Disco for the Departed

Friendship, Cooperation, and Dengue Fever

Mr. Watajak had once been an early riser. Out in the boondocks the sun dictated when to sleep and when to wake. But farmers had even more sensitive clocks in their brains that told them when the dawn sun was rising over the Irrawaddy Delta, an hour before it reached Laos. So, when it finally clambered over the horizon, the farmers were already out tending their crops. But rice whisky can rust the cogs of those old brain clocks something horrible. When Mr. Watajak awoke in a sweat that morning, the sun was already baking the east wall of his old hut. He was alone. The solitude threw him into a drunk’s “what happened?” panic.

He’d been getting used to having the moron there, attracting neighbors, being smart, getting better, making him laugh. In truth, old Mr. Watajak had become quite fond of the boy. He considered keeping him there. He was a strong kid. He might be able to bring some of the paddies back to life if the rains ever came. He might even make some money from the people putting in fish farms. There was a lot of potential, yet now the bamboo hut was empty but for Mr. Watajak. He was so mad about it all he had a drink. And, after the first couple of swigs, the brew reminded him how lonely he was. He was going to miss the little moron.

They’d told him. They’d all told him. The neighbors and the travelers and the kids out at the temple school. He’d kept asking because he wanted an answer that wasn’t “thirty kilometers.” Thirty kilometers didn’t work for him. He wanted something like “a long time” or “several more nights of getting bitten by mosquitos” or “longer than it takes for a body to rot.” By now, Mr. Geung could tell them the names of every town he’d passed through, probably could remember the names of everyone who’d been kind to him on the way and their kids. But he still couldn’t get his head around thirty kilometers and what that meant as to when he’d be at the morgue to see what had happened there.

They’d told him it didn’t matter. They could wave down a truck driver, get him on a bus. When he was ready to go to Vientiane, arranging a ride for him would be easier than getting wet in a river. But, for some reason, nobody was really surprised when they went to see young Geung at his house that morning, not to find him. It was the day of the big treaty signing with the Vietnamese, and the government had called a two-day holiday. The father couldn’t tell them where his genius son had gone, and by the looks of him he was too drunk to care.

Geung had started off early. The sun was behind his left shoulder and he stuck to the edge of the road. Walking was the only sure thing. Every time he’d found himself in a vehicle it had taken him in the wrong direction. Things had always turned out badly. No more cars or trucks for Mr. Geung. No, sir. He was ready for this last test. His shoulder wasn’t worrying him anymore. His blisters were dry and painless and his muscles were rested. His sunburn was healed and he could hear again.

He felt bad that he’d had to stay so long in Thangon. That old man, his father, made him feel sad, but he wasn’t sure why. Some voice in his head had told him he ought to stay. It wasn’t the voice that reminded him constantly of his promise and his obligations. The past few days had been confusing for Geung. He didn’t know which voice to listen to, then Dtui came back. He was glad to see her. She sorted it all out for him.

She reminded him of this thing called love. It was something she liked to talk about a lot. She told him that even though there were times it didn’t seem possible-times when you’d much sooner find fault and hate-these were the times you most needed to love. She told him his father deserved it. He didn’t have to earn it. He was family, and there was a rule that members of a family got a share of love from each other just by being born of the same blood. Geung wondered when he’d be getting his. But perhaps it was something you only got back if you gave it out. His father had nothing. Even Geung could tell that. A little something would probably do him good. That’s why, on the night before Geung restarted his long march, he’d kissed his drunken father on the forehead and told him he loved him.

The confused man had pushed his moron son away in disgust and wiped the gesture from his skin as if it were a slithering insect. He told his son things that could have hurt but didn’t. Geung said how proud he was to have a smart father who came by every month to tell him news and see how he was. As he turned in for the night, he could see the old man doing a lot of thinking about things. He might have even cried a little, but rice whisky does that to a man, too.

Geung walked with confidence now, certain it wouldn’t be too long before he saw familiar surroundings. He hoped the feeling of nausea that rose in his throat would pass, but it didn’t. The headache stayed with him, too. It had been five days since the dengue mosquito had chosen him, and this would be the day when the fever arrived. Already the virus had been replicated in his blood and his gums were beginning to swell.

In Vientiane, a fountain pen, shaken once to unclog the ink, was scratching the names of all the delegates on the Treaty of Cooperation and Friendship. It officially tied the Lao to twenty-five more years of bullying. Even before that ink had dried on the parchment, those in attendance would be loaded into air force transporters and helicopters and flown off to Huaphan. They’d be wined and dined and treated royally (although that adverb would never be mentioned). At 7:00 P.M. they would decide which gray safari shirt to wear, have a final cocktail, and walk to the concert cave to watch a spectacular display of Vietnamese talent.

Of these events, Mr. Geung knew nothing. All he was sure of was that the morgue hadn’t been swept for-goodness knows how many days. The cockroaches would have colonized the examination room. There was probably a mountain of dead bodies piled in front of the door, and all because Mr. Geung had broken his promise to his friends. Unacceptable. Totally unacceptable. He deserved whatever punishment he got. He fell to his knees and threw up into the slender panic grass beside the road.