Colin Cotterill - Anarchy and the Old Dogs

In the morning the mood had been high and hearty, even though only the senior Lao Issara officers had been invited to the opening ceremony. Siri, a major general in the Free Lao Medical Corps, was seated four rows from the rear. His generals and senior advisers sat in the row in front of him. On the raised platform far in front, only the Red Prince, the renegade royal once of the Lao Issara, was familiar to them. The other men at the table sat stony-faced and anonymous. The veteran at Siri’s side had turned to him and asked, “Who are the spooks up on the stage?”

Siri had shaken his head. He had no idea. “Vietminh? Senior Vietnamese?”

But it turned out the men at the raised table were Lao. Civilai was one of them. It was they who’d organized the conference. They called themselves the Lao Patriotic Front, and to the assembled fighters they announced the launch of the Lao Resistance Government. Siri and his colleagues were still pumped up with the adrenaline of the previous evening. They cheered and looked forward to the vote that would piece together a united command of true patriots. This was to be a great day for their country.

But there was no vote. The men on the platform explained that with Vietminh financial aid and expertise, a strong Lao resistance had been trained in the north of Vietnam. Through cooperation between their two great countries, the Gallic invaders would be driven from the borders of Indochina. They read the names of the men who would form the central committee of this great alliance and there was not one Lao Issara name on the list. Not one. Not one. Siri had been speechless for one of the few times in his life. He’d looked along the ranks of Lao Issara to see mouths open on either side of him. The Lao resistance that had been fighting and lobbying unaided for nine years had been hijacked.

That was it. That was the moment when all the Free Lao men and women at the meeting should have jumped to their feet and heckled and remonstrated. There should have been a commotion that left the strangers on the platform no choice but to hear their complaints. But that was neither the Buddhist nor the communist way. The Lao Issara had brooded quietly, perched at the rear of the hall, and meditated. “Was it such a bad thing, this powerful alliance? Perhaps we don’t deserve a leading role. We’ve struggled and failed for so many years. Perhaps this is our destiny.”

So that was how Buddhist fatalism had allowed the powdery Lao Issara to dissolve. The bond had been formed that would eventually lead both countries to socialism, the end proving the means to be justified. Those Free Lao who didn’t abandon the fight and flee to Thailand were absorbed into the giant guerrilla war force. Siri, with a different uniform beneath his white coat, worked on his Vietnamese language and his wife gladly indulged her passion for communism.

“They pumped all the fish out of you yet?” Siri was snapped out of his reminiscences by the voice of his best friend. “You look soulful.”

“Good timing. I was just thinking about the old days.”

“All our days are old days. I’ve heard living in the past is a sign that you don’t have long to live.” Civilai sat in the chair vacated by Dr. Somdy.

“Well, it’s nice to see you’re back to your old cheery self. What’s put you in such a good mood?”

“We’re getting news from the front line.”

“What do we know?”

“Your men Phosy and Dtui have reached the camp in one piece. They’re safe. I have someone keeping an eye on them.”

“You didn’t tell me you had a contact in Ubon.”

“I just found an old ally at the camp. I got word from him this morning. They’ll be looked after now.”

“What date is it?”

“Come on. You were under water three minutes, not three days.”

“Just answer the question.”

“It’s the twenty-sixth.”

“Then we have four days to stop whatever it is from happening. I think it’s time to step it up a notch or two.”

“Siri. I’m not trying to sound condescending here, but, despite what you believe, you aren’t Bruce Lee. You’re just an old fellow with a lung full of river water.”

“I’m glad you steered clear of condescension. I might have been insulted if you hadn’t.”

“Well, all right. Let’s just say in your present condition you aren’t going to be much help.”

“I’ll be out of here tomorrow.”

“Oh, good. So we can look forward to what? A guided temple tour? A visit to the museum?”

“All right. I agree my tourism day wasn’t that well thought out. But I’m serious now. We’ll locate Phosy’s soldier friend and…”

“There you go with the ‘we’ again. Siri, it’s all being taken care of. I’m on top of things. Rest your lungs. Go and visit your fisher family. Solve your mystery. It’s what you do well. I’ll take care of the political stuff. OK?” He stood and Put a bag of fruit and sweets on the chair in his stead. “I’ll let you know everything as it happens, I promise. You can wipe that nasty look off your face. You know I’m right.”

“We don’t have the concept of nasty on my planet,” Siri growled.

“Good boy. Eat your fruit.”

And Civilai was gone. Siri sat sulking. He deserved this after his Chaplinesque exploits of the past forty-eight hours, but that didn’t make him any less resentful. History had repeated itself: the big communist bully had overwhelmed the honest fighting man. He opened the bag and started on a banana. He ate it skin and all, just to show he could. It was awful, of course.

“More breakfast, sweetie?” Dtui said loudly so the neighbors could hear. They wouldn’t hear her poke out her tongue and pretend to spit in the rice.

“OK, but don’t make it so salty this time,” Phosy replied from his perch on the wooden doorstep. “God, I miss my mother’s cooking.”

Dtui smiled, mumbled under her breath, and took her husband his second helping. She leaned down to fill his plate and put her mouth close to his ear.

“Do you know what the Thais call this place?” she whispered. He shook his head. “Suan Lao. That’s Lao Field in English. Ubon Lao Field. ULF-from the note.”

“Looks like we’re in the right place then.”

When she turned back into the house he squeezed her bottom.

“Do that again and they’ll have to pull your pants down to find that spoon, mister.” “Why’d I ever marry you?” “Because nobody else would have you.”

Their morning sport was interrupted by the arrival of a small boy in a T-shirt that reached his feet. He was about six. “You Phosy?” the boy asked. He had a smoker’s voice.

“No. I’m Mr. Phosy.”

“That supposed to be funny?”

“No. It was supposed to be a lesson in politeness.”

“You want this note or not?”

Phosy looked up and down the lane, then nodded. The boy had nothing in his hands but somehow he managed to make a note drop to the ground from somewhere inside his shirt. He kicked it toward the step and ran off. Phosy put his plate down, collected his cup, some orange rinds, and the note, and took them all inside. Dtui was relaxing with a Thai magazine.

“Who was that?”

“Just some kid wanted to know if I had any errands for him to run for five baht.” He held up the note and she stood beside him to read it.

Dear Phosy,

The sports committee members have looked over your

application for a tryout with the volleyball team and we are

impressed with your experience. We are delighted to invite you

to our training session on Court Four, Area Sixteen, at ten

o’clock on August 24.

Yours sincerely,

Minmong Yotha, team captain

“You apply for the volleyball team?” Dtui whispered.