Colin Cotterill: The Coroner's lunch

When the rains returned in the new year, the water would rise to just a few meters from their log. But it was now some thirty meters to the river’s edge, and every foot of dry riverbed had been reclaimed as garden allotments. This was good vegetable-growing dirt.

Civilai began the climb back to their perch, rescuing his crust as he came. He had several lettuce leafs in his top pocket. He was dusty and sweating and hard-pressed for breath.

“I don’t know why you don’t just eat it in one lump like normal people,” Siri said.

Civilai grunted back. “Because,” he huffed, “I am a man of breeding.” He blew the red clay from his sandwich. “Because I don’t want to be caught biting chunks off a log of bread like some caveman. And because my mouth isn’t nearly as large as yours.” Having made his point, he nibbled politely at the bread.

Civilai was Siri’s closest friend in the politburo, and that was probably due to the fact that he, too, was a little mad. But whereas Siri was passively-rebellious mad, Civilai was downright-brilliant mad. He was inspired and eccentric. He’d been the architect of most of the Party’s more adventurous ideas.

He was, however, just a little too fast for the plodding socialist system around him. He reminded Siri of a lively dog he’d seen being taken for a walk by a French lady with the gout. The dog ran back and forth panting and drooling, skipping and tugging at the leash, but nothing it did could make that lady walk faster or change direction. Civilai bore more than his fair share of frustration.

He was a bony little man who wouldn’t have looked out of place pedaling a samlor bicycle taxi. His head had dispensed with the need for hair long ago, and he wore large rimmed glasses that made him look like a big-eyed cricket. He had been born two days before Siri, and thus was barely deserving of the title ai, older brother.

“Your mouth could be every bit as big as mine, Ai, if you just used it a little more often.”

“Oh, god. Here he goes again.”

“I’m ill. I don’t think I’ve got long.” He ripped off the end of his baguette with his teeth and spoke through the bread. “I mean, it’s only common sense. When the old papaya tree stops bearing tasty fruit, you plant new shoots. You don’t wait for it to die first. The party sends off six students to Eastern Europe every three months for medical training. All you need is for one, just one, of those to specialize in post-mortem work.”

“I’m not the representative for medical services,” Civilai shot back.

“No, but you’re a big nob. All you have to do is say so, and they’ll do it.” He took a swig of his tea and handed the flask to Civilai. “I don’t want to be cutting up bodies till the day I become one of them. I need this. I need to know when I can expect a replacement. When I can stop. God knows, I could keel over any second. What would you do then?”

“Eat the rest of your sandwich.”

“What’s the point of pretending to be friendly with a politburo member if I can’t expect a little help from time to time?”

“Can’t you just start, you know, making mistakes?”

“What?”

“As long as they’re happy with you, they’ll keep you on. If you started to-I don’t know-confuse body parts, they might see a more urgent need to replace you.”

“Confuse body parts?”

“Yes. Send your judge friend a photograph of a brain and tell him it’s a liver.”

“He wouldn’t know. He’s got a liver where his brain should be.” They laughed.

“I hope you aren’t insulting the judiciary. I could report you for that.”

“I’ve got nothing against the judiciary.”

“Good.”

“Just the arse that’s representing it. How was your weekend?”

“Sensational. Spent both days up in Van Viang at a political seminar. You?”

“Dug a ditch.”

“How was it?”

“Sensational. My block won first prize in the ‘Uplifting Work Songs’ competition.”

“Well done. What did you win?”

“A hoe.”

“Just the one?”

“We get it for a week each, alphabetically. What’s the big news of the month up on the roundabout?”

“Big news? We made it to the top of a world list last week.”

“Lowest crime?”

“Highest inflation.”

“In the world? Wow. We should have a party or something.”

“Then there’s the ongoing puppet scandal.”

“Tell me.”

“The Party ordered the puppets at Xiang Thong temple in Luang Prabang to stop using royal language, and said they had to start calling each other ‘comrade’.”

“Quite right, too. We have to show those puppets who’s pulling the strings.” Civilai hit him with a lettuce leaf. “What happened?”

“Puppets refused.”

“Subversive bastards.”

“The local party members locked them up in their box, and they aren’t allowed out till they succumb.”

“That’ll teach ’em.”

They stretched out their lunch for as long as possible before walking across to the hospital with their arms locked together like drunks. At the concrete gate posts, Civilai reminded Siri he was off to the south for a week and he should reserve the log for the following Monday. They said their farewells, and Siri turned up the driveway.

Before he’d gone five meters, he saw Geung loping toward him. The morgue assistant put on his brakes barely two centimeters from Siri’s face. He was excited, and excitement tended to back up his words inside his mouth. He opened it to speak, but nothing came out. He turned blue.

Siri took a step back, put his hands on Geung’s shoulders, and massaged them strongly. “Take a few breaths, Mr. Geung. Nothing is important enough to suffocate for.” Geung did as he was told.

“Now, what earth-moving event took place while I was at lunch?”

“Comrade Kha…Kha…Kha…”

“Kham?”

“Comrade Kham’s…”

“Is here?”

“…’s wife.”

“His wife is here.” Geung was delighted communication had taken place. He snorted, clapped his palms together, and stamped a foot on the ground. Two country bumpkins were walking past. They stopped to watch Geung’s little display. Lao country folk were never too embarrassed to embarrass someone else. One of them turned to the other and said loudly, “A moron.”

Geung turned to them sharply. “It takes one to…toknow one.”

Siri was as pleased as the visitors were stunned. He laughed at them, put his arm around Geung, and led him off. “Good for you, Mr. Geung. Who taught you to speak to rude people like that?”

Geung laughed. “You.”

They walked on past the administration building with Geung apparently deep in thought. At last he spoke. “But, really I am a…a moron.”

Siri stopped and turned to him. “Mr. Geung. When are you going to believe me? You aren’t. Your dad was wrong. He didn’t understand. What have I told you?”

“I have a…a…”

“A condition.”

“Called Down Syndrome.” He recited the rest from one of the endless lists that were stored somewhere in his mind. “In some aspects I am slower than other people, but in others I am superior.” They walked on.

“That’s right, and one of the aspects you’re superior in is remembering things, things you learned a long time ago. In remembering things, you are even superior to me.”

Geung grunted with pleasure. “Yes.”

“Yes. And another thing you’re superior in, is ice water.”

“Yes, I am.” Since they’d been banned by the director from keeping personal refreshments in the morgue freezer, the nearest refrigerator was in the staff canteen. Geung enjoyed going there to fetch glasses of water for guests, because the girls flirted with him.