Colin Cotterill - Anarchy and the Old Dogs

“They’re insane.”

Siri smiled and nodded his agreement. “But didn’t we do things like that when we were young and our balls still swung proudly before us? You have to admire them.”

“Do you admire a moth’s courage at flying into a candle flame? God, Siri. I thought you liked them.”

“I do. And I’d be sorry to lose them. But they’ve set out so there’s no point in grieving. We can’t alter events, so we should take advantage of them. This way, we’ll have our own spies in the camp.”

“If they aren’t shot getting there. And if by some miracle they make it, how are you proposing to communicate with them?”

“They’ll find a way.”

“You still see this as one big adventure, don’t you?”

“The alternative being to get frustrated and angry and worry myself into a not-so-early grave?”

“The alternative being to take the situation seriously.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is quite fundamental. I’m in a position to affect the situation, so I take it seriously. You know you can’t change anything so you treat it like a joke. I can’t afford to do that.”

The vacuum that followed wasn’t even a Lao silence. Sound had been erased from the room. Siri could feel the pulse throbbing in his wrists. He could feel the weight of his heart. So many thoughts and emotions rushed through his mind he couldn’t begin to reckon with them.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Civilai said. “I didn’t…”

“Yes, you did.”

They sat staring at each other, both smiling, neither happy. Siri stood and squeezed his friend’s shoulder on his way to the door. Fifteen minutes later he returned, carrying a tray. On it was a bottle of whisky, a bucket of ice, two small bottles of soda, a jug of water, and a packet of prawn crackers. He put the tray on the coffee table and sat back in his seat.

“You think I’m that easy?” Civilai said, his smile now sincere.

“It’s never failed before. You’ve hardly touched a drop since we got here. It’s obviously what you’re lacking.”

Civilai took up the role of barman. “I’m sorry about what I said, Comrade. It’s just that I’m desperate. I’m not really me these days,” he said, making ice music inside the glasses.

“All the more reason to get pie-eyed.”

And pie-eyed they got. They’d had a frustrating time in the south, but both men understood there was little to be achieved by returning to Vientiane. The whisky went some way toward easing the tension that had been growing between them. It reminded them of what they’d been through together, but it didn’t help bring Siri back into his friend’s circle of trust.

Siri walked into the room carrying a tray. On it was a bottle of whisky, a bucket of ice, two small bottles of soda, a jug of water, and a packet of prawn crackers. He put the tray on the coffee table and sat back in his seat.

“I’m suffering dйjа vu,” Civilai confessed.

“That first time was just an illusion,” Siri said. “This is the real thing.”

“You do recall I’m supposed to be convalescing? I’m suffering from chronic hemorrhoids, you know.”

“Then I won’t let you sit on my lap. Pour!”

Civilai prepared the first two drinks of the second act and the old soldiers sipped them as if they were tasting whisky for the first time.

“A good year,” Siri said.

“Nineteen seventy-seven, I’m tempted to say.”

“Know what I think, old brother?”

“Nobody ever knows what you think.”

“I think we should go take a look at the Champasak palace.”

“What, now?”

“No, I mean in daylight.”

“Whatever for? It’s derelict.”

“It isn’t derelict. Derelict is when something used to be functional but it gets old and falls apart.”

“Like us.”

“Exactly. The palace can’t be referred to as derelict because it’s not even finished yet.”

“And never shall be.”

“You can’t be sure. Someday the country might be overrun by capitalists and they’ll transform it into a five-star hotel.”

“The fat prince would turn over in his grave.”

“I don’t think he’s dead.”

“Then he’ll turn over in his king-sized bed and crush three or four serving wenches.”

Siri put his finger to his lips.

“Shh. You do realize it’s against the law to mention the fat prince in Pakse?”

“So it should be, the scumbag. You knew him, didn’t you?”

“‘Know’? What is ‘know’? I met him a few times. Our youth camp wasn’t too far from his estate in Champa. He’d stop by from time to time and shake hands with the boys and squeeze the rumps of the girls. He’d do his Prince Charming routine.”

“Didn’t he know what you lot were up to at the camp?”

“All he knew was the official itinerary: the skills training and the sports. He didn’t have a clue we were getting the kids ready to oust his beloved French. He was le Grand Empereur down here in those days. He wouldn’t have dreamed of an uprising among his underlings. When the Lao Issara won our independence he was shocked, but he made all the right noises. He said he was proud again of being Lao. Then, at the first opportunity, he was back in bed with the Froggies and driving all the patriots out of his kingdom. Next thing you know, the French decide he’s the most suitable choice for prime minister and there he is running their colony for them. I think it was around then he designed for himself that big ugly birthday cake he called a palace.”

“Then why on earth would you want to go and see it?”

“To remind myself why we’re here risking our lives for the republic. To see how his kind spent our money. To give myself a little shot of anti-capitalist adrenaline. I don’t want to go back to those days, old brother. Here, you’re looking ponderous again. We can’t have that. Have another drink.”

He re-iced Civilai’s glass and splashed the cubes with whisky.

“And now,” Siri continued, “there he is, living the life of Louis XV in a luxury bachelor pad in Paris, spending all the money he made from looting our treasures. He’s even having my coffee-and-cognac breakfasts overlooking the Seine.”

“He’ll never be happy there. He’ll die bitter.”

“Are you serious? He’s got everything.”

“That’s not true, Siri. He doesn’t have everything. In France he’ll never get respect. His money won’t make him a god on earth. He’ll be the odd Asian chap living in the corner apartment. You know how it is there, how they looked down on us.”

“They just felt sorry for us because we weren’t born white. I can sympathize with that.”

“Siri, they despised us. I went through the archives of the early French settlers here. They talked about ‘the disease of Laoness.’ They said that even French nationals who stayed here too long tended to become lethargic and lazy like the natives. They had grand plans to repopulate Laos with Vietnamese so they could get some work done. We weren’t a people at all; we were a substandard slave colony. They disliked us because we didn’t have the gumption to do their work for them and make them rich. They talked of educating a few of the more affluent classes to act as foremen and minor project managers. I laughed when I read that, but then I realized they were referring to me. They were doing me the favor of educating me, so I could go back and control the lazy proletariat for them.”

Civilai was getting worked up. His voice carried along the timbered corridor and into the street. Samlor cyclists parked down at the hotel entrance were roused from their backseat slumber.

“In their reports they called us passive,” he continued, “not given to uprising. Well, we showed them. We saw through their little scheme. Every part of the show-the token Lao managers, the scholarships, the mission schools, the plantations-was orchestrated to make us as poor as possible and them wealthy. God, I hated them for that.”