Colin Cotterill - Curse of the Pogo Stick

It was just after five and usually Dtui and Geung would be heading off to water the squashes in the cooperative plot behind the hospital. They understandably dawdled getting there so it wasn’t unheard of for the morgue to remain open till five thirty. They certainly wouldn’t have rushed away before five. He had to consider another obvious possibility. On his last protracted interstate trip, the hospital had drafted Siri’s staff to work in other departments. He thought he’d kicked up enough of a stink about it to ensure it wouldn’t happen again but he wouldn’t put anything past the current administration.

He stopped by Urology and wandered in to the office of Dr. Mut. “Wandering in” was a standard procedure in most Vientiane offices. Doors were usually left ajar due to the heat and a lot of the buildings were open plan. Apart from personages at the absolute top of the heap, there were no receptionists or secretaries to keep out unwanted guests. So riffraff was to be expected.

“Good health, Mut,” Siri said.

The doctor was staring at two plastic cups that sat in front of him on the desk. He looked up and smiled. He was a kindly, greasy-faced man with hair slicked to his scalp like trails of paint.

“Ah, Siri. Can I tempt you?”

“Can’t say I’m sure what you’re asking me to do,” Siri confessed, not knowing whether these were specimens or oolong tea.

“I always end the day with a hot ginseng. Keeps me active in the bedroom.” He winked, threw back one of the cups, and wiped his lips.

“I’ll pass, thank you, Mut. Being active all by yourself makes you blind.”

Mut laughed. “Word on the ward is that you’ll be rabbiting soon on a regular basis. Young bride. Disgusting. Envy you, though.”

He threw back the other cup.

“Shouldn’t you be savoring that?”

“No. Horrible stuff. Don’t want it to last a minute longer than necessary. Tastes like pubic-hair roots. Gets stuck between your teeth the same too. Know what I mean?”

Siri had always found it fitting that the head of Urology should be so adept at toilet humor. Mut was its grand master.

“Well, seeing as you know so much about everything,” Siri said, “and seeing as you stole my nurse last time I turned my back, I thought perhaps you’d know what’s become of my morgue people.”

“Ooh!”

Mut let the end of the ‘ooh’ trail into a long noisy breath. “Now that I can’t tell you, comrade.”

“Because you don’t know or because it’s a secret?”

“Mystery, Siri. Mystery. Nobody has any idea. The morgue’s been locked like that for several days now. Nobody seems to have a sound idea why. But there are rumors, Siri. Lots of ‘em.”

“I’m listening.”

“Something happened, they say. Your Nurse Dtui and her policeman got caught up in something nasty.”

“And?”

“That’s all I heard.”

“That’s not much help.”

“Sorry, comrade. All I know.”

Siri, anxiety growing with every stride, hurried to the administration building. As it was after five, he wasn’t surprised to find it devoid of administrators. None of the clerical staff there knew anything beyond the same rumor passed on by Mut. His frustration grew. He knew how unconcerned Dtui and Phosy were for their own safety. It was like them to get into trouble. He went to Mr. Geung’s dormitory room but his neighbor admitted he hadn’t seen Geung for three or four days. The mystery was thickening.

Siri’s Triumph was in the parking lot where he’d left it before he headed north. He wiped a thick brown layer of dust from it and tried the key. It charged into life first time. He had to hand it to the British. If nothing else, they knew how to make motorcycles. He attached Danny and Eric to the back of the seat and headed to Madame Daeng’s shop. The shutter was bolted and a sign, not in Daeng’s own hand, was taped to the front of it. It read,

SORRY, CUSTOMERS. CLOSED TILL FURTHER NOTICE.

He wasn’t sure where to turn next. He knew it was a mistake but he stopped by his house out beyond the That Luang Stupa. The place was a menagerie of his own making. Through his benevolence it had become a guesthouse for strays, some of whom he hadn’t yet met. Mrs. Fah’s kids were running around like headless chicks, shaking off the cobwebs they’d gathered at school. Inthanet, the puppeteer, was having a serious fight with his girlfriend, Miss Vong, in the kitchen. Something about a wife he’d forgotten to mention. Comrade Noo, the forest monk who was in hiding from the Thai junta of the month, was giving a seminar to half a dozen students in the backyard. And two attractive young ladies he didn’t know sat in his room watching a TV he didn’t own.

None of the inhabitants could shed light on the events at the morgue and he realized staying at the house would do him no good. He grabbed some fresh clothes from one of the two piles the women were leaning against and retired to the bathroom. He tried to ignore the brassieres in lurid colors that hung there, had a quick shower, and fled. At the door, he ran into Mrs. Fah coming back from the market with instant noodles for her brood.

“Dr. Siri. When did you get back?” she asked. Siri was delighted at least one person had noticed his absence. “We heard you’d been kidnapped.”

She didn’t seem all that concerned. It was as if “kidnapped” and “bitten by a mosquito” carried the same weight in her addled mind.

“I escaped.”

“That’s nice.”

“Mrs. Fah, have you heard anything from Dtui or Phosy?”

“No, Doctor. Since she moved out, I haven’t heard a thing.”

“Has there been any news around?”

He didn’t mean newspaper news or radio news. He wasn’t particularly interested in crop yield or cooperative farming advances. He meant reliable social hearsay news such as was in ready supply at the markets.

“Nothing much. They say there was a killing out at Kok Pho. Plenty of police out there. Just rumors, probably. Like some noodles, Doctor?”

But when she looked back he was already on his bike.

What in the blazes was happening? He needed answers and there was only one person he could rely on to provide them. He sped out along the Phonkeing Road. The potholes were more challenging than he remembered and there were several occasions when his hands were the only parts of him in contact with the bike. He skidded left at kilometer 6, sped along the side road, and soon found himself surrounded by boys with big guns at the entrance to the government compound. In spite of the fact that he’d been there a thousand times they still insisted on escorting him to Civilai’s house. His friend might be retired now but he still had his security rating.

From the curbside in front of the little bungalow, Siri sat on his saddle and yelled, “Old brother, could you come out here and tell this midget I’m not a threat to national security?”

It was dark now and the light on the porch went on and the door opened. But it was Civilai’s wife, Madame Nong, who stood there smiling.

“Well, if it isn’t the second most handsome man in Laos,” she said in her songlike Luang Prabang lilt.

“You know this man?” the little guard asked. It seemed to Siri that if the government didn’t insist on changing sentries every week they might save themselves a lot of effort.

“It’s fine,” she said. “He’s harmless.”

The escort rode away and Siri climbed off his bike. He went through the silly little American gate that any horse or bullock could have stepped over and kissed Nong’s cheek. She too was a product of a French education so she didn’t recoil from physical contact like the wives of her Vietnamese-trained neighbors.

“I was hoping to see the old man,” Siri said.