Slash and Burn Read online

  “No. That was the Vice-Minister of Agriculture.”

  “Of course it was. So, no, madam. I can honestly say we haven’t yet offended this man.”

  The vice-minister blew into the microphone and his breath bellowed from speakers at the four corners of the canteen. Siri noted that the microphone was no more necessary than the volume control permanently set on “uncomfortably loud.”

  “Is the man who’s getting the medal in the room?” the minister asked.

  “He’s here,” called Siri.

  “Very well.” The vice-minister squinted as he searched for the name hidden in the text. “I would like to invite Mr. Geung Watajak to come up to the stage.” He was surprised to see everyone bow deeply like Japanese courtiers, but it was only in order to put their glasses on the floor and have both hands free for an ovation fit for a king. Mr. Geung was looking every bit the hero in his Mahosot Hospital blazer, white shirt and a black tie borrowed from Civilai. To his left, looking equally ravishing in her khaki hospital shirt and a navy blue phasin skirt, was Tukda. Whereas her smile flashed around the room collecting others, Geung held his jaw square and his lips compressed. He’d been to the Soviet parade earlier in the year and decided that the military slow march would be appropriate for such an important ceremony as this. His foot hovered in the air before each step.

  “He should get to the stage by November,” Civilai whispered.

  “Can you walk a bit faster, son?” came the vice-minister’s voice from four directions. But the morgue assistant would not be hurried.

  Of course, Mr. Geung’s heroic act at the Friendship Hotel could not be written up in the commendation exactly as it had happened. A man could hardly receive a medal for banging a middle-school-band tambourine. Not even if that tambourine was possessed by an evil spirit. But everyone apart from Siri and Bpoo had been in a shamanic trance at the time. So nobody actually knew the details of what really happened that afternoon. As Mr. Geung was a stickler for the truth, he’d refused to let the doctor tell anyone he’d charged at the dangerous thugs with a machete and hacked them to death. It had taken several rewrites of the statement before he was satisfied.

  “Geung Watajak,” read the vice-minister, who couldn’t wait for Geung’s arrival on stage, “in the face of overwhelming odds, you did fearlessly attack five armed men in the dining room of the Friendship Hotel in Phonsavan. This was made all the more remarkable by the fact that you were carrying only a stick.” (He did have a stick to beat the tambourine, so, technically, not a lie.) “In the confusion resulting from your heroic charge, you and your colleagues were able to overwhelm the terrorists and disarm them, thus saving the lives of several high-ranking dignitaries and foreign experts. For your bravery I am pleased to award you our nation’s top civilian honour, the Civilian Medal for an Outstanding Contribution to the Security and Development of the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos: Second Tier.”

  Geung had just reached the top step when the ribbon was removed from its box. His hair was disturbed during its placement over his head and he became a little fixated with trying to get it back in order. But when he turned and looked out at the cheering audience, he was in control. His hair looked impeccable. He gave a general nod to everyone but one specific nod to Tukda. Yet, not once did he allow the smile, so desperate for freedom, to pass beyond his lips.