Six and a Half Deadly Sins (16 page)

“To be honest,” said Daeng, “we have no idea how many there might be.”

“Too true,” Civilai agreed. “This prankster could keep us snapping at the tidbits she tosses for us indefinitely.”

“We should give it a couple more days,” said Siri. “We’ll head off to Muang Xai early tomorrow when we’re rested up. Enjoy the scenery.”

“Well, this adventurer has no intention of going anywhere tomorrow,” said Daeng.

The men looked at her in surprise.

“What? I’m no good to anyone with this cold,” she said. “My plan is to wrap myself up in blankets and sweat the blighter out of my system.”

“Perhaps we should all do that,” said Siri.

“Oh, husband. You could no sooner sit still all day than I could dance the tango in stilettos.”

“Good,” said Civilai. “Girls always were a burden on road trips. Just you and me, Siri. Off to the wilds of Muang Xai.”

“Didn’t you have a Chinese invasion to uncover?” said Siri.

“Exactly,” said Civilai. “We’ll be passing right through the heart of Udomxai, the most logical province from which to launch an attack on Vietnam. Why else would the Chinese have built all those roads to Dien Bien Phu if not to invade the place?”

The next morning with the scenery a blur and the sun nowhere to be seen, Siri and Civilai set off on the trip to Un Mai. There had been one contentious moment when Civilai headed for the door with the stash over his shoulder.

“What do you think you’re doing, brother?” Siri had asked.

“We can’t possibly leave a defenseless woman alone with twenty kilos of heroin.”

“And you would sooner take it through half a dozen military road checkpoints?”

“I have a letter which states that I represent the government.”

“You do know most of those boys won’t be able to read your travel documents? But they do have a nose for drugs.”

Reluctantly, Civilai had secreted the stash beneath the lid of the old piano. He sulked as they drove away. Daeng,
wrapped in a blanket, had waved them off from the front steps.

When they were out of sight, which didn’t take long, she turned back, hobbled into the house and locked the door. Shedding her itchy blanket, she walked to the piano and lifted the lid. She took one plastic bag to the sofa, then retrieved her service penknife from her pocket. This was something she badly needed to do. Her husband would never have approved, but some forces were stronger than love.

She dug the knife into the pack, releasing a gentle cloud of white powder. She breathed it in and could already taste its influence. This was the real thing.

“We appear to be on the wrong road,” said Civilai.

“We aren’t on the road yet,” said Siri. “We’re visiting some old friends.”

“Since when did you have friends?”

Siri ignored him and pulled up in front of the two-story wooden building, then turned off the engine. The mist crawled around the yard like on a B-grade horror movie set. Siri beeped his horn, and Bobby poked his head through the window.

“Breakfast?” he shouted.

“Do you have a cassette recorder?” Siri called to him.

“Of course.”

“Then yes to breakfast.”

They ate waffles slathered in syrup and drank sweet black coffee. The Americans had brought a huge food hamper with them, but supplies were running low. PEA continued to send them hardship packages, though not much in the way of edibles from overseas made it through the Lao postal service. Bobby sat at the table splicing the section of tape onto an unwanted cassette. It took him no time at all. He pressed
PLAY
on the old cassette player, and they heard a few seconds of a tune that was familiar.

“Simon and Garfunkel,” said Lola.

“That’s the name of the song?” Siri asked.

“The singers,” said Bobby. “The song’s called ‘Bridge Over Troubled Waters.’ ” He translated the segment from the tape. “Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down.”

“I think we have the full lyrics upstairs,” said Lola.

“No need,” said Siri. “I think that was the only part we were supposed to hear.”

Bobby was ecstatic to have an ex-politburo man in his house. He took several photographs to send home and even asked for Civilai’s autograph.

“Is the song relevant to something?” Lola asked.

“No,” said Siri. “We’re just practicing our English.”

“So,” said Civilai. “We have one finger, one bullet, a clay pipe stem, a Chinese banknote, a stash of heroin and a song about a bridge.”

The old pair was driving through the mountains of Na Maw on a road that had obviously been built with one jeep and two hand-pulled carts in mind. In the two hours they’d been traveling, they hadn’t seen another vehicle. The unkempt vegetation reached out to them on both sides, caressing Agnes’s flanks. Every now and then they’d be stopped by boulders broken loose from the overhanging rocks. The pair had briefly considered climbing down and rolling the rocks out of the way but ultimately used the jeep’s thick metal bumper to clear a space.

“I don’t think you can count the stash,” said Siri.

“Even so, it’s pretty obvious.”

“You’ve worked it out?”

“Simon and Carbunkle are singing about a bridge when a
goat herder comes by and says, ‘Would you mind shutting up, because my goats can’t get to sleep, and I want to sit back and smoke some weed in peace.’ Simon and Carbunkle don’t take any notice of him and keep singing. He offers them twenty
yuan
, two months’ salary, to stop their racket, but no luck. So he goes home, gets his rifle and shoots Carbunkle’s finger off. End of story.”

“How much of Bobby’s cold medicine did you take, exactly?”

“Siri?”

“Yes?”

“Do you really think it was wise to leave Madame Daeng back there alone with all that dope?”

Siri slammed on the brakes, and they slid to a stop. “What exactly do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean … considering her little opium problem.”

“Opium isn’t a problem. Arthritis is a problem. Opium is the solution.”

“And there I was thinking you were a doctor.”

“Your point?”

“Is that you know better than I do that opium isn’t a solution to any ailment. It just makes you forget you’ve got it for a little while until it wears off and you need some more. And as the pain gets worse the more you need. Heroin is a step up into the big league. That’s an awful lot of temptation we’ve left with her.”

“Daeng isn’t stupid, Civilai.”

“No. But she’s suffering.”

Inspector Phosy slowly came to in pitch darkness and all he could feel was pain. The stink of excrement was all around him. His wrists and ankles were bound. When he turned his head and moved his mouth, one side of his face cracked like partridge eggshells underfoot. He could smell his own dried blood. He didn’t know where he was or what was expected of him. As a soldier he had spent time behind bars, had been tortured and beaten. But he’d known and understood his enemies back then. Knowledge was a powerful tool. But here, Phosy was shrouded in ignorance.

He rocked from side to side and shimmied back and forth and decided he was in a pit the size of a grave. His hands were tied behind his back, and he didn’t want to think about the slime upon which he lay. He had no idea how long he had been in his pit, but his stomach rumbled and his throat was parched. The Buddhists had a neat assortment of hells, but most provided fellow sinners to keep a man company. Isolation and deprivation of the senses were far worse than purgatory as far as Phosy was concerned.

American Mae was awoken from her afternoon nap by the sound of banging. She retied her light cloth skirt and walked to the front of the house. The sun had finally found a niche, and its light blurred the body that stood in the open doorway. In one hand the visitor held a pestle which she was using to beat against the wooden doorframe.

“Sister Daeng?” said Mae. “Is that you? You frightened me.”

As she neared the door, it was clear to Mae that Madame Daeng was not in perfect array. She had hitched up the
pha sin
she wore to a point just above her knees. Her blouse was open at the top to reveal her bra.

“Let’s go,” said Daeng, swaying slightly despite hanging on to the doorframe.

“Where would you like to go, sister?” asked Mae. She was face-to-face with Daeng now and could see the woman’s pupils were mere pinpricks.

“A miracle happened,” said Daeng.

“What is it?”

“My legs. They’re cured.”

“Sister Daeng, why don’t we go back to the cottage and have ourselves a cup of—”

“Don’t you … don’t you dare deprive me of this moment of pain-free bliss. We’re going dancing. We’re going to the market.”

“For what?”

“For men. Young men to dance with. Here I go.” She turned and skipped down the path.

“Wait!” said Mae. “Wait, I’ll …” She turned back into the house, found her bag and put on her hat. But by the time she returned to the door, Daeng was nowhere to be found. Mae shook her head and started off to the market. She’d seen this too many times in her years as a nurse. The old lady was high—and she’d taken a lot.

Agnes the jeep pulled up in front of the post office in Muang Xai. The town was a short main street with old trees that offered shade to the few businesses there. Nothing new had been built for a very long time, which gave the town some grubby historical charm but also made it look in need of a good wash. Like in several other provincial capitals, there was one long-distance phone line and a vast number of locals waiting to use it. Civilai wasn’t one to stand in line, not that the principle of queuing had made it this far north. He called for the manager. The middle-aged paunchy man at the desk hesitated before saying, “That’s me, comrade.”

Civilai took out his letter of recommendation and held it out for the man to see.

“I’m from the government,” said Civilai. “I need a line to Vientiane now. It’s a priority.”

The manager pulled his reading glasses down from the top of his head and read the government document … very slowly.

“That means ‘immediately,’ ” said Civilai.

“You have to fill out a form,” said the manager. He opened a drawer and began to fumble through papers.

“I’ll fill it out later,” said Civilai.

The manager opened a second drawer, which stuck a little, before pulling out a handmade pistol with a hollow handle and placing it on the counter in front of him.

“Forms were designed for people like you,” said the man.

Civilai had never been threatened at gunpoint in a post office before, but then again, he hadn’t spent much time in the wild north. He took the form the man handed him. “I’d ask to borrow a pen, but I’m afraid you’d toss a hand grenade at me.”

The manager produced a pen from the top pocket of his navy blue shirt. Civilai squinted as he tried to read the fading print. “I don’t suppose …?”

The manager took off his glasses and handed them to the old man without complaint. For an armed gunman, he was most accommodating.

Meanwhile, across town, Siri had located the market and was making enquiries about the latest
sin
in the treasure trail. As usual, the market was all but deserted by afternoon, but there were one or two small stalls that sold cheap Chinese clothes as well as a few local
pha sin
s.

“I’m looking for the woman who made this,” he said, holding up the skirt to a small gaggle of sellers.

“She’s not the type of doctor you’d be looking for,” said one stall holder.

“What makes you think I’m looking for a doctor?” Siri asked.

“Look at the state of you,” said the woman at the next stall. “You’re on your last legs. You need a hospital.”

There’s nothing more effective for making a man feel ill than to be told he looks like death. Siri became aware of just how bad his condition looked to others. The cough medicine top-up from Bobby was having no effect at all. “Then what kind of doctor is the weaver?” he asked.

“She’s a voodoo woman,” said the first stall holder. “Crazy as a loon. You don’t want to go over there. Buy one of mine instead. Much better quality.”

“What kind of crazy?” Siri asked.

“She thinks she’s a witch, a shape-shifter, a medium … you name it.”

“But she’s not,” said the other. “She’s just nuts. You’d best stay away in your condition. The excitement might kill you.”

“And if I chose not to stay away,” said Siri. “Where might I find her?”

Siri was back in front of the post office hacking his guts up when Civilai emerged. The old politician climbed into the passenger seat and slapped the dashboard two or three times. He hurt himself far more than he hurt the jeep. He was fuming.

“You took your time,” said Siri, wiping his mouth.

“I was mugged,” Civilai told him. “Not only did I have to stand in a disorganized scrum with the riffraff, I had to pay for the call.”

“It’s a post office. Isn’t that normal?”

“I’m a special envoy of the politburo.”

“This is a socialist state. You aren’t supposed to have privileges.”

“That’s just in the pamphlets. It’s theoretical. It doesn’t apply to the real world.”

“Someone obviously convinced you otherwise.”