Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

By noon on day one it was quite obvious that merely sifting out the scam artists and career bounty hunters would take far longer than the five days allotted to them. They needed some way to eliminate the frauds. As often happened at such moments, Dr.

Siri had an idea. He vanished into the hills at lunchtime with a can of corned beef and a rope. When he returned half an hour later, that rope had a dog attached to it. It was a large, feral, dirtgray animal. After seven or so years of being ignored it seemed bemused by all the sudden attention. It was half-starved and quite clearly the corned beef had elevated Siri to sainthood in his mind.

“Siri, that is one very ugly dog,” Daeng laughed.

“You’re right,” Siri agreed. “He needs a bath.”

“A bath will just make him clean and ugly.”

“Then clean and Ugly he shall be.”

Siri threw Ugly into one of the cement sections that doubled as a water trough and scrubbed him down with a straw broom. He emerged still dirt-gray and no less ugly but his head was held high and he smelled better. Siri walked him once around Long Cheng at the end of the rope allowing him to sniff wherever he wished. The doctor then arranged for the rumor to spread: Ugly was a US military bone dog. He could sniff out animal and Lao remains like a hog to truffles. All those who had brought bones to be assessed would be asked to line up for Ugly to get a good sniff. Anyone found to be deliberately fobbing them off with bear tibias or dead auntie’s scapula would be imprisoned and probably end up in front of a firing squad.

It was merely gossip but the reappearance of the enemy on Long Cheng soil gave credence to such a rumor, and before Ugly’s second lap of the compound, some two-thirds of the villagers had disappeared, leaving their parts behind. The task at hand now seemed far more achievable. When Peach passed this news on to Major Potter, he came in search of Siri with his arms outstretched. Only Ugly’s attempt to bite off the major’s right hand prevented Siri becoming another hug victim. But Potter and all on the American team gave him a peculiar collection of nop s in thanks for making their work easier. Still, they worked through till five thirty, interviewing claimants, inspecting the souvenirs they’d brought along, attempting to pinpoint locations on a map. Yet, by the time they clambered back into the helicopters, there was a prevailing feeling that the day had produced nothing of any value. Four days to go.

It wasn’t until they were in the helicopters that Judge Haeng recognized Auntie Bpoo. He was beyond shock. She was another thorn in his hoof.

“What in Lenin’s name are you doing here, man?” he asked, shouting above the whirr of the rotor.

“I’m very well thank you, Judge, and you?”

“I asked you a question.”

“So you did, and very rudely too. Let’s start again with manners, shall we?”

“Show me some respect. You know who I am and what I am capable of. In fact, I’m going to have you arrested. Put in prison.”

“On what charge, my little magistrate?”

“Trespass. Illegal encroachment on a government project.”

“Ah, but I have a booking.”

“A what?”

“A reservation, at the Friendship Hotel. I always sojourn in the north. I was enjoying my holiday when the nice red major invited me to join him up here. How could I refuse?”

“I do not believe this is a coincidence. How did you get here?”

“On the bus.”

“Show me your laissez-passer.”

“It’s in my room. But of course you knew that, you cunning devil. Any excuse to get into a girl’s bedroom.”

“How dare you? Listen, you are a freak. There’s no place for your type in the new republic.”

“Oh, I see. So there is a place for Vannasack Symeaungxay, Thidavanh Bounxouay, and Doungleudy Phoudindong but not for Auntie Bpoo?”

Haeng leaned backwards and the colour fell from his face.

“How…?” he began.

“I know that those are the names of the young ladies you have established in rooms around Vientiane. In December there’ll be another, Latsamy Thongoulay, but you haven’t met her yet. Even so, I believe the ministry would be interested to hear all about them.”

Haeng lowered his voice.

“This … this is blackmail.”

“Not yet. I haven’t quite decided what I want from you. When I do, then it’ll be blackmail.”

They were leaning close to be heard in the noisy helicopter. Before Haeng could react, Bpoo kissed him on the cheek. He fell away from her and moved to another place wiping the lipstick from his face and cursing. One disastrous trip, two hoof thorns. No respect. People had no respect. But he had his plan. Before the mission was over they’d envy him, admire him for what he was about to do. Yes, respect. From each and every one of them.

Back in Phonsavan, most of the Lao bathed from scoop jars in the communal bathrooms. The Americans opted to wait until the generator was switched on at sundown when the pumps would deliver water to the ensuite bathrooms. Only Judge Haeng in the Lao wing shared their patience. Dinner that evening was at seven; a fusion of Lao and Western cuisine as interpreted by Hmong kitchen staff working for a Hmong manager and his wife.

The Hmong was a divided people. Those who had lost the toss and sided with the Americans were now fleeing through refugee camps or making a last futile stand in the mountains. Those who had supported the communists lived a life not terribly different to how it had always been. Many were dragged down from their mountain homes to till fields and work in towns. Some succumbed to diseases they’d not known at higher elevations. Others, like Mr. Toua the Friendship manager, put their knowledge and industrious nature to more commercial ventures. He believed this joint US/Lao mission was just the start of a tourist influx that would turn Phonsavan into the Luang Prabang of the northeast. So all this effort would be worth it.

There were no longer two islands of tables in the dining room. They were now dotted around the room like in a regular restaurant. And, after a day in the field together, an American journalist might find himself sitting with a Lao soldier, a Lao policeman and his wife with a black sergeant, a Japanese-American forensic pathologist with a transvestite of unknown origin, a Lao general and an American major with a young interpreter.

“Tell him I was in Nam, honey,” said Potter. He’d somehow managed to get himself a happy whiskey glow even before supper and Peach leaned back to avoid his breath. She passed on the news to General Suvan.

“Six years, six goddamn years I was there,” he continued. “You tell him.”

She told him. There were no thoughts or reactions coming in the other direction. It was all Potter.

“They were all-and excuse my bluntness-chinks and dinks and zips and gooks to us.”

“I might have trouble transl-”

“Just do your best, honey. I know you’re trying. But the point is this. We only knew ’em by pejorative terms ’cause that’s what the Pentagon told us they were; ruthless, uneducated nameless heathens. That’s how they ran their wars. There wasn’t a Ngoo Yen or a Fat Dook, not a husband or a father or an ex-schoolteacher. Just a bunch of gooks. That’s why we underestimated them. How can you fight people you don’t understand? How can you kill people you don’t love? That was my point. There has to be a passionate reason to kill a man. You know what I mean? None of us had that passion. Hey, honey. I’m way ahead of you here. You wanna catch the general up on some of this?”

Peach wasn’t sure how to go about translating Potter’s point, nor was she certain the general was listening. There was beer on the table and he’d guzzled his first glass with more gusto than she’d noticed from him all trip. The Americans had brought in a dozen crates of Bud on their chopper. It was chilled, having spent the day in the cool water trough out back. With beer being so hard to come by, it was a treat, a honeymoon to consummate this morning’s first date. The Americans had the art of seduction down to a fine point.