Love Songs From a Shallow Grave (4 page)

There were two benches – one low, upon which the body now sat, and one opposite about fifty centimetres higher. Siri placed the torch on the floor and knelt in front of the victim. He put his hands together in apology before beginning his examination. The weapon, which from outside had appeared to be a metal spike, was in fact a sword, to be more exact, it was an épée. Siri knew it well. His high school in Paris had provided after-hours classes in swordsmanship. It was a course the doctor had failed – twice. He hadn’t been able to come to grips with all that delicate prancing and twiddling when the underlying principle must surely have been to kill the opponent or be killed. Despite the fact that he’d continuously overpowered his sparring partners, he’d ultimately been expelled from the class. The instructors had cited his two-handed running charge and his cry of “Die, you bastard,” as reason enough to deny him a passing grade.

Yes, the weapon here with its broad-bulbed hand guard was certainly an épée. He couldn’t recall having seen one in Laos before. It entered the woman’s chest between the fourth and fifth ribs. It had most certainly punctured her heart. The trail of blood had drained from the wound, down her stomach, across her thigh and into a large puddle on the wooden floorboards at her feet. He felt her joints. Rigor mortis begins to show after two hours and peaks at twelve. Judging from the stiffness, it was Siri’s educated guess that the poor woman had died somewhere between ten a.m. and two a.m. As he seldom carried his rectal thermometer to the cinema, that was as close as he could get for now.

He reached behind her and confirmed that the sword had been thrust with such force that it had impaled her against the wooden bench. The serene expression on her face and her relaxed sitting position told Siri that she was either looking forward to the experience of dying, or that the attack had come as a complete surprise. There were no indications she’d been shocked to see the weapon, or made any effort to save herself. Her eyes were closed and there was a curl at the corner of her mouth that could once have been a smile. He was about to turn away when he noticed a fresh scar on the inside of her right thigh. There was very little bleeding, which suggested it had been inflicted after her heart had ceased to beat. It was in the shape of an N or a Z, hurriedly carved on her skin.

Which brought him back to the towel that lay at her feet. It was stained with blood but the corners confessed to its original whiteness. Siri couldn’t see how it fitted into the scenario. Whose blood was this? Did the assailant attempt to staunch the flow? Or, during the attack, did the murderer injure himself? Siri turned to the seat opposite. There were no bloodstains. This was presumably where the murderer had sat, he and his victim both naked, enjoying a sauna on a rainy Friday night. He tried to imagine the scene. They would have put their clothes outside under the carport to keep them out of the steam. In that case, the carport light would have been turned off or they’d have risked being discovered. So why turn it back on again when it was all over? And where were her clothes? And, the twenty-billion-kip question, where, in a box with two benches and a gas heater, would you conceal a ninety-centimetre-long sword? He began to test the wooden slats of the walls to see if there was a secret compartment, but Phoumi poked his head into the room.

“Doctor? Have you finished examining the body?” he asked.

“Yes, I was just – ” Siri began.

“Good. Then I think you can tell us your findings and we’ll handle everything else.”

Siri shone the torch into the security chiefs face.

“I assume, by ‘handle everything’ you mean contact the national police force so they can conduct an inquiry?”

Phoumi laughed rudely.

“They’ll be informed of the findings, of course,” he said. “But this whole area is under my jurisdiction, and the victim is a member of our security team. We’ll take care of it.”

Siri abandoned his search and stood in the doorway.

“This may look like a foreign country,” he said. “But the fact remains we are still in Laos and the victim is a Lao.”

Phoumi’s smile, his body language, and especially the way he reached for Siri’s arm and squeezed it were all so condescending Siri had a mind to knee him.

“Then, if it is indeed a Lao problem,” the chief said, “I suppose we should let the Lao Prime Minister decide what is appropriate. You will take his word on it, I assume?”

“He’s home?” Siri asked.

“His house is a few blocks from here.”

Siri knew where the PM’s house was. He’d been there a number of times. But that wasn’t an answer to the question he’d asked. He walked out of the sauna and sat on the step.

“Well, of course, the word of the Prime Minister is more than enough for me. Let’s go and see him.”

He swore, if Phoumi laughed again…If he flashed those ‘everybody’s friend’ perfect teeth just one more time, Siri would run inside, remove the épée from the corpse and find a warmer scabbard for it.

“Doctor, surely even you understand that the PM can’t just receive unscheduled visits,” said the security head. “Even with an appointment it could be two or three days. I tell you what, I’ll go and see him and bring his response. That good enough for you?”

In fact, Siri understood a lot of things. He understood, for example, that the PM had given up his ticket to the movie that afternoon because he was on an unannounced visit to the USSR. He’d left for Moscow the previous day. It helped to have a man on the inside even if it was only Civilai.

“Then I think you should go and talk to him,” Siri agreed. “I’ll wait here.”

Phoumi was incensed.

“I hadn’t realised how much more complicated you’d make things for us. I wanted a medical opinion, not a standoff,” he said. “Couldn’t you just take my word for it that your leader will ask us to take care of this? Do we really need to disturb him?”

“I think so,” Siri smiled.

Phoumi and the tall, lanky Major Dung hesitated, then walked off with great reluctance to their fictional meeting with the absent prime minister. Siri was left alone with the sentry. The soldier looked uncomfortable. Siri decided to take advantage of the fact nobody had introduced him and act like someone of importance. He walked to the edge of the carport where the rain fell in strings from the corrugated roof. He washed his hands under them.

“Been a long day, I imagine,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you on the detail that discovered the body?”

“I was, sir.”

The boy hadn’t looked once into Siri’s frog-green eyes.

“Must have been a shock. Did you know her?”

“She’s new. Didn’t speak a lot of Vietnamese. Friendly enough though.”

“And nice looking.”

“Not bad, sir. Not really my type.”

“I gather your patrol was just strolling past and somebody smelt something odd. Is that right?”

“Not exactly, Comrade. There was no patrol scheduled. The major sent us out specially.”

“Major Dung?”

“Yes, sir. I gathered there’d been a report of something odd over in this sector. He sent half a dozen of us down to take a look.”

“That’s a lot of men – I mean, just for taking a look.”

“Probably thought there was a security breach.”

“I imagine.”

“And we got down here and we could all smell it; sickly, sweet smell.”

“Who went in first?”

“None of us. We knew the stink only too well. One of the men went back to get the major. The rest of us hung around outside. When he arrived, he went to the door and took a look inside. I was standing behind him. I saw the girl. Shocking, it was.”

“When was this?”

“I don’t know. About half an hour ago…an hour?”

“And Major Dung went straight over to the cinema to find security chief Phoumi?”

“So it seems. He sent the other men back to the barracks and left me here to watch the crime scene.”

“Good. Very good. And, apart from the major, nobody else went into the box?”

“No, sir.”

“Any idea who reported the ‘something odd’?”

“You’d have to ask the major that.”

“I’ll do just that. I imagine he’ll be back very soon. I just have to go and see someone for a minute. Tell him I’ll be right back.”

“I will, sir.”

“By the way, was this overhead light on when you got here?”

“Yes, sir.”

Siri walked out into the drizzle and headed across Sixth Street. He had a cinematic urge to take out an umbrella and dance in the puddles but not the stomach for it. He also had a very strong feeling that he’d just been lied to.

∗

They’ve transferred the manacle to my left hand and put a restraint around my ankles: two parallel metal bars with chains as heavy as doom that keep my feet forty centimetres apart. They came a few hours earlier, the boy guards, and nailed plywood across all the windows. Since then the fluorescents have been burning continuously and I have no idea of time. I’m covered in flea and mosquito bites and it’s taking all my will power not to scratch myself raw. In fact I should have paid more attention at the temple when I was a novice. In a situation like this I really could use an off switch. This would be a good time to step outside my body
.

The teenage guards bring me rice gruel that tastes of motor oil and vomit. But I have to eat. Bad nutrition is better than none at all. They bring a bucket too, as if I can perform here and now. The first time that happened, I started to explain the natural process of excretion, that the body needs seventy-five hours to process food. But one of the boys rammed the butt of his pistol into the side of my foolish head and I was suddenly flapping around inside an aviary of bats and blackbirds. When I came round, the bucket and the unruly youth were gone. I can feel my head now. It’s swollen to the size and shape of a pomelo. At first I thought I might be enjoying one of my fabulous nightmares. But the lump and the pain and the blood on my shoulder aren’t imagined. Of course, that doesn’t make this any less of a nightmare
.

Behind me on a long, scratched and partially burned blackboard there are ten chalked sentences that I can’t read. When my ex-roommate first arrived, they forced him to recite the sentences aloud. The man was barely able to see through his swollen black eyes. They kicked the words out of him. I closed my eyes and diverted my mind from the awful sounds by thinking about language. I’d always thought of it as a friend. It’s guided me through life and shown me new directions. Each new language I learned added to me. I’d become richer. But a language you don’t know, sir, that is one mean, unfriendly son-of-a-bitch. It’s rude and secretive and it pushes you away, keeps you on the outside. And that’s where I am now, on the outside. Not knowing what’s going on makes my teeth curl in frustration. I’ve been grovelling for a quote about language to make myself feel more secure, but nothing comes to mind. It was true what the clerk said. I don’t have any thoughts of my own
.

At some time when I was asleep or unconscious, they took out the corpse. I’m alone now. I mean, in body. As you know, in spirit it’s getting a bit crowded in here. Look at you; old, far too young, pregnant, bedraggled, innocent, pleading, but all of you unmistakably confused. You sit cross-legged staring at me, you spirits of the dead, as if expecting me to entertain you, expecting me to have answers. But forgive me, I’m not on top of things enough to know what the questions are. I don’t yet understand why I’m here or what’s expected of me
.

The smiley man came this afternoon…or evening, whichever it was. He was so polite I was certain this was all some terrible mix-up
.

“
You must be in pain,” he said in basic high school French. “Never mind. You’ll feel better soon. I’m so sorry for all this inconvenience
.”

The words dribbled with insincerity but that brief sharing of language buoyed me. It allowed me to step briefly back inside. He left me a pencil, not sharpened to a point, and a sheet of lined paper torn from a school exercise book. I fired questions at the man’s back: his name, where he’d learned French, what he did, where we all were. But, once the smiley man had given his oh-so-polite speech, his duty was done and he clicked the door latch quietly behind him. I remember you smiled then, you spirits – ironic smiles, every one of you
.

They’re still here, the pencil and paper, untouched on the chequered tiles by my right hand
.

“
Your story,” the smiley man said. “Just tell us your story and you’ll be free to go
.”

I sit with my back against the wall, staring at the door. I sigh. I reach for the pencil, angle the paper towards me and begin to write
,

“
Once upon a time there were three little pigs…
”

∗

Dr Siri sat beneath the blazing white strip lights in the morgue at Mahosot. Soviet funding had led to the rewiring of a number of the old French buildings and the three technical advisors who’d come to install the lights insisted that it was vital in a hospital to have a minimum of 73 RNO or BZF, or some such twaddle, of visibility. He had no idea what that meant apart from the fact that if the Great Wall of China was visible from space in daylight, the Mahosot morgue would be a glittering beacon at night, visible from even the most distant solar system. He wore his old sunglasses to reduce the glare and decided that, on Monday, he’d borrow the hospital stepladder and remove two of the parallel tubes before everyone received third-degree burns.

Fortunately, he wasn’t called upon that often to work at night. Even for the living, nothing was that urgent in Vientiane. The dead could always keep for another day. But this had been an exceptional day, and an exceptional case. The poor lady who lay on her side on the cutting table in front of him had been the centre of a political storm for much of the afternoon and evening. Siri had, of course, called Inspector Phosy from the nearest telephone he could find in K6. The inspector was the man responsible for all police matters concerning government officials. Phosy and two of his colleagues had jumped into the department jeep and sped to the scene of the crime.

There followed an unpleasant stand-off during which both the Vietnamese security personnel and the Lao National Police Force had stood toe to toe insisting that they had jurisdiction over the crime. Until it was sorted out, Sri wasn’t allowed to remove the body to the morgue and the victim voiced her discontent by smelling violently. The Vietnamese called in reinforcements from their embassy. The police called in the military. It was starting to look as though 6
th
Street would be the scene of a new Indochinese war were it not for one simple fact. The movie ended and the polit-buro members, strolling off their stiff legs, came upon the stand-off.