Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

Even though he was drinking nothing but papaya juice, Geung made standing up look difficult. The flickering of the candles seemed to disorient him. His balance secured, he held up his glass and said, “I … I … am very proud.”

With that he knocked back his juice like a Glaswegian downing a dram of Scotch and they never did learn what he was proud of. Given Geung’s “situation,” Siri had expected him to take time over agreeing to accompany them north, or even to refuse to come. But Geung’s loyalty to the Mahosot morgue, a commitment which had on one occasion almost killed him, was unshakeable. He’d never been invited on a field trip before. He was always the man left behind to sweep away the cockroaches and welcome new guests into the freezer. So when they announced he’d be coming along, his face had lit up like the floodlights at the That Luang Festival. Romance was obviously a minor league activity for Mr. Geung. He’d been able to talk of nothing but the trip for two weeks and had taken that long to pack. It was astounding how a man with no possessions could fill a large suitcase as he did. The morgue seemed a lot emptier once he’d loaded up his bag. They all toasted him, upended their glasses and leaned into the circle of light for refills. Geung lowered himself back onto the mat and Siri continued the introductions.

“Beside Nurse Dtui, who you know,” he said with a wink, “is Vientiane’s one and only competent police officer, Inspector Phosy.” Phosy always looked a lot smaller than he was when compared to his large rosy wife. But he was all muscle and brawn. He received his applause with a deep, overly respectful nop .

“Next,” said Siri, “a legend in the underground resistance forces against the French, a spy of many faces, never discovered by the enemy, a woman with an intellect so high that she married me”-riding the groans-“and the maker of the best noodles on this and probably every other planet, I present you, Madame Daeng.”

After accepting her applause, Daeng reminded Siri that the candles had grown a lot shorter since he started speaking.

“Right,” he agreed. “Which fittingly brings us to the last of our team, a young lady who-”

“What do you mean, the last?” said Civilai most indignantly. “What about me?”

“What about you?”

“Don’t I deserve an introduction?”

“You always told me you’re a man who doesn’t need one, old brother.”

“That only applies to people who’ve heard of me.”

“I thought everyone had heard of you. Good and bad.”

“I’ve been out of circulation. Even the memory of the brightest star fades in the night.”

“Very well,” said Siri. “This old gentleman, this fading starlet, used to be Comrade Civilai of the Politburo. He was once fully twinkling-a somebody. He is now commander-in-chief of the larder. A politico of pies and pastries. A diplomat of the dining room table. A-”

“They get it,” said Civilai, helping himself to another cornedbeef canape.

“And now to our guest,” said Siri. “We welcome to this informal first night meeting, Miss Peach Short. Yes, undoubtedly a spy from the far west wing, but as Judge Haeng has already discovered, a spy easy on the eye.”

After very polite thanks at being invited to join the Lao team, Peach looked seriously around the table.

“You do realize I’m underage for all this drinking, don’t you?” she giggled.

“Ha!” said Civilai. “Age is far too abstract a concept to be “under.” This is Laos. We mature much faster over here. Nurse Dtui’s daughter has already won the creche cocktail mixing competition two months running. And this is an initiation. This is where we find out just how Lao you are. You can obviously talk the talk, but can you drink the drink?”

“He’s right,” said Daeng. “Unless you’ve made a complete fool of yourself in public at least once, you can’t really be called one of us.”

“At least once,” Civilai added.

Peach took a deep breath, threw back her drink in one gulp, and reached for the bottle. The cheer was a little over the top. With luck, the sound of the Americans yelling at each other might have drowned it out.

“Exactly how old are you?” Dtui asked.

“Seventeen and eleven months.”

“You see?” said Civilai. “If she was from the tribes she’d have four children by now. But how did the daughter of a missionary learn to drink, little daughter?”

“Mom and Dad did the remote village thing,” she told him. “They schooled my brothers and sister and me at home and let us run wild with the local kids. When we grew up they trusted us to have the common sense to know what was right. But by then our right was more the village’s right than theirs. We did stuff we still haven’t gotten around to telling the folks about. Best they don’t know, I say. I guess it’s what you deserve for naming all your kids after fruit.”

“Boys too?” Civilai asked.

“Melon and Mango.”

“Poor lads.”

“And where’s your family now?” Daeng asked.

“They were asked politely by the local cadre if they wouldn’t mind leaving the country. Most of the independent missionaries were thrown out when the PL took over. They were too poor, I guess. Your authorities only turned a blind eye to the religious groups with enough money to invest in development projects.”

Siri smiled. She was fearless. If ever Haeng stopped drooling for five minutes to listen to what she was saying, he’d hate her.

“Why didn’t you go with them?” Phosy asked.

“Where to? Indiana? No way. I wouldn’t know what to do there. I don’t know those people. This is my home. I applied for a teaching job on local rates and got it. Not enough to live on but these little junkets sustain me when they come along. Mom and Dad are pissed at the communists. They’re fund-raising right now to support the insurgency. How Christian is that?”

“I don’t think you should be telling us,” said Dtui.

“What can I say? You can’t choose your father.”

“A father’s goodness is as big as a mountain,” said Daeng, who had a Lao saying for most occasions.

“I had my own ears and eyes, auntie,” Peach replied. “First you hear it, so you must see it. Once you’ve seen it, so you must make a judgement with your heart. This is my judgement. I’m staying here.”

A counter Lao saying.

“Very well,” Siri said. “As Madame Daeng quite rightly points out, candles are not forever. So, before we are forced into our bunks, probably to be blown to kingdom come if any of us walks in our sleep, I’ve asked Peach to tell us what she’s learned from the American contingent about the mission we’re here for.”

“At last,” said Comrade Lit.

“I’m glad somebody knows,” said Civilai.

“All right,” said Peach. “Your Judge Haeng was supposed to pass all this on but he’s not in the mood, for some reason. He asked me if I’d do it. This is what I’ve learned. Or, at least, what they told me at the briefing. We are here to find one Captain Boyd Bowry or his remains. When he disappeared in 1968 he was twenty-four years of age, which would make him thirty-four if he’s still alive. He was a helicopter pilot attached to the Air America program out of Udon Thani in Thailand. I assume you all know about Air America?”

“Perhaps you could give us a quick overview so we know how the Americans see it,” Siri suggested.

“OK,” Peach went on, “I hope I can remember it all. Briefly, Air America was-still is, for all I know-an airline funded and operated by the CIA. They flew what they called “aid” missions inside Laos after the Geneva accord banned foreign military personnel. Of course the CIA continued to recruit military people, mostly marine pilots like Bowry. They took them out of uniform and maintained that they were civilian pilots working for a private company. They carried a lot more than rice, mind you. Captain Bowry was flying helicopter missions in and out of Laos for two years. As I’m sure you know, not a hundred kilometers from here were two CIA bases. One was at Sam Thong where there was a refugee camp for displaced hill tribe families. The other was at Long Cheng, the home of the CIA’s secret army. It’s where General Vang Pao and his Hmong troops were based. It’s where the CIA trained them up to fight you guys. At one stage, Long Cheng, with all its troops and US advisors and pilots, was the second most populated city in the country after Vientiane. There were so many spies there it collected the name Spook Heaven or Spook City. But that’s the big picture. We’re all here for the little picture. Captain Bowry.”