Six and a Half Deadly Sins (12 page)

There were three motorized vehicles in Muang Sing—all jeeps. One belonged to the police. One to the military. And one to a nebulous aid group by the name of Physicians Eschewing Agendas. The group had supported the Pathet Lao enthusiastically in the international press during the struggles. Like the Quakers and the Mennonites, PEA had been invited to stay on in the country and do … whatever it was they’d been doing before the takeover. Nobody was too clear exactly what that was. But brotherhood had to be rewarded.

All this Siri had learned from a hot berry drink seller at the market. He and Daeng had spent an hour there thawing out and pumping in vitamin C. It wasn’t working. They were still in need of transportation to the Mekhong, sixty kilometers west.

The consensus at the market was that there was nothing faster than an ox cart heading in that direction. They could see no earthly chance of wresting jeeps from the police or the army, so they followed directions to a quaint old wooden building on stilts behind Xieng Yeun Temple. They arrived in the middle of a rendition of “Jingle Bells” sung by twenty
small children seated beneath the house. The choirmaster was an elderly balding version of what Santa Claus might have looked like after a crash diet. His hair was long, and his beard bore two plaited strands that looked from a distance like dribble. When the song was over, he introduced himself in Lao as Bobby from California and sang the word “Lola.”

Lola, his wife, came down the staircase with a tray of pancakes cut into small triangles. Siri had never met Henry Kissinger, but he’d seen photographs. Lola bore such a resemblance, she could have been his mother. She wore a frock with a hibiscus print that made her look like a garden trellis.

Within minutes, Siri and Daeng had been hugged and shaken and squeezed until they were intimates. Lola and Bobby, Siri learned, had been holed up in this house for six months because the government hadn’t yet decided what they were allowed to do. They were both qualified and experienced doctors, but they were kept away from the understaffed hospital, couldn’t see patients at the house and were not allowed to “teach, train, fraternize or proselytize.” This was spelled out in their letter of welcome from the government that now hung framed on their kitchen wall. The same letter concluded, “We respect PEA for its ongoing support of the Pathet Lao revolution and thank you for your continued assistance to the poor in remote areas.”

In short, PEA could stay in their Muang Sing home, chat to health care workers and conduct singalongs with the kids, the lyrics of which were “picked up” rather than taught. And, of course, they could make pancakes. The kids treated the snack with great deference and refused to eat it in one sitting. They left reluctantly for home, jingling all the way.

Despite the couple’s overindulgences in the area of bonhomie, Siri and Daeng rather liked them. Bobby gave Siri some of their stock of herbal cold medicine as a gift and, having heard of the visitors’ need for transportation, he led them out
back. In the rear corner of the open yard was a large object wrapped in burlap sacks and rope. As Bobby peeled off the sacks, he explained, “This beauty belonged to Dr. Tom Dooley back in the sixties. When they moved on, the Lao staff at the clinic didn’t know what to do with her. None of them could drive. So she sat there. Medico—the sponsors—said we could use her. I rescued her just in time. Her name’s Agnes.”

He yanked at the last rope, and the sacking fell away to reveal a Willys Jeep in remarkable condition.

“They don’t make ’em like this any more,” Bobby continued. “I’m a car guy. We’ve been sitting around here twiddling our thumbs, so I put all my energy into this baby. It works just fine. But the local cadres won’t let us go anywhere in it. I drive it around the grounds when nobody’s looking. The carburetor hums like a hive o’ hornets. You’ll have to find gas for it, but you’re welcome to use it.”

“I feel like I belong to some tribe of cave dwellers,” Siri told Daeng later. Bobby was polishing his Willys. Lola was cooking them lunch. The cold remedies had swaddled Siri and Daeng in a cocoon of cotton.

“Well, technically, you do,” she reminded him. “The revolution was conducted from the caves of the north.”

“But not in one million BC, Daeng. We’ve got a hospital up here that’s still practicing bloodletting and chicken sacrifices, and we have two experienced, Lao-speaking doctors waiting to help, and they’re all tied up in PDR red tape. It makes me sick.”

“I know it does, dear.”

“I want to—”

“I know you do, dear.” And she watched as Siri’s outrage dissipated into one more coughing fit.

Even though they’d only known the new arrivals for three hours, the Americans provided an emotional goodbye. Lola
sobbed into her handkerchief as she and Bobby stood on the front step waving them off. “Our hearts go with you,” shouted Lola.

Sitting proudly at the wheel, Siri watched them shrink in the rearview mirror.

“Do you suppose they’re that enthusiastic with everyone?” Daeng asked.

“It’s the grapes,” said Siri. “California. Wine. It makes people love each other. Look at France.
L’amour
every damned where.”

“The French aren’t nearly so gushing,” said Daeng.

“They’ve been doing it a lot longer. They went through their gushing period. History irons gushing out. Now they only have romance. The Americans will get there.”

Daeng leaned over and kissed his ear.

“What?” he said.

“I love it when you talk rubbish.”

“I’m not …”

“What do we do for petrol, my husband?”

“That will take care of itself. I have a good feeling about all of this.”

At Muang Sing’s only petrol pump at the old China road intersection, the proprietor announced boldly that they weren’t accepting
kip
that day. Siri stared at him. He was tall and nicely postured like a matinee actor in hard times.

“Have they moved the border since we got here?” Siri asked.

“A lot of Chinese vehicles heading home today,” the proprietor replied. “They’re in a hurry. They can’t be bothered to count out all those small bills in
kip
, so they hand over wads of
yuan.
It usually works out better for me to have foreign currency. Our people are forever devaluing.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Siri. “What happens to the poor Lao who don’t have
yuan
?”

“That’s not my problem. I’ve been told to get the Chinese out as quickly as possible.”

Daeng leaned across her husband. A full logging truck cast a shadow over them and blasted its horn. “Surely there’s some way to get petrol here without using foreign currency,” she said.

“No,” the proprietor barked. “Now do you want to pull over so this guy can get filled up?”

“I’m not moving,” said Siri.

“Suit yourself, Granddad,” said the man. “Those trucks have bull bars the size of Alaska.” He waved the truck driver forward.

“Don’t you have parents?” Daeng asked. “Can’t you help an old couple get to Chiang Kok to visit their dying grandson? He only has half a lung.”

The proprietor held up his hand to the truck driver. “You’re going to Chiang Kok?” he asked.

“We’re trying to,” said Siri.

“Well then there might be a way, after all,” said the man. “If you’d be prepared to take a passenger.”

“We could be persuaded,” said Siri.

The truck driver blasted his horn again.

“I’ve got this important politburo man out back,” said the proprietor. “He’s been here all day. He’s asked me to keep an eye open for anything headed west. He’s on some top-secret mission, or so he keeps telling me. I imagine he’d have a petrol budget if he’s as important as he says. He’s had no trouble paying for the end of my stock of Tsingtao beer.”

“Show us the way,” said Daeng.

The truck started forward, and Siri pulled aside. The fumes weren’t helping his condition. The proprietor put some petrol in the tank and was counting out his
yuan
as he led Siri and Daeng to the rear of the pump building.

“What’s happening in China?” Daeng asked him.

“What?”

“You said everyone’s in a hurry to get back.”

“You’re joking, right, lady?”

“If I was I wouldn’t have found myself particularly funny,” she said. “Just answer the question, young man.”

The proprietor stopped and looked back at the old lady. “You really haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“China’s invaded Vietnam,” he said. “The Vietnamese are putting pressure on Laos to kick out all the Chinese. The Chinks are getting out all their heavy equipment so it won’t be confiscated as war booty. Some of the work teams have left already.”

“China invaded Vietnam?” said Siri. “I don’t believe it.”

“Don’t you listen to the radio?”

“All I can hear is Chinese.”

“They have a program in the Lao language. They reopened the channel and announced it officially a couple of hours ago. Their army’s already captured two provincial capitals in Vietnam. The locals are dropping like fireflies.”

“And what’s Laos doing about it?” Daeng asked.

“The Chinese reckon all the hill tribes are siding with them, and units of Lao militia have already defected. But I imagine that’s Chinese propaganda. You can’t believe a word those bastards say. I suppose you’d have to ask the politburo guy for the real story. He just arrived from Vientiane. He’ll probably know.”

They followed the proprietor around the back of a small cottage and heard him say, “Hello, Uncle. I think I might have found you a ride out west.”

When Siri and Daeng arrived at the veranda, they saw an old man sitting on a porch swing with a bottle on his lap. He looked up at the arrivals and smiled.

“Civilai?” said Daeng.

“Hello,” said Civilai.

“What are you doing here?” Siri asked.

“You know him?” asked the proprietor.

“I’m the honorary war attaché for Luang Nam Tha,” said Civilai. Siri sat beside him and started to swing the seat. “Steady. You’ll spill my beer,” said Civilai.

“What happened to the Chinese Relations Committee?” Siri asked. Daeng sat opposite on a good solid bench.

“It folded,” said Civilai. “It’s really hard for one to have relations with people who are waging war with one. Or at least with one’s ally. There’s more than the usual chaos in Vientiane. Nobody knows how to react. Do we send greetings cards to both sides wishing them the best of luck? Or do we take up arms and defend our borders? We didn’t know about it until the Chinese were twenty kilometers into Vietnam and it was a bit too late to lodge strong objections to the buildup of troops.”

“Is that why you’re up here, Civilai?” Daeng asked. “Defending our borders with a beer bottle?”

“They call it a nonaggressive diplomatic mission,” he said. “I’m just here to observe and report back. I’m having a few drinks because it’s a very stressful job.”

“Did you have a choice?” Siri asked.

“They did offer me the ambassadorship in Phnom Phen again.”

“Again?”

“For the third time. Nobody wants it. You might even qualify by now, Siri.”

“But you refused,” said Daeng.

“I most certainly did, Madame.”

“Then why couldn’t you refuse this posting?”

“I knew you two were up here. I thought we might meet up and have an adventure like in the old days. You both look absolutely awful, by the way. I hope it’s nothing contagious.”

“Flu,” said Siri, blowing the word into his friend’s face.

“I doubt a little cold will prevent Civilai from single-handedly beating back a Chinese invasion of Laos,” said Daeng.

“They assured me in Vientiane I wouldn’t need a weapon,” Civilai replied. “Once the official order for the Chinese to leave is announced, I’m here to supervise the orderly withdrawal of the rest of the road crews.”

“We’re kicking them all out?” Siri asked.

“I imagine it will be a temporary measure. Just a wee show to keep Hanoi happy. Once the Chinese pull out of Vietnam, we’ll have them all back in a heartbeat.”

“All this responsibility and they don’t give you transportation?” said Daeng.

“I have a chit for unlimited petrol,” Civilai told her. “But I was supposed to be using the military jeep. I went to look at it when I arrived. Army wages haven’t made it up here for the past two months, so they took off the wheels and sold them to buy rations.”

“I like to see initiative in the armed forces,” said Siri. “Let’s hope they don’t have to retreat in a hurry.”

“And what wheels do you have, brother?”

“A Willys. Prime condition. Name of Agnes. Only lacking petrol.”

“Perfect,” said Civilai. “Then there’s nothing stopping us.”

These were the days of what Civilai liked to call “bedroom farce” politics. Countries were frantically jumping in and out of bed with other countries who had once been mortal enemies. In the USA,
TIME
magazine had named Deng Xiao Ping their man of the year. The Chinese Premier traveled to Washington, where amnesia had apparently set in over the insults they’d lavished upon him just a year before.

The Soviet Union, sensing a Chinaless void to flood with its
style-less domestic appliances, had hurriedly thrown together a peace delegation to visit the region. They had agreed to several educational and cultural projects in the spirit of socialist harmony. The Soviets were currently airlifting Vietnamese troops out of Cambodia to shore up Vietnam’s northern borders. On the southern front, capitalist Thailand had put together its own love team led by a Prime Minister who had suggested just a year earlier that Laos was a backwater run by idiots. The Mekhong had been reclassified from a volatile border to a waterway of opportunity. The Morning Market was stocking up on Thai-made junk. Thai bottled soft drinks were already on sale in the south. One advertising campaign from a company never shy to overplay its potential featured the motto
COCA
-
COLA IS LOVE
. Inspector Phosy had brought a crate for his journey north. That’s why the little girl’s Coca-Cola reference had clicked for him.

Phosy had called a meeting of elders from both villages. For effect it was to be held in the clearing where the deaths had occurred. Sergeant Teyp and Officer Buri were there, and an invitation had been extended to toothless Foreman Goi, whom Phosy was certain wouldn’t show. All the talk in Luang Nam Tha was about the Chinese invasion and the expulsion of anyone with links to that country. Goi would surely be too busy to take time out to attend a dénouement.