Colin Cotterill - Anarchy and the Old Dogs

When she was satisfied it was safe, she said, “All right, Dr. Traitor. You have eight minutes left.”

“But I haven’t… Very well. What I want to talk about is… our connection to the spirit world.”

“Our connection?”

“Yes, you see, I receive messages from the dead.”

Auntie Bpoo’s eyebrows nearly clinked against the wooden shop sign above her head before returning to her face. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, I get messages that tell me how people died.”

She yawned. “Look, Granddad, perhaps you ought to cut back on the MSG.”

Siri laughed to cover his irritation. Why was it that so many obnoxious and infuriating people were blessed with gifts? Perhaps one was a counterpoint to the other. But he was determined to lure this brilliant transvestite into a discussion on the paranormal. Perhaps she’d respond to aggression.

“Listen, young man or young lady or both, if you prefer. I am Dr. Siri Paiboun, the national coroner, but of course you know that. I host the spirit of a thousand-year-old shaman.” Auntie Bpoo started to collect her cards and charts and pack them into a number of plastic bags. “Are you listening? Through him I am able to communicate with the dead. I have come to you because-”

“Prove it.”

“What?”

“Prove to me that you can communicate with the dead.”

“How?”

“Tell me what my uncle Sithon was wearing when he passed away.”

“What he was wearing? I don’t know. I don’t do tricks.”

“No? You should learn. Even the shadiest mediums down at the old ferry crossing can do that one. They chat with dead people all the time, relive some funny event only departed Granny Ting could have known.”

“Well, I can’t.”

“I didn’t think so.” Auntie Bpoo stood and nodded in the direction of the other stool beneath Siri. “Time’s up. I have a mud-pack sauna appointment.”

Siri refused to vacate his stool. “You can’t just take my money and leave,” he said. “That’s abuse of a senior citizen. I can bring the Aged Union down on you just like that.”

The fortune-teller leaned forward and squared up to Siri. His scent was a mix of lavender and lighter fluid. “Look, Granddad. I’ll be honest with you. I get a lot of crackpots coming down here trying to elbow in on my action. They think they can get me to show them my tricks. Next thing you know, they’d be setting up shop all the way down Samsenthai, and I wouldn’t have any customers for myself.”

“Customers? But you don’t charge for your normal service. It’s only senile old fools like me you hit up for money. What does it matter how many customers you get?”

Auntie Bpoo put the back of her hand against her forehead and looked to the puffy heavens. It was an action made famous by a popular Thai screen actress. A gamut of emotions played across her face.

“It’s true,” she said in the soft, female version of her voice. “I don’t really need money, you see. I have all I want. But money can’t buy companionship. No matter how many kilograms of kip you have, it can’t bring you true respect. Why else would people come to listen to someone like little me? I need a gimmick.”

“It’s much more than a gimmick.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s just a party trick.”

“It is not. You know things. You knew my name.”

“It’s a small town.”

“No. You were able to tell me things nobody else has access to. That’s why I’m here. I know you’re in contact with the spirit world.”

“Look, it’s great that you’re in touch with dead people.” Her voice had returned to basso. “It means you’ll have contacts up there when you kick the bucket. That always helps in the first couple of days when you’re finding your feet, looking for a place to sleep, somewhere to eat. But don’t expect me to say, ‘Wow, you too, eh? Let’s compare notes.’ Because there is no connection. Get it? I don’t want to disappoint an old coot like you who looks like he’s had more than his fair share of disappointments in his life. I wouldn’t know a spirit if it bit my titties. There is no supernatural. I don’t get messages. I just guess. Got it? I just say the first thing that comes into my head. Half the time I haven’t got a clue what I’m talking about. But people keep coming back, so I keep doing it. It’s just a bit of fun. Nobody buys it. You gonna give me back my stool now?”

Siri stood and sacrificed his little white perch. Auntie Bpoo slotted it together with her own stool and put them in a black plastic garbage bag. She tossed her big mauve handbag over her shoulder and hoisted her other luggage. Siri stood dripping in front of her.

“You know why I’ve been charging you and no one else?” she said. “It’s because I didn’t want you to keep coming back. There’s something weird about you, old man. I get a funny feeling in my bladder when you come around. It puts me off. This is just a bit of harmless amusement, but people like you take the fun out of it. Lighten up, why don’t you?”

She turned and headed toward the black stupa.

“Wait,” Siri called after her.

The transvestite turned back with attitude. “What?”

“You owe me a prediction.”

Auntie Bpoo splashed back to him in her platform sandals.

“After everything I’ve just told you, you still want me to see for you?”

“Once more and I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

“Is that so?”

“Coroner’s honor.”

“But you know I’m just going to say the most ridiculous thing that comes into my head.”

“I’ll take it.”

There was something static about the Mekhong that evening. Of course it was moving. It had a thousand communities to feed downriver, rice to water, pretty ladies to wash. But to the naked eye it seemed to sit like a long, broad pond. Already it was beginning to swell from the rains in China and overwhelm the vegetable allotments along its banks. As the retreating sunlight cast its shadows, Siri sat alone on his log and imagined that the mighty river had stopped. He’d learned all its secrets and it was prostrated before him, seeking forgiveness for all the lives it had taken.

His feet danced back and forth to stop the mosquitoes settling on his ankles, and his mind danced in time with them. He wondered whether there would be any more lunches here with his best friend, whether Civilai would survive retirement, whether he’d done the right thing. He wondered whether he was right to give his blessing to a pressured marriage, and whether Judge Haeng might allow him to retire now after he’d helped to rescue the republic from anarchy. He wondered whether the Odeon might consider showing the odd Bruce Lee film on special occasions. He would have wondered himself into oblivion if his thoughts hadn’t been drowned out by the sudden screeching of cicadas.

A sliver of lightning and a groan of thunder across in Thailand made him think of Pakse and this brought him full circle to Daeng. The cream-colored champa flowers sat at his feet in a bunch, wrapped in mulberry paper. He’d performed surgery with bullets whistling past his ears and confronted malevolent ghosts, but neither had made his stomach churn as it did now. Would she have him? He wasn’t much to look at, half of one ear was missing, and goodness knows there were a thousand other reasons to turn him down. But Auntie Bpoo had confirmed what he’d already known in his heart. The first part of the fortune-teller’s prophecy had already been in his plans: that by the end of the monsoons he’d be married. And there weren’t that many prospective brides to choose from.

He took a deep breath and began the walk along the river’s edge that would take him to Daeng’s new noodle shop. The trumpet trees that once lined the bank had been cut down by the army for security reasons. The trees had obscured the view of their enemies across the Mekhong. If the Thai military had been observing at that moment, they would have seen a nervous seventy-three-year-old shuffling his sandaled feet along the Lao bank, indifferent to any thought of being shot. He had two things on his mind that were more worrying: the first, what words he could use to convince Daeng his intentions were honorable; the second, Auntie Bpoo’s other prediction, that by the Lao New Year, Dr. Siri and his new bride would have two bouncing baby boys.