Thirty-Three Teeth

The Man of His Dreams

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 piece de resistance, “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.

Siri was escorting an illegal traveler bereft of paperwork, so this could have been the start of a bureaucratic nightmare. But as he’d assumed, it turned out to be quite simple. The officers only checked the papers of those who crowded around them waving their travel documents and their house registrations and their birth certificates and their lists of signatures. One could avoid this melee by not going to the booth at all.

Siri and his friend skirted around the riot and walked past the man on the barrier with the confidence of travelers whose documentation was in order. It helped to be met by a nurse in uniform and a driver. You had to be someone for such a reception.

“Dtui, this is Mr. Inthanet. He’s-”

Before Siri could complete the introduction, two policemen in non-matching uniforms strode up to the group. One of them held a small passport-sized photograph. Dtui recognized the men.

“Dr. Siri Paiboun?” one policeman asked, although he apparently knew already.

“Yes.”

“You are under arrest, Comrade. Please come with us.”

Everyone but Siri seemed surprised.

“May I ask you what the charges are?”

“They’ll tell you at the police station, Doctor.”

The other policeman took Siri’s arm lightly and gestured for him to head outside with them. The prisoner looked back at the amazed faces of Inthanet, Dtui, and the songtaew driver. He held up four fingers to his traveling companion and winked.

“Don’t panic,” he said, smiling. “Please take Mr. Inthanet to my house and make him comfortable. I’ll be there shortly.”

But the last they saw of Siri that day was the back of his head in the police truck being driven out of the airport carpark. Dtui looked at the mysterious visitor, smiled, shrugged her shoulders, and said:

“Hot, isn’t it?”

“Damned hot,” he replied.

“So, how do you know Dr. Siri?”