“And China doesn’t have a problem with that?”
“The numbers wouldn’t worry them so much. A million’s a dim sum queue in Peking. They win wars by sending in wave after wave of expendable militia until the enemy runs out of bullets. It’s like Stalin said, ‘One death is a tragedy. A million deaths is a statistic.’ No, it’s a matter of principle. Ho was rude. Pol Pot was polite. He sent thank-you notes.”
“And we get stuck in the middle again,” said Siri.
“It’s not like we’re completely innocent,” Civilai reminded him. “We have four hundred thousand Vietnamese troops stationed here. We let them launch offensives into Cambodia. We’ve aided and abetted. Vietnam doesn’t have that many friends. They’re pressuring us to tell the world we love them. I’m afraid our senile leaders are going to do something silly.”
“Like?”
“Declare war on China.”
Siri slapped his knee and let out a hoarse laugh. “Well, that’s one war that wouldn’t last long,” he said. “We’d be out of bullets shortly after morning tea on the first day. We’d be forced to throw sticks. And they might interpret that as sarcasm. No war was ever won on sarcasm.”
“You’re a peculiar man, Dr. Siri.”
“So you agreed to host this think tank to come up with alternatives to being overrun by angry Chinese?”
“In a way.”
“Any luck so far?”
“We’ve convinced the Khao San Phathet Lao newsletter to print a photograph of our illustrious president eating dinner in the Chinese restaurant on Samsenthai. It’s symbolic.”
“It would have to be. It certainly isn’t edible.”
“It doesn’t matter. The Chinese will see the photograph as surreptitiously siding with them.”
“While simultaneously contracting food poisoning.”
“You really have no aptitude for diplomacy.”
Inspector Phosy had followed slowly behind the Chinese truck driven by Toothless and the man-mountain, who were leading him to the police station. He’d needed time to think. Luang Nam Tha was a remote province. The police office had a staff of four. The real policemen from the old regime had fled the country, been sent for re-education in the north or had taken on new lives denying any links to law enforcement. They hadn’t been any more honest, but they were disciplined and subtle in their indiscretions. The senior sergeant here by the name of Teyp had gone to Vientiane a year earlier to learn skills. Phosy had met him there and attempted to convert Teyp from a battle-hardened soldier to a logical, law-abiding policeman. It had been a daunting task, and given the lack of qualified candidates across the country, Teyp had been plucked from the tree long before he was ripe.
Phosy knew Teyp and his constables would yield to any authority. Money, power and threats would leave a no-hope public official very little choice. Out here in the wilds, these country policemen were easy pickings. Taken for a drink here. Bought a new tape player for New Year. And suddenly there were obligations. They had to live side by side with villains, and everyone knew where your house was. The inspector was on his own.
He’d really only had one choice. According to his map, Luang Nam Tha’s new town was laid out like a grid. The main road was the eastern-most axis. The Chinese truck had been about to turn left a hundred meters ahead. It had slowed down to wait for him to catch up. Instead, Phosy had slammed his foot on the accelerator, swung into the next small lane on two wheels and gunned the motor.
And here he was twenty minutes later, heading back in the direction he’d come from the previous day, south and away from Dodge City.
3
Counting Ghosts
Hours passed, as they often did in the PDR Laos where, apparently, nothing happened. Where no announcements were made. No changes evident. No signs of time having served any purpose at all. Yet during that apparently non-moving period, China had been able to amass a quarter of its available ground troops on the Vietnamese border. On the day the Lao Prime Minister was on the radio announcing projections that two-thirds of the nation’s farms would be collectives by mid-1980, China invaded Laos’s number-one ally—Vietnam. As there was no announcement of this on Lao bulletins, and the news had apparently not reached the Thai media, Siri and Daeng had no reason to reconsider their vacation to the northern border.
The only trip they’d taken in all that non-moving time was a visit to the shrine of the people they’d killed. It was a monthly pilgrimage. The Party would have frowned on such foolishness—the shrine, not the killings. That was why Siri and Daeng had found a place remote from the city. They’d selected a tree many times older then themselves and decorated it in ribbons and spun cotton. They’d asked its spirits to accept the souls of the men and women who currently resided only in their consciences.
The old couple had fought for independence from the French, then fought again against a Lao royalist army pumped up with US aid dollars. Being a guerilla for three decades had made it impossible to avoid death. Daeng’s kills had been too numerous to recall names. So apart from one or two particularly satisfying homicides, she’d opted for a sort of blanket forgiveness; a package apology to the relatives of everyone who’d died at her hand. She’d killed in battle, in self-defense and in the interests of the Party. There was nothing she regretted, but her victims deserved respect.
Siri could count his ghosts. His business had always been the preservation of life. There had been unavoidable deaths in battlefront surgery tents, and he had his own way of dealing with those. The victims came to see him often and bore no grudges. He had killed four human beings deliberately, three with his own hand in do-or-die situations. One, a woman—a royalist spy they called The Lizard—had been put to death as a result of his evidence. Not murder, perhaps, but culpable homicide once removed. Though he’d fully expected a visit from The Lizard’s tormented spirit, there had been no contact. It was impossible to put a soul to rest unless she showed herself.
Like Daeng, Siri felt no compunction but often wondered what might have happened if he’d joined the other side. His victims then would have been his erstwhile comrades, his friends. And so he felt no hatred and believed they deserved a small suburb in the spirit world where they might graduate to another life. It never hurt to mix beliefs. Siri and Daeng left an open bottle of soy milk and a mango at the base of the tree, along with two burning jossticks, and Siri dropped in a hushed Hail Mary for good measure.
There had been no news from Judge Haeng, the Lao Women’s Union or Dtui. The past twenty-four hours had been thicker and slower than any twenty-four hours Siri and Daeng could recall. They were reaching their brick wall of desperation. Madame Daeng’s opium tea was becoming more of a sedative against life than against pain. Siri was rashly betting and losing more cups of husked rice in his late-night poker games. Ugly was snapping at everyone.
Then at last, the world began to rotate again. It was kickstarted by a postcard with the stamp stuck to the photo and a large smiley face on the reverse. At the bottom was one of Mr. Geung’s hearts, which resembled a suet pudding. Obviously, their lab assistant’s romance was progressing well.
Within minutes, Nurse Dtui stopped by. Her cold was thick, and it made her sound like a heavy-smoking gangster. She’d come to return the finger and to tell Siri that the half pha sin was with Ou at the lycée. The lab teacher was working through the basic color tests to identify the chemicals they could smell on the material. Ou’s sense of smell was phenomenal, but she too had come down with the dreaded flu and could no longer trust her nose. They’d tested the finger and had indeed found evidence of formaldehyde. Somebody had gone to the trouble of preserving the severed digit. But the formaldehyde wasn’t alone there. It was one of Dtui’s hunches that led to the discovery of the second compound. She had noticed how the ink stain from Siri’s leaky pen had faded rapidly overnight. This anomaly, combined with the ashen pallor of the skin, had caused her to suggest they test for bleach. And sure enough, there were high concentrations.
More worrying was a telegram message Dtui had received from Phosy. It had been brief, and in his usual uncompromising style said for her and Malee to move out of the police dormitory for a few days and take the rest of the week off work. He would explain when he got back. It was important not to tell anyone but her closest friends where she was staying and to remain incognito until further notice. Phosy emphasized that he was in no danger himself, that this was just a precaution. Dtui was angry but knew Phosy wouldn’t have insisted on such a thing if he wasn’t afraid for his family’s safety.
Dtui stayed just long enough to pass on this message and arrange temporary accommodation, but not so long as to pass on her cold. She left the mystery of the bleach to Siri, admitting she had no idea as to its purpose.
The annual flu bug took hold of Vientiane at the slightest excuse and spread like a bean fart. Changes in temperature. Heavy rain. Non-conditioning air conditioners. They all helped. As soon as Dtui had gone, Daeng and Siri ate half a bag of oranges, but Daeng could feel the tickle in her throat. Siri already had the cough. Vitamin C was probably too little and too late.
The doctor was out front putting the orange peel in the mulch bucket when the messenger arrived. Siri heard him call out, “This Dr. Siri Paiboun’s house?”
Siri walked to the open gate and saw a teenager on a moped just about to drive on. “The street number and the name plaque would suggest so,” said Siri.
“Message from Justice,” said the boy and held up the envelope as if expecting Siri to walk to the curb to receive it.
“I have neuroabstroperosis,” said Siri.
“What?”
“It’s a nerve problem. I can’t walk.”
“You just walked to the gate.”
“I had somebody at the house push me. Once I had the momentum it was fine. Now that I’ve stopped, I can’t start up again. It’s a bugger being old.”
The boy looked bewildered. He hesitated, then climbed down from his bike, walked the two meters to the gate and handed Siri the note.
“Thank you, son,” said Siri.
They stood staring at each other.
“Should I give you a push?” asked the boy.
“That would be splendid.”
Siri arrived at the backyard table where Madame Daeng spent most of her time.
“Siri, why are you walking backward?” she asked.
“Neuroabstroperosis,” he said.
“It sounds made up.”
He sat.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“A note from Justice.”
“Are you going to open it?”
“I’m nervous.”
“Why?”
“They might ask us to leave our beloved home and head off to excitingly fearsome places.”
“Open it.”
Siri deliberately took his time. He pulled a tissuey sheet of paper from the envelope and unfolded it. “And the winner for best cinematography goes to …”
“Siri!”
“It’s from Haeng.”
“Ha! He’s back. Well done, my husband. Does he send his love and gratitude?”
“Even better.” He read, “For the attention of Dr. Siri Paiboun. The ministry appreciates that you are now retired, but we have a matter of grave importance with which we hope you can help us. Inspector Phosy is currently in Luang Nam Tha investigating a highly sensitive case. He has requested the assistance of a forensic pathologist. If you and one assistant are available to travel north, we have a cargo flight leaving for Luang Prabang at five tomorrow morning. From Luang Prabang you should be able to find connecting transportation to Luang Nam Tha. I emphasize that we have a budget for no more than one other staff member. You may not bring your entire entourage on this mission. Haeng Somboun, Head of Public Prosecution and Justice Related Internal Affairs.”
Siri and Daeng had learned to low-five from the American MIA team in Xiang Kwang. They had perfected their own version, which involved just the index fingers. It was far more dignified.
“Free!” said Daeng with such enthusiasm they both started into a coughing fit.
“We should start packing,” said Siri.
“Packing takes us ten minutes,” she reminded him. “In fact, I don’t believe we ever got around to unpacking from our last trip. We’re always prepared.”
“Like Superman,” said Siri. “I just rip off my shirt, and everyone can see my big S.”
“You keep your big S covered, Siri Paiboun,” said Daeng with a smile.
The three officers on duty in the Luang Nam Tha police office were surprised to hear a vehicle in the late afternoon. Only the military and the Chinese road teams had petrol allowances, and there was precious little reason for either to be in town that day. The officers were already outside on the sidewalk beside the dirt road when Phosy’s jeep pulled up in front. He had two passengers with him: one tall, thin man in an ill-fitting Mao jacket and a middle-aged woman with greasy cheeks who looked like a low-budget version of Imelda Marcos. Senior Sergeant Teyp recognized Phosy and appeared to consider running back inside to put on his shirt. But he changed his mind and gave a slapdash salute instead. There was a look of surprise on his dark shiny face.
“Are you well?” Phosy asked.
“We … we were expecting you this morning,” said Teyp. “Last night, even. We thought you’d left without … we heard you’d gone.”
“Why would I go without doing the job I’ve been sent here by the government to do?” Phosy smiled. “But I decided it would be inappropriate to conduct an investigation into a crime that might or might not involve Chinese nationals without inviting observers from China. Allow me to introduce Comrade Xiu Long from the Chinese/Lao trade commission.”
“Observers,” said Comrade Xiu Long, stepping down from the jeep. He had apparently picked up a number of words during his tenure as surrogate consul in Phongsali but not the ability to put them together to make sentences, hence the accompaniment of Mrs. Loo, his interpreter. Phosy had no knowledge of the Chinese language, but it had already occurred to him that Mrs. Loo was somewhat sparing with the amount of information she chose to pass on to her boss.
Phosy explained to the sergeant, “Unfortunately, the letter we sent to Comrade Xiu Long from Police Headquarters in Vientiane didn’t arrive. But regardless, he was kind enough to drop everything in order to be involved here.”
Phosy looked at Mrs. Loo, and she reluctantly translated a few words. Her boss nodded and smiled. “Involved,” he said.
Phosy walked past the policemen in their less-than-white T-shirts and entered the small, open-fronted building. The hand-painted sign over the entrance claimed that this was the Luang Nam Tha Police Headquarters.
“So,” said Phosy, kicking off his shoes and making himself comfortable in a cane rocking chair. “Who’s going to brief me about the case?”
The Chinese sat on a wooden bench opposite, leaving the three policemen outside looking uncomfortable.
“We thought … er … we thought you’d just be signing the document,” said Teyp, joining them inside.
“Really? And what document would that be?” Phosy asked.
“The doc … the document we have to send to Vientiane.”
“Well, let me see it.”
“It’s … I … I can’t, really …”
“Look, man, you either have a document to sign or you don’t. Which is it?”
“It’s already signed.”
“Is that so? And who signed it?”
“We thought you’d left and … and forgotten to sign it.”
“I could hardly have forgotten something I didn’t know about, could I now? So who signed it?”
“Comrade Goi.”
“He sounds important. Who is he, the governor of the province?”
“No.”
“Then …?”
“He’s the senior foreman of the Chinese road project.”
“Really? So show me the document.”
“I …�
�
“That’s an order.”
Teyp went to his desk and removed a banana that was acting as a paperweight for a brown envelope. The banana reminded Phosy he hadn’t eaten for twenty hours. He instructed the smallest of the constables to organize food for himself and his guests as soon as possible. In the meantime, they’d settle for tea. The little officer ran off.
Teyp brought over the envelope. Phosy smiled. It was sealed. He hooked his little finger into the flap and ripped it open. It contained one sheet of greying paper with a rather brief typed letter on one side. It said that, following a thorough investigation, Inspector Phosy had come to the conclusion that there was no Chinese involvement in the incident that led to the deaths of the two village headmen.
Phosy looked up at the sergeant, who was staring at his own bare feet. “It appears that not only am I a poor speller,” said Phosy, “but that I’ve already signed this crock of shit, and it’s all addressed and ready to go off. Now how do you account for that?”
Sergeant Teyp could say nothing.
“Well, I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Phosy, ripping the letter into smaller and smaller pieces. “We’ll assume that you didn’t know your Comrade Goi signed my name on this letter instead of his own. We’ll assume you believed he was authorized to communicate directly with the ministry. We’ll assume that the eight regulations and two laws you and your men have already broken will not be written up in my report and that you are able to start again with a clean sheet. And we’ll assume that you, rather than the Chinese road builders, are in charge up here. How does that grab you?”
Sergeant Teyp nodded and said quietly, “Thank you, sir.”
Phosy didn’t feel nearly as confident as he sounded, but he needed the sergeant and his men to have faith in him. “We have a system. Laws. Everything that happens here is reported to and acted on in Vientiane. You are members of the Lao police force. Never forget that. If we don’t investigate a crime, we don’t issue documents to say we did. Now brief me on the case.”
Six and a Half Deadly Sins Page 5
