Colin Cotterill - Anarchy and the Old Dogs

“That isn’t true.”

“It is, and you know it. I’d go home after each of our philosophical sessions, with the firm belief that what we’ve created is a joke. There were nights I’d lock myself in the bathroom and cry my eyes out because I was part of that joke. My name was up there on the party roster and I hadn’t done a thing to change the status quo.”

“You tried.”

Civilai opened his eyes. In the shadows they were deep hollows. “If I’d tried-I mean if I’d really tried,” he said, “things would have changed. I dabbled. I let out a few old-man rants, but who listened? I became powerless. I became symbolic in a way that inanimate objects or the dead are symbolic. What made our talks together so hard to take was the fact that everything we said was true. If they’d listened to us, we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in now.”

“That’s what old codgers in coffee shops all around the world believe,” Siri said. “There are seventy-three-year-olds somewhere in a bar in London, England, who believe they have the answers to the world’s problems.”

Civilai shook his head. “But they aren’t senior politburo members on the Central Committee. They don’t have a real opportunity. I did. The disgruntled politicians and military men contacted me. They needed someone senior, someone respected, who represented change, modernity, freedom to the people. It was as if they’d heard me talking in my sleep. They knew I was a loose cannon, dissatisfied, and resentful. And I said, ‘Certainly, I doubt it could make things any worse.’ And that was it. Phetsarat as prime minister, me as deputy. I’d be able to influence decisions and accomplish something at last. Why not? I’d be far less impotent than I am now.”

Siri sighed and sat back down. “And the reason you didn’t discuss all this with me was…?”

Civilai paused, apparently considering this question for the first time. “Because there was a slight doubt in my mind as to whether you’d go along with it,” he said at last.

Siri leaned back onto the cushions and relaxed his weary body and mind and soul. He tried to imagine that scenario: Civilai telling him of his opportunity to be part of a coup. Yes, he would have talked his friend out of it. Why would there be any doubt in his own mind about that? Why was he unable to say so right away? Why did no words come to him? The sky began to rumble a warning. The room was so dark that if they’d looked at each other there would have been nothing to see. But neither looked. They each stared at the sky. It was Civilai’s hoarse voice that broke the deadlock

“What are you planning to do with me?”

“Do?”

“Yes, you’ve obviously considered my punishment.”

“It hasn’t entered my head.”

“That’s because you know I was right to do what I did. We’re of one mind.”

Siri laughed. “Obviously not. If that were true you wouldn’t have been too afraid to share this insanity with me.” Suddenly, the words came to him with perfect clarity. “No rational person would replace a two-year-old administration with a gang of renegade officers with dollars in their pockets and expect things to improve. Don’t you see? All the same old criminals would be back on the bus to Laos. The Vietnamese advisers would be replaced by Thai advisers, and capitalism would be back chewing on us again. It would be a hundred times worse than it was before.

“Yes, we’re grumpy old men. Yes, we complain. It’s in our blood. But it’s only because we’re impatient. After all those years of struggle we wanted to remake our world in seven days. We wanted to see everything blooming and flourishing right now because we’re secretly afraid we aren’t going to be around to see it otherwise. But by the Holy Buddha, you aren’t going to be able to make those changes overnight. Lord help us. I want to slap you, I really do.”

“Go ahead.”

Siri rose from his seat, walked over to the dark shape that contained his friend, and raised his hand. But he couldn’t. The rain began to thump against the glass of the window-panes at his back and lightning threaded through the clouds. He returned his hand to his side and looked down at his broken friend. Civilai’s head bowed toward his lap. His shoulders shook as he sobbed. The lightning picked out a man as old as the earth. Siri knelt on the floor and put his hands on Civilai’s lumpy knees. He had thought of a punishment.

When Siri returned to the lobby, Dtui and Phosy were no longer there. It was just as well because he doubted he’d have been able to fake a sense of humor for them. The front desk and some of the tables held storm lamps whose flames were barely visible in the dark room. He went toward the exit with the intention of walking out into the torrential rain. It was a habit he’d picked up in the tropical storms of Vietnam. They pummeled a man like tin on an anvil, and unless the lightning killed you, they were therapeutic to the point of elation. But before he could reach the newly shuttered door, a voice called him back.

“Dr. Siri.”

It was Daeng. She sat in the dark reception area dressed in a nice pink blouse and a neatly ironed phasin. Her hair was loose. It hung thick and gray over her shoulders. The shadows had blurred the wrinkles and filled the cheeks and for a second or two Siri saw the young enthusiastic girl cook who’d followed him around begging for errands, hungry for knowledge. She walked over to him, looked at his face, and lifted her eyebrows. She had to raise her voice to be heard above the sound of the rain.

“Goodness,” she shouted. “I was planning to tell you something important, but it looks like you already know.”

“What gives you that impression?”

“Well, a, Your face looks like it’s been held over a sacrificial bowl and drained of blood, and b, you were about to go out into a storm that could drown a man. It all adds up to you fighting the devil. I’d say you were just upstairs with Comrade Civilai.”

“What color underwear do I have on?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You seem to know everything else.”

“Don’t bite me, Siri. It wasn’t me, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. Was it Civilai you came to tell me about?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to discuss how I feel.”

She took his hand. “I know. Never mind. I’ve brought something much better than bad tidings. Come.”

She led him to one of the lit tables at the rear where her cloth bag sat on a chair. The flame of the lamp danced inside its glass bowl as the storm winds forced their way through the gaps around the shutters. The receptionist was busy mopping back a flood of water that had gushed in with them. It was the type of storm you imagined could lift the hotel and carry it halfway around the earth. The old comrades in arms knelt on the vinyl chairs and let the water flow beneath them. Daeng reached into her bag and produced an album. She lifted it carefully as if it were precious or fragile. She laid it on the bare wooden table and opened it at the title page. This had already been a taxing day for Siri’s heart, but what he saw in the dim lamplight almost stopped it beating completely.

Champasak Camp-1940

“Where on earth…?” he asked.

“You don’t recall the photographer, Siri? A Marseille-trained boy. The French administration sent him south to document everything from the southern camps. They wanted evidence they were doing something for the souls of the local youth.”

“I do remember. Skinny boy from Xiang Khouang.”

“That’s him.”

“But we didn’t ever see those pictures. He was with us for-what? — six months? Then he took all the undeveloped film back with him to Vientiane.”

“He promised he’d send me prints.”