Colin Cotterill - Thirty-Three Teeth

The remaining foreign teachers or long-term residents found themselves with fewer and fewer friends the longer they stayed. Maids and gardeners and drivers had to report weekly to the Department of Foreign Affairs. They reported car registration numbers, overheard conversations, and names of suspicious visitors. It was frightening to imagine such power in the hands of a maid.

Although the politburo was keen to accept foreign aid from the Soviets and Vietnamese and to invite their experts to act as advisers, they didn’t actually want too much mixing with the common people. So it was that Dtui spent a sleepless night worrying about her date with the foreign devil on the following morn.

She’d never spoken to a white man before.

The compact Luang Prabang Town Hall was more romantically lit than usual. They’d brought in an extra supply of beeswax lamps, as per instructions from the Department of Culture. They certainly weren’t to use electricity, as the manual said it disturbed the natural harmonics. The building was draped in white threads, and candles on small clay stands burned along the perimeter walls.

If there had been any tourists, this would certainly have been a highlight of the slide show back home. Except that they wouldn’t have gotten in. Siri stood in the shadows opposite and watched a bizarre parade of witch doctors arriving, as if out of various dreams, to be frisked by two tough soldiers at the gate.

Those without spiritual connections were turned away and joined the large crowd of bemused locals gathered beyond the wall. They pointed to well-known but barely-seen shamans like stars arriving at the Oscars. One wizard-like man with thick white hair down to his naked knees drew “ahh’s” of admiration from the gathering. Two short round Hmong women, like zeros, came together with a stick-like man in red.

There were old ladies in white sheets wheeling barrows of artifacts, men in eyeless hoods guided by young children, animals in sacks squealing anticipation of a sacrifice, small troupes of cymbalists clattering around intoxicated mediums, and transvestites in makeup brighter than the lamps. The carnival of freaks was interspersed with wise folks who had found shamanism thrust upon them and had no desire to turn themselves into circus performers.

Siri attached himself to the tail of the parade and flashed his ID. Once inside, he was overwhelmed by the humidity and the scents of the assembled witchery. Incense smoke of contradicting spells tangled like clothes in a washing machine. Excremental odors of petrified piglets and body sweat and cheap cigarettes all wafted through the room.

The authorities had laid out folding wooden chairs in neat rows as if this were a gathering of normal people attending a political seminar. On the raised platform stood a table with four seats and name place-cards. As yet, the owners of the names had not taken their seats. They were waiting for the assembly to settle down before making an entrance.

But this was an assembly of the unsettleable. They sprawled and faced about and ambled around, greeting old friends and arguing old scores. They turned their chairs into walking creatures that mingled with them. And soon the raised table was a forgotten focal point overlooking an unruly scrum. It was all most sociable, but terribly un-socialist.

Siri was content to squat against the side wall and watch the show, but the white-haired man caught sight of him and walked unsteadily over. As he got closer, Siri could see there was little more to him than hair. He was a skeleton painted pale pink.

“Yeh Ming, Yeh Ming. How would you be?” the old man asked. He seemed truly delighted to see Siri, or whoever it was he saw. He held out a sprig of finger-bones that Siri shook carefully. The sound of the man coming down to sit beside him was like a wind charm being lowered to the ground. Siri was surprised that his hidden shaman was so obvious to this old man.

“You know Yeh Ming?”

“Certainly. Certainly. How could I not? You’re an ancestor to many of us.”

“You know, I haven’t actually met Yeh Ming myself. I only found out about him last year.”

“You could do worse, boy, much worse. You see that particularly obnoxious looking woman there with the glued hair? She carries around the unsettled spirit of Sisadtee, who died a horrible death. She spends all her time seeking revenge on those who cut off her limbs.”

“Is there any chance that I could talk to you about Yeh Ming? There are a lot of things I need to learn.”

“Why not? Why not? Come by tomorrow, around the second sunrise.”

“Where do I find you?”

“You know the Pak Ou caves?”

“I’ve heard of them.”

“I’ll wait for you there.”

“When exactly is the second sunr-?”

His question was drowned out by the shrill blasts of two referees’ whistles. The sound cut through all the chatter. The four local dignitaries had arrived at the high table and were being ignored. The men at either end had taken out their whistles to shut up the audience. Between the blowers sat Comrade Houey and his tough friend who was, according to his name card, the head of Provincial Security.

Even with all the whistling, it was still some minutes before the chairs were turned and half-turned toward the stage and the noise had abated. One of the whistlers began a well-worn introduction to his boss.

“Respected comrade brothers and sisters, the Northern Lao Administration of the Democratic Republic is honored to have you here this evening. It gives me great pleasure to introduce the holder of no fewer than twenty-eight distinguished service citations, two medals of …”

He went on. Siri whispered to his partner: “Do you have any idea what this is all about?”

“Oh yes. Oh yes. But I came anyway. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

“… His Honor, Comrade Governor Houey.” The other three men at the table applauded. The audience didn’t, although one of the sacrificial cocks crowed in its sack. Houey stood and looked with arrogance around the room.

“Comrade shamans,” he began. “This morning, the king and queen, the crown prince, and several members of the former royal family were transported, for their own safety, to the Northeast.”

There were dissatisfied murmurs from the crowd. Siri now understood where his helicopter had gone. Houey didn’t pause for effect. “As you all know, since December of 1975, the man you referred to as ‘king’ has been a normal citizen like you or me.”

“But without the respect,” someone shouted.

“Who was that?” Houey asked angrily.

“Sorry,” said the heckler in a softer voice. “It’s one of my malevolent spirits. I can’t stop his outbursts.”

Comrade Houey looked sternly at the simple man who was calmly whittling a wooden doll.

“Considering the harm the royals have done to our beloved homeland over the centuries, Comrade, your king can think himself very lucky that he’s still alive. If this were Russia, they would all have been in the pit long ago. You tell your malevolent spirit that.”

“He heard, boss.”

Some of the shamans tittered, and Comrade Houey got the feeling that he was being made fun of. He wasn’t a man who took abuse in any form. He had to bring these mumbo-jumbo charlatans into line. He was wearing a thick gray shirt, Lao style, outside his trousers. Through the material, he took hold of the butt of the handgun tucked into his belt. Most of the guests noticed the gesture but didn’t appear to worry about it at all. Houey continued.

“Because of the influence you people have been allowed over the years, most of the general population up here is in fear of the spirits. This seriously affects their concentration when it comes to studying the doctrines of Marx and Lenin. There isn’t enough room in the simple mind of the rural poor for conflicting influences. The only spiritual stimulation they need is of a political nature. One man, one doctrine.”