Colin Cotterill - The Woman Who Wouldn't die

‘When more strangers came I listened to them and I helped them find the bodies of their relatives. It was all quite simple. They tried to give me rewards but I didn’t want their money or their jewels. Every visitor I swore to secrecy. “Do not tell anyone else what I do here.” But still they came. And after two months I got the first visit from Madame Ho, the minister’s wife. And that, dear doctor, is why I am here. And some of your questions at least have been answered.’

‘Siri, you’re drooling,’ said Daeng.

During the remarkable tale, the doctor had lowered himself from the railing and sat cross-legged but discreetly in front of the witch. Madame Daeng retreated inside.

‘But how? How do you talk to them?’ Siri asked.

‘The same way I’m talking to you,’ Madame Peung replied, ‘except I use my mind. Look down there.’

They looked through the railings towards the river.

‘Do you see her?’ she asked.

‘The woman on the rock?’

‘That’s the one. Ask her why she’s here.’

‘I can’t. I mean, the only way I know how to ask is with my mouth. I could shout at her.’

‘That wouldn’t work. She’s trying really hard to talk to you.’

‘You see? I’m a failure.’

‘It will come, brother Siri. I can help you.’

‘You don’t know how pleased I am to hear that,’ said Siri.

They were startled by a flash. Madame Daeng had returned with her favourite Polaroid Instant camera and, before anyone could object, she had snapped the visitors for prosperity. She watched the print come to life in her hand before taking a second photo.

‘Just for the family album,’ said Daeng.

It was in the second photograph that she noticed the glint in her husband’s eye. It was a twinkle the type of which she hadn’t seen for a very long time.

The rest of the morning was spent in what Siri interpreted as a leisurely manner. Once Madame Peung and her brother had left them to return to the old French administration building behind the square, Siri and Daeng went down to one of the tents that had mushroomed along the river bank with Mr Geung and enjoyed some local rice porridge. Ugly stood guard. The minister would be arriving the following day and the witch had told them she had a lot to prepare so she wouldn’t be able to join them.

‘I don’t think you should be so pushy,’ said Daeng.

‘What do you mean?’ Siri asked.

‘If she wants to share her secrets with you, she will.’

‘I hardly pushed.’

‘No? “I would really like to watch your preparations.” “Do you need to be in a trance?” “Do they speak to you in voices you can actually hear?” You bombarded the poor woman.’

‘Those are the questions I want answers to, Daeng.’

‘It was just a little bit demeaning.’

‘I don’t-’

‘Mr Geung. How about another bowl for you?’ said Daeng. ‘I don’t know where you put all that food, really I don’t.’

‘I’m a va … va … vacuum cleaner,’ said Geung which caused laughter and led on to other subjects. Breakfast was followed by a leisurely stroll downriver followed by Ugly and some eleven disciples. Ever conscious of his wife’s arthritis, Siri asked several times whether Daeng would like to rest.

‘Siri,’ she said. ‘This isn’t the Olympics. I’m perfectly capable of walking.’

This told the doctor one of two things. One that she was secretly in pain and bluffing. Or, two, that she had remembered to bring her opium and really was feeling nothing. They found an idyllic spot to rest. Siri dozed. Mr Geung skimmed flat stones but was unable to surpass his record of two. And Daeng sat in the shade of a tree and wrote in her notebook. When they returned, it was almost lunchtime and they were all in a relaxed mood. It was too hot for the rowers to practise. A large pirogue was tied up at the dock. It contained just two teak logs but it already sat as low in the water as could be considered safe. Daeng left Siri and Geung and walked over to the pilot of the boat.

‘She’s probably going to give him a lecture on deforestation,’ said Siri.

‘It’s cruel,’ said Geung. ‘The tree sssspirits are not happy.’

Siri wondered whether Geung had learned about the malevolent spirits of the forest from him or whether he perhaps saw them himself.

‘So, what do you make of the witch, Geung?’

Mr Geung had met her briefly on Siri’s balcony.

‘She’s pretty.’

‘Granted. But what do you think of her? She claims she can talk to spirits just like you and I are talking now. Just one time I would like to grab myself a spirit and have a good old chat over a cup of tea. Maybe even Yeh Ming. Did you know I host a thousand-year-old spirit?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wonder if she … How do you know that?’

‘The second bottle of … of … of Johnny Walker in Xiang Kouang.’

‘There, and I used to be so disciplined. So, do you think she can talk to my shaman, Geung? Do you think she can teach me to?’

There was no answer.

‘Geung?’

‘Comrade Madame Daeng is pr … pr … prettier.’

‘Right.’

That night, Siri dreamed of Frenchmen. They had the appearance of the military. Short hair. Fit. That stature that comes from years of standing to attention. But there were no uniforms to confirm this theory. They were naked but it was certainly not an erotic dream. The Frenchmen were in hell. Despite its reputation as a forgiving religion, Buddhism has a fine selection of hells. There were hot hells and there were cold hells. These poor French blighters were in one of the coldest — Utpala. It was recognizable because their skin had turned the blue of water lilies. There were six of them and they were huddled together for warmth like penguins. As Siri watched, the huddle became a ruck and then a scrum. A rugby match was on in hell. The French played three-a-side. They leaned together and created a tunnel between them. General Charles DeGaulle himself was the scrum half. He leaned over, called out some indecipherable code and threw the ball between the legs. But the ball was not a ball. It was a head. Siri caught a glimpse of it before it disappeared into the scrummage. It was the head of his wife.

Siri awoke with a loud, shuddering sigh. The first thing he saw by the moonlight through the window was Madame Daeng’s head on the pillow. He was filled with dread. The eyes were open and shot with blood. Her lips were purple. He poked at her nose and the head rolled to the far side, off the pillow and landed with a clunk on the concrete floor.

Siri awoke with a loud, shuddering sigh. The first thing he saw by the moonlight through the window was Madame Daeng’s head on the pillow. She slept peacefully with a blissful smile on her lips. He took hold of the sheet and edged it down. Her head was, thankfully, attached to her neck which in turn held company with the rest of her. He hated those false awakenings. With too much adrenalin coursing through his veins now to sleep he watched his wife’s gentle breaths fill her chest before travelling through her body to her magnificent vital organs. She made it look so easy. He never tired of watching her breathe. Every night spent beside her was an honour.

When Madame Daeng awoke next morning the sun was already smiling full-faced through her window. In Vientiane she awoke naturally before the sun appeared and began her preparations for the restaurant. But here she could sleep soundly, uninterrupted by obligations. She looked to her right. She was alone. The bathroom was one floor down and she assumed her husband’s ancient bladder had driven him there. The muscles in her legs contracted and grabbed cruelly at her nerves as she swung them off the mattress. With her feet on the ground she waited for them to announce that they were ready to begin the arduous task of carrying her around for another day. The first half-hour was always the hardest. Momentum took her to the open doorway and on to the balcony. There was a strong flowery scent in the air as if Mother Nature was excited. The air was cool and fresh. It was second honeymoon weather.