Love Songs From a Shallow Grave (32 page)

It had been six weeks since Siri had left for Wittay Airport. Six weeks since she told him not to forget his noodles. She hoped they didn’t have show-and-tell nights in the other world or wherever he’d gone.

“And, Dr Siri, what were the last words you heard from your beloved wife?”

She knew she’d have to reopen the shop again soon. She had money put aside but with this crowd in power, her savings were shrinking before her eyes. Perhaps she’d shut up shop and move back south. At least there she’d be spared the sympathy. They had all come to see her. Nice people. They invited her to visit. To stay over. Even offered to move into the shop to keep her company. Brought presents. Yes, nice people. She hated every one of them. Did she really need to know how much they loved her husband? Did she care how sorry they were? Eventually she’d been forced to lock the front shutters and shout her conversations from the upstairs window. And then she stopped shouting and they stopped coming.

She walked along the upstairs landing and into the bedroom. She didn’t bother to turn on the light. She knew where the bed was. She’d lain awake in it for a month. The heroin she’d secreted in her altar to give her relief from rheumatism was currently dulling her grief. It stopped the tears and fuzzed reality, but it robbed her of sleep. She went to the window. The rains had moved south, flooding all their silly collective paddies and creating brand-new disasters for her country. And there was more to come. Monsoons were lashing China to the north and filling her darling Mekhong. Only June and all the sandbanks had sunk and logs sped past her shop with a menace that suggested her river was in a foul mood.

“Don’t even think about swimming to freedom,” it snarled.

Crazy Rajid was back. She could see him in the shadows. He sat on his Crazy Rajid stool under his Crazy Rajid umbrella. She wondered if he was the only sensible one of the lot of them. He hadn’t found anyone. And what you don’t find you don’t lose. He’d slept behind his father’s house when the rains were at their worst but, as far as she knew, he still hadn’t spoken to Bhiku. And she understood. She knew exactly why he held his tongue. Rajid had loved his mother and his siblings and they’d drowned. In his head it was quite obvious that his love had killed them. So how could he continue to love his father? Hadn’t he killed enough people? He had to hate his father because he loved him so much. Just as Daeng hated Siri.

She waved but wasn’t surprised at all when he didn’t wave back.

“Good man,” she said. “Keep your distance. Love stinks.”

She walked to the bed and, fully dressed, curled herself onto the top cover.

∗

He sat on his stool and looked up at the window. His thoughts were slow and his memory affected but he couldn’t forget that sweet woman, Daeng, who was admiring her river. He could understand what she saw in it. It was different every day. The water that passed you this minute would never come back. One chance to see the fallen tree. One shot at the bloated buffalo carcass. Everything was new. It didn’t have or need a memory. He loved the river too but today it had almost taken his life. It wasn’t a valuable life but he’d decided it was worth hanging on to. He was wet through and exhausted. And he was crying. Not many people had seen him cry. Some thought he had no real emotions. Thought he was cold. But that wasn’t true. He was nothing but emotions. His body was just a skin to hold all the emotions in. That’s why he was such a weakling. Why he had to pretend to be what he wasn’t.

He stood, lowered the umbrella, tied the drawstring and walked towards the shop. He’d started to feel the cold and he knew the chill was coming from inside him. It wouldn’t be long before a fever took hold. He needed to eat. He needed dry clothes. But, most of all, he needed to be wanted. He stopped on the pavement beneath her window. A bin for rubbish – half an oil drum – stood there. In it were the broken remnants of a spirit house and an altar. Someone had tried to set light to them but nothing burned in this weather. He stepped up to the grey shutters and a massive sigh shuddered in his throat.

“What if she hates me? What will I do then?” But it was too late to consider the negatives. He raised his fist and banged on the metal. Not one or two polite knocks but thunder, banging so hard that if she didn’t come down he would pummel his fist-prints into the steel. He’d hammer a hole in the metal and step inside.

∗

Daeng might have found rest but she hadn’t expected to find sleep. And when the hammering began she gave up on both. Why didn’t they leave her alone? She put the pillow over her head. It was musty from the stains of tears. If she couldn’t hear the noise perhaps it would eventually stop. But it went on, gnawing through the kapok, ‘thump, thump’. And she might have let it continue but for the memory of Rajid on his stool. The possibility that he might be hungry, or ill.

She went to the window. He wasn’t there. She leaned over the sill.

“Rajid, is that you?”

The banging continued.

“Rajid?”

The sound stopped.

“Rajid! I’m up here.”

Because the view was blocked by the awning, a visitor had to step back into the road to talk to someone at the upstairs window. But he didn’t step back.

“It’s all right, Rajid. It’s me, Daeng. Can I help you?”

A figure stepped from beneath the awning and stood in the deserted roadway, and the breath was sucked from Daeng in one single gust, stolen from her. She fell to the floor fighting to breathe. She bloodied her elbow against the table leg. She felt the tingling of her nerves at her fingertips and in her toes. Her stomach cramped. She was angry, no, furious.

“How dare you?” she called, and climbed to her feet. “I mean, just how dare you?” She staggered to the window. The figure was still there, brazenly haunting her. “I’m not one of you,” she cried. “You can’t do this to me. Go do your scary stuff somewhere else. It won’t work here. I’m past you now.”

“Daeng?” the figure said.

“Stop it!”

Her tears had come despite all her efforts to hold them back.

“Stop it and leave me alone.”

“Daeng, it’s me.”

She glared at him through her tears, expecting him to ignite, at least dissolve, something dramatic and ghostly.

Something worthy. But he stood in his inappropriate T-shirt and Bermuda shorts and dripped onto the roadway. “I could really use a spicy number two,” he said.

VERY GREEN TOURISM

H
ow word got around so fast, nobody knew. But even before the first cock crowed, before the first hornbill cooed, the visitors started to arrive. Some suggested the actual crazy Rajid had seen Dr Siri emerge from the river and had sounded the alarm. Others cited dreams, or instinct, or just an urge to stop by Daeng’s noodle shop to see how things were going. They were all shocked but nobody was disappointed with what they found. The loss of weight didn’t hurt the doctor’s looks any, they agreed. The women said he was even more irresistible. Gaunt was in this year and the scars on his shaved head gave him a rugged demeanour. His timing and coordination might have been off just a tad. He took a moment to consider before answering questions, if he understood them at all. Perhaps he stuttered here and there and gave more inappropriate responses than he used to. He’d only had four hours of sleep before they started arriving.

In fact, he found all the excitement bewildering. Faces jumped in and out of his vision like camera flashes. Some he recalled but most were faded photographs in a forgotten album. Dtui was in focus and clear, as were Phosy and Geung. But when Judge Haeng turned up at nine, Siri was respectful and didn’t make any sarcastic comments, which perhaps frightened everybody most. They all agreed that Dr Siri must have walked through the burning peat fields of Satan. They were glad to have him back even if he was…a bit odd. Odd was better than dead. But when they pushed him on what had happened there in hell, Madame Daeng was always around to deflect the questions.

“He’ll tell you when he’s ready,” she said.

The only private conversation she allowed her husband was a brief interlude with Civilai. The old friends stood together in the backyard, staring at the chicken droppings.

“I have something to say, but you’re a bit of a moron right now,” Civilai said.

“Yes,” Siri agreed.

“A bit like taking advantage of a…well, anyway. I suppose ‘I’m sorry’s as good a place to start as any. I’m sorry I deserted you. Sorry I didn’t do more to find you. Sorry I acted like a…Are you laughing?”

“Yes.”

“At me?”

“N’yes.”

“Why? May I ask?”

“Cause yours an…you’re an arse.”

“That’s probably the medication talking. I’ll let it pass.”

“It’s me talking, you arse. You don’t if. I mean. If, the Rouge nabbed you, do you thought I’d have done something else? Something different?”

“Yes, you’re a hero. You’d have strolled into the hotel dining room with an AK47 and poked it in Big Brother’s belly and insisted they release me.”

“Then we…we both be dead. Dumb idea. Doing nothing’s not worse than doing something stupid, isn’t it? You used your brain. I didn’t. I de…deserve to be…you know.”

“I just feel – ”

“You did everything that was humanly poss…possible.”

They stood for a few more seconds studying the droppings. Civilai coughed and turned back towards the shop.

“Nice cliché,” he said.

“I’m b…brain damaged. It’s the bes…bes…best I can do.”

∗

Before ten, to the vocal displeasure of a shop full of people, Daeng decided that the circus was over. The doctor needed his rest. When the last hanger-on was shoved into the street and the shutters were closed, she took Siri by the arm and led him up to the bedroom.

“I could tell them,” he said.

“You aren’t telling anyone anything until I hear it first,” she told him. “I don’t care if the president himself arrives by helicopter. I’m not letting him in. Come! To bed with you.”

Siri laughed.

“I don’t think – ” he said.

“Oh, wipe that conceited smirk off your face, Siri Paiboun. Look at you, scrawny bruised old man that you are. You think I’d be interested in anything but watching you sleep?”

“I’ve had…I mean, I’ve slept enough.”

“Four hours? That was barely long enough to get those puffy eyes closed. You’ve barely the energy to speak. You have a month to catch up with. And I want you rested so you can keep something down. I won’t have a man throwing up my noodles in my own shop.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

“But I want, I mean…I want to talk about it.”

“And you will, my hero. As soon as I’m ready to hear.”

“I’m not treated.”

“What?”

“No, tired, I mean. I’m not tired.”

“Good. Then lie down here beside me and hold my hand.”

He had barely tucked his fingers between those of his wife when sleep poured over him like liquid cement. He slept through the rest of that day and into the night. He missed the dog-howl chorus at ten and the midnight transformer explosion somewhere across the river. It was four a.m. when he finally stretched and groaned and rolled onto his side to see Daeng beside him. The night was bright but the light came from an open room along the hallway. His wife was smiling.

“I dreamed the world was an awful place,” he said.

“It wasn’t a dream,” she told him. “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know. Heavy,” he said.

“Do you want to eat?”

“No, Daeng. I want to talk.”

And so he began. His speech was still slow but sleep had reorganised his mind. He told her how he’d discovered the letter clutched in the hand of the corpse of the young man from the Information ministry. How he’d decided to pass it on to Civilai because his friend hadn’t broken the rules and had a chance to get away. But Siri himself was a marked man. His hours of freedom were numbered. He had been captured leaving his friend’s room. He told her how he’d been dragged to the S21 torture camp and charged with spying and subversion. He left out a lot of details, facts he was sure she’d be able to insert herself, but even the abridged version frightened both of them. By the time he reached the night of his escape his whole body was shaking like an old water pump. Daeng had her arm over him to anchor him down.

“The heavy monk had become the enemy already,” Siri said, staring his story into Daeng’s eyes. “One minute he was running the show, the next he was chained to corpses and soon to become one of them. Everyone was aware that they could be next. I don’t know how long the smiley man had been nursing his bottle of Johnnie Black on the back porch. He’d just put in a solid eight hours of torturing his colleagues. A man has to have doubts about job security when that happens. There’s nothing like Johnnie Walker for showing a man how fleeting his stay on the earth might be.

“When he saw the first prisoner fleeing across the backyard I assume it was instinct rather than conscientious duty that made him grab a bayonet and go after him. He was so drunk I’m surprised he made any contact at all. But I doubt the kill gave him any pleasure. I’m sure the hopelessness had eaten into him by that stage. When he saw me and Thursday and the woman, we were just more walls tumbling down around him. End of optimism. End of life. He had the gun in his hand even before he reached me. There’s an old saying, ‘Only a fool sits next to a man with a gun to his head’. Well, I was that fool. He pulled me to him and I didn’t have the strength to push him away. I’m sure he had it in mind to do away with me as well as himself.”

“You can take a break if you like,” Daeng told him. Siri’s sweat had soaked her clothes. She wiped his forehead with a cloth.

“He pulled the trigger. I heard it click,” Siri went on. “Then all I remember was being in the middle of this ball of energy, like…like watching an explosion from the inside. I don’t know what deflected the bullet – his thick skull, a metal plate in his brain, or just his wayward aim. I don’t know. Whatever…it was kind to me. All I got was a face full of cranial matter and this.”

He ran his finger along the scar that slashed across his forehead like a cancellation.