The Woman Who Wouldn't Die

8

It wouldn’t officially go on record as Nurse Dtui’s first solo autopsy. Judge Haeng had reluctantly given the go-ahead but there would be no permission slip with his signature on it. If anything went wrong he would know nothing about it. That was good enough for Phosy.

After an idle month, the morgue smelled … well, like a morgue. Opening the doors and windows did nothing to remove the musty stench. Turning on the light in the late evening succeeded only in filling the place with flying beetles the size of pecan nuts and a cloud of mosquitoes. Only the corpse would escape this onslaught as it had no blood to suck. It had arrived in a large tote bag and been poured on to the cutting room table with the sound of mah-jong tiles. The bones were black. The few that had still been connected at the site were now separated. It was more a puzzle than an autopsy.

‘What do you need to know?’ Dtui asked. She wore a fresh, green operating theatre robe that reached her feet. Four hundred of them were stacked in the corner, donations from the Soviet Union. There were a matching number of masks and twice as many little rubber boots but she hadn’t bothered with them.

‘Who he or she is,’ said Phosy.

Dtui leaned over the pile of bones and poked around with a pencil.

‘Oh, well. We’re in luck,’ she said. ‘Look at this.’

Phosy leaned in to look.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s his name card. It miraculously survived the fire.’

‘All right. Then just tell me whatever you can.’

‘That’s more like it.’

While she was shuffling the parts around she came across the pelvis.

‘I’m quite good at the easy parts,’ she said. ‘And this is one pelvis that was never designed to give birth. And this little fellow over here is probably an eye ridge. All of which tells me our friend here, is … or was, male.’

One femur was intact. She measured it. She hmmed.

‘I was about to suggest it was a child,’ she said. ‘He’s short. But there’s a lot of wear and tear on these joints. And look, the sternum end of the clavicle is fused. So our man here was over thirty. There’s a lot of pitting on the rib so he might even have been over forty. So it’s a short, middle-aged man.’

‘Good job, Dr Dtui,’ said Phosy. ‘Anything else?’

She liked that title. With a broad smile on her face she swatted a menagerie of flying beasts away from the standard lamp and swung its arm over the bone pile. She picked out fragments of the skull and started to put them together. It was particularly difficult. But after ten minutes of shuffling she looked at her husband.

‘I don’t think he was killed by the fire,’ she said.

‘You don’t?’

‘Well, to be certain we’d have to look at his lungs. As his lungs are deep-fried and indistinguishable from his kneecaps, we’ll never know. But I’m prepared to stake my reputation on it. And don’t say I don’t have one.’

‘OK, let’s hear it.’

‘If he died in the fire I can’t think of any reason why anyone would wait until the charred building was cool enough to clamber up to the second floor with no wooden staircase and beat the living daylights out of a corpse.’

‘He’s been hit?’

‘Blunt object. Half a dozen times. Maybe more.’

One problem with communication between Vientiane and Sanyaburi was the absence of a telephone line. Phosy had tried to link through military channels only to discover there were no army units stationed there. It would have been easier to call Thailand on the solitary Lao overseas telephone line and ask someone to run a message across the border. His last hope had been a channel directly to the helicopter which had transported the Minister of Agriculture to Pak Lai but the crew had closed down the equipment for the night. Few boats plied that section of the river after dark as there were still bandits about. So it wouldn’t be until the next morning that a message could be sent to Dr Siri and Madame Daeng telling them that their home and all their possessions were gone.

After the autopsy, Phosy had combed through the skeleton of the shop and found nothing of importance. He’d watched them spoon the remains of the victim into the large bag. At the back of his mind was Dr Siri’s story about the midget from Housing and the late-night raid. The man had probably lost his job as a result of Siri’s complaint. If the body were his it would look very bad for the doctor, especially as there was no way of estimating the time of death. One more thing the inspector had noticed before heading for home was a car parked some fifty metres away on the river bank. Obviously somebody of influence had got wind of the fire and come to observe. The sleek government ZiL limousine sat in the shadows like the devil’s own hearse. Nobody got out to discuss matters and Phosy wasn’t about to tap on the window and say hello. It was best left alone. It was late and nothing else could be done. Perhaps, by morning, some loved ones would have reported the disappearance of a completely different short, middle-aged man.

How far could they have gone? he wondered. Not for the first time. Herve Barnard sat in the driver’s seat of the black ZiL. Its windows were so darkly tinted he could barely see the statuette on the bonnet. But the point was that nobody could see in. It was a politburo car he’d stolen directly from the parking lot behind the parliament building. The ZiLs the Russians sent to their Third World comrades were a far cry from those that travelled in their own lanes in downtown Moscow. These shoddy rip-off versions leaked petrol and were incredibly easy to break into and hot-wire. The Lao, not realizing this, had felt it safe to leave a fleet of them unguarded behind a bamboo gate.

Barnard had been given little choice. He’d needed to be at the scene of the fire to identify the old whore from her recent photograph. He’d needed to be here to follow her and to kill her. But there were few Westerners in Vientiane and his presence amongst the gawking crowd would have stood out. Hence the car. He’d watched the flames. They were a spectacular sight. Fire had a hunger for old buildings. Most of the properties along the river were closed but a group of onlookers had appeared from nowhere and stood and watched. They’d oohed when a window popped and ahhed with every falling rafter. He’d expected a human chain with buckets. The river was just across from the fire. But, no. They stood. And they watched until the last flaming moth flew off to the heavens and there was only smoke. And not until then did the insignificant policemen arrive. And then the more important ones. And then the boss, resplendent in Bermuda shorts and sandshoes, came to conduct an unimpressive investigation in the dark with failing torches. But where, oh where, were the owners?

Barnard had arrived at eight for his appointment with the little man at the address he’d been given. There were no lights on in the shop or upstairs. No sound. No passers-by. There was a note pinned to the metal grate. He couldn’t read it but he assumed it to say the owner was out. Barnard didn’t know where she’d gone or for how long but he had only three more days before he was out of medication. He’d had to expedite matters. The fire would bring her back in a hurry. If not this evening, then the next day. She’d travel home to mourn for her little shop and he’d have her.

He couldn’t stay at the Lane Xang now, of course. He’d drawn attention to himself by handing out his room number at the market. He doubted this God-awful place would have an efficient police force but, even if it did, he’d done enough to cover his tracks. They’d find the body in the burned-out building. The comrade’s little wife or his little mother would report him missing and, assuming they could count, the police would put two and two together. The dead man had an ongoing feud with the couple. Barnard didn’t know why and didn’t care. The little comrade had burned down the shop in revenge and was trapped by his own fire. Or, with a bit of luck, they’d suspect the shop owners of murdering him. Even more reason for them to return to clear their names. In a civilized country they would perform a post-mortem investigation and make the gruesome discovery of his death. But a country ruled by a university dropout half-breed was hardly likely to know what a pathologist was. He felt the odds had finally swung in his favour.

The flight following the course of the Mekhong was a hairy one. The young pilot lacked the confidence you’d like to sense in someone controlling, what Civilai often called, a heavy metal coffin with an egg whisk on the top. The boy pilot had been set the challenge of navigating the river as low and as slowly as possible. Somebody had been attempting to talk to him on the radio but he’d ripped off his headphones as the tension dug in. No longer connected by microphone, the mechanic was yelling at the top of his voice, pointing this way and that. The Mi-2 helicopter was cleverly designed so as not to be able to look downward without balancing on its nose in mid-air. The mute brother clung to the back of the seat, his knuckles as white as the bones they contained. But Madame Peung rode the air currents like a girl at the funfair. She whooped and laughed and would, no doubt, describe her flight as exhilarating.

Siri was too preoccupied to be nervous. Not for the first time in the past three years, as Yeh Ming, the one-thousand-and-two-year-old shaman, slowly moved into Siri’s life, the doctor was pondering yet another dream mystery. They’d been there again, the naked Frenchmen. Not a pretty sight. They were huddled together for warmth, staring directly into the lens of the dream camera, yelling their tetes off, shouting directly at Siri. It was as if they knew he was there watching but they couldn’t understand why he wasn’t taking notice of them. Why he wasn’t acting on what they were telling him. But for Siri it was exactly like watching a television with the sound off. He could hear nothing. He saw the Frenchmen break out of their penguin huddle in order to use their hands, because what true Frenchman could make himself understood without hand gestures? This was even more confusing. Six mimes all backwardwalking and imaginary-wall-feeling and banana-unpeeling. Siri had no idea where to look. But the bitter cold proved too much for them. Their joints froze. They turned frosty white. They crumbled to the ground like crushed ice and were blown away. Siri felt somehow responsible. He found himself looking at a snow storm. Waiting. He was contemplating what he’d have to do to change the channel when he was suddenly aware of the shape of a figure walking through the blizzard in his direction. It was a man’s outline trudging slowly through the snow. As he walked closer, Siri could see a long white gown edged in gold. A white suit beneath. But who …?

The man stood directly in front of the lens, his face filling the screen. Siri recognized him, an acquaintance who had become significant in Siri’s personal Otherworld. During his cynical years, Siri had always mocked the fact that mediums throughout Asia had a hierarchy of spirits. Shamans might dress like a king or a royal consort and messages to the beyond would begin through the ear of the departed aristocracy. He’d always considered that to be somewhat classist. But, of late, he’d come to realize there was some logic in it. The kings and princes always surrounded themselves with the most powerful shamans. Thus they had a direct line to the beyond. It was only natural that the royal courts would have a thriving afterlife community. In death as in life, the royals would rule the roost.

The recently departed king’s face hogged the screen. He spoke. Siri heard nothing. But this was not the usual contact where the spirits came into the doctor’s world through his head and spoke using his voice. This was more a portal that he was being invited to step into. He had no idea how. He wanted to get closer but this was a dream. There was no actual television. No sofa. No living room. The king raised his voice. There was something. It was faint, like listening to the neighbour through a drinking glass pushed up against the wall. He couldn’t make out words but there were sounds. This was a breakthrough. But the king soon became frustrated as he realized his words were not passing over. He stepped back and considered the situation. He then held up one finger. Then nine, one, and then he formed a zero with his index finger and thumb. 1910. It was a year. Siri committed it to memory. Before the king turned back into the blizzard, there may have been a roll of the eyes, a dip of the head. The gestures a schoolmaster might make in the presence of a remedial pupil.

When he woke that morning, Siri had prodded his wife’s shoulder but she was already awake. He’d asked her, ‘Daeng, what happened in 1910?’

She’d smiled and turned to him.

‘Most women are awoken first thing on a Sunday morning with erotic requests and all I get is a history test.’

‘Consider the erotic request the first prize for the first person in this bed who can tell me what happened in 1910.’

‘Siri, I don’t know. I wasn’t born yet.’

‘Damn. I need an historian.’

‘You’ve had a dream.’

He sat up on one elbow.

‘Just once,’ he said. ‘Just once I’d like to decipher the dream clues before I’m forced to resort to my huge intellect. Because it won’t be very long before my intellect goes the way of my ebony-black hair and rock-hard pectorals. Life would be so much easier if I could just wake up with the answers.’

So, Siri had told Daeng all about the frozen Frenchmen and the king. They wracked their brains as to how this might be connected to their latest mission. And, leaving Daeng to discover what had happened in 1910, Siri had departed for his helicopter flight. But then it was, with the helicopter swinging back and forth like a fat sailor on a hammock in a high sea, that Siri recalled one other memory from his dream. One that had remained suppressed during his discussion with Daeng. There hadn’t been six Frenchmen but seven. One sat to one side just as naked as the rest and he’d borne a remarkable but incongruous resemblance to Comrade Koomki from Housing.

Siri was snapped from his reverie by the sight of Madame Peung slapping the young pilot on the back and pointing. The pilot panicked and threw the craft into a rapid spiral descent they all doubted he’d pull out of in time. Miraculously, at the last second, he had the beast under control and hovered a few metres above the bank. The sound of sighs could be heard over the growl of the engine. But Siri was trying desperately to recall what it was that had transpired just before the shoulder slap. There had been a gesture, a moment between Madame Peung and her brother. It was something that looked trivial but Siri’s instinct told him that it was significant. But, there and then he wasn’t able to untangle it from his dream recollections. It would come to him, he was sure.

Despite its gentle hover at two metres, the Mi-2 dropped so heavily to the ground it bounced, not once but three times. Had Siri’s teeth been false they would now be embedded in the inside of his skull. The minister swore like a twisted bantam but Madame Peung squealed with delight. They alighted, all but the chastised pilot, on to a patch of grass on a bank that dived steeply down to the water. There were hills on both banks and a sharp turn that threw the mighty Mekhong into a wall of rock.

‘It’ll be deep here,’ said the minister, once the engine noise had been extinguished. ‘The river has nowhere to go but down.’

‘This … this is where it happened,’ said Madame Peung. She walked down the slope to the water’s edge and closed her eyes. A breeze off the water sent ripples through her loose-fitting satin trouser suit. ‘Major Ly is here. He’s so pleased to feel your presence, Minister.’

The minister stood beside her and looked out at the swirling water.

‘Prove it,’ he said.

His tone was sceptical but Siri knew he’d been convinced long before this.

‘I know,’ said Madame Peung, but not to the minister. ‘So give me something.’

She raised her head and listened to the Mekhong. Siri fancied he could hear voices too but it was likely just the swirl of the water through the rocks.

‘Minister,’ said Madame Peung. ‘Are you sure you want to test him here, like this?’

‘Yes.’

‘In front of strangers?’

‘I have nothing to … Why? What did he say?’

‘You and your brother had a tent when you were young. It was pitched in the back yard. One game you played was called Arabia.’

‘How …?’

‘You would take it in turns to be the erotic female dancer. You would tuck your-’

‘Enough. All right.’

He looked around. Four of the five litres of blood in his body had found their way to his cheeks. Only Siri had been close enough to hear. The doctor filed it away.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ said the minister. ‘But, well I suppose we might as well get on with this. Hey, you.’

He called to the mechanic. The young man jogged down to the group.

‘You told me you could swim,’ said the minister.

‘Like a fish, Comrade.’

‘Right. Let’s hope you swim better than your pilot flies. Get yourself in the water down there and see what you can find.’

The boy stripped off his shirt and boots and confidently dived into the choppy flow. To everyone’s surprise, Tang, the witch’s brother, strode down the bank, peeled off his long robe and jumped into the water also. Siri and the minister looked at Madame Peung incredulously.

‘He looks unathletic,’ she smiled, ‘but he’s a remarkable swimmer.’

The doctor and the minister exchanged another look but the brother did indeed appear to be very happy in the water. He it was who reached the middle first and his was the first duck-dive sending him deep into the river. Madame Peung walked over to sit on a large boulder that hung over the swirl. It was an idyllic spot surrounded by thick jungle and probably inaccessible by land. Siri thought it would be a great location to photograph a Biere Lao advertisement or a pornographic movie. He clambered over the smaller rocks and sat next to the medium.

‘Ah, Siri,’ she said. ‘You are full to bursting with questions.’

‘I could burp them out one at a time,’ he told her.

‘Keep a cool heart, Doctor. There’s no hurry. Why were you so reluctant to hear from your first wife?’

‘It seemed … I don’t know … disrespectful to Madame Daeng.’

‘Aren’t you curious at all?’

‘I’m …’ Siri reached for his missing earlobe. It was a habit he’d developed whenever verging on the supernatural. ‘I’m so curious I could scream. You probably know about my shaman-in-residence, Yeh Ming?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, whether I like it or not he’s in me somewhere. But, for reasons I don’t really understand, he’s putting down barriers between me and the departed. I know they’re there. I see them. But I can’t talk to them.’

‘What can I do for you, Siri?’

‘Teach me.’

‘To make contact?’

‘Yes.’

She smiled.

‘Can you teach somebody not to be colour-blind?’ she asked. ‘To not grow hair out of their ears?’

‘I’m not sure what that means.’

‘Dr Siri. You are a man of science. Your education gave you proof that there was only one world. This physical one we see all around us. Yet, without warning, you were tossed into this other dimension. You see it just as I do. You experience it. And, even though you can’t deny it’s there, your incorrectly educated self is always at odds with it. It’s there but it cannot possibly be there.’

‘So, how do I …?’

‘It might be too late, Siri, my darling. Cynicism is a big part of who you are. It’s the shutter you pull down to keep out the storms you can’t weather. As long as that shutter is down, your ghost friends will be on the other side of it.’

She stood and started back over the rocks. As she passed Siri she stumbled and he caught her. She looked into his eyes.

‘You know, I’m probably not the most qualified guru to be working with you on this problem. What makes me flesh and blood and them not, I have no idea. But I cannot deny they’re there nor can I deny my role in their unsettled state. The moment you’re able to do the same, that’s when you’ll communicate with them. It’s standing-room only out there, doctor. Your waiting room is full. I see them.’

The two divers had returned to the river’s edge. She released his hand and continued along the bank. There had been something deja vu about her words. He’d had this conversation before in this same place. But not in the waking world. The divers’ return was an annoyance. He hurried along behind her to where the minister leaned over the mechanic.

‘Anything?’ shouted the old general.

‘A lot of mud down there,’ said the mechanic. ‘No sign of a wreck.’

But Tang was out of the water and ripping branches from the nearest tree. He returned with two, handed the pilot one and dived back in.

‘I think he wants you to follow him,’ said Siri.

The mechanic shrugged and swam out after the brother. Once more they duck-dived at the deepest point. The onlookers stood still and silent watching the surface of the Mekhong. Siri, with his troubled lungs and his modest beginner swimming ability, could only marvel at how the two could be so comfortable under thousands of kilograms of water. In fact they were down so long he was starting to get anxious. Not so anxious that he might rip off his shirt and dive in to rescue them, but enough that he asked the minister how well he could swim.

But then the divers’ heads appeared above the choppy water and each had a broad smile on his face.

‘Have a nice time?’ asked Madame Daeng, sniffing the air around Siri like a dog taking in the hindquarters of an interloper.

‘I’m lucky to be alive,’ he told her. ‘Our pilot trained on Dumbo the elephant.’

‘This Dumbo wears lavender perfume?’

Siri didn’t hear. He looked out over the balcony. The river was so crowded with craft you could step from one to the next and reach the far bank. Daeng wore sunglasses and had a half-empty beaker beside her on the rattan table. There too sat her notebook and a pen.

‘Ice tea?’ he asked.

‘Mekhong whisky and water,’ she told him.

‘At eleven a.m.?’

‘I’m on vacation.’

‘Are your legs playing up?’

‘Will you stop talking about my damned legs,’ she growled. ‘My legs are fine. I’m more than just a pair of legs, you know? Ask about my elbow, why don’t you? My fish-gutting skills. My ability at mental arithmetic. Just leave my bloody legs alone.’

‘I … how many glasses have you had?’

She ignored the question. Siri brought over the second deckchair and set it up beside hers. He sat. Silent. Decided this was as good a time as any to keep his mouth shut. They watched the chaos on the river for a good ten minutes.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘No problem.’

‘So. What happened upriver?’

‘Are there any other words I shouldn’t use? Buttocks, for example.’

She smiled.

‘Just shut up and tell me about the trip,’ she said.

‘How can I shut up and-?’

‘Siri!’

‘We had a lovely time, impending death notwithstanding.’

‘Did you find the brother?’

‘We’re not sure. There is something just below the mud.’

‘A boat?’

‘It’s likely. They poked it with sticks and estimated it was about five metres long. The mechanic said it might be a rock but the deaf and dumb fellow seemed pretty excited.’

‘So, she’s legitimate then, your witch.’

‘It’s too early to confirm but too eerie to ignore.’

‘But you have a gut feeling.’

‘She is rather impressive.’

Daeng took up her glass and drank from it.

‘Right,’ she said.

‘Any luck with 1910?’

‘I found the one and only Pak Lai schoolteacher.’

‘Oh, well done.’

‘He graduated from fifth grade. Didn’t make it as far as high school history.’

‘Oh.’

‘And, are you sure it was a date?’

‘What else might it be?’

‘A telephone number?’

‘I just couldn’t imagine a royal spirit giving me his telephone number. Did you …?’

‘There’s no phone here. Or, rather, there are four phones but no line. This area isn’t a priority … for anything. Do you think we might use the helicopter radio to call Phosy?’

‘They’ve gone already. Popkorn and his frightful wife went directly back to Vientiane after dropping us off.’

‘Madame Peung didn’t go with them?’

‘No, the minister said he’d send a team of military engineers. Madame Peung will greet them and lead them to the site. Could be tomorrow or the day after. Meanwhile, she’s invited us to dinner at the governor’s house tonight.’

‘You naturally accepted.’

‘Would have been rude not to. And it’s an opportunity to talk. We had precious little time this morning and it was hellish noisy on the flight. She’s a difficult woman to tie down. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to get her alone for a little while and do a bit of probing.’

Madame Daeng knocked back her drink and stood.

‘Steady on, ma fille,’ said Siri.

‘I can look after myself,’ she snapped. ‘Always could.’