Colin Cotterill - Curse of the Pogo Stick

But there was no missing the spark in her eye or the fire on her tongue. No white cotton-wool perm for her. She wore her hair short and wild. Had there been an ocean and a navy to sail it in Laos, she’d have outdrunk every man. And she knew stories that would make a monk’s toenails fall out.

Dtui had liked Daeng from the moment she’d laid eyes on her and, given their admiration for the same man, it was inevitable they’d end up best friends. Unlike most Lao, Dtui wasn’t one to respect the elderly per se, but she found herself deferring to the old lady. It was Saturday and the lunchtime rush had subsided. They sat at a table at the front of the shop eating boiled peanuts and watching the herons surf the breezes above the Mekhong. It occurred to those who took in the view with a cynical eye that the far bank was getting farther away. In the two years since the communists had taken over Laos, the river had become a sea, their tiny country, an island. In the first year people had abandoned her for fear of political persecution. Now they were taking their chances crossing the river because they couldn’t feed their children. Pasason Lao newspaper that week had rather smugly announced that the per capita income had soared to ninety American dollars per annum. It didn’t mention that one in four children didn’t make it to the age of five. The people across the border in the refugee camps ate better. Dtui had briefly tasted that freedom but she was Lao down to her roots and for better or worse-mostly worse-she loved her country.

Like notes on a bar of music, a flock of birds had come to perch on the telegraph wires opposite. Daeng had been attempting to hum the tune they wrote. She gave up and looked at her friend.

“Is anybody investigating it?” she asked.

“As much as they’re able. Half the Vientiane police force is up in Xiang Khouang protecting the delegates at the conference.”

“Including your adorable husband.”

“They might have to bring Phosy back. It was an assassination attempt against government employees. That’s right up his alley. The army doesn’t want to have anything to do with the story anymore. Once they realized the corpse wasn’t military they pulled out. It’s a civil case now and the regular witless wonders of the constabulary are on it. Some teenager in his big brother’s uniform came to interview us this morning. He had me fill out a crime questionnaire. I wasn’t supposed to talk about anything that wasn’t mentioned on the form. Can you believe it?”

Daeng swept the empty peanut shells into a hill on the table top.

“So, in reality, until Phosy gets back there is nobody investigating.”

“Right.”

“Then I don’t suppose anyone would object if…”

“… we asked a few questions of our own? Shouldn’t think so. Where do you think we should start?”

“I suggest we make a list of people who might want to see Siri dead. Anyone he’s antagonized recently.”

“A list like that would include half of the politburo, but I doubt they’d go so far as to blow him up. Although I’m not so certain about his boss, Judge Haeng.”

“Do you really think it was necessary to yell it out at the top of your voice, Siri?”

Judge Haeng, head of the Justice Department and perennial thorn in Dr. Siri’s backside, had the old surgeon cornered.

“I could hardly imagine my voice would carry all the way to the platform, considering it was an open-air meeting hall.” Siri smiled serenely.

“Well, it did. And I could see the angry expression on the chairman’s face quite clearly. You sometimes forget you represent the Justice Ministry at these events.”

“Really? I thought that was your job.”

Haeng clenched his fists. Although he would have preferred it otherwise, he was the coroner’s superior. He was a young man with a boyish, pimply face and an iffy Soviet education. Upon his return from the Eastern Bloc, despite his lack of experience, character, and personality, the Justice staff had kowtowed and given him the impression he was worthy of the position. Only one, Dr. Siri Paiboun, had stood up for himself. Their run-ins had been frequent and the score in terms of victories overwhelmingly favored the doctor. The Justice Department had needed a coroner, and Siri, despite his indifference to the position, was the nearest to one the country had. It was a Lao-Mexican standoff. Haeng couldn’t fire Siri and they both knew it. But in its own ironic way, the conflict had become one of the perks of the job for Siri.

“You know what I mean, Dr. Siri,” Haeng said. “A disobedient child in school reflects poorly on the upbringing by his father.”

Siri chuckled at the inappropriateness of the analogy, making Haeng even angrier.

“And what would you have me do?” Siri inquired. “Leave the poor chap there secreting his final bodily fluids all over the seat?”

“Surely… surely you could have been more discreet?”

“You mean whispered for the people in his row to pass the body down to the end?”

“Just think in future, won’t you? Of course we’ll need an autopsy.”

“An autopsy? He died of boredom. You won’t find traces of that anywhere on the dissecting table.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. A long-term Party member dies mysteriously at a national conference. It’s our duty. The politburo would expect nothing less. My decision’s final.”

“Ah, so it’s a show. Should we sell tickets?”

“It is not a show. It’s a decent, responsible socialist act. His family will be grateful.”

“They’ll die of embarrassment when they find out.”

But Haeng was no longer listening.

“Oh, and one more thing.” Siri’s big bushy eyebrows rose like synchronized caterpillars to the top of his forehead. “We won’t be flying back to Vientiane on Monday.”

“Why not?”

“The prime minister wants the Justice Department to show its confidence in security measures in Xiang Khouang. The province has a history of unrest and we need to let them know we support their efforts to keep down the scattered resistance. The PM has suggested we drive to Luang Prabang.”

“Oh, good God.”

“I suppose you have a problem with that also?”

“Why me? I’m a coroner. What confidence will that instill?”

“I admit I didn’t want you along, but I think today’s little exhibition booked you a place. I imagine the senior members believe it would…”

“Teach me a lesson.”

“You bring it upon yourself.”

“But driving? I hope they’ll give us enough sticky rice and raw fish to last us a month.”

“I’m assured the road has been cleared and the bridges repaired all the way through. It’s the dry season, Siri. We could be in Luang Prabang in a day or two.”

“And the president’s wife might grow a penis on her chin.”

“Don’t be vulgar.”

“I hope we’re going in a tank. Unless it’s been rerouted, that road passes directly through enemy-controlled territory. Aren’t you afraid of getting shot?”

Although the judge paled, he managed to keep his chest out in front of him.

“Where have you been, Siri? Don’t you read the Khaosan newsletters? There is no enemy. He’s been vanquished. All we have now are one or two Hmong rebel gangs hiding in the jungle. Even so, we’ll be traveling with crack People’s Liberation Army commandos. It’ll be safer than crossing Lan Xang Avenue. Don’t be afraid, old fellow.”

Siri wasn’t afraid. He was devastated. He knew the road was awful. Even in a tank they wouldn’t arrive in under a week. And, as for vanquishing the enemy, that was far easier in an editorial in Khaosan than in real life.