Slash and Burn

8

The two choppers were nearing Long Cheng. They’d just flown over Sam Thong, ten minutes to the north. It was deserted now but in the early seventies it had housed 150,000 refugees. The US would fly journalists there to view the USAID humanitarian program. They wanted the world to see what a solid job they were doing to help the masses of poor people displaced by the fighting-fleeing the Pathet Lao, they called it. What the administrators didn’t mention was that the refugees were actually fleeing US bombing. Entire areas were evacuated so the CIA’s Hmong fighters had an empty playing field for combat. Chased from their homes, all these displaced people had become dependent on US airdrops. Another thing the journalists didn’t know was that a few kilometers over the ridge was the real war effort, the launch pad for the forward air arm leading up to a thousand sorties a day-Long Cheng.

The choppers crossed over a saddleback mountain and were careering down into the Long Cheng valley. The highlight of the macadam airfield was a drastic limestone karst at the end of the runway. Fliers called it the vertical airbrake because if you overshot, it was a most effective method of slowing down, albeit terminal. Many of the surrounding huts had been stripped of their tin roofs, and bamboo shacks, victims of neglect, extended far up into the surrounding hills. But there were signs of domestication here and there, suggesting that life might return to the place one day. The helicopters landed beside the old runway. A few dozen ponies were tethered to pipes and shrubs. Already, several hundred people were milling around the ruins of Spook City. They’d probably heard the erroneous rumors about the Americans paying a thousand dollars for old bones and wreckage. Some had traveled for days to this isolated outpost. The theory had been that only the really serious claimants would go to that much trouble. If they’d set up their camp in a town on a main road the searchers would have been inundated. And, as Commander Lit had rightly said, if the explosion of Bowry’s helicopter had been heard from Long Cheng, he really couldn’t have gone that far. The villagers approached the two helicopters and stood with their eyes closed as the rotors kicked up dust. The teams carried their equipment down a shallow dip and along a narrow path. For convenience, they would be working out of General Vang Pao’s old residence. It was a concrete, two-story outer-suburb motel of a place, as incongruous as the shirt-and-tie spooks who’d built it. Although the furniture had been removed, it wasn’t that much less comfortable than the Friendship Hotel. And, as most of the bombing in the region had originated from here, it was quite possible to stroll around without the fear of being blown up.

Siri remained at Auntie Bpoo’s heels on the walk across the compound, looking for an opportunity to get her alone. When they passed the shell of a concrete hut, he grabbed her arm and dragged her through the open doorway.

“I could scream, you know,” she told him.

She made a move for the doorway but Siri blocked her path.

“They’re used to screams up here,” he said. “Nobody would notice.”

“Well, what if I smacked you one across the chops?”

“Smacked me? Really, Bpoo. There are times when you aren’t feminine at all.”

“Whatever makes you think I’d want to be feminine?”

“You’re wearing a sarong and a brassiere.”

“You forced me to dress in a hurry. I had a frock laid out for today.”

“And that isn’t feminine?”

“They’re merely garments. Outer coverings. Clothes do not a gender make. If you wore a saddle, would you be a donkey?”

“If I had a wardrobe full of the things, I’d expect to be called an ass, yes.”

“Honestly, Dr. Siri. Ancient as you are, you still care what other people think of you. You’re so vain.”

“Why are you here?”

“You threw me into a helicopter.”

“I mean Xiang Khouang. What possessed you to stow away?”

“I’m very fond of Americans.”

Siri turned and headed out through the doorway. The word bpoo in Lao meant crab and anyone knew there was no blood to be had from a crab. Experience had taught him that you couldn’t get information from Bpoo if she wasn’t in the mood to share it. He’d just stepped into the sunlight when he heard, “You’re going to die, Siri.”

He turned back and smiled.

“Madame Daeng and I have already picked out the coffin. It has a battery controlled fan inside in case it gets stuffy. That’s an extra expense, of course, but I think I’m worth it.”

“I mean in the next five days.”

“And you’ve come to watch?”

“I’ve come to stop it.”

“Where were you all the other times I died?”

“This isn’t an “almost died.” This is the real thing; dodo, doornail, dinosaur … that kind of dead.”

“Real? But I thought you were a charlatan. You told me you make it all up.”

“I am. I do.”

“So?”

Auntie Bpoo sighed, hitched up her sarong and sat untidily on a pile of breeze blocks.

“Siri, you are so annoying. You and all those heebie-jeebie spirit characters you drag around with you. They know you’re too dense to talk to them but they’re stuck with you. How do you think they feel when their portal to the living is boarded over with a very thick plank and padlocked?”

“How do you know about them?”

“I get the odd message.”

“Then teach me. I’m willing. I want to communicate with them. I want to know what they’re trying to tell me. I’m tired of their cryptic clues. I want to sit down over a cup of instant ether and learn from them.”

“Honey, you’ve either got it or you haven’t. I’ve got it with bells on. They show me things I’d really rather not see. You? You haven’t got it at all. Your spirit shaman fellow really blew it when he set up shop in you. You’re a dead end for the spirit world.”

Siri came over and sat cross-legged on the dirt floor in front of Bpoo.

“Who are they? Who have you seen?”

“A whole lot of them.”

“For example.”

“Oh, dull, dull. All right. Your mother, your ex-dog, a dozen or so confused spirits you’ve picked up along the way. And there’s some really old character who stinks of history.”

“Yeh Ming. My shaman spirit. Do they talk to you?”

“Every now and then. I mean the ones that used to be people. The dog just snarls and drools a lot. I have no idea what he wants.”

“Can you tell me what they say?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to be your telephonist. “Oohoo, Dr. Siri, there’s another call from your mother. Will you accept the charges?” Come on. I have a life.”

“Not much of one.”

“Bastard!”

She stood and stormed to the door.

“I’m sorry,” he called after her. “Really I am. I didn’t mean it. I’m sure your life’s grand.”

“It is.”

She stopped in the doorway but didn’t look back.

“I knew it. So … when am I going to die?”

She was silent.

“Bpoo?”

“Soon, I imagine. Day or two.”

“Any idea how you’re supposed to prevent it?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Well, good luck anyway. I’m supporting you a hundred per cent on this one.”

Bpoo turned around and leaned against the door jamb.

“I … er….”

“What is it?”

“I think it might have something to do with sticking a finger in your ear.”

“The death or the antidote?”

“I’m not sure. Does it mean anything to you?”

“It doesn’t sound like a pleasant way to die.”

“You’re right. Look, I might have got that part wrong. I’ll keep my ears cocked in my bad dreams until I get something more specific.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Would you like a poem now?”

“It’s the very least I can do.”

There really was no avoiding Bpoo’s traditional yet meaningless poems. Luckily they only ever ran to one stanza. Some might have analyzed them to see what hidden meaning they contained, but it was invariably better to nod, say “Interesting,” and walk on.

She began:

Tomorrow sees,

Unease blow from the middle east

The Arab beast

Takes lives

the holy gash

Exploding aunts

Lance of fire

Our daughters, ash

The guiltless ones

Sons dashed in God’s name.

“Finished?” Siri asked.

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

It was Nurse Dtui who first commented on the makeup of the crowd gathered for the day’s show-and-tell. They were either women, children or men over sixty. The war had wiped out an entire generation of able-bodied young men. And for what? She admired the resilience of the types who’d journeyed up through the hills with hope of a modest reward. She wanted to pay them all but she had little more than they did. Probably all of them would be returning to their villages empty handed. She doubted any would bother to take their offerings home with them. Some had brought half shell casings full of parts on the back of goat carts. Others had spread tarpaulins on the ground and laid out their non-matching bones in the shape of complete skeletons in various cartoon poses. Others had brought souvenirs. One wore a helmet lining that sat on his head like a lampshade. Another was in combat boots five sizes too big for him. An old couple had brought their blond-haired, darkskinned grandson to claim child support. The atmosphere was that of a large MIA boot fair more impressive than anyone on the Lao team had imagined. There were a lot of desperate people in the northeast.

The teams set up three separate reception areas and taught the locals the fine art of queuing. A number of claimants thought this meant they had three chances. Rejected at one table they’d make their way to join the queue at another. Communication was also a problem. Many of the villagers came from different ethnic groups and few spoke fluent central Lao. Inspector Phosy was competent in three northern languages, Judge Haeng in two. Dtui spoke Khmu well enough and Cousin Vinai-thankfully not completely useless-spoke four different Tai dialects passably well. Lit and Siri (when the spirits were in harmony) also spoke Hmong. Information was passed through these convoluted channels down to the American team who had Dtui, Peach and Auntie Bpoo translating for them.

By noon on day one it was quite obvious that merely sifting out the scam artists and career bounty hunters would take far longer than the five days allotted to them. They needed some way to eliminate the frauds. As often happened at such moments, Dr.

Siri had an idea. He vanished into the hills at lunchtime with a can of corned beef and a rope. When he returned half an hour later, that rope had a dog attached to it. It was a large, feral, dirtgray animal. After seven or so years of being ignored it seemed bemused by all the sudden attention. It was half-starved and quite clearly the corned beef had elevated Siri to sainthood in his mind.

“Siri, that is one very ugly dog,” Daeng laughed.

“You’re right,” Siri agreed. “He needs a bath.”

“A bath will just make him clean and ugly.”

“Then clean and Ugly he shall be.”

Siri threw Ugly into one of the cement sections that doubled as a water trough and scrubbed him down with a straw broom. He emerged still dirt-gray and no less ugly but his head was held high and he smelled better. Siri walked him once around Long Cheng at the end of the rope allowing him to sniff wherever he wished. The doctor then arranged for the rumor to spread: Ugly was a US military bone dog. He could sniff out animal and Lao remains like a hog to truffles. All those who had brought bones to be assessed would be asked to line up for Ugly to get a good sniff. Anyone found to be deliberately fobbing them off with bear tibias or dead auntie’s scapula would be imprisoned and probably end up in front of a firing squad.

It was merely gossip but the reappearance of the enemy on Long Cheng soil gave credence to such a rumor, and before Ugly’s second lap of the compound, some two-thirds of the villagers had disappeared, leaving their parts behind. The task at hand now seemed far more achievable. When Peach passed this news on to Major Potter, he came in search of Siri with his arms outstretched. Only Ugly’s attempt to bite off the major’s right hand prevented Siri becoming another hug victim. But Potter and all on the American team gave him a peculiar collection of nops in thanks for making their work easier. Still, they worked through till five thirty, interviewing claimants, inspecting the souvenirs they’d brought along, attempting to pinpoint locations on a map. Yet, by the time they clambered back into the helicopters, there was a prevailing feeling that the day had produced nothing of any value. Four days to go.

It wasn’t until they were in the helicopters that Judge Haeng recognized Auntie Bpoo. He was beyond shock. She was another thorn in his hoof.

“What in Lenin’s name are you doing here, man?” he asked, shouting above the whirr of the rotor.

“I’m very well thank you, Judge, and you?”

“I asked you a question.”

“So you did, and very rudely too. Let’s start again with manners, shall we?”

“Show me some respect. You know who I am and what I am capable of. In fact, I’m going to have you arrested. Put in prison.”

“On what charge, my little magistrate?”

“Trespass. Illegal encroachment on a government project.”

“Ah, but I have a booking.”

“A what?”

“A reservation, at the Friendship Hotel. I always sojourn in the north. I was enjoying my holiday when the nice red major invited me to join him up here. How could I refuse?”

“I do not believe this is a coincidence. How did you get here?”

“On the bus.”

“Show me your laissez-passer.”

“It’s in my room. But of course you knew that, you cunning devil. Any excuse to get into a girl’s bedroom.”

“How dare you? Listen, you are a freak. There’s no place for your type in the new republic.”

“Oh, I see. So there is a place for Vannasack Symeaungxay, Thidavanh Bounxouay, and Doungleudy Phoudindong but not for Auntie Bpoo?”

Haeng leaned backwards and the colour fell from his face.

“How…?” he began.

“I know that those are the names of the young ladies you have established in rooms around Vientiane. In December there’ll be another, Latsamy Thongoulay, but you haven’t met her yet. Even so, I believe the ministry would be interested to hear all about them.”

Haeng lowered his voice.

“This … this is blackmail.”

“Not yet. I haven’t quite decided what I want from you. When I do, then it’ll be blackmail.”

They were leaning close to be heard in the noisy helicopter. Before Haeng could react, Bpoo kissed him on the cheek. He fell away from her and moved to another place wiping the lipstick from his face and cursing. One disastrous trip, two hoof thorns. No respect. People had no respect. But he had his plan. Before the mission was over they’d envy him, admire him for what he was about to do. Yes, respect. From each and every one of them.

Back in Phonsavan, most of the Lao bathed from scoop jars in the communal bathrooms. The Americans opted to wait until the generator was switched on at sundown when the pumps would deliver water to the ensuite bathrooms. Only Judge Haeng in the Lao wing shared their patience. Dinner that evening was at seven; a fusion of Lao and Western cuisine as interpreted by Hmong kitchen staff working for a Hmong manager and his wife.

The Hmong was a divided people. Those who had lost the toss and sided with the Americans were now fleeing through refugee camps or making a last futile stand in the mountains. Those who had supported the communists lived a life not terribly different to how it had always been. Many were dragged down from their mountain homes to till fields and work in towns. Some succumbed to diseases they’d not known at higher elevations. Others, like Mr. Toua the Friendship manager, put their knowledge and industrious nature to more commercial ventures. He believed this joint US/Lao mission was just the start of a tourist influx that would turn Phonsavan into the Luang Prabang of the northeast. So all this effort would be worth it.

There were no longer two islands of tables in the dining room. They were now dotted around the room like in a regular restaurant. And, after a day in the field together, an American journalist might find himself sitting with a Lao soldier, a Lao policeman and his wife with a black sergeant, a Japanese-American forensic pathologist with a transvestite of unknown origin, a Lao general and an American major with a young interpreter.

“Tell him I was in Nam, honey,” said Potter. He’d somehow managed to get himself a happy whiskey glow even before supper and Peach leaned back to avoid his breath. She passed on the news to General Suvan.

“Six years, six goddamn years I was there,” he continued. “You tell him.”

She told him. There were no thoughts or reactions coming in the other direction. It was all Potter.

“They were all-and excuse my bluntness-chinks and dinks and zips and gooks to us.”

“I might have trouble transl-”

“Just do your best, honey. I know you’re trying. But the point is this. We only knew ’em by pejorative terms ’cause that’s what the Pentagon told us they were; ruthless, uneducated nameless heathens. That’s how they ran their wars. There wasn’t a Ngoo Yen or a Fat Dook, not a husband or a father or an ex-schoolteacher. Just a bunch of gooks. That’s why we underestimated them. How can you fight people you don’t understand? How can you kill people you don’t love? That was my point. There has to be a passionate reason to kill a man. You know what I mean? None of us had that passion. Hey, honey. I’m way ahead of you here. You wanna catch the general up on some of this?”

Peach wasn’t sure how to go about translating Potter’s point, nor was she certain the general was listening. There was beer on the table and he’d guzzled his first glass with more gusto than she’d noticed from him all trip. The Americans had brought in a dozen crates of Bud on their chopper. It was chilled, having spent the day in the cool water trough out back. With beer being so hard to come by, it was a treat, a honeymoon to consummate this morning’s first date. The Americans had the art of seduction down to a fine point.

“This is what we should have been doing all along,” Potter said, spearing a frankfurter. “Engaging. You’re all nice guys deep down, and you know what I like? You don’t gloat. We gloat. You don’t gloat. You know what the Vietcong did after they kicked our ass out? They sent a bill for damages of fifty billion bucks. They wrote it on a restaurant invoice sheet and addressed it to Kissinger. You gotta admire that. Ha! A goddamn bill. I bet the general’s got a heap of questions he’s been dying to ask an American soldier. Am I right?”

Peach asked. The general smiled, spoke briefly and took another slurp of beer.

“The general can’t think of anything just now,” she told him.

“I bet he can’t. I bet he can’t. These are emotional times. I relate to that. It took me some while to come to grips with my emotions too. To find and exorcize my demons. All that unnecessary slaughter. The destruction. I said to myself one day, “Hey, these are people we’re strafing here. There’s gotta be a better way.” And this is it, honey. This is that way. Beers across the table. Loving thine enemy. I’m so proud to be here. Cheers.” He lifted his glass and the general tapped it with his own. “Yes, sir. You got it. You certain he doesn’t have any questions?”

Peach didn’t bother to ask nor did she comment. She knew that Potter wasn’t exorcizing his demons. He was drowning them one by one. And now they were holding onto his ankles and dragging him down with them. She couldn’t let this go on. He was unsuitable for his role. People like Potter had to be removed. She could make sure of that.

Siri, Daeng and Civilai didn’t have an American. They felt a bit left out. At the next table were two of them huddled together. The second secretary from the Bangkok embassy, Mack Gordon was late thirties and overweight with an outdoor look like a hairy dog on the back of a pickup truck licking at the wind. His smile spread from ear to ear and his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. Talking to him was Randal Rhyme from Time magazine. Siri and Civilai knew Woody Allen from his films, of course, and were certain Rhyme was his brother; Woody being the taller, tougher-looking older brother with more hair.

“It’s racism,” said Civilai. He attempted to crush one of the cans but the Budweiser corporation obviously re inforced them before sending them off to remote areas. He was able to dimple it quite fearsomely, however.

“They’ve probably heard about you two,” Daeng said. “Who’s going to volunteer to come to this table to be victimized?”

“We’d be very pleasant, wouldn’t we, Siri?” Civilai protested.

“Why does everyone else get one and not us? They’ve obviously had orders to mingle, to make us all feel like family. It’s all been orchestrated to lull us into a mood of love and peace. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve put something in the beer.”

“Hmm. This is a Civilai conspiracy theory I haven’t had the pleasure of hearing before,” Daeng laughed. “While the Russians and Chinese and Vietnamese are attempting to conquer us with money and consumer goods, the Americans sneak in under the radar and win us over with love and tourism.”

“They’ve tried everything else,” Civilai reminded her.

“So, if that’s true, why aren’t they here wooing us?” Daeng asked.

“Exactly. They’re damned clever. They know that I know their plot so they’re holding back. It’s a double … something or other. I’ve a good mind to go over there and crash their meeting and show them some assault hospitality of my own.”

Siri laughed. “If I didn’t know you better … and I obviously don’t, I’d say you were just miffed ’cause we haven’t got an American to play with. You’re jealous.”

“And I bet you half a dozen cans of free beer that you don’t dare go over there,” Daeng added.

“You won’t find the word ‘dareless’ in the Civilai dictionary, madam.”

He rose majestically, grabbed three unopened cans of beer from the metal tray table beside him and marched to the neighboring table. Without missing a beat, Secretary Gordon pulled out a chair for their invader and they all shook hands.

“He seems to have done it,” said Siri.

“And they’ve apparently found a common language somewhere between them,” Daeng noticed. “They’re laughing.”

“Well, you wouldn’t catch me selling out to the other side,” said Siri.

“Me neither.”

“There isn’t enough water in the Mekhong that would make me talk to one of them.”

“I’d sooner run head first into a bramble bush.”

“I’d pull you out.”

“Thank you.” She looked around as she sipped her beer. “Tell me, the farang with the shiny head and glasses, he’s a journalist, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, don’t look over your shoulder now but he’s coming this way.”

“Fight him off, Daeng.”

“It’s too late.”

Rhyme from Time stood over them-only a little over them-and produced an irresistible smile. His blue eyes were magnified to double their size by his thick lenses.

“Wow!” he said, and then, in fluent French, “Madame Daeng and Dr. Siri Paiboun in the flesh. This is very exciting for me. A great honor I can’t tell you how much I’ve looked forward to meeting you two.”

Siri leaned across and pulled out a chair.