Slash and Burn (19 page)
There was a legend that extended far back beyond the Lan Xang era six hundred years before. One that could be read of in palm-leaf documents as far away as Lanna in Siam. It was the belief that the spirits of the dead may make a plea before passing on to whatever lay beyond. The spirit had the right, so it was told, to return to places once treasured in life, there to collect old footsteps. Once gathered, those footsteps became a memorial of all the happier times on earth. But the Party made it quite clear that such legends were ridiculous. Like the stories of religion and the fables of the ancient tribes it was all balderdash. No self-respecting socialist would be gullible enough to fall for any of them. But where did that leave a man who has seen the spirits of the dead and traveled to the Otherworld of the Hmong?
Siri sat on the major’s bed looking at the weathered parquet. He knew now why he’d come to this room on the night of the major’s death. The spirit of the king had summoned him here. They’d met, briefly, in life and as far as a man of royal blood and a bloody communist could ever find common ground, they’d developed a mutual respect. They’d shared two bottles of home-brewed rice whiskey and discussed issues as only two wise old men can through to the early morning. Siri had liked the man and, if this invitation to a late night séance was any proof, the king had found a fondness for the doctor. Siri knew the old man would find many a pleasurable footstep in his old fruit orchard in Luang Prabang.
If they’d talked while the king collected his footsteps from this room, Siri had no recollection. He didn’t know how he’d died or why he’d chosen to pass through this inn. Perhaps it was the last place he’d been shown respect. Perhaps he’d come to leave a message for the doctor. It was all a mystery. But the only thing for certain was that the last regent of the Kingdom of Laos was gone. Siri was no stranger to death, nor to the afterlife, but his feelings as he looked around the musty room were mixed. He felt sorrow for a friend. But he could not deny a sense of relief, perhaps even elation. In his own mind, this vindicated him from any and all involvement in Potter’s murder. He doubted the “locked in conversation with a dead king” alibi would gain him much ground in a court of law, but in his soul he knew he was innocent. A great weight was lifted from his shoulders. Despite the fact they hadn’t seen the sun in all its glory for three days, the room seemed brighter. The world offered up new opportunities. This, he decided, was a cause for a toast and a celebration.
The whiskey supply in the kitchen was down to one or two fingers of depth in a few remaining bottles. But below the bed was Major Potter’s own personal stash. Siri was sure the old soldier wouldn’t begrudge them a taste. He got to his knees and slid out the crate. It was of a good old-fashioned wooden variety but the partitions between the eight remaining bottles were cardboard. It was a snug fit between each one. He prised a bottle out and held it aloft. No common Johnnie Walker this.
Glenfiddich single malt
Scotch whiskey, 12 years old
read the shiny silver and gold label. Potter was a connoisseur. Siri wondered whether eleven o’clock might be too early for a celebratory snort. But then he remembered how close he was to the end of his days and could think of no better way to go than with the taste of neat Scotch whiskey on his lips. The crate weighed far more than the bottles so he removed the pillow case from its pillow and started to load them into it, being careful not to clink them together too violently. When he pulled out the fourth bottle, the cardboard partition came away with it and Siri immediately understood. Major Potter hadn’t been asking Civilai’s help to untie his laces. He’d been pointing to the crate. And disguised as lining for that crate were three large manila envelopes.
As an herb, marijuana adds a certain aromatic charm to cooking. It’s particularly compatible with aubergine. If the Americans hadn’t made such a fuss about it, marijuana would be dried and diced and in its rightful place in a little bottle on the spice and herbs racks around the world. Fried or boiled it is no more criminally liable than oregano or thyme. But steeped in saturated fat and served in sweet hot water it becomes clear why the director of the United States Federal Bureau of Narcotics once called it: …
the most violence-causing drug in the history of mankind which
produces in its users insanity, criminality, and death—makes darkies
think they’re as good as white men and leads to pacifism and
communist brainwashing.
Which makes you wonder whether he’d ever tried it.
In fact smoking cannabis gives one a rapid buzz that passes into a short-lived high. Euphoria is fleeting and needs continuous top-ups. Marijuana tea, on the other hand, takes its own sweet time. It could be an hour before the first effects are felt, and they linger. And there is no generic reaction. To each his own. Some may find their latent paranoia bursts to the surface like a submarine short of air. Others may trip over hilarity with every step. And, as Madame Daeng remembered correctly, until they found their own agents employing the stocks for personal use, the OSS did use weed as a truth drug, often with hilarious effects. For some, marijuana opened the floodgates of overacting and loquaciousness.
Daeng had worked for an hour to produce her tea. Although she’d had to be careful not to overfill the tasting teaspoon, she had to admit that she’d produced a most delicious brew—twenty liters of it, judging from the size of the pot. It was served in huge mugs and she advertised it as a local herbal tea with a bit of a pick-you-up. It was the perfect thing to combat the smoke in your lungs. With the two kitchen girls by her side, she delivered the tea personally along with the lunch rations. She was selective about which doors she knocked on. In her rounds she visited General Suvan, Judge Haeng and his cousin Vinai, Peach, Senator Vogal and Ethel Chin, who seemed to spend more time in the senator’s room than in her own. Daeng refused to leave them all until they’d tasted her tea. She knew that once it caressed their lips, they’d be unable to resist finishing the cup. They might even come back for more. For good measure she gave a cup to the kitchen staff, the two old musketeers and Mr. Toua and his wife. She drew the line at the young guards newly assigned by the local garrison because they all looked as if they were already on something. The combination of drugs and AK47s was always best avoided.
Exhausted but excited at the thought of what effect, if any, her tea might have, Daeng retired briefly to her room. Siri wasn’t there. She assumed he’d gone off with Dtui and Phosy because she hadn’t seen any of them during her rounds. Lit and Sergeant Johnson had vanished also. She supposed she’d have to resort to Civilai as backup when observation time arrived. Her legs were troubling her as always and she made the mistake of laying her head on the pillow—just for a second.
It was 1:00
P.M
. when she felt the tugging at her foot. She opened her eyes to find the room lit with spotlights and the humble wall designs dancing. Mr. Geung was at the foot of the bed holding on to her ankle. While she was asleep somebody had found a cure for rheumatism. For the first time this trip, her joints were as fluid as those of a ten-year-old Romanian gymnast.
“Everyone’s gone mad,” said Geung, and gave another tug on her foot.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t know what’s happened. Everybody’s mad.”
“Geung, what’s happened to your speech?”
“It’s the same as ever.”
“No, it isn’t.” She sat up on the bed, which rocked from side to side in an attempt to shake her off. The room was truly beautiful. She yanked her foot from Geung’s grasp. “You aren’t stammering and stuttering.”
“Sorry.”
“Geung! What have you done?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you drink the tea?”
Daeng was OD’ing on senses: smell, hearing, the taste of her own tongue.
“Yes,” said Geung. “One half mug.”
Despite the dire seriousness of the situation, Daeng laughed. On the strength of just a few teaspoonfuls of her tea, she was floating. She’d had her share of marijuana in her life but nothing this potent. This was outstanding. And Mr. Geung had drunk half a mug full. What had she done? She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.
“You forgot people,” said Geung, looking quite serious which only caused Daeng to laugh more.
“What?”
“Some people didn’t get tea. Comrade Civilai, Auntie Bpoo, Dr. Harikiri.”
“Did you give….” It was just too funny.
“It was good tea. It’s not fair to give to some and not to others. The guards liked it.”
“You gave it to everybody?”
It was so awful she was afraid she’d wet herself.
“Some had two mugs.”
Daeng roared with laughter and fled to the bathroom. What a balls up. Friendly fire. Hoist with their own petards. Scuttled. Buggered. Yet still she laughed. Even more so when the bathroom tap produced nothing but a rude fart. She bounced back into her room on legs that felt like pogo sticks. Geung was still staring at her shape in the thick quilt as if he hadn’t noticed it had already released her.
“I’m here,” she said. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the carnival.”
The discovery of Major Potter’s hidden documents had its downside. They were all written in English. But, once he’d made that discovery and wished for a translator, the wishful thinking service couldn’t have been any better. He looked up at the sound of the knock at the door. He hurried across the room and turned the handle. Auntie Bpoo stood outside with a large mug in each hand.
“It’s soon,” she said.
“My death?”
“Unless we can prevent it.”
“What’s that you’re holding?”
“Tea. Mr. Geung said it was delicious. I brought one for you.”
“Hardly worth the effort if it’s just going to end up as postmortem stomach contents.”
The doctor paced back to the bed, leaving Bpoo in the doorway.
“I tell you what,” he said. “This is really bad timing. I”ve probably got all these valuable leads and clues and whatnot but I can’t read the darned things. Can’t we … I don’t know … postpone it or something?”
“I don’t think death is that cooperative,” said Bpoo. She stepped into the room and closed the door with her rump. Siri, through his bizarre experiences of the past few years had learned not to ignore the signs. If Bpoo said he was going to die—die he would. But he wasn’t about to sit down and wait for the ox cart of death to pull up in front of him.
“All right,” he said. “So time is of the essence. Put those down and come over here and take a look at these. Tell me what they’re all about.”
He fanned out the papers and sat on the bed with them. Auntie Bpoo downed anchor halfway across the room.
“Old man,” she said. “Don’t you want to prepare or something?”
“Prepare what?”
“Yourself. For death.”
Siri laughed.
“Well, Bpoo. Let’s see. If the Buddhists are right, I’m just on my way to the next incarnation. Unless there’s a manual for how to behave correctly as a gnat I’m not sure how I’d prepare for that. If the Catholics are right, nothing short of an asbestos suit and a glass of iced water will help where I’m going. And if the communists are right, you do your best and when you’re gone they put up a statue in your honor and the locals dry their laundry on it. So, if I’m going, you’re the heir to today’s legacy. So come here and translate for me.”
Half an hour later Siri and Bpoo walked into the dining room. Fellini was apparently directing a crowd scene there. Like survivors of a natural disaster, the hotel guests had all congregated at a central spot. The tea urn was the focal point. Dr. Yamaguchi was standing on the table dipping his mug into the dregs. Siri recalled Civilai’s description of the bodies found in the rice whiskey jars. The pathologist seemed to have no fear for his own life as his bottom wagged from side to side in the air. The senator was standing on a chair orating. His audience was a crowd of Hmong and Civilai who was pretending to translate but was instead making terrible fun of the statesman. Vogal, buoyed on by the cheers and laughter, was in danger of falling off his chair as he waved his arms around and yelled to the heavens. In a corner, Daeng was engaged in a
ramwong
dance of almost imperceptible motion with General Suvan. The music that only they could hear was presumably being played on a cassette tape which had stretched as a result of exposure to heat. Ethel Chin sat alone at a table sobbing miserably into her folded arms. Mr. Geung stood beside her, patting her on the back and saying, “There, there,” over and over. Secretary Gordon was charming the manager’s wife who blushed and giggled like a teenager.
Siri was just in time to witness Judge Haeng reach in the direction of Peach’s breast. She leaned back in time, clenched her fist, and landed an impressive haymaker on the judge’s nose. After a few frozen seconds the sound of a crack circuited the room and blood spurted out of the law enforcer’s nostrils. He used his right hand to squeeze his nose then made a second attempt, this time at the other breast, with his left. It was Peach’s knee this time that floored the judge and, very likely, ended any hope of future generations of Haengs. Journalist Rhyme was in grave danger of making himself blind because he’d become fascinated with the awesome power of his camera’s flash unit and uttered an impressed “wow” every time he flashed himself.
This left only Cousin Vinai who had fashioned a sort of noose out of kitchen napkins and was on a ladder attempting, without the benefit of coordination, to suspend it from one of the rafters.
“This is exactly why I didn’t let you drink the tea,” Siri told Bpoo.
Bpoo turned back for the room but Siri caught her by the arm.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
“We’ve got two full mugs of this stuff back in the room.”
“You aren’t going back.”
“But look at these people.”
“We need to be alert.”