Colin Cotterill - Curse of the Pogo Stick

Khoumki, the chief of staff of the armed forces. He’d known the lad in the field and had once removed a bullet from his intestines. Under fire in the jungle he’d considered their relationship to be a close one. But Khoumki had risen through the ranks and left all those nonprofit forest love affairs behind. Now he was inaccessible and would have remained so had Siri not crossed the line.

It was obvious that playing by the rules wasn’t getting him anywhere so he resorted to the unthinkable. He spent one afternoon in the cutting room painting a large sign. It read,

WE NEED ANSWERS ON THE PLIGHT OF OUR HMONG BROTHERS

There hadn’t been a protest since the PL dragged students onto the street to rally spontaneously against the fascist dictatorial military clique in Thailand. That had been a year earlier. Nobody was foolish enough to hassle a paranoid government at a time when civil rights was a luxury of the decadent West. But the lone Siri took one afternoon off work and carried his placard down to the front of the Khaosan Pathet Lao News Agency office. On his way he stopped at various government departments, the police station, and Madame Daeng’s shop to announce his intention. He was at the gate of the news agency no more than five minutes before a truckload of soldiers arrived and wrestled him aboard.

This was a dilemma for the authorities. Siri was a forty something year member of the Party and a borderline national hero. Everyone in the politburo knew him. He had friends in the military who respected him. Plus, as there were no laws, he couldn’t technically have broken one. They weren’t able to quietly spirit him away as he’d been very loud in stating his intentions. He’d gathered a nice crowd and there were photographs of the arrest. They could have arranged a small “accident,” of course, but instead they called him into the office and asked him what exactly he wanted.

An invitation was delivered to him the day after his release by a surprisingly tall guard in an unprecedentedly ironed uniform. It read:

Commander Khoumki requests the company of Dr. Siri Paiboun at his private residence for a soirйe on January 14. Formal evening attire. 6 pm.

RSVP.

Siri rolled his eyes when he showed it to Dtui.

“So now the head of the socialist armed forces is having a soirйe? A man who ran operations from a cave in Huaphan is telling people how to dress? There must have been a chapter in the manual I missed: ‘How to Fill the Velvet Slippers of the Royalists without Anyone’s Noticing.’ The arrogance of it.”

“So you aren’t going?”

“If there’s no other way for a knave to greet a king I suppose I have no choice. Dust off my purple tuxedo, miss. I shall go to the ball.”

The commander’s house was so new the smell of paint overpowered the incense. It looked at first glance like an early attempt at man-powered flight that had crashed and crumpled. It was obviously something Khoumki had seen in a magazine and ordered built. It stood in the center of an acre of land surrounded by an eight-foot wall topped with broken bottles set in cement. All around it were rice fields, and the damp from the paddy had already started to turn the base of the whitewashed walls yellow.

One of the six armed guards at the gate checked Siri’s invitation and ID card and searched his motorcycle for concealed insurgents. Eyeing his sandals and collarless shirt with distaste, they let him pass. He parked at the end of a row of shiny black limousines and made his way to the marble steps. Another guard in full dress uniform saluted him reluctantly and seemed to smirk as Siri passed through the large double doors. A servant briskly shepherded him through the house, giving him mere seconds to savor the framed pictures and the brass candle holders and the grand piano tucked away in rooms on either side of him. Before he knew it he was outside the back door feeling like a morsel of food that had been swallowed and evacuated in one movement.

He stood on the porch and took in the scene. It was an ostentatious soirйe on a vast lawn. The grass was so new the squares of turf sat like grids on a game board. The players, either in uniform or national dress or shirt and tie were positioned midtournament, all tactically vying for a crack at the commander. They held glasses with shrouds of tissue. Siri wondered whether that might have something to do with not wanting to leave fingerprints. The great man himself stood in an overly decorated dress uniform with his chest pushed pigeonlike toward the house. He had a throng about him.

As soon as Siri stepped down onto the spongy lawn, a soldier with a tray accosted him and forced a whisky soda on him. He sipped it. It was more of a soda whisky or rather a soda that had passed within a whisker of an open whisky bottle. He put it back on the tray and felt sufficiently insulted by it to break all the game rules. He ignored the copses of guests and went diagonally across the board in a beeline to the commander. The host was in the process of being checkmated by a woman who looked like a well-endowed gift. She was wrapped so tightly in her expensive phasin and sabai sash that all her blood had been squeezed to her face.

“Commander Khoumki,” Siri said, stepping up to him with his hand extended. The woman stood back in horror. The head of the armed forces certainly deserved a polite nop in greeting, hands together, head bowed low, not this. She looked around as if hoping some bouncer might come to remove this shoddy old man. The commander in turn stood with one hand on his drink and the other firmly by his side. But Siri was unmoved. He would have stood there all evening with his hand extended until he got it shaken. Khoumki could obviously envisage this so he casually obliged.

“Dr. Santi,” he said, freeing his hand as quickly as possible. “Long time no see.”

“Siri!”

“Yes? How have you been?” Khoumki turned to his guests. “I haven’t seen the doctor since the campaign of ‘66 in Xien Khaw. I hear he’s a coroner now. Ah, there’s the treasurer at last.” He excused himself from his group. “You’ll have to excuse me. Nice to see you again, Santi.”

The commander hurried six squares south, four east, and engaged a bespectacled man with healthy black hair that was just a little too dark to be true. Siri looked at the ruddy-faced woman beside him and could tell she was about to launch into a dialogue neither really wanted. Siri didn’t do small talk. He crouched down to adjust a sandal just as she began to speak. The sound of children distracted him. There was a play area at the far end of the garden with swings and a jungle gym. The children of those unfortunate enough to have them were screaming and being precocious. Like their sophisticated mothers and fathers, they were dressed in their finest clothes and were showing off in a most obnoxious way.

“A coroner?” he heard the woman say above him. “Fascinating. My sister, Dara, recently passed away…”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Siri said. “Excuse me.”

He caught up with Khoumki and the treasurer and made a threesome. He’d actually met the treasurer when the man was still teaching mathematics in a cave in Vieng Xai. Siri nodded at him and turned to the well-fed face of the commander.

“I believe it was on that campaign in ‘66 that I pulled a bullet out of your gut and saved your life,” Siri said, smiling. “If that hasn’t earned me a two-minute conversation I can’t imagine what would.”

The commander appeared angry at first, annoyed at this blip on his soirйe. But then he laughed, put his arm on Siri’s shoulder, and said, loud enough for all around him to hear, “I doubt I ever needed anyone to save my life, Doctor. You see, I had faith, faith in the revolution, faith in the system. That’s what got me through every battle, nothing else.”