Disco for the Departed (20 page)

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.

It was the day of the concert. Although they could have gone in for the kill on concert eve, Siri and Dtui decided that one more day of interviews and fieldwork would leave no doubt in their minds. There was also an important phone call from Vientiane expected. The guesthouse landlady was devastated that these medical people were still there, still occupying two valuable rooms. Thank goodness the "evidence" had been removed or she'd have had to explain that to Comrade Khong from Vientiane, too.

On the afternoon of the day before the concert, Dtui took Panoy back to her village. These were the days before the exodus to the big cities, when "neighbor" still meant more than just the person next door. Panoy's mother lived opposite a woman who had been widowed in the same conflict that had claimed Panoy's father. She took the little girl from Dtui as if there was no question as to where she would grow up and who would care for her. Just like that, the village had painlessly filled the gap in Panoy's life like white blood corpuscles healing a wound and leaving no scar. There had been no debate, no discussion.

Dtui was breathless with admiration for these people. Her own mother had been one of their kind. Dtui had been born in such a village but had no recollections of it. This was Laos. These were Lao people. Her people: kind, selfless, and honest. Ninety percent of Lao tilled the soil and cared for each other just like this. Dtui sat under an awning in the central square of this thirty-hut village, and saw what her country could so easily become if it was left to manage itself.

The village children were already playing gently with Panoy, recognizing her frailty. People nodded and laughed about simple things. They brought sweets and drinks for the nice nurse who'd rescued this child of the village from the edge of death. Everybody was busy, but at the same time relaxed. They all had time to talk with Dtui, and if they had no questions to ask, they would just sit with her and put their hands on hers.

And while she sat there, she noticed something else. As in every other village, the livestock, the babies, and the dogs all shared the same dust. The chickens pecked away all day at ants that barely carried a calorie among a thousand of them. Toddlers built up immunity from disease by growing up with dirt, but it was one little boy's playmate who caused Dtui to take a second look. It was an odd creature like nothing she'd seen before. From a distance, it looked like a small black pig. But there was something different about it. Where it should have had trotters, it had paws. Its tail was short and curly but it wagged from side to side. Whereas you'd expect it to snort and oink, this animal yapped at the little boy and was apparently enjoying their game.

It would have been quite simple to ask someone. She could have gone closer to confirm that this piglet had mud on its feet and a heavy cold, but instead she decided it was time to go. Even though she was in an animistic village in what was now officially an agnostic country, she had a few words with the Lord Buddha before she left. She promised never again to joke about the laws of nature. The lesson had been learned.

She kissed Panoy on the cheek, knowing the girl would never remember her if they met again. She thanked everyone, although none of them were sure for what they were being thanked, and walked out of the village. Her mothering instincts had swollen in her chest, and at that moment, she'd reached a point where nothing seemed more important than marriage and a family of her own.

In Comrade Lit's mind, there was only one reason why Dr. Siri and Nurse Dtui were in Vieng Xai. The Cuban-in-the-concrete case was closed and yet they were still there. Security arrangements for the concert had kept him busy since filing his report. He'd stopped by at the guesthouse the previous day but nobody had seen hide nor hair of the two. He'd called again in the evening but they still hadn't returned. His mind should have been focused on the day's big event, but he couldn't get Nurse Dtui out of his head.

He'd come to the conclusion that Dr. Siri had agreed to act as her witness when she accepted Lit's offer of marriage. Siri had phoned and asked him to pick them up in his jeep. He dropped off his deputy to oversee the final arrangements at the concert cave and drove to the guesthouse, his heart thumping. When he saw his betrothed on the front steps, the early-morning sun bringing out the natural rouge of her cheeks, he could hardly breathe. What a fine choice he'd made.

But when Siri and Nurse Dtui got into his jeep, there was no talk of wedding arrangements. Siri asked him to drive them to Xam Neua. It was terribly inconvenient under the circumstances, but the doctor assured him this was a most serious matter that couldn't be avoided. Neither of his passengers would tell him the purpose of their journey. Left to his own imagination and the silence, he conjured up a trip to the central market to buy good northern silk for her wedding gown, even a visit to a fortune-teller to learn of an auspicious day for the ceremony. Perhaps this was how it was done. He'd never married before so he could hardly know. But he was too pleased with himself to spoil the day by complaining.

In fact, he didn't become anxious at all until the doctor directed him into the makeshift hospital compound and asked him to park in front of the director's office.

"What are we doing here, Doctor?" he asked.

"We've come to visit Dr. Santiago."

Lit was enraged by this announcement. "We've what? Why didn't you tell me this was your destination?"

"Would you have come if I had?"

"I ... I have no business here."

"No? What about the business of revenge?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. You've been petrified of Dr. Santiago for too long, Comrade Lit. It's time to stand up to him."

"You're wrong."

"Am I? Then would you like to tell us what happened to that finger of yours?"

"I don't ..." He looked at Dtui in the rear mirror. What effect would this have on her? Would she lose respect for him? Nothing showed on her face. Siri climbed down from the jeep and pointed to the key in the ignition. The confidence on the doctor's face buoyed Lit somewhat. It made him momentarily believe there it might be possible for him to escape from beneath the shadow of the damned Cuban. He turned off the engine and stepped down from the jeep.

Santiago didn't look up from his papers when the three uninvited visitors entered his room, but he smiled and said something to Dtui.

"He says he's been expecting you for some time," Dtui told Siri. She stood to one side. Her role throughout this interview would merely be that of interpreter. She would translate Siri's questions as best she could and try to catch the Cuban's answers. She wouldn't become involved in any conflict that might arise. This was what they'd agreed.

His eyes sparkling with mischief, Santiago looked at Lit as he entered the office. Again he spoke.

"Dr. Santiago thinks it's very brave of you to get so close to him again. He asks whether your magician friend--that's you, Doc--has given you the confidence to come here after all this time. But he warns you that Dr. Siri won't be able to help you."

Siri noticed a pallor wash over Lit's face and began to understand the hold Santiago had over people.

"In that case, perhaps, before he dispatches us all to hell," Siri smiled, "he'll allow me to run my theory by him. Tell him he's free to correct any mistakes I make."

"He wants to know if this is really necessary," Dtui said.

"Perhaps the doctor would allow me just a few moments' indulgence," Siri began. "Comrade Lit, as you've learned from painful experience, Dr. Santiago is much more than just a brilliant surgeon. He is also a senior practitioner of Endoke. It would appear to many people that he is an extremely competent performer of this dark art. In fact, if you check the records, you'll find that his transfer to this godforsaken communist outpost had nothing to do with his medical skills, great though they might be. It was his last chance--the only work he could get. They kicked him out of his own country because he was a menace. Isn't that right, Doctor?"

Dtui tried her best to keep up. She told Siri the Cuban didn't want to interrupt his story.

"Oh, yes. I think he knows we're getting to the interesting part." Siri leaned back in his seat and looked into the mocking eyes of his old friend. "Because, you see, Comrade Lit, when Odon and Isandro arrived in this country, they had no knowledge whatsoever of the spirit world. They were hardworking, studious boys who wanted to come to a struggling Third World country and share their skills. They learned our language and took pains to understand our culture. The reason they were popular wasn't because they cast spells to make people like them. They were popular because they were truly nice boys.

"One of those boys, Isandro, met a patient at the hospital, the beautiful daughter of a Vietnamese colonel. Her name was Hong Lan, and in the two months she remained convalescing at Kilometer 8, the two of them fell deeply in love. There was nothing improper about their relationship. The girl was ill and he was her nurse. They talked and got to know one another, and whatever chemical it is that makes a relationship fizz and bubble, that's what happened to Hong Lan and Isandro.

"The girl had many suitors but had met nobody like this boy. He was handsome and intelligent and very kind. She was so confident that this was the man she wanted to spend her life with she even told her mother. That, as it turned out, was the biggest mistake she could have made. A foreigner--and a black foreigner at that--whatever could she have been thinking? Her mother was devastated; her father incensed. Word could never get out about their daughter's insanity. They transferred the girl to another hospital, but the humiliation wouldn't go away. The blacks had to go. Our friend Dr. Santiago was entrusted with that duty."

When he heard this translation, the Cuban twirled his hand arrogantly in the air like a musketeer. Siri smiled, shook his head, and continued.

"Fortunately for him, the doctor had experienced his own small disaster around the same time. Some children playing in the tunnels, ones they'd been specifically forbidden to enter, came across a peculiar altar. They told their parents, who reported the matter to the authorities.

"This, Comrade Lit, was the altar I told you about at the Sheraton de Laos. It had been the scene of small sacrifices and the casting of evil spells. It was Dr. Santiago's personal temple, the shrine at which he practiced his magic, where he put together his potions and curses. Dr. Santiago doesn't wear his amulets to protect himself from other exponents. He is a devotee. They are his chain of office. The altar had nothing to do with the interns, but, by accusing them of using black magic, showing people the so-called evidence, making up stories about their activities, he was able to turn everyone against them. The Vietnamese were only too happy to accept the possibility that Isandro had bewitched their daughter with his spells.

"To the boys, Santiago was a sympathetic countryman, a kindly old uncle. He told them he believed they were innocent of the accusations, but public opinion had left him no choice but to have them return to Cuba. It was all very neat. The colonel came one day with soldiers to arrest them and transport them by force to Hanoi. Up to that point, everything had gone very well for everyone except the boys. They could have left Vietnam then and that would have been the end of it. Only Isandro's love for Hong Lan and Odon's friendship with Isandro were stronger than their will to survive.

"They escaped before they could be put on a plane, and somehow worked their way back to Huaphan. It must have been a journey riddled with difficulties, fraught with danger. No help from anyone--soldiers everywhere who would probably have mistaken them for American servicemen. But they beat the odds. When they got back, they hid where they knew they'd least be expected to, in the old cave of the president. And they brought Lan to stay with them. It was no kidnap. Once she got word from Isandro that he'd returned, the girl had happily conspired with them to arrange her own rescue.

"Isandro and Hong Lan knew by then that her cancer was incurable, that she had no more than two months to live. She didn't want to spend the last of her days with a mother who taunted her daily, reminded her how she'd dirtied her family name. No, Hong Lan wanted to be with the man she'd fallen in love with. She wanted the last weeks of her life to be the happiest."

Dtui's translation flagged as she fought back tears.

"Apart from foraging for food," Siri continued, "hunting game, and keeping his lover free from pain, Isandro was also gathering his thoughts. There must have been many conversations, the three of them holed up in the cave with nothing much else to do. They knew the altar at the Sheraton had to belong to someone. There weren't that many Cubans to choose from. Perhaps they heard from Hong Lan that it was Santiago who had made the accusation to her father about the boys. Or perhaps they remembered the rumor about a pretty young nurse, with a fiance back in her home village, who seemed to have fallen for Santiago. Nobody could understand why she was so eager to fall into the old doctor's bed."

Santiago laughed when he heard the translation and asked why Siri was so jealous. Was it inconceivable the old Cuban was attractive to young women?

Siri ignored the comment. "Perhaps they remembered the Cuban accountant who had suffered from an infection of the throat. How they'd questioned the need for a tracheotomy for such a small ailment, then recalled that he had been forced to return to Havana before completing a full audit of the doctor's books."