Love Songs From a Shallow Grave

by Colin Cotterill

  Civilai had adopted his “being told a story” pose, belly down on the bed, his chin cupped in his hands. He was a good listener.

  “Quite a temper,” Civilai said.

  “That’s what I told him,” Siri continued. “I asked him if he was prone to violent outbursts.”

  “‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’m a violent maniac. Even more evidence for you. Shoot me before I lose control.’

  “He slid down the wall to a sitting position on the floor. He massaged his wrist and looked up at the ceiling. I pointed out that anger and sarcasm weren’t going to help him in jail.

  “‘And what is going to help me, Comrade?’ he asked.

  “I told him the truth might be a good place to start.

  “‘I’ve tried,’ he said. ‘Believe me, I have. But your police friends have their own truth and they’ve been backing me into it all day.’

  “I sat cross-legged on the floor and looked at him. I considered the consequences before making my next move. I asked whether anyone had told him what evidence they had against him. He said he’d picked up bits and pieces he’d gleaned from their questioning. But not everything. So I told him. I told him all the circumstantial evidence that was ganged up against him. And I watched his reaction. I watched for nonchalance and feigned surprise but he listened intently and asked questions at the right times. He was like an acolyte listening to the teachings of a monk. I tried to see inside him. I’ve made mistakes before. I’ve seen guilt when it didn’t exist. I’ve failed to notice evil when it was right there in front of me. The danger was that a man with the temperament to put so much detailed planning into three murders had to have a special type of mind. And I wondered whether I’d be able to see beyond it.

  “Once I’d laid out all the evidence before him, he fell back against the wall and bumped his head several times on the concrete. It was as if he suddenly understood how bad it all was. I told him everybody thought he was guilty. He asked me if I was one of them. I said yes.

  “‘I see,’ he sighed. ‘Then I’m on my way to hell on an ox cart.’

  “He stared at me for a moment. Then he asked me whether the police were aware I was there telling him the details of their case against him. I told him I hadn’t even known I was going to do it myself till I got there. I admitted they wouldn’t be too pleased if they knew.

  “‘So, why?’ he asked.

  “I told him he was just about to go up against the whole injustice system. They’d give him some token representation but ultimately, it’d be him against them. And I didn’t think those odds were fair.

  “‘Even though you believe I’m guilty?’ he asked.

  “I told him, irrespective of my thoughts as to his guilt, he still had the right to defend himself. He thanked me. I confessed it wasn’t much. He asked me if I’d be attending their kangaroo court and I told him about our little junket in Cambodia, me and the only qualified lawyer in the country. That’s why I was there at midnight. He sighed and thought for a moment. Then he surprised me. He asked me if he could tell me his story anyway. I was afraid he was going to confess and I didn’t know how to handle that. I wondered if I should call Phosy.

  “‘I want to tell you everything I know,’ he said. “I want at least one person to have my side of it.’

  “I told him I didn’t want to hear it, not if he was going to give me that ‘I hardly knew them’ bull routine. But he apologized for that and admitted he knew all of them. Then he said, ‘And somebody’s obviously aware of that.’

  “I asked him what somebody that might be.

  “‘If we knew that, we’d know why I’m here,’ he said.

  “So, you’ll be going with the ‘I was framed’ defense? Good choice,’ I told him. He asked me if I thought he had any other hope. It was quite obvious he didn’t. So I let him tell me about his relationships with the three women.

  “He began with Dew. She was the wife of his section head, Comrade Chanti. He’d met her once at the company’s New Year’s children’s party before he went off to Germany. It was about five years ago. Chanti and his family had just arrived from the northeast after the cease-fire in ’73. His boss introduced his wife. She wasn’t particularly friendly. She seemed reluctant to be there. She had one baby in arms and one toddler. Neung didn’t recall seeing her talk to her husband at all that afternoon. Then he met her once more at the government bookshop in the reading room when he got back from overseas. She was more friendly then. Neung reminded her who he was, told her their kids had played together at the party. She said she’d just come back from Moscow. She was more polite but they didn’t actually hit it off.

  “‘But there was somebody from the reading room you did hit it off with,’ I said. He blushed.

  “‘That was my one guilty secret in all this,’ he confessed, ‘and it doesn’t surprise me I’ve been found out. I deserve it. I don’t know how my wife will ever find it in her heart to forgive me.’

  “I told him I got the impression his wife must be a very understanding woman. She’d been sitting out front of the prison since she found out Neung had been arrested. She and Neung’s father. They’d both refused to leave. He asked me if I thought the police had told his wife about Kiang. I knew they had. They have to mention details like that to the family to see whether they register any surprise. To see whether the suspect was a serial philanderer.

  “‘It’ll break her heart,’ he said. I told him he should have thought of that when he started fooling around.

  “‘I had no intention of being unfaithful,’ he said, and began to describe how Kiang had come into his life. If he’s to be believed, it was she who approached him. He was in the reading room at the bookshop and she got his attention by telling him he reminded her of somebody. She didn’t ever give him any details but he got the impression it was someone she’d known when she was younger. Someone who’d left or died. That would fit into the mother’s account of Kiang’s soldier lover who was killed in the north. She was immediately attracted to Neung and, in the beginning, he was polite and he didn’t encourage her. I asked him why not. He said it was because he was married and because he knew she wasn’t interested in him exactly. Just his similarity to that other man.”

  “But the flesh was weak.” Civilai smiled.

  “‘Doctor,’ he said, ‘a beautiful woman begging to make love to you? What would you have done?’ I told him the opportunity didn’t arise all that often but I got his point. He told me how wonderful it was. Kiang was so sweet and loving. And she had a passion. He felt as if she’d been saving it up for somebody. It got to a point where he didn’t care who she thought he was. Of course, he fell in love with her. In fact, he said it was more like an addiction. They got together when they could, made love, talked about their times in Europe. But she didn’t ever introduce him to anyone. He never met her family.

  “I asked him when was the last time he’d seen her. He said it was midday on Saturday. They’d met for lunch. They had a place by the river where they’d meet. An old guesthouse. They’d found the key under a pot of dead plants once when they were sheltering from the rain. It became their rendezvous spot. I reminded him Saturday was the day she’d died. He nodded and glazed over a bit. He said she didn’t show up on Monday for their lunch date. I asked why he wasn’t curious. Why he didn’t try to find out the reason for her missing the appointment.

  “Evidently they had an agreement. He wasn’t to contact her. He couldn’t go to her house or the library. He didn’t even have her phone number. All the contact came from her. I asked him if that arrangement was all right with him. He said there was nothing he could do about it. By then he was crazy about her. ‘As well as your wife?’ I asked. He nodded. I told him he was a generous man. So much love to share with so many women. And that brought us to victim number three, Jim.”

  “He didn’t seem to think there was much to tell. He vaguely remembered her pottering around K6 when she was a kid. She was pudgy then. One of those keen young things who fol
low you around asking questions. He’d heard they’d taken her on as a trainee at a clinic up north. He didn’t see her at all after that until Germany. He was on the fencing team at his college. There were local and regional competitions every weekend. And who should show up at one of them but Jim. Neung was surprised. He didn’t recognize her at first. She’d lost a lot of weight and, was looking very fit. She told him she’d come to Berlin to study medicine. That didn’t surprise him. He knew she was smart. But what did surprise him was that she could fence. And she was good. Really good. She’d obviously put a lot of time into it.”

  “Where did she learn?” Civilai asked. His voice was gruff from being quiet for so long. He rose and went to the small refrigerator in the corner of the room. He wasn’t shocked to find it stocked. He took out two beers, opened them, and gave one to Siri.

  “I asked him that,” Siri said. “But her answers were always vague. Things like ‘I can’t tell you all my secrets so soon’. He assumed the Americans … but he never really found out for certain. She’d inquired whether he had time to tutor her, work on her techniques. He said he’d be happy to.”

  “I bet he was.”

  “She attended a class he helped out at. It was a fencing school for local teenagers. Neung was a volunteer. Both Neung and the instructor agreed that Jim had potential. In fact, the instructor had a friend from one of the big clubs come to look at her. It was one of those serious places, the type that gear you up for the Olympics. They agreed that with the right coaching she could have a future in fencing and they made her an offer. They said they could arrange for a permanent visa, perhaps even citizenship if she made the grade.”

  “But she didn’t.”

  “Neung said she was good but he could tell her mind wasn’t in the sport. He said the difference between competence and greatness was heart. She didn’t have a heart for fencing.”

  “Odd, considering she’d obviously put a lot of effort into it.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Did you ask him if he recalled her talking about another man?”

  “I did. I asked whether he knew of someone who might have been showing an unhealthy interest in her. He said no, as if he was thinking about it for the first time. He said he didn’t recall anything specific. But he did get the feeling there was something troubling her. She’d lose concentration now and then as if she were on another planet. It was a little bit worrying when you’re playing around with swords. He conceded it might have been because of a boyfriend but he didn’t know. He said it wasn’t the type of thing he talked about with his students. He emphasized that they weren’t that close. I asked whether he’d seen her again after Berlin.

  “‘Once,’ he said. ‘Recently, in fact.’ He was surprised to see her back in Laos so soon. He thought she’d be in Germany for another three years. She was outside the bookshop when he came out one Saturday. He asked her what was wrong and she told him she’d failed her exams and they’d sent her home. She didn’t seem that upset about it. In fact, Neung got the impression she was happier than he remembered seeing her in Berlin. Being back in Laos seemed to have freed her soul somehow. She said there was some matter she needed to discuss with him urgently. He told me she was always asking this or that question, usually about things that weren’t really important, so he didn’t take it too seriously. She gave him her number at Settha Hospital. He meant to call, but with all the work out at K6 and family life …”

  “And Kiang,” Civilai added.

  “And Kiang, yes,” Siri said. “He forgot all about calling Jim. Then he said something that surprised me. He said, ‘I wonder, if I’d phoned … if she’d wanted to talk about her problem. I wonder if I could have prevented her death.’”

  “Really?” Civilai asked. “He said that? Very slick.”

  He and Siri were lying back on the trampoline-sized mattress with their beers in their hands and their heads on the pillows. The Chinese technicians looked nervously at their monitors.

  “That was his great line,” Siri said.

  “Very impressive. He’s either a very, very good liar—and don’t forget, psychopaths can convince themselves to believe what they’re telling you, even fool lie detectors—or …”

  “Or somebody really did set him up.”

  “And you believe the latter.”

  “I didn’t say that. But I convinced him … at least I think I did, to tell his story to Phosy exactly as he’d told it to me. He was reluctant. I think Phosy had given Neung short shrift during the interrogation. But I told him Phosy was a friend and a good policeman. Then I left a note for Phosy and told him to shut up for half an hour and just listen to Neung’s version of events.”

  “Too bad we won’t be back in time for the trial.”

  “No, but we’ll only be away for four nights. We should be back in time for the execution.”

  “Mm. Something to look forward to.”

  “No, I mean it gives us time before the execution to follow up on some of Neung’s claims. I’m hoping Phosy’s sense of fair play might push him to reconsider whether this is a closed case and take another look at the facts.”

  “Good. That’s settled then. And in the meantime we enjoy a little holiday, drink a bit too much, embarrass ourselves and our country, and take lots of nice tourist shots as evidence that we actually went.”

  “Hear! Hear! to that.”

  The enthusiastic Lao-speaking guide who’d offered Siri and Civilai fourteen-year-old badminton partners the previous night knocked on their doors at 6:00 am. He forced them into partaking of a full morning of breakfast, sightseeing, meeting people who didn’t want to be met, and early lunch. The meal was another eight courses with fruit wine, which left the Lao delegation so bloated they were certain they’d exceed the baggage allowance on the afternoon flight. Scheduled to leave at 3:45, the airplane departed at 3:44 and, as far as they knew, nobody was left behind at the airport.

  Their fears that Civilai might embarrass the Chinese delegation and himself were put to rest when it became apparent the Chinese diplomats were all in the front section of the plane, separated from Siri and Civilai and a number of state media representatives who had the rear all to themselves. A red curtain—polyester rather than bamboo—had been drawn between them even before takeoff. The members of the media spoke among themselves. They’d brought their own dinners on plates clamped together and tied in cloth. They seemed to know there would be no service, no meal, and certainly no in-flight film. All three lady air cadres were busy in first class.

  When they landed on the bumpy tarmac at Phnom Penh airport, the Chinese left the plane first. Civilai watched through the window. Five jet black limousines had driven out to meet the plane with their headlights blazing. Three heavy-set Chinese-looking men and two dowdy Chinese-looking women were at the bottom of the portable steps to shake hands and hug the delegation. They hung limp mimosa leis around the visitors’ necks and smiled a good deal. On the short walk to the cars, the Chinese either handed the smelly necklaces to their aides or surreptitiously dropped them on the runway. The cars consumed the guests, turned in formation, and headed in a direction that appeared to contain nothing but the beams of the limousines.

  “Is this our stop, do you think?” Siri asked.

  “I didn’t see a sign,” Civilai replied. “In fact, there’s nothing outside the window but blackness.”

  The press corps had fled at some stage and none of the Mao-jacketed stewardesses had brought them barley sugar to suck or little metal airplane badges to pin on their lapels. In fact, but for the propellers whirring slowly, there was no sound. The two old Comrades laughed.

  “Do you think we should get off?” Civilai asked.

  “I’m not going out there to stand on a dark, wet runway,” Siri said. “If they want us, let them come and get us.”

  After five more minutes the pair was starting to believe they weren’t wanted. But then a short man appeared from behind the red curtain. He was dressed in black
pajamas and had sandals on his sunburned feet made of thick chunks of old car tires. Around his neck was a faded black-and-white checked scarf. His hair was slick and angled across his forehead in the style of Adolf Hitler. But his face was boyish, not yet ready for a moustache. In his hand was a large gray card with the names Dr. Siri Paiboun and Comrade Civilai Songsawat written in pencil, camouflaged, gray on gray. In the wrong light it might have been illegible but the cabin lights reflected silver off the carbon letters.

  Siri and Civilai raised their hands and the young man nodded. They collected their baggage from the overhead container and followed him down the steps and across the runway. The old fellows attempted one or two questions along the way in Lao, then French, then Vietnamese. Then the odd phrase in Burmese, English, Chinese, and Mauritian Creole (Civilai had learned to say, “I would like to meet your sister” from a very personable Mauritian he’d met at a conference in Havana). Their guide responded to none of these.

  Their own limousine was parked beside a wire fence. They sat, the three of them, in the rear seat, the scent of the leather hinting that the cow had not long been massacred. Siri and Civilai exchanged a glance and chuckled. The limousine, lit only by the distant lights of the airplane, was missing a driver.

  “I’ve read about this,” Civilai whispered. “They’re remote controlled. This fellow pushes a button and it heads off all by itself.”

  But then a skinny man with a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip, wearing his black pajamas and scarf with less panache than their guide, walked out of the darkness adjusting his crotch. He stopped, looked at the shadows in the backseat, and took one last puff of his cigarette before flicking it over his shoulder. He climbed in the driver’s seat, slammed his door, and started up the car. He glared into the rearview mirror with eyes shadowed by eyebrows hacked from old doormats.