Colin Cotterill - Disco for the Departed

Siri and Boua had slow danced in little student cafйs in Paris during their years of study. When they’d returned to Laos, they’d enjoyed the drunken lumwong circle dances, a slow-motion swatting of mosquitoes to music. But none of these demanded a great sense of rhythm, which was just as well because Siri didn’t have one to speak of. He wasn’t a natural head nodder or foot tapper, yet here he was, amazingly, walking in time to the beat. His hips were actually swaying. The middle finger of his right hand began to strike repeatedly against its thumb like a match on a damp box. It was a bizarre but not totally unpleasant experience. He felt some inexplicable connection to the music that he wouldn’t previously have believed possible.

He crossed the potholed football field and headed along the dirt track that led to the general’s house and the army caves behind it. He’d been to them a number of times. Above were the cave apartments of the military hierarchy. Below was an enormous natural cavern that had been converted into an auditorium. There was a concrete stage at one end with a deep orchestra pit in front of it. The ground rose in gentle tiers to the rear wall where the mouth of the cave was wide enough to let in natural light during the day and a current of cool air at night. It had a flow of spring-water to quench the thirst of concertgoers and acoustics to shame La Scala.

This was to be the site of the following week’s Friendship and Cooperation Concert, an all-star event to mark the signing of the Lao-Vietnamese Twenty-Five-Year Treaty of Cooperation and Friendship. All the old cave dwellers would return for a nostalgic weekend. They’d entertain their foreign guests in the smart new houses, and on Sunday night, bring them to this underground marvel to watch the top Vietnamese dancers and musicians perform. Then, they would lumwong themselves to rice-whisky oblivion before being carried back to their lodgings. Siri had asked Lit why all the entertainment was Vietnamese. Huaphan province protruded geographically into its neighbor like a large lady’s bottom sticking out of a bathroom window, but as far as the doctor knew, it was still Laos. Lit recited all the appropriate propaganda-“showing respect to its Vietnamese guests,” “learning from more experienced performers,” but he hadn’t been able to explain why Laos couldn’t produce one act to impress its visitors.

These thoughts were going through Siri’s left-right bobbing head as he reached the vortex of the noise. He told himself this must be a rehearsal. They were testing the sound system, checking the acoustics for the microphone. Disco music was all they had on tape. It was a logical explanation and he could probably bring himself to forgive them. He’d spent his last thirty years around soldiers for whom the phrase “following orders” overrode all social and moral considerations.

The thick gooseberry bushes that had once disguised the mouth of the cavern had been cleared, so Siri walked unhindered up to the entrance. There was a high stile fashioned out of stone that he had to climb over before reaching the steps that led down into the hall. But from the top of the rock he was able to see all the way to the stage. His breath left him. He sat on the stile with a bump. A second later and his legs would have given way. The concert hall was full-full to overflowing-full to rib-crushing, joint-jumping insanity. He had no idea where the music was coming from. There was no deejay on the stage, no visible sound system, but the music was loud and throbbing. He tapped his foot to the beat and scanned the assembled throng in disbelief. These weren’t trendy young kids in wide-collared shirts and flared trousers. They were common folk. They were farmers, mothers with babies strapped to their backs, old men. The only teenagers he saw wore stained uniforms and confused expressions as if they’d stumbled in by mistake. Rarely in Huaphan had such a diverse crowd assembled in one place to share an experience so enthusiastically.

Apart from a fondness for jazz, Siri had no interest in American music and would have failed the simplest quiz on its origins and genres. But either from Dtui or the other nurses at Mahosot, he’d heard the word disco. He’d been amazed at how it had managed to squeeze through the gaps in anti-American feeling. After he’d learned what it was called, he heard it often on Thai radio broadcasts. It was for sale on the black market for commandeered U.S. belongings. Lao bands sneaked numbers into their repertoires and fooled the government spies into thinking it was ethnic tribal music. And here it was now in the concert cave in Huaphan.

Circulation had returned to Siri’s legs and they were swaying like windshield wipers to the music. His brief feeling of panic had turned to excitement. He’d known immediately what these enthusiastic partygoers had in common.

They’d all been deprived the opportunity to enjoy life without fear. They were the innocent victims of the endless war. All they asked was to live their simple lives, but they’d made one mistake. They’d been born in a province that had become a political front line. For reasons they didn’t really understand, they were the enemy, and what good is war, what is its point, if nobody suffers? The dancers at the disco-cave concert had all suffered to varying degrees, then the suffering had stopped. They had died. Siri had never been exposed to anything like this magnitude of spiritual boogie. He was a relative novice. He’d heard voices but never seen such a sight as this. Three ghosts were a crowd to him.

A week earlier, he would have smiled and gone home at this point. There would have been nothing to be gained by staying. But tonight he found himself walking down the steps to join the dancers. He knew he was hosting a spirit with rhythm and who was he to begrudge the man his final bop? No one showed any hostility toward the old doctor. Nobody paid attention to him. It was as if he were the only one who wasn’t there. He pushed his way politely through the crowd without actually making contact and began moving in ways he’d never before moved.

A half hour later he was still there, still dancing. He was exhausted but he couldn’t stop. He knew the anatomy of the human body intimately and could account for aches in every one of his muscles, but he was just a vehicle tonight. His failing breath wheezed like a Bulgarian air-conditioning unit. The music seemed louder, thumping against his ears. People crowded in on all sides. Flashing lights from nowhere blinded him. One spotlight seemed to pick him out-spot prize-top dancer-crowd recedes-he struts his stuff alone-the microphone: “Hey!”

He said, “Hey.”

“Hey, comrade.”

He said, “Hey, comrade.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He said, “Wha…” Siri looked into the bright spot and then beyond it. There was now just the one light. It was being held by a man in an army jacket several sizes too big for him and a knitted hat. He was directing his flashlight directly into Siri’s face. The doctor looked around at the cold, deserted limestone cavern.

“You got no right to be here. What are you playing at alone in the dark?” the old watchman asked. “You drunk or something?”

Siri stood bent forward with his hands on his knees, struggling for breath. His body had just completed the Alpine section of the Tour de France. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning. But as soon as he had the breath and the strength, he started to laugh. The watchman was sure Siri was crazy and took a step back.

“Sorry, comrade,” Siri said at last. “Rehearsing for next week’s show.”

“You don’t say. That doesn’t seem right to me, making an old fella like you perform. They should be ashamed of themselves.”