Colin Cotterill - Anarchy and the Old Dogs

Dtui, being herself, often found Phosy’s rendition of the facts a little dry so she peppered it with anecdotes to keep the crowd entertained.

“The mission Land Rover was better than a laissez-passer,” she said. “The checkpoint guards all the way to the border just stared at the diplomatic plates and glanced up at my driver Phosy here, and me on the backseat. I was wearing these very Japanese ambassador’s wife-type sunglasses I found in the glove box. I looked down my nose at these country boys and they stepped back. Some of them even saluted us. I couldn’t believe it. I was heartbroken when our policeman here said we had to leave the car on the Thai side. I wanted to live in the thing.”

The first round of drinks arrived and Dtui made the initial toast of many.

“To our republic,” she said, raising her glass. The toast was echoed with resounding enthusiasm.

As the glasses continued to empty and refill, Siri glanced at Civilai. His friend was celebrating, joining in the festivities and enjoying the jokes. But, like Siri, he didn’t seem to have the same sensation of unbridled relief and joy that the others obviously felt. It was as if they were both pretending. He wondered whether his friend was feeling the same frustration and guilt of failure that Siri felt himself. It was a fleeting moment and one that alcohol soon erased. He returned his attention to the party and held out his glass for a refill.

“I’m still missing facts,” he said. “You’re at the border and Kumpai meets you…”

“Well, I suppose that’s where I come in,” the governor said. “I’d been summoned for a tкte-а-tкte with my Vietnamese counterpart. It appears the Vietnamese had become aware of an uprising, either based in or being channeled through Pakse. I was encouraged to round up any outsiders staying in town without official documentation. We began that search a few days ago and who should we catch in the net the day before yesterday but one undercover Lao army officer.”

“That would be me,” Kumpai said, putting up his hand. Kumpai had been an erstwhile nondrinker who had decided today was a good time to start. He’d begun to slur his words as soon as the cap was removed from the Johnnie Walker bottle (the real thing, not the Vietnamese rebottled variety). “I got caught,” he said and slouched against the closet.

“We were able to confirm Captain Kumpai’s identity with his superiors in Vientiane, and they insisted he share his knowledge with the Vietnamese security adviser. That’s how we learned that Captain Kumpai was in contact with agents in Ubon.”

“That would be us,” said Dtui, and she and Phosy threw their hands into the air just as their drunken predecessor had done. They slapped their palms together and whooped. Johnnie worked a lot faster than rice whisky. The governor, relapsing into his schoolmaster persona, told the two to sit down and behave. They obliged, smiling, as he continued.

“When the captain received his call in regard to Officer Phosy, we sent men to facilitate his reentry into Laos. He and Comrade Dtui were brought directly to my office. Our two rather amazing friends here had no end of valuable information for our attention.” There was another round of applause. “During our manhunt for insurgents, we had also discovered that Comrade Civilai was here in Pakse incognito”-another round of applause; Civilai bowed dramatically.-”Captain Kumpai had told us of his purpose for being in the south, and today we coordinated our efforts with his. He was instrumental in pinpointing various government officials we could trust. We had the Vietnamese advisers share our information with them. Thanks to the broken code, a number of key rebels have already been arrested around the country. Following those arrests, more conspirators were implicated and apprehended.”

“Who was the character referred to near the beginning of the note?” Siri asked. “The PP?”

“It would appear that Phetsarat Ponpaseth was involved in the coup.”

“Damn. And he’s a minister.”

“He was until this afternoon. We can assume he was slated to be the head of the revolutionary government. I’m sorry to say the security forces were too slow to pick him up. He and one or two of the generals on the list have disappeared.”

“They probably fled as soon as they heard that the Ubon operation center had been compromised,” Civilai said.

“So it would seem,” Katay continued. “But despite that little setback, my Vietnamese counterpart assures me that as far as Hanoi and Vientiane are concerned, the coup threat has been nullified.”

There was a spontaneous cheer in the little room, followed by much hugging and backslapping. It was an easy atmosphere to be caught up in but Siri continued to feel like an observer who’d stumbled upon someone else’s victory parade. He didn’t begrudge them their celebration. A win was a win. But he was sorry Daeng wasn’t there with them. She was the one who’d made the Ubon connection. This was her victory also. He’d sent a trishaw driver to find her but she wasn’t in her shanty. He thought back to that last night when they’d celebrated together in Savanaketh in 1945, the night they’d drunk to their country’s independence. He recalled how he’d felt then and wondered why he didn’t have any of those emotions now. Perhaps it was age.

He would have appreciated some time alone with Civilai. There were one or two things still worrying him that he knew his friend could explain, but through the evening and into the night the old brothers found themselves apart. Circumstances didn’t give them a chance to chat. First it was the unflagging conversation, then the trail of visitors from the town hall, and the military bringing ongoing reports and not leaving. Then it was the whisky. With Lao rice whisky there were clear signals that it was time to stop: stomachs evacuating, eyes blurring, bottoms flatulating. But those heathen Scottish tribes had created a brew that seduced a man and forced him to consume beyond the point of logic. He would find himself floating above the clouds on the back of a giant eagle, euphorically stupid. He would be so assured of himself that even when the eagle vanished- poof- -and he was tumbling down toward the bleak rugged mountains of the highlands, he would still swear he was in control. He might even attempt a somersault or two as he dropped, and then splat.

Siri awoke from his own personal splat in a damp patch of grass above the ferry port. He had no idea how he had arrived there. Before him, the Se Don, which often gave the impression it was something special as far as rivers were concerned, converged with the magnificent Mekhong like a worm running into a giant cobra. The scene was too vast for Siri’s limited consciousness to take in. His brain felt like it had shriveled to the size of a walnut. When he moved his head he could hear it rattle inside his skull. His ear throbbed, his eyes smarted, and his neck was as stiff as a tree stump. His body was a treasure trove of aches and agonies. The morphine and the adrenaline had long since worn off and he was left with no doubt that he’d engaged in a wrestling match with a younger man. Hoisting himself onto one elbow was a major feat.

With the sky still obscured by grumbling clouds, it was difficult to pinpoint the hour. Something in his inner clock told him it was a quarter past dawn, but there was a thin line between instinct and downright guesses. Down in the river, up to her waist in the rust brown water, a woman bathed. She wore a thin cotton cloth tied above her breasts. The bathing sarong is sewn into a tube and, from experience, Siri knew she would be naked inside it. To Siri’s mind, there was nothing more beautiful, nothing in the world as erotic, as a woman bathing in a river.