Disco for the Departed (23 page)

As head of the National Department of Justice, Judge Haeng could, technically, have found a lot of things to keep him busy every day of the week. Yet, by hanging on to senior staff who knew the workings of the department far better than he, and by not initiating any new projects, he managed to arrange many large gaps in his daily schedule. These he filled with visits to his family fish farm, afternoon trysts with colorful nightclub singers, and, his particular favorite, just kicking off his shoes and taking nice long naps. If napping had been an event at the Asian Games, Haeng would certainly have been the Lao national champion. He had everything under control and was proving to everybody that he could capably fill the shoes of those corrupt Royalist rogues he'd condemned so often at village seminars.

He became particularly upset, therefore, whenever the politburo gave him tasks that took away his three-hour lunches and "just-say-I'm-in-court" afternoons. The signing of the Vietnamese treaty had turned his life into a hellish succession of meetings and formal dinners and interminable speeches, many his own. The Hanoi judicial delegation had been particularly irksome. They'd insisted upon seeing the inner workings of the Lao legal system. Not only was that mechanism lacking oil, it was also missing a number of irreplaceable spare parts. But he could hardly confess this. So Judge Haeng had set about orchestrating an elaborate deception.

He moved men from outlying police posts to fluff up the two stations visited by the Vietnamese and stage-managed a fake trial at the central courthouse. He shifted four brand-new microfiche viewers from the old USAID compound and set them up at the criminal records department. As none of the Lao records were on fiche, and nobody knew how to operate the equipment anyway, on the day of the delegation's visit there was a sudden and mysterious power outage, which meant the visitors had to leave without seeing the system in action. The judge was exhausted and thanked the heavens that the Vietnamese only had one more half day before he would be rid of them.

One member of the group was a doctor--a coroner, of all things--who had convinced his compatriots that a review of the justice system could not be complete without a visit to the morgue. Judge Haeng had argued against this with all his might--the smell, the sight of blood, the heat--but they all seemed to be in agreement with the annoying little Vietnamese doctor. It occurred to Haeng that perhaps every country had the thorn of a difficult national coroner in its side. But he had no choice. On the evening of the last day of the visit, following a farewell banquet at the old presidential palace, Haeng had his driver take him out to Dr. Siri's house, deep in the new suburbs behind the That Luang shrine. It would be his first visit to the place. It would also be the first time he'd seen Siri since his trip to the northeast, and since the removal of his moronic henchman from the morgue.

On the car journey there he took a number of deep breaths and prepared retorts for the complaints sure to come his way. Siri was insolent but occasionally competent.

The old man had done a reasonable job in Xam Neua. Haeng would begin by telling him so, get him in a good mood, inform him of how satisfied the Party was with his work. He would not allow the doctor to bully him about the missing moron. He was, after all, the head of the Justice Department and Siri was just a worker. But still he felt his hands tremble as he walked through the tall front gate and into a well-tended yard. The front door of the house was wide open, and he could see Siri in the back kitchen. Haeng clenched his fists and called Siri's name, but was totally unprepared for what happened next. Siri raised his arm in greeting, smiled, and trotted out to welcome him. He was so polite, so friendly, that Haeng wondered whether Siri had confused him with someone else. But taking the judge's arm, Siri led him inside.

It was an awful place, a menagerie: old people, invalids, brats running amok. Siri had turned perfectly good government housing into a slum. There would be a report made to the housing division about this, no question, but there was a more pressing issue. He hurriedly acknowledged the introductions and immediately dismissed the names of Siri's gang from his mind. As soon as he could, he herded Siri and Dtui onto the front step. He asked for assurance that they would be neatly turned out for tomorrow's visit, white coat for the doctor, crisp white uniform for the nurse. It was also vital that there be no--what he referred to as "patients." Siri asked whether he meant dead bodies, and Haeng acknowledged that was his meaning. If there were any bodies in the freezer, Siri would have to get there early and clear them out.

Siri had been so bold as to ask where they should dump a body, were it to arrive before the delegation turned up, but Haeng didn't give a hoot what they did with it as long as the morgue was spotlessly clean and presentable. Siri and

Dtui assured him there would be nothing dead to spoil the reputation of the national mortuary. They assured him it would be a day like no other. Haeng drove home that night with a lighter heart. The only possible flaw that might spoil an otherwise exemplary picture of Justice Department efficiency had been removed. And, miracle of miracles, there had been no mention of
that
matter. This Siri character was proving to be trainable after all. Haeng lay back in his seat and smiled for the first time all day.

The entourage of shiny black Zil limousines pulled up in front of the morgue at nine fifteen the following morning. The hospital director was there to meet the delegates. He had a speech written and planned to give each of them a wrist garland of orchids. But it was a stinking hot day, and the cars had kicked up a mist of dust. The Vietnamese wanted nothing to do with the director's foolishness. They wanted merely to get the final pointless visit over with and head off to the airport. They'd all been in Laos far too long already. They pushed past the director and a chorus of applauding nurses, and headed for the shade of the morgue entrance. The director recognized at least two senior Party members, a judge, and two police generals as they shoved him out of the way. But his camera still hung by his side, and he had no photographic evidence that his hospital had been so honored.

The delegates were met in the vestibule by Dr. Siri in a spotless white lab coat and, of all things, a shirt and tie. A gleaming stethoscope hung around his neck. He stood beside a beaming Judge Haeng and welcomed the Vietnamese in their own language. He had no need of an interpreter although this left Haeng at a slight disadvantage. Despite completing much of his undergraduate education in Hanoi, Haeng's Vietnamese was infected with a horrible

Lao accent, and his comprehension was lacking. The doctor said he regretted there were no bodies to show the guests but he invited everyone into the autopsy room regardless. The throng shuffled forward to find Dtui standing in front of the large freezer door. She was immaculately groomed and dressed in her whitest uniform. She'd even gone so far as to stick a bright pink
champa
flower above her ear. She smiled sweetly and pulled open the freezer door like the hostess on a Thai television game show.

The visitors stared into an empty freezer in a body-less morgue and wondered what they were doing there. Judge Haeng was glowing. It was as if he wanted to shout his delight, but somebody beat him to it. The deathly cry came from one side of the room, from behind the door that led to the samples store. That door suddenly flew open, inflicting a blow to the shoulder of a senior police person, and the most incredible sight presented itself. There was an audible intake of breath from every visitor. A dark-skinned man, perhaps of Indian origin, shirtless and unshaven, waded through the crowd of frightened onlookers to stand beside the judge. He wore only a very brief sarong and in his open palm he carried what appeared to be a human brain. It dribbled fluid onto the spotlessly clean concrete floor. He appeared to be laughing but no sound came from him.

Comrade Nguyen, the Vietnamese coroner, was the first to speak. "Judge Haeng," he said indignantly. "What's the meaning of this?"

It was clear from Haeng's expression that he'd suddenly recognized the half-naked man. Wasn't this the nutcase who strolled aimlessly around the city begging for food scraps? Wasn't this the serial flasher who had been arrested repeatedly and spent several nights in jail? This was the man they called Crazy Rajid. What was he doing here in the morgue?

"Siri, what's the meaning of this?" Haeng demanded.

"Gentlemen, I suppose I should explain," Siri said. "You'll have to forgive the appearance of our new morgue technician."

"New morgue ...?" Haeng began. He felt obliged to laugh, to convey the impression that this was a joke and he'd been party to it all along. Siri heaved himself up onto the cutting slab and began to address the audience.

"You see," he began, "Mr. Rajid here is the only person we could find who'd agree to work for the half salary we are allocated for this position." Rajid had sunk to the floor and was molding the brain like silly putty into the shape of a mushroom.

"I don't think ...," Haeng began, still smiling but unable to form a sentence in Vietnamese with sufficient aplomb to rescue himself.

Siri continued. "We used to have a well-qualified--in fact, brilliant--technician who was perfectly happy to work for a pittance. He had more experience than either I or Nurse Dtui here."

"What happened to him?" Nguyen asked. The other delegates had shuffled forward, entranced by the first authentic show of their visit.

"Well, I'm sure he had a good reason, but Judge Hae--I mean, the Justice Department--fired him."

"I didn't actually fire h ..." Haeng tried again. His smile was wilting.

"Why?" Nguyen asked. "Why fire a perfectly good technician?"

"Because ..." Siri paused for effect. "Because he had Down Syndrome."

A mumble rose from the group.

"You fired a man because he was a mongoloid?" the leader of the delegation asked with an expression of disbelief on his face. It was conceivable he would have done the same-- probable that none of the assembled dignitaries would have hired the handicapped in the first place, but group dynamics work wonders for one's indignation.

"I ... I didn't fire him," Haeng said. "I reallocated him."

"Why?" Nguyen asked. "Wasn't he serving in a valuable capacity for the socialist state? Wasn't he contributing to the community?"

"He certainly was," Siri replied.

Rajid had put the brain on his head and was now modeling it as if it were a hat. One of the generals looked at him in disgust, then turned to Siri. "Can we talk to this retard-- see for ourselves?"

"I'm afraid you can't," Siri told him. Both the doctor and Dtui lowered their heads. "You see, he was shipped north under armed guard. He was sent all the way to Luang Prabang but such was his loyalty, such was his love of his job and his responsibilities here, that he turned back. He walked--yes, comrades, he walked--all the way back to this morgue. For ten days, beneath the biting summer sun, he marched"--a sob was heard from the direction of the freezer--"five hundred punishing kilometers he walked. But, as you can imagine, the journey weakened him, and on the way he contracted dengue fever. When he arrived here he was barely alive. He collapsed right there behind you."

The crowd turned back as if expecting to see the body still there on the concrete. Siri took the opportunity to look up at Haeng, whose teeth were so tightly clenched they could easily have been welded together. The delegation turned back to see the young nurse with tears rolling down her round cheeks.

"He's dead?" someone asked.

"He might as well be," Siri replied. "It's touch and go." He could see the Vietnamese glares slicing through the judge, who stood exposed and unarmed beside him. Siri expected one last defensive volley from him and he wasn't disappointed.

"We ... we're doing everything we can to keep him alive," Haeng said, not terribly convincingly. He'd had no idea the moron had come back. "If he makes it, naturally we'll honor him for his courage and dedication."

"Let's hope you do," said the senior cadre. "This is exactly the type of spirit we want to see in a socialist state. It would be a marvelous incentive for normal people. If a mongoloid can show so much dedication to the Party ..."

"Exactly," someone agreed.

"A medal at least," said Dr. Nguyen.

"Walked all that way--marvelous," said the policeman.

Soon the morgue was awash with enthusiasm and hope for this slightly defective but nonetheless courageous soldier of the revolution. Someone suggested they visit the brave warrior to show their support. They trooped out of the morgue and across the hospital grounds to the intensive care unit. Crazy Rajid joined the pilgrimage, so the only ones left in the cutting room were Dtui, Siri, and his old friend Dr. Nguyen.

"I think that went quite well, don't you?" said the Vietnamese.

"Thanks to you," said Siri. "I'm in your debt."

"I'll think of something, don't worry. Maybe ask you to send me some of these pretty nurses." He smiled at Dtui. "I think I should join my team, don't you?"

They laughed and shook hands, and Nguyen walked jauntily out of the autopsy room.

"Well," said Dtui. "I had no idea what you were all talking about, but I can still see bits of Haeng's face littering the floor so I know it worked."

From the shadows of the vestibule came another figure. Haeng's chief clerk, Mrs. Manivone, walked out into the fluorescent lighting, slowly shaking her head. She'd watched the whole thing from the wings and knew her boss only too well.