The Coroner's Lunch (30 page)

“Perhaps we should try it ourselves.” Rajid started to walk away when the others sat cross-legged around the log as if it were a high table.

“Where are you going, Ambassador? Come and join us.” The Indian looked back, thought about it, then came to sit with them. He gave them a Rajid silent laugh to show he was happy. Civilai inspected the fine silk shirt.

“How did you find clothes to fit him?”

“I work in a morgue, Ai. Do you need to ask? Waste not….”

“How are your lungs?” Phosy asked.

“I just passed a medical that I had to administer myself.”

“Good for you. You were lucky.”

“Lucky is my middle name. And that reminds me. I went to visit an old witch I know—”

“A live one?”

“Most certainly. And she was so pleased to see me, she gave me a special discount on these.” From the plastic bag he produced three bottles of cherry-red liquid in oddly shaped bottles sealed with wax. “Which was just as well, as I see you’ve finished the good stuff without me. It’s plum rice wine.”

Civilai upturned one bottle and watched the alien sediment float to the top. “Phosy, under normal circumstances I’d tell you not to accept blood-red liquid in unmarked bottles from a coroner, but in this case I think we have no choice but to trust him. What do you say?”

“I say he takes the first glass and we give him ten minutes.”

Siri opened a bottle. Phosy laid out four jumbo-sized baguettes on the log, and Crazy Rajid sniffed and tasted his running shoes. While he was slicing through the bread, Civilai recalled an item of news that had landed briefly on his desk that day.

“I heard the funniest thing today. It appears the Taiwanese have canceled a logging contract they had with the Lao Military Council.”

“No!” Siri blushed.

“You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Me? ’Course not. I don’t hear about anything before you do. But—”

“Here we go.”

“No, it’s just that I hear the Chinese are a very superstitious people. I imagine if they knew about the massive displacement of spirits in Khamuan, they’d be concerned that the timber might be…well, cursed in some way.”

“Especially if they had a little spiritual demonstration. And how do you think those Taiwanese could have heard of the spirit displacement in faraway Khamuan?”

Siri shook his head. “Beats me.”

“H’mm. Not much does, I’ll bet.” Phosy laughed.

At last, all the guests were in attendance and ready for the wake toast. It was mercifully short. They stood and raised their glasses. Civilai coughed and spoke in his most somber Party voice.

“Gentlemen of the Dead Coroner’s Lunch. We’re gathered here today in honor of a loyal and sadly departed loved one.”

“Hear, hear.”

“Shut up, Siri. Although he lived much of his life as a fool, he died, without question, a hero.”

“Three times,” Phosy added.

“Three times. Dr. Siri Paiboun, coroner, scholar, witch doctor. We salute you. Good luck.”

“Good luck.”

“Good luck.”

“…good luck.”

They all turned in amazement to look at Rajid.

“You talk?”

“Sometimes.”

Lunch stretched until five. Rajid’s new clothes were piled neatly on the riverbank, but he wasn’t anywhere near them. The others finally stood and said their farewells. Civilai had to be home for a family get-together. The other two didn’t have families to get together with, so Phosy asked Siri if he’d like to have a drink somewhere else.

“Um. Afraid I can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“I have an…appointment this evening.”

Civilai yelped and danced up and down. Rock lizards fled for cover. “Would this ‘appointment’ be with a stunning bakery gal, by any chance?”

“It’s only dinner.”

“And the Tet Offensive was only a skirmish. I hope you remember where everything goes.”

“Don’t be so vulgar. It’s dinner. In fact, I’m a bit nervous.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll lead.”

Phosy went to the briefcase that had been sitting at his side all through lunch, and pulled out a thick file that virtually filled it.

“In that case, I’d better give you this now.”

“What is it?”

“It’s you.”

“Me?”

“We found all the confidential files Comrade K and his gang had been keeping on the senior members. We weren’t too sure what to do with them. Your judge suggested we should give them back. Let you decide. He said ‘Socialism is a great cosmos, but trust is the atmosphere that holds the stars together.’”

“Even with the motto, it appears Judge Haeng is developing some common sense,” Siri said.

“I don’t think I get it,” Phosy said.

“Nobody ever does. Can I borrow your briefcase? I don’t want a hernia on top of everything else.”

Siri was living temporarily at a guest house not far from the Anusawari Arch. It was nicely landscaped and friendly, and he wouldn’t have minded staying there forever. But as a reward for his heroics, his name was elevated on the housing list: in a month, he’d have his own place. He wouldn’t have to share a door, or a hallway, or a bathroom. It sounded lonely.

He had a couple of hours before his date, time to rest and get cleaned up. As he only had one change of clothes, he didn’t have to spend time deciding what to wear. He lay back on the bed and smiled. The briefcase was beside him, so he unlocked it and pulled out his top-secret file. His life was over three inches thick.

It would afford him some enjoyable reading over the next month. He flipped through it; typed pages, hurried handwritten notes (
‘Dr. Siri just called the deputy commander an ass.’
), photographs, news reports, dispatches. And then, in the middle of it all, date-stamped 9.6.1965, was a sheet of paper torn from an old exercise book. The handwriting was as familiar as his own. The consonants were large; the vowels floated around them like balloons. This was Boua’s style.

He felt his heart close up like a knot as he read:

My darling Siri,
What’s happening to me? I can’t explain. Why have I destroyed everything wonderful we had? Why can I only reward your love and patience with anger? Why can I no longer speak the words we used to find so natural?
I can’t control this depression. It’s like a vine that’s choking the life out of me. It’s a disease that limits what I can see in front of me. I can only see the failures of our political struggle, even though I’m sure there must be successes. I can only see selfish and corrupt Party members around me, but I know there has to be good, somewhere.
But most of all I can only see an irritating husband who constantly reminds me of the hopeful, pretty girl I lost somewhere on the endless jungle treks to nowhere. But I know you are the best thing in my life.
Can you ever forgive me for what I’ve done to you, and for what I have to do this evening? This is the only escape for us two.
To my dearest and only love,
Boua.

On the back, someone had handwritten “WITHHOLD-NEGATIVE.”

They’d found her suicide note. They’d found the key that would have unlocked some of the guilt, some of the doubts, that had shackled him for the past eleven years. And they’d kept it from him because it was “negative.”

If only they knew how negative life had been without it.

Tears rolled freely down his cheeks. Some were tears of sadness. He was so sorry that she’d been unable to stop her misery any other way; that he hadn’t been able to bring her back from the edge.

But some tears were nothing short of ecstasy. She had loved him. Even at the end she still loved him, and she knew he loved her. That was all he needed to know.

For an hour and a half he cried. It was only the wind against his face that was finally able to dry the tears. The Justice Department had fixed his carburetor and he sped off on his beloved motorcycle along the Dong Dok road, through the untouched fields that belied their closeness to a capital city. He yelled at the top of his voice in harmony with the engine. He was free.

By the time he turned back for the city, he was at peace. There were no coincidences any more in his life. The file had found him. The note found him on this day, at this time. Boua was letting him know it was all right. He didn’t have to feel guilty that another woman was in his heart.

He turned on to Samsenthai Avenue and immediately saw Lah standing there at the end of the alleyway. When she saw Siri on his sturdy old bike, like some white-haired knight, she smiled more brightly than the tilted streetlights along the roadside. She wore a purple
phasin
with gold trimming and a white blouse moulded around her breasts. Goodness knows how many hours she’d spent combing her hair into the style of Imelda Marcos, complete with lily. She was a picture.

He stopped at the curb in front of her and smiled warmly. She walked over on unfamiliar high heels and kissed him on the cheek. In her left hand was a delicate handbag studded with rhinestones. In her right, she held a small box. It was wrapped in green paper to match his eyes, and tied with a dark green ribbon bow.

“Are you bringing sandwiches?”

“It’s a present.”

“For me? Can I open it now?”

“You have to. I’m not getting on that bike until you do.”

He couldn’t stop smiling as he ripped the paper and plucked off the bow. The cardboard box inside had a lid. He looked up at her face, excited like a child at a birthday party. She really was very beautiful. She looked at him, then back at the box. “Hurry up. I’m hungry.”

As soon as he opened the lid, his smile faded. Whatever joy that had surrounded them vanished like incense smoke. Lying in the box, like a charred corpse in a coffin, was the black prism on its leather thong. Not some other black prism, the one worn smooth from years of hands. The one that had been destroyed and scattered on the land in Khamuan.

“Given the bad luck you’ve been having lately, I figured you could use a lucky charm. Like it?”