Thirty-Three Teeth (10 page)

“Mr. Ivanic says the animal has just recently arrived from China and it’s reacting badly to the heat, as we all are. In such circumstances, pandas are known to regress and become nocturnal until they can acclimatize.”

“So it sleeps in the day and gets rowdy at night?”

“Something like that.”

“But it’s a bear?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I could take a look at its teeth? I just want to try to understand the differences Mr. Ivanic has described for myself.”

“It’s sleeping.”

“Maybe it sleeps with its mouth open. I do.”

A discussion ensued between the men, and it was clear that they disagreed on the decision. Mr. Ivanic seemed to think it was all right as long as they didn’t wake the creature. The Russian untied the edge of the curtain, took Dtui by the hand and led her into the flap between the drape and the bars of the cage. The thick material did a good job of keeping out the sun. The only light oozed up from the points where the curtains didn’t quite reach the ground.

She could barely make out the slow breathing shape at the rear of the cage. Its face was away from her. All she could see were the contrasting black and white markings and the piles of uneaten fruit. She would have stayed longer till her eyes became accustomed to the dark, but she was suddenly aware that Mr. Ivanic’s hand was moving from her back slowly south. It was time to get out.

Phot was waiting for them, smoking a cigarette.

“See anything?”

“Not much. It was too dark. I thought pandas were bigger than that.”

“It will be. He’s still quite young. Nurse Chundee….”

“Call me Dtui.”

“Dtui, if you don’t mind, it would be better if not too many people knew about our panda. It hasn’t exactly cleared customs.”

“Illegal alien?”

“It came in on a transporter overnight from Kun Ming. The paperwork would have taken weeks. The thing would have starved to death in Customs if we’d done it officially. You understand?”

“My lips are sealed.”

He interpreted their conversation.

“Mr. Ivanic thanks you for your cooperation. He would like to show his gratitude by inviting you for lunch at his private rooms.”

“I’m sure he would. But I’m afraid that although Mr. Ivanic is marvelous with animals, he doesn’t have nice manners when it comes to Lao women.”

“You want me to translate that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good for you.”

The second sunrise came at around 8 A.M. It was when the first sun had risen high enough to reflect from the golden dome of Xiang Thong temple. For many in Luang Prabang, this marked the time to head for work—which, in turn, explained why so many people stayed in bed on cloudy days.

Siri sat on the white steps in front of Pak Ou cave. It was a pocket in the face of the cliff that overlooked the confluence of the Mekhong and the Nam Xuang rivers. Its most remarkable characteristic was what it contained: there were thousands upon thousands of Buddha images of all shapes and sizes. The coroner had been up to look at this unguarded population that dated back hundreds of years. He wondered how long it would be before some disreputable pirate rowed in under the cover of darkness to fill orders for Thai antique shops.

He wondered from which direction his shaman friend would be coming. As far as he’d seen, the cave wasn’t deep. It ended at a rock face. That’s probably why he was startled to hear Tik’s voice behind and above him.

“What are you doing down there, Yeh Ming?”

“I’m waiting for you. How did you get up there, Brother?”

“I live here.”

“Then I can’t think how I missed you, unless I mistook you for a Buddha.”

Siri climbed back up the steps. The old guru wore nothing more than a small cloth knotted around his organ and its appendages. Siri shook a hand that clicked like knitting needles, and the two men went into the cave. The doctor nodded toward the images. “I was thinking of a curse to protect these gentlemen.”

“You’re several hundred years too late, boy. These are better protected than the national treasury.”

“How? Anyone can walk off with them.”

He was being led slowly into the shadows at the rear of the cave.

“Walk off, yes, and many have been walked off with over the years. But believe me, not one thief has lived a happy life as a result of it. I can’t tell you how gruesome are the fates that await he who harbors a Pak Ou Buddha. And through the marvelous sense of direction they possess, these statuettes will all gradually find their way back here where they belong.”

They reached a rock wall that Siri had inspected earlier. It appeared sheer and unbroken, but Tik walked confidently toward it at an angle and exposed the optical illusion. It was as if he were being swallowed by a solid rock. Siri approached it more carefully, and it wasn’t until he was almost nose-first into the wall that the gap showed itself.

He followed close on the bare heels of the old man. They walked along a tunnel lit by scattering fireflies until they arrived at a small cavern, which was illuminated from above. Somehow, natural light filtered down through crevices in the rock, even though they must have been deep into the mountain.

The hollow was littered with scavenged refuse; cans and bottles, flotsam from the river, piles of rescued royal street signs, cloths of various hues and patterns, bleached animal bones, and piles of indescribable rubbish, all meticulously cleaned.

Tik scooped a half coconut on the end of a stick into a pool and handed the water to Siri, who took a sip. It was curiously effervescent, quite delicious as water went. It gave him a slight thrill and he decided not to drink too much of it. He hadn’t come looking for excitement.

Tik sat cross-legged on the floor and stared at his guest. He was a man who didn’t waste time creeping up on the point. “I feel you should be dead.”

Siri joined him on the ground. “How could you know?”

“How could I not? How could I miss the incredible force you drag behind you? A powerful shaman and a wild pack of angry spirits could hardly arrive in Luang Prabang without my knowing. Tell me. Begin with this morning.”

Siri related the events leading up to his death: the sound, the stupa closing around him, and the feeling of being dragged below the earth. He told him how he knew beyond a whisper of a doubt that he was dead. Tik gave an admiring chuckle.

“Ahh. They’re devious, the Phibob. Those from the south especially so. Yeh Ming has obviously made some powerful enemies over the past thousand years.”

In two hands he took up a large square tin with the words HUNTLY AND PALMER BISCUITS printed on the front and slowly began to circle it clockwise in front of him. Something inside seemed to be rolling around.

“Then you don’t think this is just revenge for my helping the soldiers cutting the forest in Khamuan?” Siri asked.

“Goodness me, no. Yeh Ming has been exorcising malevolent spirits for many centuries. He has a sizeable opposition in the spirit world.”

“And this morning was an attempt to get even?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

The tin was rotating faster, and Tik muttered an incantation under his breath before turning it upside down on the earth floor. He pulled it away like a child hoping to see a completed sandcastle. Instead, Siri noticed a broken egg, some small bones, and a slither of animal entrails. Tik studied them.

“In a way, Yeh Ming is in his twilight era. Perhaps that’s why he’s chosen such an unimpressive host.”

“Thank you.”

“He has been dormant for a while, am I right?”

“Apart from the dreams, I didn’t know he existed until last year.”

“And recently, certain abilities have awoken in you?”

“Yes.”

“That is what has alerted the Phibob. You should never have taken him back to Khamuan. There were too many memories there, too much hostile spirit activity. The Phibob have the scent now. It’s like the wildcat who senses that the deer is wounded. They won’t settle until they have destroyed Yeh Ming’s final temple.”

“Where’s that?”

“Not where, who. You are the temple in which he has chosen to end his centuries.”

“Oh shit. Why?”

Tik looked up from the reading.

“What do you know of your father?”

“Not a damned thing.”

“Your birth father was Lao Heu, a renowned Hmong shaman and a direct descendent of Yeh Ming. Before you, he had hosted the soul. Between them, they put together a…how can I put it? They put together a retirement plan, and you were it.”

Siri’s mind was spinning. After seventy-two years, he suddenly had a father and a history. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. Ignorance had served him well enough all those years.

“I don’t….”

“As soon as you were born, a ceremony was held to make Yeh Ming your guardian spirit. Naturally, that put you in a very dangerous situation. They sent you away from your home so you wouldn’t suspect you had a connection with the spirit world. Not knowing and not pursuing witchcraft was the insurance policy that kept you and Yeh Ming safe.

“The life of the soul is cyclical. If left to its own devices, it would never end. You would have carried it, then it would have passed on to another. But Yeh Ming had caused something unheard of in the world beyond. He had created an enemy of the Phibob that over the years became powerful in its own right.

“It was dangerous and needed to be destroyed. As it was created out of revenge for Yeh Ming, the only way to stop the Phibob was to end the reign of your guardian. It was hoped you would go through your life as a simple man, never calling on the great shaman to perform. It was hoped you would achieve a non-violent death and allow Yeh Ming to crumble peacefully with his temple.”

“How do you know all this?”

“The details I see here in the bones and the entrails, but the story is already folklore.”

“I’m a legend?”

“Don’t be conceited. It is Yeh Ming who is the legend.”

“How did I cheat death this morning?”

“Good fortune—or, more accurately, good karma. The Phibob cannot inflict direct harm. No one is physically struck down by an evil spirit. But they are able to get into your mind. There are many unexplained deaths, usually of men in their sleep without plausible cause. This is the mischief of the malevolent spirits.

“The Phibob can convince a sleeping person he has died. This morning they dragged your mind below the earth, confined you inside a stupa. It was so real, so convincing that your subconscious was certain you could no longer breathe. Once your mind has lost that battle, there is no point in your body continuing to function. It shuts down in defeat. Dastardly clever.”

“So, how…?”

Tik used a chicken bone to draw a line of yolk from the egg to the intestines.

“You had performed a selfless act earlier in the day.”

Siri thought back.

“The elephant?”

“Its soul wished to repay your kindness. The spirit of the elephant is a thing of marvel. The Lord Buddha said ‘Of all footprints, that of the elephant is supreme.’”

“It kept me breathing?”

“It reminded you to start again. That and the golden Buddha beneath which you slept. I doubt the Elephant God could have saved you alone.”

“I was actually dead. I know it.”

“Welcome back. You appear to have a second sunrise.”

“What can I do to keep the Phibob from doing me in again?”

“That’s more complicated. To do their damage, they need a trigger. Is there something that symbolizes them to you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“A black amulet. They used it to get to me. It was destroyed in Khamuan, then re-emerged in Vientiane, whole.”

“It certainly wasn’t the same one.”

“It was.”

“Oh, in your mind it may have been. But if you had asked someone else to describe what they saw, it would not have been a black amulet.”

Siri’s thoughts raced back to the day of the date, to Lah and to the gift. Was it possible she’d given him something else? Was the amulet in the box a mirage the Phibob had put there? He felt foolish.

“And you saw it again here?” Tik asked.

“I felt it. It was buried in the destroyed stupa. I didn’t actually see it, but I knew it was there.”

“Then that is the portal through which the Phibob can enter your soul.”

“What can I do?”

“At the source there is usually a reverse image. It could be a mantra or an object that negates the effects of the black amulet.”

“There is. They gave me a white talisman in Khamuan.”

“Show me.”

“I don’t carry it.”

“You’re foolish. It must be with you always. Where is it?”

“In Vientiane. In my house.”

“Then I suggest you get there as soon as you can. I don’t value your chances of cheating death twice. Remember this: if you die a natural death, Yeh Ming can rest in peace; if you suffer a violent unnatural death, he will be cursed to eternal hell amongst the evil spirits. You must avoid the latter at all costs.”

“Right. I’ll see what I can do.”

It was while he was searching for Mr. Inthanet’s house on Kitsalat, while simultaneously endeavoring to avoid a violent and unnatural death, that Siri ran into the man from his dream. It was so unusual for living people to appear in his dreams that his natural first assumption was that this was a dead person walking along the main street.

It was the footman who’d served the king beneath the fig tree and exploded messily after introducing the helicopter pilots. He had the same straggly chin beard and hair that hung like a hula skirt around a bald dome. If anything, he looked more Ceylonese than Chinese and, to Siri’s professional eye, very much alive.

Without putting too much thought into why, he changed direction and followed the man at a distance. He had a confident Western swing to his gait, and his clothes suggested that some thought had gone into their selection. His large stomach was accentuated by the tonic sheen of his traditional Lao shirt. It was as if he wore such clothes through choice, not obligation.

The man crossed the street and walked along the short drive into the Hotel Phousy. Through the glass door, Siri saw him take a newspaper from the stand at reception, exchange a few friendly words with the clerk, and walk through another door into the dining room. This told Siri one or two things.

A man would only eat in a sophisticated hotel if he were a guest or comparatively wealthy. As the newspaper was Lao, he wasn’t a foreign tourist. And the cut of his clothes announced that he wasn’t a waiter or cook.

Siri pushed open the double doors and walked into the small lobby. The receptionist was a middle-aged man whose spectacles only had a lens on the left side. The right was open to the elements.

“Good day, Comrade,” he said, suspicious of this bagless visitor.

“Good health. I was just passing and I thought I saw someone I once knew come in here: a dark man with a beard and a stomach.”

“That would be Mr. Kumron?”

“Kumron—that’s right. I haven’t seen him for such a long time, I wasn’t sure it was him. He’s put on weight. What’s he doing these days?”

“You can go and ask him yourself. He’s in the restaurant.”

“Oh, I don’t want to trouble him. I doubt he’d remember me. But my sister would probably be interested to hear how he got on. They once had a…relationship.”

“I see. Well, she’d be pleased to hear he’s done very nicely for himself, very nicely indeed.”

“Oh, good.”

“In fact, until recently, he was an adviser and confidant to…” he lowered his voice “…the Royal Family.”

“You don’t say?”

“I do. He and the king were like this.” He crossed his fingers in front of his nose.

“Goodness.”

It was then that the clerk seemed to suddenly remember some advice he’d once been given about not trusting strangers. Although it may not have been exactly memorized, he did have a speech at hand for such an occasion.

“The Royal Family has been sucking the blood from the country and its people for centuries. It’s a relief that we’re now free of the tyrant and can work together to rebuild our great land.”

It was an uninspired rendition.

“So, old Kumron’s probably on his way to re-education too, if he was part of that blood-sucking.”

“Ah, no, Comrade. Mr. Kumron is a very intelligent human being. The party has found a way to use his expertise to further its advances in the northern region.”

“The Party gave him a job?”

“He’s running several large projects, I believe.”

It all became crystal-clear: the king’s adviser, the attempted rescue, the removal of the Royal Family, and the payoff. The pilots had said it: “We were betrayed.”

For what other reason would a living man appear in his dream, if not that he had died in some other way? Siri was no fan of royalty; he wasn’t even that fond of communism; but he was a man of principle. He believed that whatever creed a man chose, he was dependent on the trust and honor of the men and women who followed the same creed. In Siri’s mind, a betrayal of that trust was sinful.

He’d survived his forty-odd years of jungle warfare not only because of his ability to fight when necessary or run when necessary—any animal could do that; he’d survived because of the people around him. Their lives were interconnected. You had to know that a comrade was good to his word and would sooner give up his own life than sacrifice yours. That’s how it had been in the early days, anyway.

Kumron had achieved the exalted position of adviser to the king. He had earned a place in the old man’s soul. But in order to save his own status, he’d given up information about the escape attempt. He had ended the Royal Family’s last hope of survival. With so few true friends left, this betrayal would have been a final poisonous arrow in the kwun of the Royals. The man shouldn’t have been rewarded. If honor meant anything in this day and age, he should have been executed. But did anyone know?

Siri realized that he was still at the counter and the clerk was staring through his single lens, waiting for the next question. He also realized that he was the only one in a position to do anything.

“You know?” Siri said. “Perhaps I will go and say hello after all.”

He walked through to the brown wood and red vinyl dining room. Its air was being conditioned by a large grumbling machine along the back wall. The small tables were unlaid, apart from one. There Kumron sat with his back to the door reading the newspaper. In front of him was a sight rarer in Laos than a two-headed naga serpent—a cool bottle of beer.

Siri knew that what little success this attack might have depended on how cleanly Kumron believed he had gotten away with his betrayal and how guilty he felt about it. The doctor walked around the table and cast a shadow on the newspaper. When Kumron realized he wasn’t the waiter, he looked up.

“Do you believe in ghosts, Comrade Kumron?”

Kumron was a calm, dignified man who seemed unflustered by this question from a stranger. He smiled politely. “Perhaps I could ask the name of the person asking the question.”

“In the long run, my name won’t make any difference. I’m just a messenger.”

The waiter in a short-sleeved once-white shirt and kipper tie assumed Siri was joining Kumron and dragged over a second chair.

“Please,” the waiter said, but Siri didn’t sit. The boy retired to the kitchen doorway.

“On the evening of the tenth, I spent his last night with a mutual friend at an orchard in Pak Xang.”

“I see. Then won’t you join me?”

There was something slightly less authoritative about his voice.

“No. We talked of a number of things. He surprised me at how forgiving he was when it came to the dealings of the PL. He held no animosity toward the local cadres here who had thrown him out of his palace. There was only—”

“Sir, if this is a private conversation I think it would be better conducted elsewhere. Would you like to join me in a beer?”

He no longer looked at Siri’s green eyes, which had burned uncomfortably into his own.

“No. I’m nearly finished.”

And here came the lie Siri hoped might destroy the destroyer.

“He said there was only one person he could never find it in his heart to forgive.”

Although his expression remained passive, Kumron’s face drained of color like whiskey poured from a bottle.

“You betrayed him.”

“I don’t know who you are, sir, or why you came to me.”

His voice trembled. The suddenness of the accusation had overwhelmed him. He’d had no time to compose himself. It was as if the king were standing before him, exposing his treachery.

“You thought you were too clever to be found out, Comrade Kumron. You thought he would never suspect you, his most trusted confidant. He believed you were a friend. I’m disgusted with you, as was the whole family.”

“I…”

Kumron could put up no fight because he was certain he had been undone. Siri walked around the table and leaned into his ear.

“The reason I asked you about ghosts, Comrade Kumron, is because I believe the remnants of the Royal spirits will ruin you sooner or later. I’m sure you know of their power.”

And his pièce de résistance, “Prince Phetsarath and I will see to that.”

And he left.

He had been about to add “We both have thirty-three teeth,” but as yet he wasn’t sure he did, and he decided enough damage had been done. Through the dining room window he could see the man crumpled in his seat, no longer the successful dignitary. This old man would now have to haul the twin burdens of guilt and revenge. Siri decided that a small battle for loyalty had been won and he dedicated the victory to his gardening friend. He didn’t know whether the king knew of Kumron’s role in his downfall, but it didn’t actually matter. A good lie in the right place can make up for any number of wrongs.

Dtui had been sitting for an hour in front of the office of the politburo member. She hadn’t made an appointment with Civilai. That wasn’t a particularly Lao thing to do. Appointments were rarely kept. She knew he had to come to his office eventually, and much sooner than she’d expected she was proven right. He walked along the corridor, flanked by two officious men who seemed much more flustered than their boss ever had.

“Nurse Dtui,” he said. “You brighten my day with your smile.”

“Comrade Civilai, can I have a quick word?”

The two aides protested.

“Why, certainly. I’m informed someone else is on his way to see me, but you’re most certainly my priority.”

In his office, Dtui told him about the talk with Ivanic.

“So,” she concluded, “do you think we can call off the ‘shoot to kill’ order on the bear? It’s been worrying me sick.”

“Dtui, my darling, remember where you are. It’s incredibly hard to get the simplest things done here. But it’s next to impossible to get anything undone. By the time the order’s filtered down to the bozos with the guns, it’ll certainly be too late.”

“Can we change it to a tiger hunt?”

Civilai laughed. Despite the difficult life he’d lived, he remained a jocular man who was intelligent enough to take his status and circumstances without too much seriousness. He had the presence of mind to greet all his disasters with a Lao laugh. This attitude worried many of the more somber Party members. Some wondered if he was really interested but, in fact, he cared deeply about most things.

“The Department of Interior already thinks I’ve got a few screws loose. If I start announcing open season on all varieties of wild animals roaming the city, they’ll have me in a straitjacket. Don’t forget, this is all on the say-so of a Soviet circus performer.”

He could see that the matter was starting to depress her.

“Don’t you worry. Our army sharpshooters are all terrible shots. They’ll probably miss.”

“I know this all looks really silly, but our office is responsible for fingering that bear. I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink if I thought she got herself shot on our recommendation.”

“When’s your boss coming back?”

“I’m off to meet him at Wattay now. He got a regular flight, I guess, thanks to you.”

“It’s who you know. Is this a new morgue service, going to meet Siri at the airport? Or do you just miss him?”

“He called. He wants me to go and take care of a guest. He’s bringing someone, but he wouldn’t say who.”

“Whatever next?”

There was a knock at the door and one of the aides poked in his head.

“He’s here, Comrade.”

“All right.”

Civilai escorted Dtui from the room. In the waiting area a round-faced Chinese-looking man with a paper fan sat on a bench between two others sweating in suits. His curly hair sat on top of his head as if he were balancing a bunch of black grapes there. He was out of shape and wore a tight safari suit that proved it.

Civilai went over to him and shook his hand. He looked up through his unfashionable glasses but didn’t bother to stand.

“Comrade Kim, how nice to see you again,” said Civilai without enthusiasm.

It was translated by one of the damp shirts, but there was no verbal reply, just a nod. Civilai dragged Dtui up beside him.

“This is Nurse Dtui. She’s a soldier in the revolution to cure the sick, toiling day and night to look after our small but blossoming proletariat and make them well enough to further the cause of the blah, blah, blah, etcetera, etcetera. You know the lines,” he said to his Korean-speaking aide. The man had recently returned from Pyong Yang.

“Just keep the bull going till I get back.”

He smiled at the visitor and walked Dtui to the door.

“Who was that?”

“Secretary of the North Korean Workers’ Party. Next president. Son of present President Kim, a.k.a. ‘Living God.’ I’m supposed to keep the bundle of joy entertained while he’s in town.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

“Really? If you knew what cultural delights the boy finds entertaining, you wouldn’t be enthusiastic either.”

“I tell you one thing, Uncle.”

“What’s that?”

“He wouldn’t get a date if he wasn’t the son of a Living God.”

At Wattay in the late afternoon, the Antonov 12 bounced along the runway until it came to a skidding halt. The previous year, in one of the major policy decisions of the Transport Department, perhaps the only one, Air Lao had become Lao Aviation. But the only investment that entailed was a few pots of paint. Bits still fell off during turbulence and on the few days it was working, passengers still vanished in a fog of air-conditioning.

The plane purred with achievement some eighty meters from the arrival shed so the passengers would have to plod across the sticky tarmac with their bags. As per Siri’s confusing instruction, Dtui had commandeered a songtaew taxi and told the driver to wait with her. She saw her boss come down the wobbly airplane steps from the rear door. He waited at the bottom until a sprightly old man with cropped white hair joined him. They walked quickly toward the shed, engaged in a serious conversation.

Siri gave a pleased smile and waved when he saw his assistant perspiring in the uncooled arrival lounge. She was behind a short barrier that separated the arrivers from the waiters. This was a domestic flight, but there were two officers in a booth checking every passenger’s laissez passer.