Colin Cotterill - Anarchy and the Old Dogs

Guilt kept him awake: the feeling that this away day had been more than an excuse to relax. Perhaps it was an escape. It had entered his head as he stood looking at the somnambulant Mekhong that perhaps, just perhaps, he’d lost the will to fight. What if the rebellious young man had slowly deteriorated into a cantankerous old coot with nothing to offer but complaints and sarcasm? He wondered if the lime had been too long on the tree. With so many negative thoughts going through his head, he should have avoided sleep. He should have known that the dream world might be hostile if one entered it with a self-inflicted inferiority wound. But he was powerless to avoid the drop.

He was walking in a beautiful place. Everywhere were crystals of ice, like blossoms frozen in a mystic frost. Beneath his bare feet was a thick carpet of snow. A Nordic elk stood on the horizon watching him. Siri wore only his old Thai boxing shorts and he could see the few white hairs on his chest were frozen stiff, but he felt no bite from the cold. He was invincible, a warrior of Laos braving the extremes of Scandinavia with no ill effects.

He crunched onward through the snow until he reached the edge of a vast lake of cotton wool cloud. He recognized the picture. He’d seen it before in temple scrolls. Although he was surprised to find it in northern Europe, this was Nirvana. Across the clouds he could see the green and gold roof-the sun glinting off the glass ornaments. It was a place where all his suffering would end-where the inexplicable would become clear. This was the peace he craved.

He stepped gingerly onto the cloud. It looked as if it might cave in like meringue but it took his weight. Another step and his confidence grew. Just a short walk across to…

The clouds parted and he dropped like a stone into water. His consciousness altered. He could feel the cold now, feel the water against his face, but could see nothing. He gasped and suddenly his lungs filled with liquid. It was too uncomfortable to be fantasy. He gagged and took in another bitter mouthful. Panic. He thrashed his arms and legs, wanting to expel the water inside him, but knowing it was impossible. Knowing he would instinctively take another breath and that would be his last.

He’d reached the bottom now. His feet plunged into soft, warm mud. If this were to be his last moment, he decided he would go in peace, enjoy the feel of the clay oozing between his toes. His last thought should be one of pleasure. His watery chest felt heavy, and, as his eyes began to close, as he gave in to his fate, a gray shape loomed before him in the murky water. He thought he felt a probing hand against his face, imagined he saw eyes glaring into his. There was a grab at his wrist, a yank, and then everything stopped.

When Siri was finally restarted, he found himself spewing out river water and coughing up phlegm. He felt strong hands on his chest and looked up to see the smiling face of the tight-skinned military man.

Stuck for a funny line, Siri resorted to the predictable. “What happened?”

“You walked into the river, sir,” said his savior.

Siri heaved again and produced bile but very little water.

“Why did I do that?” he asked.

“I thought perhaps you might know that yourself, sir.” The soldier had a hold of Siri’s wrist and was looking at his watch. “But it looked like you were sleepwalking.”

“You didn’t just happen to be here in Khong waiting for a suicide attempt, did you?”

“No, sir. I followed you here.”

Siri worked himself onto his side and coughed several times. His chest felt like the engine of their jeep. “Under whose instructions?”

“Comrade Phosy, sir.”

“You’re one of his men?”

“Used to be, when we were in the northeast. I’m based in Vientiane these days. The colonel and I have been through a lot together. We help each other out. He asked me to keep an eye out for each of you.”

“Well I…” Siri vomited violently and the soldier wrapped his jacket around the doctor’s shoulders. “I can’t say I’m disappointed. Presumably you didn’t follow us here on foot, my friend.”

“I have a jeep, sir.”

“Then I think I need to ask for one more favor.”

“I’m at your disposal.”

“This little adventure’s made me a prime candidate for pneumonia. My lungs aren’t at their best anymore as it is. I need to get to the hospital in Pakse as soon as possible.”

“Should I wake up Comrade Civilai?”

“Yes, but be careful. You might want to wear a helmet.”

Dtui was at the watering tank filling her buckets. In her head she was calculating how many bucket trips she would have to take to lose twenty pounds. There was a formula to calculate weight loss in one of her books, but it had gone completely from her mind. She’d been through all the medical texts, English and Russian, and memorized great chunks of them. She read through them every night so the facts would stick before her trip to Moscow in the new year. And here she was, just a few days away from her studies, and she’d lost a formula she’d taken a personal interest in: calories burned per second, over body weight, times… What on earth was it? If she couldn’t remember this, what hope did all the unimportant facts have?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice from behind her.

“Leave some for me, sister.” And then a giggle.

It was no coincidence. Dtui had watched the pretty young wife of section representative Bunteuk and studied her habits. Dtui knew this was the time she collected her water. They fell into a shallow line of chatter and laughed a lot, with Dtui being especially careful not to say anything too intelligent. They delivered their water to their respective house tanks and regrouped at the corner stall for coffee. Coffee chats were a habit they’d picked up from their husbands, and, after a few tentative sips, they both admitted they secretly hated the taste of the stuff. They poured their coffees onto the street mud and ordered warm red soda, Dtui’s treat.

They had half an hour to spare before they were expected to prepare lunch. Dtui couldn’t bring up the topic that was burning in her mind unless it occurred naturally in the conversation. But no end of steering brought them around to it. With only five minutes to go before the resumption of women’s work, Dtui was certain she’d missed her chance. Then the girl said, “My sister wrote that every home over there has an oven. Even the slums.”

“Over where?”

“America.”

Dtui held on to her deadpan expression. The woman’s husband had told Phosy they had no relatives in the U.S. She knew she was on the right track. “Well, that’s good. You’ll be going soon, won’t you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

Her tablemate looked at the water dripping from the corrugated roof. “It’s just… it just isn’t convenient.”

“Ha. You don’t have to tell me about ‘not convenient.’ I’ve got brothers in Australia and I’m not even allowed to tell the Australian Aid people I have connections there.”

“Not allowed? Who by?”

“By… no, it doesn’t matter.”

“Come on.”

“No, really. I’ve said too much already.”

“Your husband doesn’t want to leave the camp, does he?” “I promised him I wouldn’t say anything. Damn my big mouth.”

“It’s all right. You can tell me. I understand.”

A tear came to Dtui’s eye. “Just promise me you won’t spread it around. My life wouldn’t be worth living, really.”

“I know exactly what you’re going through.”

“I doubt that.” She looked around at two old men who cowered over their coffees like undertakers. She lowered her voice. “Because if you did, you’d know what torture it is to be married to a man so single-minded. Phosy’s fixated on getting the Pathet Lao out of power. He’d do anything. When he was with the RIA, he-”