “Open your eyes.”

  “There,” said Siri. “Heineken.”

  “Look more closely.”

  That was when Siri saw the label on the beer bottles. Where there should have been the letter “n” was the letter “m.” The beer was Heimekem. Siri had failed. Bpoo turned her back on the doctor and shook her head. The bearskin coat was turning black at the edges.

  “Damn,” said Siri.

  “No awareness,” said Bpoo.

  Chapter Nine

  The Airport Connection

  The director of Wattay Airport, Comrade Maysuk, reminded Phosy of one of the fancy curtains that used to hang in front of the opium dens of Vientiane during the old regime. What you saw from the outside was high class and attractive but there was almost certainly something seedy and sinister behind it. Maysuk put up a thirty-two tooth smile as soon as Phosy arrived and it didn’t let up. It was the type of smile that must have cost money to piece together in some overseas dental clinic. The skin on his face was flushed pink, either from exposure to the sun or embarrassment, and he wore a tie and a short-sleeved white shirt like the CIA.

  “I’m not sure I can help you,” he said, pouring Phosy a glass of water. “When everyone arrived this morning, all was as it should have been. I have no idea why your friends should be here after dark. There’s nothing to see, nobody to meet. We have watchmen and neither of them reported seeing any late-night visitors apart from truck drivers. No, I tell a lie, there was one transit passenger camping out in the waiting room. Apart from that . . . nothing.”

  Siri had briefed Phosy on his pursuit of Crazy Rajhid and his conversation with the transit man. But it was almost midday before the chief inspector could get away from his office.

  “I’m told your guards sleep all night,” said Phosy.

  “Nonsense,” said Maysuk without losing grip of his smile. “They patrol every thirty minutes. When there’s a delivery they sign the drivers’ log books and have the drivers sign their arrival sheet. There’s a guard room with coffee to keep them alert all night.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like their contact information,” said Phosy.

  “They’ll be back this evening,” said Maysuk.

  “Regardless . . .” said the policeman.

  The smile was annoying Phosy. He wanted to paint graffiti on it. The director pressed a button on the machine on his desk and a voice said, “Yes, comrade?” Phosy decided he’d like one of those for himself. Maysuk told his secretary to bring in the home addresses of the night guards.

  They sat silently for a while. Phosy couldn’t help but notice the director’s altar. It was astoundingly ornate for a representative of a supposedly atheist administration. Smoke wafted from a cluster of incense sticks in front of a vast curtain call of deities and Buddha images and small wooden characters elaborately carved and painted. On one of its shelves sat a half bottle of rum, a pack of cigarettes and a fresh banana. The director obviously called on every aid to keep his planes in the air.

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” said the director as they waited for the list.

  “What’s that?” said Phosy.

  “Aren’t you a little too . . . high ranking to be investigating a missing person case?”

  “If that’s all this was I’d have to agree I’d be better off sending a colleague to interview you,” said Phosy. “But I have several cases that seem to be overlapping and the loose ends are flapping around. I’m rather good at loose ends, and I’m starting to believe these aren’t several small cases but rather one big ugly one.”

  “Fascinating,” said Maysuk. “And how does my airport fit into this?”

  “Well, Director, obviously I can’t go into details, but I have a feeling that all roads lead here.”

  “I certainly hope you’re wrong,” said the director, “but you know I should be delighted to help your investigation in any way. Cooperation is the keystone of progress.”

  “I’m very pleased to hear that.”

  The secretary knocked on the door and the director beckoned her in. She was unnecessarily attractive. She gave Phosy a flirtatious look as she handed the document to her director. Maysuk browsed it briefly before passing it on to Phosy.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” asked Maysuk.

  “In fact, there is,” said Phosy. “You know? I pass through this airport often on my way here and there but I’ve never taken any time to enjoy the place. How about a little tour?”

  The smile waned.

  “What would you like to see?”

  “Let’s start with the cargo bay.”

  Actually, there wasn’t much in the cargo bay. There were a few large cartons on pallets, a crumpled crate of air conditioners that seemed to have been dropped from a height, two large busts of the prime minister destined for the south, but no animals.

  “Where’s all the stuff that arrived last night?” Phosy asked.

  “We’ve had two cargo flights this morning,” said Maysuk.

  “Where to?”

  Maysuk turned to his transport manager, a short man in spotlessly clean overalls. He held a dirty clipboard.

  “One domestic to Xiang Khouang,” said the manager, “and one Aeroflot to Moscow.”

  “And where did the animals go?” asked Phosy.

  The director looked at his manager then back at Phosy. “What animals would that be?” asked Maysuk.

  It was the wrong response but one Phosy had been hoping for.

  “The animals either sedated or dead that were delivered in five crates at around eight last night,” he said.

  “Was there an animal shipment last night?” Maysuk asked his manager.

  The manager looked confused as if he didn’t know which answer to give. A small nod from the director helped.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Ah, that’s right,” said Maysuk. “There was a shipment that went out this morning on the Aeroflot flight. I remember now.”

  “Do you happen to have a manifest for that shipment?” asked the policeman.

  “Not on me,” said the director.

  “But you do have one?”

  “In the office.”

 
; “Good,” said Phosy. “Then we’ll swing by your office at the end of the tour. You wouldn’t happen to recall what type of animals they were?”

  The manager looked at his boss before answering.

  “There might have been a couple of bears,” he said. “Some rhesus monkeys probably. I’d have to check.”

  “And why were they being sent to Moscow?” Phosy asked.

  “Transit,” said the manager. “On their way to Czechoslovakia.”

  “Wasn’t that trade shut down in the mid-seventies?” Phosy asked.

  “The illegal trade, yes, of course,” said Maysuk. “Those were terrible days. Inhumane. The regulations have been seriously tightened since then. All the animals are checked by registered veterinarians who issue certification that they’re fit to travel. They’re given inoculations and powerful sedatives so they sleep through the flight. Basically, they go to sleep here and wake up in a zoo on the other side of the world.”

  Phosy walked around the bay. He smelled disinfectant and an undertow of something vile.

  “Clean up here recently, did you?” he asked the manager.

  “Oil leakage,” he replied.

  “Right,” said Phosy. “And do I smell insecticide?”

  “You have a good nose,” said Maysuk. “The airlines insist on spraying the cargo. They don’t want the planes crawling with insects.”

  “You spray the animals?”

  “It’s quite humane. Not so strong as to cause any discomfort.”

  “Let’s go and see that manifest,” said Phosy.

  Comrade Civilai was as concerned as everyone about the disappearance of Mr. Geung and his girlfriend, but in his mind some things were irrefutable. Nothing he was capable of doing would hasten their recovery, alive or otherwise. He no longer had influence, he didn’t have Siri’s detective mind, and his knees weren’t so good. He wasn’t about to scour the town for missing people.

  So, with Siri and Daeng worrying on his behalf, he took the opportunity to visit the busiest and most efficient organization in Laos. Officially the place was called the National Union of Lao Women but, informally, everyone called it the Lao Women’s Union. The one thing Civilai had noticed on his many visits there was that staff were always on their way to or out of meetings. But unlike the politburo, these meetings generally yielded results.