Colin Cotterill - Thirty-Three Teeth

“I’m certainly not a ballistics specialist, but that hole in the side of the stupa … just a guess, mind you, but if there were a mortar placement, say, at the base of Phousy Hill up there, and if it were taking potshots at the helicopter after it was already on its way down, it certainly could have caused a lot of damage.”

The man was turning most indignant. “I hope you don’t think one of our own people could be responsible for the destruction of this historic site.”

Siri could tell this man was no kindred spirit. He smiled and looked ahead. “That elephant doesn’t look too well.”

The noble beast suddenly took one unexpected backward step and broke most of the bones in the foot of the man with the spike. It then wavered slightly, like a hot-air balloon in a thermal, and sank onto its front knees. In spite of the blasphemous yelling of the rear mahout, it managed a dignified death. It looked to either side for the most comfortable landing; then, like the good socialist slave it was, it leaned to its left.

The ground beneath Siri’s feet shook when the elephant crashed onto the earth. The neck mahout leaped to the ground and ran to help his screaming friend. With not one more thought for the dying animal, he offered himself as a crutch and guided his colleague toward the gate.

Siri walked to the shallow-breathing elephant and knelt at its head. The mahouts he’d known in the jungle would mourn for days if they lost such a proud animal. But cities and mercenary cowboys were gradually destroying those bonds. They could replace an elephant like a flat tire. This animal deserved better: it deserved respect.

He lay his palm flat beside the animal’s cloudy eye and whispered incantations still engraved on his memory from his days as a novice. The guards looked on in amazement.

“What’s he doing?”

“Giving the thing its last rites, by the look of it.”

“He must be nuts.”

But Siri continued until he could no longer see his reflection in the milky iris. The eye no longer saw. The elephant no longer lived. And at that moment, a surge, like a massive overdose of Vietnamese coffee, passed through Siri’s body. The breath was sucked from him, and his heart jived out of control in his chest. He knew right away that the spirit of the old beast had passed through him and that something undefinable had been left there. Even after his pulse slowed, he knew there was a difference about him.

He was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of crumbling masonry. Some reaction had been started by the elephant’s tug-of-war. Old natural mortar was slowly turning to dust, and the clay bricks it once held secure were sliding from their housings, changing position.

Soon there was nothing to hold up the leaning structure, and the stupa flopped to the earth. It disintegrated inelegantly, as if it could never have stood up to the elements of centuries. There was very little noise; no trumpets or choirs, nothing grand to suggest that history had tumbled.

The official and his guards rushed over to the stupa’s base, which stood square and hollow like an old wishing well. But their wishes were not to come true. Even before they started to scoop the wayward bricks from the base, they knew this was an empty stupa. The early enthusiasm of the guards gradually turned to languor, and after twenty minutes they showed no interest whatsoever in shoveling.

The official was left with nothing but professional obligation. He noted the time of the destruction for his report and wrapped one small brick in a sheet of newspaper to take back with him on the bus. He photographed the pile of bricks and the dead elephant. That meant more unnecessary paperwork. Siri was sitting in the shade of a nearby frangipani, still trying to count his teeth. Years of spice had numbed the tip of his tongue. Hard labor in the jungle had desensitized his fingertips.

“Nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine,” he said.

“What was that, comrade?”

“Well, if this is Lan Xang, home of the million elephants …”

The official gave a polite chuckle.

“Yes. I see. Very droll.” He replaced his papers in his plastic briefcase with the camera and the brick. “Excuse me. I have a bus to catch.”

Siri had been offered a bus ticket back to Vientiane by the District Chief, which he had naturally refused. Nothing would possess him to make that spine-jarring journey. He would take the plane or wait for the helicopter. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t available. It didn’t matter that it was off on some top-secret mission. It didn’t matter if he did have to wait two more days. He was flying back, and that was final.

The guards had gone, and he was alone in the temple grounds. It was blissfully peaceful. The main sala was a simple white rectangular building, but he was fascinated by the beautiful carvings on the black hardwood doors. There was something mystical about the figures that played there: the angels, the naga, the children of old kings. He walked closer to look at the expressions on their faces. Each had the same troubled look. They gazed directly into Siri’s eyes, and something about their fear told him “Beware.”

He shrugged off the feeling that came over him and set about hunting for accommodation. The monks had been temporarily removed, and a perfectly good dormitory terrace stood empty behind the prayer chapel. Bedrolls were piled at the far end in pyramids. As he wouldn’t be leaving that day, he could think of no better place to spend the night. He carried a mattress into the chapel and laid it out beneath the watchful gold eye of the Lord Buddha.

Siri found Miss Latsamy in the City Law Administration Office where she worked for three dollars a month. She was stamping official seals onto documents that stood in rectangular towers across her desk. She looked up when he came in. “Ah. Hello, Uncle.”

“Hello, Miss Latsamy. I was hoping you could tell me where I might find Comrade Houey.”

She looked up at the clock on the wall.

“I don’t think you can. He’s preparing for … for the …” she didn’t know what to call it “… the thing.”

“The thing?”

Miss Latsamy looked across at the lady at the desk opposite, who raised a well-crayoned eyebrow. She said nothing.

“It doesn’t really have a name, I don’t think, Uncle. Comrade Houey called all the shamans to a meeting in the Town Hall. Anyone who refuses will be arrested. They all have to bring their paraphernalia with them, because there’s going to be a …”

“A thing.”

“Right.”

“What time’s the meeting?”

“Seven. But it’s only for shamans.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Miss Latsamy. Don’t you know I’m the embodiment of a thousand-and-fifty-year-old holy man from Khamuan?”

She eyed him up and down. “You don’t look it.”

“It’s very kind of you to say so.”

Teacher Chanmee arrived at the morgue early in the afternoon. She was there on the bed of a pickup truck when Dtui got back from lunch.

“Hot, isn’t it?”

“Damned hot.”

“This is for you, Mrs.”

The hospital driver was keen to get a signature on his chit and offload the body.

“If you called me ‘Miss,’ I might think about it.”

Mr. Geung arrived just as she was signing. He wheeled out the morgue trolley and took the new guest to the examination room. As he was preparing to slot her into the freezer, Dtui came up behind him and looked at the body.

“See that, Mr. Geung? Those marks are almost identical to the ones on Auntie See.”

He continued to prepare the teacher for storage.

“Let … let’s w … wait for the Comrade Doctor.”