Colin Cotterill - The Woman Who Wouldn't die

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The Voyage of Harmony reached Pak Lai exactly eleven hours after leaving Vientiane. It didn’t feel that long. Siri had always marvelled at the timelessness of river travel. For hours they hadn’t seen anything the early French explorers wouldn’t have experienced a hundred years before. All right, perhaps they wouldn’t have seen so many 333 Beer bottles floating nearer the towns or Che Guevara T-shirts on fishermen. No odd TOA paint cans lined up for shooting practice. But, basically, the cruise could have been before history. Before the ridiculousness of war. Before the greed of generals and the land lust of politicians. This river had defied it all and survived. Still her willowed banks bowed to the passing pirogues. Still the grey terns surfed the cool current above the water.

The pilot switched off his engine some hundred metres before the modest bamboo dock and waited for it to lure the boat home against the gentle current. There was barely a creak as the ferry kissed the old tyres that hung from the posts. Siri and Daeng had never been to Sanyaburi. It was a province that had often found itself changing nationality in the political lotteries. Civilai argued that the place was a victim of its spelling. On French and American maps there were no fewer than seventeen attempts at its transcription. More worryingly, there were three different versions on Lao maps. He argued that if it were easier to spell, a country might be more inclined to hang on to it. It was currently one of two Lao provinces with real estate on the west bank of the Mekhong, but that could change at any time. The players still sat around the board.

Siri, Daeng and Mr Geung were met at the dock by a smiling man in a grey safari suit and plastic flip-flops. He had a shaved head that rose gently to a cone like the sharp end of a coconut. Two twiggy men in football shorts and once-white singlets stood behind him. He had a booming voice.

‘Comrades. Comrades,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Sanyaburi.’

Ugly was the first to step ashore and the man kicked at the dog and missed. His flip-flop flipped and flopped into the river but he ignored it. Siri saw him as the type who would only wear flip-flops on formal occasions. He kicked off the other sandal, stepped across the gangplank and shook the hands of Siri and Daeng with great enthusiasm. He took one look at Geung and ignored him completely.

‘I’m the inspector of river traffic, the imports tariffs collection director general and I also have the honour of being the governor of this great province. My name is Siri Vignaket,’ he said.

Dr Siri was immediately resentful to have this man share his name.

‘It’s nice to be here,’ said Daeng who knew her Siri wouldn’t be saying anything. ‘This is Dr Siri Paiboun. My name is Daeng; I’m his wife.’

‘No need to tell me that,’ said Siri II. ‘I can see you’re a bit over the hill to be his mistress.’

His laugh shook leaves from the trees and frightened birds from the branches. Some people take days, even weeks to make a bad impression. Governor Siri had managed to alienate everyone in under three minutes. A remarkable feat.

‘Can’t have too many Siris, that’s what I say,’ bellowed the governor. ‘Right, old man?’

Daeng squeezed her husband’s hand. The sound of a titter could be heard from the other passenger on the boat who hadn’t bothered to get up from his seat and introduce himself.

‘His hearing’s all right, is it?’ asked Siri II. ‘Never mind. I’ve brought my men. They’ll carry your luggage up to the Peace Hotel. That’s where you’ll be staying. Top floor all to yourselves. Good view of the river. Double bed but I doubt you’ll be making full use of that.’

Again the laugh. Again the trembling trees.

‘This is all we have,’ said Daeng with admirable restraint.

In his clenched fist, Siri held a canvas BOAC airline bag he’d once won in a tombola. It contained his travelling mortuary kit and a few clothes. His was a wash-and-re-wear philosophy. Daeng had her small backpack over one shoulder and three light deckchairs at her feet.

‘Travel light, do you?’ said the governor.

‘Weren’t you ever in the military?’ Daeng asked.

‘Me? Hell no. Mug’s game.’

‘How could you avoid it?’

‘By using this old fella,’ he said, tapping his index finger against his forehead and leaving the visitors in doubt as to whether he’d avoided military service by using his head or his finger.

‘I was very proud of you,’ said Daeng.

They sat on the edge of the double bed in the Peace Hotel penthouse suite. At least that was how the landlady had described it. It was indeed the entire top floor of a three-storey building but there was masonry evidence to suggest they’d intended to turn it into four separate rooms but had run out of money. The bedhead leaned against the north wall. There was a brisk twenty metre walk to the wardrobe at the south. A heavy wooden coffee table with a hot thermos of tea and a full-sized chair occupied the west wall and four doorways opened on to the balcony to the east. Only one of them had a door attached.

‘I wanted to …’

‘I know you did,’ said Daeng. ‘But we’re on holiday. No point in starting a vacation under lock and key.’

‘He’s …’

‘I know he is. Let’s take a look at the view.’

They walked out through the second doorway.

‘At least it won’t get stuffy,’ said Siri.

‘And there is a mosquito net.’

The view made up for almost everything. It was splendid. The weather continued to be ideal. From their eyrie they could see the tail end of Civilai’s ferry chugging its way around the bend upriver. Pak Lai was nicely laid out. There was something English about its large village green. You’d expect cricketers to walk out on to it after tea. Of course they’d need machetes rather than cricket bats as the grass had been left to its own devices for too long. The two unemployed porters were in the grounds below thrashing at the overgrown weeds with ancient scythes. A woman across the river propelled her coracle with an old frying pan. The dogs of Pak Lai had obviously been waiting for the coming of the alpha messiah because a dozen of them were following Ugly, up to their elbows in the river, rooting for crabs.

‘We should bring Geung up,’ said Daeng. ‘He’d enjoy the view.’

The landlady had taken one look at Mr Geung and suggested he’d probably be more comfortable on the bunk in the back of the chicken coup. Siri told her that, as tempting as that sounded, his assistant would rough it in one of the guest house rooms.

‘It’s the boat races,’ she’d said. She was a large woman whose eyebrows were very close to her hairline. In moments of surprise they merged.

‘And that means what?’ Siri had asked.

‘All the rooms will be full,’ she’d said. ‘There’ll be a crowd down from Sanyaburi municipality. People from Vientiane. The races have been cancelled the last three years. There’s a lot of interest.’

‘Then it’s just as well we arrived before them,’ said Siri. ‘And as a show of good spirit, Mr Geung will give up his chronological right to the bunk in the chicken house.’

So, now, Mr Geung had a room to himself in the guest house. Beside the bed he’d put his Thai plastic chicken alarm clock that awoke him with a ‘cock-a-doodle-doo’ and his framed photograph of his beloved, Tukda, the prettiest Down Syndrome canteen worker at Mahosot Hospital. Everything was poised for an enjoyable few days. All they were missing was the witch. According to Siri the governor, she had refused first option on the Peace penthouse in preference for a private room at the old French colonial building at the back. Apparently, she wanted a room with a door. There was no accounting for taste.