Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

Siri remained at Auntie Bpoo’s heels on the walk across the compound, looking for an opportunity to get her alone. When they passed the shell of a concrete hut, he grabbed her arm and dragged her through the open doorway.

“I could scream, you know,” she told him.

She made a move for the doorway but Siri blocked her path.

“They’re used to screams up here,” he said. “Nobody would notice.”

“Well, what if I smacked you one across the chops?”

“Smacked me? Really, Bpoo. There are times when you aren’t feminine at all.”

“Whatever makes you think I’d want to be feminine?”

“You’re wearing a sarong and a brassiere.”

“You forced me to dress in a hurry. I had a frock laid out for today.”

“And that isn’t feminine?”

“They’re merely garments. Outer coverings. Clothes do not a gender make. If you wore a saddle, would you be a donkey?”

“If I had a wardrobe full of the things, I’d expect to be called an ass, yes.”

“Honestly, Dr. Siri. Ancient as you are, you still care what other people think of you. You’re so vain.”

“Why are you here?”

“You threw me into a helicopter.”

“I mean Xiang Khouang. What possessed you to stow away?”

“I’m very fond of Americans.”

Siri turned and headed out through the doorway. The word bpoo in Lao meant crab and anyone knew there was no blood to be had from a crab. Experience had taught him that you couldn’t get information from Bpoo if she wasn’t in the mood to share it. He’d just stepped into the sunlight when he heard, “You’re going to die, Siri.”

He turned back and smiled.

“Madame Daeng and I have already picked out the coffin. It has a battery controlled fan inside in case it gets stuffy. That’s an extra expense, of course, but I think I’m worth it.”

“I mean in the next five days.”

“And you’ve come to watch?”

“I’ve come to stop it.”

“Where were you all the other times I died?”

“This isn’t an “almost died.” This is the real thing; dodo, doornail, dinosaur … that kind of dead.”

“Real? But I thought you were a charlatan. You told me you make it all up.”

“I am. I do.”

“So?”

Auntie Bpoo sighed, hitched up her sarong and sat untidily on a pile of breeze blocks.

“Siri, you are so annoying. You and all those heebie-jeebie spirit characters you drag around with you. They know you’re too dense to talk to them but they’re stuck with you. How do you think they feel when their portal to the living is boarded over with a very thick plank and padlocked?”

“How do you know about them?”

“I get the odd message.”

“Then teach me. I’m willing. I want to communicate with them. I want to know what they’re trying to tell me. I’m tired of their cryptic clues. I want to sit down over a cup of instant ether and learn from them.”

“Honey, you’ve either got it or you haven’t. I’ve got it with bells on. They show me things I’d really rather not see. You? You haven’t got it at all. Your spirit shaman fellow really blew it when he set up shop in you. You’re a dead end for the spirit world.”

Siri came over and sat cross-legged on the dirt floor in front of Bpoo.

“Who are they? Who have you seen?”

“A whole lot of them.”

“For example.”

“Oh, dull, dull. All right. Your mother, your ex-dog, a dozen or so confused spirits you’ve picked up along the way. And there’s some really old character who stinks of history.”

“Yeh Ming. My shaman spirit. Do they talk to you?”

“Every now and then. I mean the ones that used to be people. The dog just snarls and drools a lot. I have no idea what he wants.”

“Can you tell me what they say?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to be your telephonist. “Oohoo, Dr. Siri, there’s another call from your mother. Will you accept the charges?” Come on. I have a life.”

“Not much of one.”

“Bastard!”

She stood and stormed to the door.

“I’m sorry,” he called after her. “Really I am. I didn’t mean it. I’m sure your life’s grand.”

“It is.”

She stopped in the doorway but didn’t look back.

“I knew it. So … when am I going to die?”

She was silent.

“Bpoo?”

“Soon, I imagine. Day or two.”

“Any idea how you’re supposed to prevent it?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Well, good luck anyway. I’m supporting you a hundred per cent on this one.”

Bpoo turned around and leaned against the door jamb.

“I … er….”

“What is it?”

“I think it might have something to do with sticking a finger in your ear.”

“The death or the antidote?”

“I’m not sure. Does it mean anything to you?”

“It doesn’t sound like a pleasant way to die.”

“You’re right. Look, I might have got that part wrong. I’ll keep my ears cocked in my bad dreams until I get something more specific.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Would you like a poem now?”

“It’s the very least I can do.”

There really was no avoiding Bpoo’s traditional yet meaningless poems. Luckily they only ever ran to one stanza. Some might have analyzed them to see what hidden meaning they contained, but it was invariably better to nod, say “Interesting,” and walk on.

She began:

Tomorrow sees,

Unease blow from the middle east

The Arab beast

Takes lives

the holy gash

Exploding aunts

Lance of fire

Our daughters, ash

The guiltless ones

Sons dashed in God’s name.

“Finished?” Siri asked.

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

It was Nurse Dtui who first commented on the makeup of the crowd gathered for the day’s show-and-tell. They were either women, children or men over sixty. The war had wiped out an entire generation of able-bodied young men. And for what? She admired the resilience of the types who’d journeyed up through the hills with hope of a modest reward. She wanted to pay them all but she had little more than they did. Probably all of them would be returning to their villages empty handed. She doubted any would bother to take their offerings home with them. Some had brought half shell casings full of parts on the back of goat carts. Others had spread tarpaulins on the ground and laid out their non-matching bones in the shape of complete skeletons in various cartoon poses. Others had brought souvenirs. One wore a helmet lining that sat on his head like a lampshade. Another was in combat boots five sizes too big for him. An old couple had brought their blond-haired, darkskinned grandson to claim child support. The atmosphere was that of a large MIA boot fair more impressive than anyone on the Lao team had imagined. There were a lot of desperate people in the northeast.

The teams set up three separate reception areas and taught the locals the fine art of queuing. A number of claimants thought this meant they had three chances. Rejected at one table they’d make their way to join the queue at another. Communication was also a problem. Many of the villagers came from different ethnic groups and few spoke fluent central Lao. Inspector Phosy was competent in three northern languages, Judge Haeng in two. Dtui spoke Khmu well enough and Cousin Vinai-thankfully not completely useless-spoke four different Tai dialects passably well. Lit and Siri (when the spirits were in harmony) also spoke Hmong. Information was passed through these convoluted channels down to the American team who had Dtui, Peach and Auntie Bpoo translating for them.