Colin Cotterill - Curse of the Pogo Stick

Phosy wondered about the woman’s age. Bounlan pointed out that Dtook had always looked haggard but that she was probably no older than forty at the time they met. She wasn’t an attractive woman. She always had that up-all-night-studying look. That’s why the other women had been so surprised that she’d found herself such a prize husband. She’d even brought him along to the course graduation. A tall, strapping officer in the Royal Lao Army to boot.

The graduation party, Bounlan told them, was the last time she’d seen Dtook. She had no idea what had become of her. None of her classmates heard from her. Bounlan, on the contrary, was very involved in organizing reunions with the women who’d taken the course. She knew the current teachers-the ajans -very well. Only one who had taught the class of ‘64 was still on the faculty. He had been a lecturer and home teacher and he was currently the vice director of languages in the new progressive, socialist Dong Dok. His name was Ajan Ming and Bounlan was certain he would be the best bet for following up on Dtook’s whereabouts. The group thanked her and noted her address in case they had any further questions.

Before Dtui and Phosy had left for the institute that morning, two peculiar items of news had come their way. The first was in the form of a note they found pinned to the morgue door. It was written in the peculiar Hmong script. Itsjumbled roman characters always reminded Dtui of junior Scrabble tiles before they’re arranged into real words. She couldn’t make head or tail of them. They sent Geung off to find Kou, the Hmong orderly, who translated it for them.

Yeh Ming -fortunately, Dtui knew who this referred to and so, apparently, did Kou- is alive and safe and will come back to you before the end of Hmong New Year. He is helping us. Do not worry. He is great. It was signed The Hmong.

Why they had believed the note, neither Dtui nor Phosy could say. Perhaps it was the smile and knowing nods of the translator that made them feel at ease. Perhaps if the second note, this one from Manivone at the Justice Department, had arrived first, they might have been less inclined to be placated by it. If there had been no Hmong note at all they would have been frantic with worry and probably cancelled their trip to Dong Dok. The second note read:

Dtui,

We’ve just learned that Dr. Siri and Judge Haeng have been abducted by Hmong insurgents in Xiang Khouang. I will let you know if we get any more information. We’re all praying for Dr. Siri’s safe return.

Manivone

If she hadn’t read the Hmong note first, Dtui wouldn’t have noticed the omission of Judge Haeng in the Justice Department prayers. As it was, both she and Phosy were still chuckling about it when they left. They could think of no reason why the Hmong would bother to deliver the note unless it was true. The mission to Dong Dok was still on.

They’d tried to phone ahead several times but as the Lao said, passing a live turtle up one nostril and down the other was easier than trying to make a local telephone call beyond the city. It was only ten kilometers to Dong Dok but it might as well have been in another solar system. Civilai hadn’t wanted Dtui and Phosy to venture there.

He wanted them somewhere safe until the Lizard had been caught but of course they would have none of it. Their armed guards accompanied them to the edge of town, but once they were certain they weren’t being followed, the pair insisted on going on alone. Stubborn as teak roots, the pair of them. So there they were putt-putting past the ramshackle roadside stalls, to the front gates of Laos’s seat of higher learning.

The only building visible from the road was a French-built two-story off-white construction with an impressive roof that had probably made the locals go “ooh” when it was being built, but that didn’t hold a candle to even the most provincial college in France. It was the administration block whose offices let onto an open-air balcony, like a seaside hotel. Goats chomped unenthusiastically at the thick grass around its base. Phosy paused to ask directions from the guard in the little concrete booth at the gate. The drowsy man apologized and said he didn’t know because he was a postman just taking a nap there in the empty box. A passing student overheard their question and pointed them straight ahead.

It was such a silent place that the roar of their small motor embarrassed them. They could imagine lectures in the modest huts coming to a halt until they’d passed. More goats looked up and chickens tested their chicken skills by scurrying in front of the Vespa at the last second. They passed whole shanties of student dormitory shacks made of rattan and tin and finally came to the back gate. The building beside it had a handwritten wooden sign attached that announced ENGLISH DEPARTMENT.

They were climbing off the bike when a rather distinguished-looking man with curly hair dyed black walked past them. He had a stack of books under his arm. He ignored the visitors at first but curiosity seemed to pull him back.

“May I help you?” he asked. His voice was deep and syrupy.

“Yes, we were hoping to find Ajan Ming,” Phosy said.

“Is that so? Then you must have consumed your lucky medicine this morning.”

“Because?”

“Because I am he.”

Phosy and Dtui introduced themselves and briefly explained why they were there. Ajan Ming told them he was on his break and invited them to a slightly leaning building just beyond the back gate where coffee was sold. They sat at a table by a large rectangular hole in the bamboo wall. As they spoke, Dtui’s gaze returned from time to time to an elderly lady in rags who swept and reswept the dirt path opposite. She wore a conical hat that left her face in shadow.

“Don’t you think?”

Ajan Ming’s question had been directed at Dtui. She turned away from the window.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said it would be unfortunate if we were held responsible for every student we teach once they leave our institution. It wouldn’t make any more sense than your being taken to task for your former patients getting into trouble.”

“You’re quite right,” she said. She turned back to the window but the woman was gone.

“You do your best for them, then they’re on their own. And she was just a teacher in a refresher course. It’s not as if we’d received them fresh from the lycйe.”

“But it was your first course.”

“My first here at Dong Dok but I’d been teaching at the Normal School in Vang Vieng beforehand.”

“But you do remember this Phonhong?”

“I have an excellent memory. I remember all my old students, no matter how short the course. And in this case I have good cause to remember her.”

The ajan’s spectacles seemed to be giving him a headache so he took them off and put them in the top pocket of his shirt. Three hot gooey coffees with condensed milk foundations arrived in unholdable glasses.

“Why is that, Ajan?”

“Well, it was soon quite apparent that she was a fanatical Royalist. I imagine her family had some royal connections although she didn’t boast about it. As you know, in the old days, if a family had money they’d send their children to study in France or one of the English-speaking countries. But it appeared Phonhong had done all of her studies here so the highest level she could achieve was teaching in a regional school. I asked her why that was and she told me she had devoted herself to the betterment of her people. She wanted to show the Lao that one didn’t have to go abroad to get an education, which wasn’t completely true. But I admired her resolve.”

“Did you have any trouble with her when she was here?” Dtui asked, churning the coffee and milk together with a weightless tin spoon.