Love Songs From a Shallow Grave

by Colin Cotterill

  “How could they possibly know about that?”

  “They probably don’t know the specifics. Not that you actually chat with ghosties. I doubt they know that. But they must have heard the rumors. This is a small country. People like Judge Haeng must have accumulated a good deal of circumstantial evidence of your supernatural connections.”

  “But no proof. By its very nature he can’t have accumulated evidence.”

  “No.”

  “Then they don’t have anything.”

  “All right. Well, they probably don’t like your Hmong campaign either.”

  “It’s hardly a campaign.”

  “You walked up and down in front of the Khaosan Pathet Lao News Agency office with a placard saying WE NEED ANSWERS ON THE PLIGHT OF OUR HMONG BROTHERS. People have been shot for less. You seem to think that the government has a policy to intimidate minorities.”

  “It does.”

  “Well then. With that attitude I can see the Central Committee making little pencil crosses beside your name, can’t you?”

  “Things have to be sorted out before it’s too late.”

  “You’re right. If I were the Minister of Pinning Things onto Chests I’d make you a Knight of the Great Order of Valor right away. Sadly, I’m just a retired has-been.”

  They sat silently for another moment, watching the moss grow.

  “Thirsty?” Civilai asked.

  Siri twisted around on his seat. The leather squeaked under his bottom.

  “Perhaps just the one.”

  * * *

  To celebrate their impending hero status, Siri and Civilai partook of one or two glasses of rice whisky at a cigarette and alcohol stand behind the evening market. The proprietor was nicknamed Two Thumbs. A mundane sobriquet, one might argue, no more spectacular than a fellow called One Belly Button or Ten Toes. But Two Thumbs’ uniqueness lay in the fact that both of his thumbs were on one hand. Nobody could explain it. It was as if one of his thumbs had become lonely in the womb and swum across the narrow channel of amniotic fluid to keep company with its twin. It was the talking point that attracted smokers and drinkers to his stall. There was nothing else remarkable about him. In fact, he was almost completely devoid of personality, as dull as laundry scum.

  The drizzle continued to fall and the old gray umbrellas that offered respite from the hot sun did little to keep out the determined night rain. The straw mats upon which they would normally sit cross-legged had assumed the consistency of freshly watered post office sponges. So the old men each sat on a small plastic stool with a third between them as a table. A fourth and final stool offered a perch for their bags and shoes. Two Thumbs sat on a regular chair with his cigarette display case parked upon two building blocks to his left and his drink selection—actually rice whisky and slightly cheaper rice whisky—neatly displayed in the body of an old TV cabinet, to his right. He sat watching over his three-umbrella establishment like a eunuch keeper of the crown jewels, silent and threatening.

  “Tell me again why we come here,” Civilai said.

  “The ambiance,” Siri told him.

  “Right.”

  “And for this: Hey! Two Thumbs!” Siri called. He and Civilai hoisted a thumb each. Two Thumbs gave them a two-piece thumbs-up with his left hand. It was his party trick. They never tired of it.

  “Great!” they shouted and threw back their drinks. They were on their second bottle and it was a wicked brew only two degrees short of toxic. They splashed their feet like children and wondered what diseases might be lurking there in the dirty groundwater.

  “I blame the Chinese,” Civilai decided.

  “For the rain?”

  “For everything. They’re responsible for all our ills.”

  “I thought that was the French.”

  “Huh, don’t talk to me about the French. I hate the French.”

  “That’s most ungrateful of you. They did educate us.”

  “Educate? They certainly didn’t educate me. I educated myself, little brother. Like you. We just used their schools and their books… .”

  “And their language.”

  “And their language, granted. But we used them. We educated ourselves in spite of the French. But the Chinese. They’re sneaky bastards. I mean, really sneaky. The French … you have to admire the French.”

  “I thought we hated them.”

  “Hate? Yes. But you can admire people you hate. I admire their tactics. They steamroll in, shoot everyone, take over, and treat us all like dirt. You see? You know where you stand with oppressors like that. But the Chinese? All through the war they were building roads. A damn war going on all around them and they have seven thousand military engineers and sixteen thousand laborers up there in the north building roads.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Good? Good? It’s devious is what it is. You think they were up there building roads so we could move troops?”

  “Yes?”

  “No, sir. They were building roads cause they knew one day they’d own us. They were putting in their own infrastructure, damn it.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be able to drive home?”

  “No problem. The roads are all canals right now. I’ll just wind up the windows and float home. Where was I?”

  “Discussing how to make a good pie dough.”

  “Right. Right. So, ‘the monstrous plot.’ That’s what the Vietnamese call it. The monstrous plot. They’ve got that right. Those Chinks have got their eyes on us. They’re carnivores. As soon as the timing is right, we’ll all be speaking Chinese and eating the sexual organs of endangered animals. You mark my words. And what’s all this Voltaire crap?”

  “I suspect you’ve changed the subject.”

  “What do you think you’re playing at, quoting Voltaire at a hero interview?”

  “I’ve chanced upon one or two insightful books. I thought a quotation might help in my self-destruction.”

  “Oh, I see. One minute you want to be a hero. Then you don’t. A hero has to be decisive, Siri. Into that phone booth, on with the tights and cape. Go for it, I say. Whether or not we deserve it is irrelevant. We either vanish into superfluity or we go down in history. Take your choice.”

  “Voltaire said the superfluous is a very necessary thing.”

  “You’re plucking my nostril hair, aren’t you?”

  They raised their thumbs to the proprietor, who responded obediently.

  “She did have spectacular lips, though, didn’t she?” Civilai recalled.

  “They took me back, I tell you.”

  They waved at the people two mats away who were celebrating a birthday. The group had a glazed bun with a candle in it. These were frugal times.

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you this …,” Civilai began.

  “Then don’t.”

  “They’ve fixed the projector.”

  “At K6?”

  “They got someone in from the Soviet Embassy. Now there’s another sneaky oppressor, the Russian overlords. Damn these subtle invaders. Good electricians, though. Said it was a fuse problem. Fixed it in a minute. And …”

  “What?”

  “There’s a showing tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You weren’t going to tell me.”

  “It’s invitation only. All the big nobs will be there. Half the politburo. I only got a ticket cause the foreign minister is in Cuba.”

  “What’s showing?”

  “Siri, you can’t go.”

  “What’s showing?”

  If there were two greater film buffs in Laos they had yet to surface. Since their school years in Paris, mesmerized by the magic of Clair, Duvivier, and Jean Renoir, Siri and Civilai had been addicted to the images on the silver screen. Wherever they happened to be, they would seek out a cinematic projection. They could happily sit through anything, from the dullest training film, such as last week’s The Maintenance of Dikes, to a Hollywood blockbuster with Vietnamese subtitles. The old boys had seen them all. An
d, most certainly, once the scent of cinema was in Siri’s nostrils, there was no way they could keep him out.

  Siri made it home just before the curfew. That annoying song had been playing in his head all the way back. He was surprised to find the shutters ajar at the front of their shop. Across the road on the bank of the Mekhong River, Crazy Rajid, Vientiane’s own street Indian, sat beneath a large yellow beach umbrella. He returned Siri’s wave. A handwritten sign taped to the shop’s doorpost read, All welcome in our time of sorrow. Siri had known Madame Daeng since long before she became a freedom fighter against the French and a spy for the Pathet Lao. But she and Siri had been married only three months. Both widowed, they had recently found one another and a peculiar magic had entered their lives. Not a day went by without wonder. And this odd situation was certainly a wonder. He looked cautiously inside the shop and found a trail of lit temple candles leading across the floor and climbing the wooden staircase. He smiled, locked the shutters, and began to extinguish the candles one by one. Beyond the contented clucking and cooing of the chickens and the rescued hornbill in the backyard, there was no sound.

  He reached the top balcony and entered their bedroom. Madame Daeng sat all in white at the desk with her head bowed. Her short white hair was an unruly thatch of straw. Their bed was illuminated with more candles and surrounded with champa blossoms. He laughed, walked across the room, and put his hand on his wife’s shoulder but she pulled away.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said. “I’m in mourning.”

  “It’s all right. They said I don’t have to die right away. They can pencil me in later.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re the spirit of my heroic dead husband come to taunt me. Be gone with you.”

  She waved a lighted incense stick in his direction.

  “You do realize there’s something disturbingly erotic about all this, don’t you?”

  “You’re an ill man, Dr. Siri.”

  “And you’re a most peculiar wife, Mme Daeng. Do I have time for a bath before I’m laid to rest?”

  While Siri bathed, almost four miles away, some others played. It was shadowy in the small windowless room. By the glow of the flashlight she could see beads of sweat like dots of guilt on her own naked skin. Her lover sat on the high bench opposite, glowing with the heat, smiling. It was sinful. It was all terribly sinful but … marvelous. At last she had an idea of what true pleasure could be like. The steam caressed her, oozed into her throat, drained her of energy and morals. The danger of being found out was electric. Not six hundred feet away, members of the politburo slept, and two units of soldiers patrolled the streets. If they found her, she’d lose her job, be separated from her family, sent for reeducation. But, at this moment, she didn’t care.

  She was so taut with nervous tension they didn’t need to touch, to kiss, to seduce. Just the promise of what was to come made her body quiver. This was a night she would never forget.

  It was some time around 2:00 am when Daeng awoke and sensed that her husband wasn’t sleeping. The night clouds had blanketed the stars and moon. Across the river that trolled grimly past the shop, Thailand was enjoying one of its customary power failures. There were no lights skimming across the black surface of the Mekhong. All around them was a darkness so deep it could never be captured in paint. She spoke to her memory of the doctor.

  “Not tired?” she asked.

  She heard the rustle of the pillow when he turned his head.

  “No.”

  “That nightmare again?”

  “No, I haven’t slept long enough to get into a nightmare with any enthusiasm. Daeng?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think I’m hero material?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I mean seriously.”

  “I mean seriously, too.”

  “They said I have faults.”

  “A hero without faults is like an omelet without little bits of eggshell in it.”

  He was silent for a few seconds before, “An omelet with eggshell isn’t …”

  “I know,” she laughed. “Look. It’s the middle of the night. What do you expect? I’ll have a better example for you in the morning. But, yes. You’re not only hero material, you’re already a hero. It doesn’t matter what the idiots at Information say.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I know.”

  They listened to the darkness for a while.

  “Oh, and by the way,” Daeng said. “I forgot to mention, Inspector Phosy came by earlier. He wants you to get in touch with him. Said it’s urgent.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that when I was still dressed?”

  “I didn’t want you running off and deserting me in my hour of need. Plus, I don’t get the feeling it was that type of emergency.”

  “What do you … ? Oh, you mean the other type.”

  “I swear he’s turning into a Vietnamese. If it was police business he’d be here banging on the door. But I doubt it was. Everything in his personal life is suddenly urgent.”

  “Why on earth does he need to consult with me on domestic issues? You were here. Why couldn’t he ask you for advice?”

  “He’s a man, Siri. You lot still aren’t ready to admit in front of a woman that you’re clueless.”

  “How did I ever make it through 73.9 years without you?”

  “I think I got here just in time.”

  “I’ve a good mind to invite you to the cinema tomorrow.”

  “We haven’t got a cinema.”

  “K6. They’ve fixed the projector. There’s a film showing in the afternoon. A romance, according to Civilai.”

  “And we have tickets?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I rather saw that as a yes or no question.”

  “Then, yes.”

  The Train from

  the Xiang Wu Irrigation Plant—the Movie

  Dr. Siri and his good lady waltzed in through the double doors with such confidence and aplomb that the quiet usher didn’t dare ask to see the tickets they didn’t have. There were polite, nostalgic greetings from the old politicians who stood in the side aisles mingling. There wasn’t one of them who hadn’t tangled with Siri at one time or another, so their suggestions that “we must find some time to get together so our wives can get acquainted” had as much life expectancy as storm ants. The women looked down their noses at Daeng’s ankle-length phasin skirt. There was an accepted socialist midcalf standard these days that supposedly allowed freer movement to labor for the Party. Daeng had refused to cut her beautiful old skirts and, had anyone asked, she would have reminded them you couldn’t do much hard labor in a skirt, whatever its length.

  Had he been a more diplomatic sort, a man of Siri’s caliber would have soared heavenward through the ranks of these old soldiers. A forty-eight-year Communist Party membership and a degree in medicine from Europe had to count for something. But there wasn’t a person in the room he hadn’t belittled or insulted. A man with no mind to compromise is condemned to sit in the back stalls watching the stars on the screen. So, after a few brief and unnecessary attempts at conversation, Siri and Daeng sat themselves in the eighth row, chewing on sweet chili guava to await the show. There was a mumbled comment from the projectionist, and the audience, very noisily, took to its seats. Civilai arrived late. As it would have been impolite to push his way along the rows to an empty place, he accepted a supplementary fold-up chair from the usher and sat to one side. He didn’t seem particularly surprised to see his friends. Siri casually mentioned to Daeng that their friend had his shirt buttoned incorrectly.

  Although the gathering was missing a president, a prime minister, and three politburo members, if a person happened to have anti-communist leanings and a large bomb, this would have been a particularly fruitful place to explode it. The room was a who’s who of leading cadres, high-ranking officials, ministers, Vietnamese advisers, and foreign ambassadors. Judging from the turnout, it appeared there was a large population of d
ignitaries starved for entertainment.

  The main feature was a Chinese film entitled The Train from the Xiang Wu Irrigation Plant. The cultural section of the Chinese Embassy had gone to a good deal of trouble in first translating, then applying, Lao-language subtitles to several of their popular films. In a back room, half a dozen Russian-language spectaculars, also with Lao subtitles, lay waiting for their opportunity to bedazzle the Lao leaders. For the cinema fan, being a political ping-pong ball had its benefits.

  The lights were doused and a small window someone had forgotten to board over was quickly covered. The conversations subsided to a mumble. Siri held his breath, waiting for that magical sound that announced the movie’s advent: the clack, clack, clack of the film through the projector. And there it was. The screen was blasted with light and the film leader numbers began to flash before them. If Civilai had been beside him, they would have counted aloud together, “Eight … seven … six.”

  Following what feels like a day and a half of credits, the film finally opens in a busy urban train station. The vast majority of extras milling about on the platforms are in uniform. Everything on the screen is either spearmint chewing-gum green or stale tobacco brown. Even the train standing in the station seems to have been spray-painted to reflect the green-brown ambiance of the scene. Suddenly, there’s a flash of red; a small communist flag rises above the heads of the somber crowd. We pan down to see a hand clutching the bamboo stick that the flag is attached to. It works its way forward like a bloody shark fin churning through a green-brown sea. At last we see that holding the flag is a stomach-curdlingly beautiful young lady, Wing Zi, in the uniform of the Chinese People’s Revolutionary Army. She anxiously scours the faces of the passengers alighting from the train. A slightly off-key string orchestra is somewhere behind her, lost in the crowd. Her face is a living palette of clearly recognizable emotions: elation, frustration, false hope, disappointment. Until we finally cut to her alone on a porter’s cart. We zoom in to a close-up of the flag on her lap. Tears fall onto it like raindrops, staining it drop by drop—through the magic of special effects—from brilliant red to chewinggum green. To add insult to her injury, the porter steps up to Wing Zi and reclaims his cart. The brokenhearted girl walks forlornly along the deserted platform as the sun sets in the sky behind her. It is an uncommonly chewing-gum green day in Peking.