Slash and Burn (12 page)

“I’d have to be more than tired to do a damned fool thing like that,” the major said. “I could be knock-down drunk and still I’d have respect for the tools of my trade. Any of you guys work with dynamite before?”

Phosy had. He knew that unarmed dynamite was unlikely to explode from a small knock unless it was old and unstable. The type of explosives they used in the military had come a long way since Mr. Nobel blew up his family and friends while he was inventing the stuff.

“And did you recheck your bag before we left this morning?” Siri asked.

“No,” said the major. “I’d put the dynamite in a pocket of my pack the day before and I’d had no cause to use it. But it was under my bed all night and the chargers were in a different bag. None of them is missing. Look, I know what you guys are thinking,” he said. “I like a drink now and then. You’ve got it into your heads that I got shitfaced and did something stupid.”

Neither Phosy nor Siri indicated that they thought otherwise. Bpoo, as Potter, continued.

“But let me tell you this. I’ve been plenty drunk often enough. But it wouldn’t happen that I lost that instinct for personal survival. The dynamite was fresh and safe. That pack exploded ’cause someone wanted it to.”

“You think it was sabotage?” said Siri.

“I tell you, I’m real sorry this happened, but it had nothing to do with incompetence. In thirty years I never made a mistake. Not once. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to change the subject to weird sex.”

The Lao were shocked. They wondered whether they’d misheard the translation. Siri turned to Auntie Bpoo.

“What did he say?”

“I’m sorry, he said he wants to change the subject to, you know, sex,” she told him.

“He did not.”

“Yes, he … OK, but I bet he’d join in soon enough if we started,” Bpoo smiled. “He’s got some great stories.”

Siri laughed.

“Bpoo, you’re an interpreter. You can’t just make it up as you go along. Just tell us what he’s actually saying, will you?”

“You may recall I’m not an interpreter at all. I’m a fortuneteller, local celebrity and bon vivant. And I’m excruciatingly bored with all this dynamite talk. Get little miss teen dream over if you want a serious job done. Life’s too short for being morose.”

The major was feeling left out. He interrupted Bpoo and they locked into a serious discussion before she grabbed hold of his hand and started to read his palm. She was lost to the world of interpretation.

13

LIPSTICK AND TOO TIGHT UNDERWEAR

Had there been a sun visible, they would have seen it setting just as they arrived at the Friendship. The building was nestled in a thick mist like a blurry uncle in a soft gray armchair. The senator and his secretary were seated on the rattan chairs on the front veranda wearing borrowed mufflers. They were writing flip charts for their next dangerous mission. There were coffee cups in front of them and various files and folders. Siri climbed down from the truck and did an inventory of his aches by cracking all his bones. He marveled at the number of tunes his skeleton had learned to play over recent years. He and Civilai often discussed joining a traditional orchestra as the percussion section. He stood back and observed the teams as they entered the building. There was a lot to be learned from the way people interacted.

Judge Haeng on two sound legs raced across to the senator and bowed low in front of him, offering the kind of
nop
reserved for great-grandmothers of royal blood. This was astounding considering the judge’s open hostility to the practice. The senator obviously didn’t recognize Haeng despite the judge’s fawning of the previous evening. He nodded with a “Who is this guy?” expression on his face. They both looked around hopefully for interpreters but, as none was available, they settled for a four-handed shake and words that neither understood. Haeng was clearly up to something.

As the Americans filed past him, the senator exchanged jokes and pleasantries. Siri noticed Major Potter slide by in the background without acknowledging him at all. As far as he could recall, the two hadn’t exchanged a single word. With the Lao, the senator laughed and shouted a newly learned “
Sawatdee krap
” hello, which was actually Thai but as near as damn it. Auntie Bpoo knelt in front of him and kissed his wedding ring. She then licked his finger and winked. Recovering from this, Senator Vogal patted Mr. Geung on the back long enough for Ethel Chin to take a photo then blew a kiss to Madame Daeng who matched his smile and, in southern Lao, told him he was related to a bog lizard. The others were Lao polite and left the VIP feeling that he’d built cultural bridges and mended wounds.

Everyone wore their topcoats to dinner that night. The normally chill air had become even crisper since the sun was no longer allowed through to warm the earth. The dinner tables had been rearranged yet again. Tonight, with the arrival of the emperor, there was now a long head table facing the common masses. His Excellency sat dead center. To his left was General Suvan wearing a blank expression. A stray noodle dangled at the end of his chin. To the senator’s right was the vacant seat of Major Potter. Beside that sat Judge Haeng in a strikingly awful pale blue safari suit. He hadn’t yet dared move into the major’s seat but he eyed it with desire. As always, he attempted to catch the eye of Peach, perhaps believing the suit had rendered him irresistible. As always, she ignored him.

There appeared to be no end to the American rations. This evening’s meal was some sort of instant lasagna—tasty but a test for false teeth. There were ever-present bottles of Johnny Red but even Civilai was slowing down on the alcohol input. Too much of a good thing.

“Where’s our Major Disaster tonight?” Daeng asked.

“Probably double-checking his dynamite stock,” Phosy told her.

“I rather suspect he’s avoiding the senator,” Siri added. “I know I would if I were in his boots.”

“Do you think he’s all right?” Dtui asked. “I mean, what if he’s had a heart attack? He’s normally really fond of his food. I think someone should go and take a look.”

Civilai got to his feet.

“
Bravo, mon frère
,” said Siri.

“I was just going to the bathroom,” said Civilai. “It could be quite a while. My bladder has a mind of its own these days.”

“At your age you should be grateful for a mind wherever you can find it,” Siri laughed.

Civilai walked through the diners and did a little dance to the Carpenters soundtrack for the benefit of the Americans. They clapped. Most of the guests had gravitated back to their own kind. In fact the only mixed grouping was Auntie Bpoo and Dr. Yamaguchi who were engaged in an intimate discussion on a rear table. She’d finally got him alone and he didn’t appear to be too fazed by the attention.

When Civilai returned to the table he seemed somewhat distracted.

“How is he?” Dtui asked.

“What?”

“The major,” she reminded him. “You were going to knock on his door.”

“Ah, yes. You’re right. I was, wasn’t I. I … damn. I completely forgot.”

“Bananas,” said Madame Daeng.

“Eh?”

“They’re good for the memory.”

“Yes. Yes, right,” he said, and sat down with no apparent inclination to go back and rectify his lapse. Siri noted his friend had returned from the bathroom a slightly different man to the one who had left them a little while before. Something was wrong.

As a good deal of Johnny Red was called for to wash down the chewy lasagna, everyone drank more than they needed to that evening. After an hour, the major still had not emerged. Dtui went to knock on his door but got no answer. In Siri’s mind, something profound was happening. Time appeared to be changing pace, a gallop here, a legless drag there. As they got closer to the dark hours after 9:00
P.M
., everyone seemed to drink faster and speak like chipmunks. He felt as if he was the only constant amid all this stop–start action. He was unnaturally alert. The whiskey wasn’t having its usual effect. There were times when he felt as if his chair was a meter higher than all those around him. He scanned the dining room and could see everything in great detail. The white talisman vibrated against his chest. He didn’t need to turn around to know that Auntie Bpoo was staring at him from the rear table. There was a sudden connection between them as if she were holding a rope, the end of which was tied around his waist, tugging. He wondered whether this was the moment of his demise; perhaps a strip of lasagna had wedged in his throat and choked him. If so, it was a calm death; one observed rather than experienced. He turned to look at Bpoo but she shook her head. “Not yet, Siri. Not yet.”

When he turned back to the table, a remarkable thing had happened. It was as if the restaurant had been edited. The film had skipped several dozen frames and jumped from a full, noisy dining room to a room half-empty. He had no recollection of how and when the majority of the guests had left but only a few stragglers remained. The head table was empty now and most of the Americans had gone. Daeng sat beside him and the diehard Lao opposite. He turned to see the empty table where a few seconds before he’d shared a moment with Auntie Bpoo.

“Are you all right?” Daeng asked him.

Her hand was on his. Dtui was laughing at something Phosy had said. Civilai was showing Geung a fork trick. Siri couldn’t organize his thoughts. His lungs were heavy as if he’d undergone some physical exertion. His fingers were cold and he had a peculiar scent in his nostrils. What was it? Turnips?

“I think so,” Siri told her.

“You’ve been very quiet,” she said.

“Daeng?”

“Yes, my husband?”

“I’m going to ask you an odd question. I don’t want you to be surprised.”

“It’s the lack of odd questions that disorients me.”

“I’m serious.”

She assumed a serious expression.

“Have I been somewhere?” he asked.

She looked into his watery green eyes and understood he was having a Siri moment.

“You excused yourself for half an hour,” she said. “You’ve just this minute returned.”

“You saw me come back? I mean, on foot?”

“As opposed to…?”

“Reappearing out of thin air.”

“Is something happening?”

“I’ve just lost that half hour. One minute I was here enjoying the evening in a crowded room then—cut to now—sober and lost. Did I happen to mention where I was going?”

“No. You headed in the direction of the bathroom. When you didn’t come back I assumed you were still having problems with your insides. After a while, Geung went looking for you but you weren’t there. You don’t remember any of it, do you?”

“I feel as if I’ve been on a tiring journey. I feel a sense of … loss.”

“Never a dull moment with you in my life, Dr. Siri.”

“Oh for a dull moment.”

They had five minutes before the generator shut down for the night; five minutes to shower, shave, clean their teeth, find sleepwear and get under the covers to ward off the bitter night air. Despite this mad rush, the loose generator washers continued to rattle and the electricity did not cut out on the stroke of nine. It gave them an unnecessary seven-minute bonus. Siri could feel the anticipation all around. He lay awake, wheezing, searching his memory for his lost half hour but nothing came. And when the din of the generator finally subsided and the lights all died, there was a massive silence. It was as if they’d reached the end of the story and someone had shut the book on them.

He was awoken by the panicked screams of a bird; one he’d encountered many times in his jungle days. It was brown and unkempt like a feather duster and it had a voice to wake the dead. In all those years he’d never learned its real name, only that any day heralded by the feather-duster bird would be an awful one. And, seconds after the bird’s ominous fanfare, there was a frenzied banging at his door. It may have been morning. There was barely enough light to see the shape of his alarm clock and certainly not enough to make out the time.

“What is it?” he called.

The words he heard from beyond the door were in Hmong and they carried a good deal of urgency.

“Yeh Ming, are you awake?”

It was uncanny how many Hmong knew of Siri’s connection to the ancient shaman he hosted, and in moments of urgency it was Yeh Ming they called upon, not Siri. Madame Daeng stirred from her deep sleep.

“What do they want?” she asked.

“Help from the ancestor.”

“Can’t they just take him and let us sleep in?”

“I’m afraid we come as a set.”

Siri crawled from beneath the cover and was slapped by the morning cold like a man caught in a snowball ambush. He grabbed his topcoat and jogged to the door. The air smelled of soot. Manager Toua was standing in the shadows beyond the doorway. His face was as pale as crêpe batter.

“Can you come please, Yeh Ming,” he said. “There’s been a disaster.”

Siri had never studied the Hmong language but one day he’d woken up to find himself fluent in it. It was a skill that came and went and he suspected his resident shaman had a hand in flicking on the switch in times of need. He returned for his trousers and slipped into his sandals. By the time he re-emerged through his door the manager had gone. Siri didn’t know which direction to head in so he opted for the dining room. As he felt his way along the corridor he became aware of the flicker of paraffin lamplight in the distance. The old parquet rattled underfoot. Toua was on the far side of the dining room beckoning him on toward the far west wing. They arrived at the last door which stood slightly ajar. The manager pointed to the gap and his finger shook. A familiar smell hung at the doorway.

“He always ordered coffee for six thirty,” said Toua. “My wife found him.”

Siri pushed at the door but it was obstructed by something heavy on the far side. He pushed again. Still he made no impression. He had no choice but to attempt to squeeze through the gap. He wedged in his shoulder and his head followed. His chest was more of a challenge and before it was halfway through he felt totally stuck. But he could see into the room now. The curtains were pulled and the large windows wide open. Dawn was struggling to make an impression on the morning outside. A grubby khaki daylight bathed the room blurred by the ever-present mist. On the ground low to his left were two fat bare legs, toes up, pointing away from the door. He squeezed further and the obstruction gave a little until he was inside and had an unrestricted view of the body that hung suspended from the door handle in a sitting position. Siri was not the type to be easily shocked. He’d seen his fair share of bizarre deaths but he’d never witnessed anything like the sight of Major Potter hung by the neck. A macramé twine was wrapped twice around his throat and tied to the handle. He wore nothing but a pair of woman’s knickers, crimson with black lace trim and far too small for him. They cut into his fat like a tourniquet. A postmortem erection lurched upward from beneath the elastic waistband. His lips were daubed with lipstick and what at first appeared to be an insect on his cheek turned out to be a beauty spot, the type favored by madams at high class brothels.

Although it wasn’t necessary, Siri felt for a pulse. There was none. The body was cold and the smell of death was prominent. He took hold of the major’s fingers and worked the arm back and forth. He had to make allowance for the low temperature but the rigor mortis suggested the man had been dead for six to eight hours.

“Oh!” came a voice.

He looked up to see Madame Daeng’s head peeking through the gap beside the door. She was visibly shocked.

“Now that
is
weird,” she said. “Is he…?”

“Very much so.”

Dr. Siri and Madame Daeng sat on the edge of the smelly bed and looked at the body hanging from the door handle opposite. They were a couple not renowned for silence but this one lent itself most splendidly to speechlessness. They took in the too-red lipstick and the too-tight underwear. They breathed the whiskey fumes and the scent of vomit diluted with disinfectant.

“Well,” said Daeng at last, uncomfortable in the early morning quiet. The foggy mist rolled in through the window and rasped the inside of her throat.

“Well, indeed,” agreed her husband.

“This is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Dr. Siri.”

“Me? I didn’t do it.”

“No. Not
it
exactly.
It
you didn’t do, I grant you. But the consequences that led to
it
. They’ve got your fingerprints all over them.”