Colin Cotterill - Curse of the Pogo Stick

“You won’t do her much good in a reeducation camp.” “Why should I…?”

“That one-man demonstration last week. People have been shot for less.”

“How sweet of you to worry about me after all these years.”

“A few more tricks like that and she’ll realize what she’s let herself in for. She’ll get on her bike.”

“I’ll let the air out of her tires.”

“There’s no hope. I’m sorry to tell you, senility has finally caught up with you.”

“And you, of all people, should know what that’s like.”

“I think those Hmong have bewitched you.”

Siri looked away and Civilai knew there would be no more discussion of the topic that night. Something was troubling his friend but this wasn’t the right place to talk of sad things. This was a time for celebration. They stared out at the vaudeville that surrounded them. It was like an Italian film they’d once seen: so many bodies and movement and color, but no real plot. People from Siri’s house were there zooming in and out of focus, and the morgue folk, and Phosy. And there were certainly two little fat babies being handed around like hors d’oeuvres. And, yes, there were monks and a guitar player and a dog or two that had wandered in off the street.

Auntie Bpoo, the transvestite fortune-teller, was dressed in a gold lamй ball gown and army boots. Crazy Rajid, the Indian, had kindly consented to wear clothes for the evening. And of course there was the beautiful Madame Daeng, splendid in her pink costume and her oh-so-subtle makeup. Every time she drifted into view Siri sighed and remembered what a lucky old soul he was.

“You do realize,” Civilai slurred, “this is all illegal. A religious ceremony and music and fun. Fun is certainly against the constitution.”

“You’re right. I shall turn myself in to Judge Haeng first thing in the morning.”

“And where is your savior tonight? I was sure you’d invite him in thanks for rescuing you from the jungle.”

“I did, but he had an appointment with his publisher. Something about his memoirs: how he single-handedly turned back a thousand Hmong warriors and carried one frail old doctor on his back for a week.”

“I’d buy a copy.”

“Me too.”

“And talking about rescues-”

“You’re good at that.”

“What?”

“Linking unrelated topics.”

“Thank you.”

“So…?”

“Eh?”

“Talking about rescues…”

“Oh, yes. Your American friends: the dead ones. I keep meaning to ask. Whatever happened to them?”

“Danny and Eric.” Siri recalled the Air America pilots fondly.

They clinked glasses.

“They should be home by now. I took them to the American consulate.”

“It’s still there?”

“It’s a little more subdued than it used to be but the officials seemed suspiciously glad to see me. I imagine I was the first bone hunter they’d seen who didn’t ask for money.”

“Did they give you anything?”

“A ballpoint pen.”

“Life just gets better.”

“Amen.”

Madame Daeng, temporarily freed from the shackles of arthritis by Dr. Johnnie Walker, danced a sort of hula in front of her blushing husband.

“I think that woman’s making advances toward you,” Civilai said.

“Huh, I’m not that easy.”

“Yes, you are. And talking about loose women…” He squinted to make out the familiar shape of his wife through the throng.

“She’s over there playing with the twins. You know, we’re looking for a wet nurse. I don’t suppose…”

“Hoo, brother. The contents of those churns evaporated many years ago. But I volunteer to help you conduct the interviews.”

“Is that orange juice in her glass?”

“She doesn’t drink when she’s driving. Best move I ever made, teaching her the basics of the internal combustion engine. Saved my life on a number of occasions.”

“She obviously prefers a live husband.”

“Yes, I am live, aren’t I?”

He seemed to ponder that point for a few seconds before reaching over to kiss Siri on the nose.

“If that was a come-on you’ve chosen entirely the wrong night.”

“It was a thank-you.”

There was no reason for Siri to ask what for. The events surrounding the thwarted August coup had affected them both.

“Are you really OK about it?”

“Your bride and I have been talking it through.” “And it helps?”

“I’m down to four bottles a night.” “Counseling’s a marvelous thing.” They drank and smiled and tried to make sense of the colorful blur around them.

“And what about your Hmong?” Civilai asked.

“And what about your Hmong?” Daeng asked.

Siri was lying on the honeymoon bed watching Daeng slowly unwrap herself from her clothes.

“I don’t think this is the appropriate occasion,” Siri decided.

She stopped her striptease.

“Then I’m not showing you any more.”

“Oh, come on. This is our wedding night.”

“Then I want you with me. All of you, mind and body.” She sat on the end of the bed and looked at him. “Since you came back from the commander’s party you’ve been sad and I want to know why.”

“Oh, Daeng. We’re three-quarters drunk. How on earth can we have a serious talk about anything?”

She stood and gathered her wrap from the chair.

“I’ll be sleeping in the other room.”

“No! Don’t. I’ve earned this. How many other men do you know of my age who’d agree to abstain before the wedding?”

“I’m serious.”

“All right. All right.” He lay back on the pillow. “I saw something.”

“What?”

“It won’t mean anything to you.”

“Try me.”

He puffed air from his lungs.

“At the house, there was an area for the kids of the guests to play. Something was attracting the attention of most of them. I couldn’t see at first what it was but they were fighting over it. I was talking to the commander and I looked over and realized what they were doing. Do you know what a pogo stick is?”

“No.”

“It’s a stick with a spring. Kids use it for jumping about like a kangaroo. It’s a toy. Until the day the Hmong left, it had been sitting on the shaman’s altar in the village in Xiang Khouang.”

“Why?”

“They believed it had brought a curse to their village. They couldn’t beat it so they worshipped it. They took it with them when they left. The fact that it was at the commander’s house told me the Hmong had been caught. Some arse-licking captain had brought it back from the massacre as a gift for his boss’s kids.”

“You’re sure it was the same toy?”

“How many pogo sticks can there be in Laos? But, yes, I’m sure. I went to get a closer look. There was still wax on it and traces of spirit money stuck to the stem. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

Daeng stretched along the bed and stroked her husband’s face.

“Siri, you remember the day you proposed?”

“Of course.”

“You told me about your little spirit problem.”

“Yes?”

“You said you see them, the ghosts of the departed.”

“I didn’t think you believed me.”

“It’s hardly something you’d make up on the day you most want to impress a girl. No, I believed you.”

“Thank you.”

“So, have you seen them?”

“The Hmong?”

“Yes! Wouldn’t they let you know if something had happened to them?”

“It’s unpredictable. I never know who’ll show up or when. But, no, I haven’t seen them.”

“Given what happened there, I’m sure they’d make the effort to contact you, especially that girl of yours.”