The Woman Who Wouldn't Die Page 7

  Before becoming involved with Siri and his band of merry ghosts, Daeng would probably have made a joke at this juncture and dismissed the woman as a nutcase. But she’d heard of so much weirdness from her husband that almost anything was possible. Almost. Siri, on the other hand, was so engrossed his knees drifted apart.

  ‘Evidently,’ said Madame Peung, averting her eyes and letting out a gut laugh that suggested she was every bit as bewildered by it all as Daeng. ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it? On the night I was shot for the first time, all I remember was looking up from my bed to see a strange man leaning over me. I heard a crash from the gun. Three days later I awoke in the same bed at exactly the same time. Of course I didn’t know then that three days had passed. I thought it was the same night and the shooting was a dream. I took the torch, went to the bathroom and had the longest pee I’ve ever had in my life. I didn’t think it would ever end. I passed the mirror and I was … different. I was younger. Oh, not by a lot but enough to notice. And my body was in better shape. I wondered whether that trip to the bathroom was part of the dream. I was confused. I returned to the bed and slept till morning. I was awoken by a scream. My live-in girl was standing in the doorway to my room with her hands over her mouth. I asked her what was wrong. She screamed again and ran off. I didn’t see her again.

  ‘I went down to the village to see the headman. But as I walked past the houses all I heard were screams and the slamming of doors. I asked what was wrong but nobody would talk to me. There was one old woman I had befriended many years before. She made charcoal. We used to talk a lot. She was the only one who wasn’t afraid of me.

  ‘ “Of course they’re scared,” she said. “The menfolk carried your body down to the pyre yesterday and we watched you go up in smoke. You were killed by an intruder three days ago.”

  ‘I was astounded.

  ‘ “Of course it’s a mistake,” I told her. “It must have been somebody else. Someone who looked like me.”

  ‘ “It was you, sure enough,” she said.

  ‘ “Then, who am I?” I asked.

  ‘ “Who indeed,” she said.

  ‘For the next few days I tried to make contact. I went to everybody I knew. People whose children I’d seen as babies, watched them grow up. I’d bought goods from their shops. Some of them had worked for me at the house. Of course I knew all this but I couldn’t convince them that I was me. And there was this awful Vietnamese accent. So, slowly, I retreated to my house and started to live like a hermit. Then people began to come. Strangers. They said they’d heard that I’d been reborn and wanted me to help them locate relatives on the other side. The first few visitors I threw out angrily. But after they’d gone I had dreams. It was true. Those lost relatives really did come to me. Hong Phouc introduced them. I really could see them. Talk to them. It frightened me. I didn’t know what it all meant so I called for my brother to come and stay with me. He wasn’t surprised at all. Our family always knew he had some innate gifts that he could not express. He has been a great comfort to me.

  ‘When more strangers came I listened to them and I helped them find the bodies of their relatives. It was all quite simple. They tried to give me rewards but I didn’t want their money or their jewels. Every visitor I swore to secrecy. “Do not tell anyone else what I do here.” But still they came. And after two months I got the first visit from Madame Ho, the minister’s wife. And that, dear doctor, is why I am here. And some of your questions at least have been answered.’

  ‘Siri, you’re drooling,’ said Daeng.

  During the remarkable tale, the doctor had lowered himself from the railing and sat cross-legged but discreetly in front of the witch. Madame Daeng retreated inside.

  ‘But how? How do you talk to them?’ Siri asked.

  ‘The same way I’m talking to you,’ Madame Peung replied, ‘except I use my mind. Look down there.’

  They looked through the railings towards the river.

  ‘Do you see her?’ she asked.

  ‘The woman on the rock?’

  ‘That’s the one. Ask her why she’s here.’

  ‘I can’t. I mean, the only way I know how to ask is with my mouth. I could shout at her.’

  ‘That wouldn’t work. She’s trying really hard to talk to you.’

  ‘You see? I’m a failure.’

  ‘It will come, brother Siri. I can help you.’

  ‘You don’t know how pleased I am to hear that,’ said Siri.

  They were startled by a flash. Madame Daeng had returned with her favourite Polaroid Instant camera and, before anyone could object, she had snapped the visitors for prosperity. She watched the print come to life in her hand before taking a second photo.

  ‘Just for the family album,’ said Daeng.

  It was in the second photograph that she noticed the glint in her husband’s eye. It was a twinkle the type of which she hadn’t seen for a very long time.

  The rest of the morning was spent in what Siri interpreted as a leisurely manner. Once Madame Peung and her brother had left them to return to the old French administration building behind the square, Siri and Daeng went down to one of the tents that had mushroomed along the river bank with Mr Geung and enjoyed some local rice porridge. Ugly stood guard. The minister would be arriving the following day and the witch had told them she had a lot to prepare so she wouldn’t be able to join them.

  ‘I don’t think you should be so pushy,’ said Daeng.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Siri asked.

  ‘If she wants to share her secrets with you, she will.’

  ‘I hardly pushed.’

  ‘No? “I would really like to watch your preparations.” “Do you need to be in a trance?” “Do they speak to you in voices you can actually hear?” You bombarded the poor woman.’

  ‘Those are the questions I want answers to, Daeng.’

  ‘It was just a little bit demeaning.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Mr Geung. How about another bowl for you?’ said Daeng. ‘I don’t know where you put all that food, really I don’t.’

  ‘I’m a va … va … vacuum cleaner,’ said Geung which caused laughter and led on to other subjects. Breakfast was followed by a leisurely stroll downriver followed by Ugly and some eleven disciples. Ever conscious of his wife’s arthritis, Siri asked several times whether Daeng would like to rest.

  ‘Siri,’ she said. ‘This isn’t the Olympics. I’m perfectly capable of walking.’

  This told the doctor one of two things. One that she was secretly in pain and bluffing. Or, two, that she had remembered to bring her opium and really was feeling nothing. They found an idyllic spot to rest. Siri dozed. Mr Geung skimmed flat stones but was unable to surpass his record of two. And Daeng sat in the shade of a tree and wrote in her notebook. When they returned, it was almost lunchtime and they were all in a relaxed mood. It was too hot for the rowers to practise. A large pirogue was tied up at the dock. It contained just two teak logs but it already sat as low in the water as could be considered safe. Daeng left Siri and Geung and walked over to the pilot of the boat.

  ‘She’s probably going to give him a lecture on deforestation,’ said Siri.

  ‘It’s cruel,’ said Geung. ‘The tree sssspirits are not happy.’

  Siri wondered whether Geung had learned about the malevolent spirits of the forest from him or whether he perhaps saw them himself.

  ‘So, what do you make of the witch, Geung?’

  Mr Geung had met her briefly on Siri’s balcony.

  ‘She’s pretty.’

  ‘Granted. But what do you think of her? She claims she can talk to spirits just like you and I are talking now. Just one time I would like to grab myself a spirit and have a good old chat over a cup of tea. Maybe even Yeh Ming. Did you know I host a thousand-year-old spirit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wonder if she … How do you know that?’

  ‘The second bottle of … of … of Johnny Walker in Xiang Kouang.’

 
‘There, and I used to be so disciplined. So, do you think she can talk to my shaman, Geung? Do you think she can teach me to?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Geung?’

  ‘Comrade Madame Daeng is pr … pr … prettier.’

  ‘Right.’

  That night, Siri dreamed of Frenchmen. They had the appearance of the military. Short hair. Fit. That stature that comes from years of standing to attention. But there were no uniforms to confirm this theory. They were naked but it was certainly not an erotic dream. The Frenchmen were in hell. Despite its reputation as a forgiving religion, Buddhism has a fine selection of hells. There were hot hells and there were cold hells. These poor French blighters were in one of the coldest – Utpala. It was recognizable because their skin had turned the blue of water lilies. There were six of them and they were huddled together for warmth like penguins. As Siri watched, the huddle became a ruck and then a scrum. A rugby match was on in hell. The French played three-a-side. They leaned together and created a tunnel between them. General Charles DeGaulle himself was the scrum half. He leaned over, called out some indecipherable code and threw the ball between the legs. But the ball was not a ball. It was a head. Siri caught a glimpse of it before it disappeared into the scrummage. It was the head of his wife.

  Siri awoke with a loud, shuddering sigh. The first thing he saw by the moonlight through the window was Madame Daeng’s head on the pillow. He was filled with dread. The eyes were open and shot with blood. Her lips were purple. He poked at her nose and the head rolled to the far side, off the pillow and landed with a clunk on the concrete floor.

  Siri awoke with a loud, shuddering sigh. The first thing he saw by the moonlight through the window was Madame Daeng’s head on the pillow. She slept peacefully with a blissful smile on her lips. He took hold of the sheet and edged it down. Her head was, thankfully, attached to her neck which in turn held company with the rest of her. He hated those false awakenings. With too much adrenalin coursing through his veins now to sleep he watched his wife’s gentle breaths fill her chest before travelling through her body to her magnificent vital organs. She made it look so easy. He never tired of watching her breathe. Every night spent beside her was an honour.

  6

  Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

  When Madame Daeng awoke next morning the sun was already smiling full-faced through her window. In Vientiane she awoke naturally before the sun appeared and began her preparations for the restaurant. But here she could sleep soundly, uninterrupted by obligations. She looked to her right. She was alone. The bathroom was one floor down and she assumed her husband’s ancient bladder had driven him there. The muscles in her legs contracted and grabbed cruelly at her nerves as she swung them off the mattress. With her feet on the ground she waited for them to announce that they were ready to begin the arduous task of carrying her around for another day. The first half-hour was always the hardest. Momentum took her to the open doorway and on to the balcony. There was a strong flowery scent in the air as if Mother Nature was excited. The air was cool and fresh. It was second honeymoon weather.

  She leaned on the balustrade. The regatta practice had begun. There were signs of improvement. The boats were colliding less frequently. There were fewer men and women overboard. One boat even appeared to have its oars in the air and back in the water in time to the cox’s drum. For a while. But the Uphill Rowing Club still splashed around like a drowning cricket. She could hear the sounds of the oars clattering together and the laughter of the old ladies.

  She leaned over the rail to see whether she could catch sight of Ugly and his minions on the freshly cut grass below. But there were no dogs. Or perhaps there was one. In the shade of a Rhinoceros-Droppings tree sat Siri on one of their deckchairs. He was staring transfixed at the face of Madame Peung who sat opposite him with her trim old-lady bottom on the other.

  My mother and I lived in that small laundry room for the next nine years. All my school years had been spent ironing. I considered myself bright. I’d learned to read and write Lao at the temple but there was nothing to read in my language. So I taught myself to read first French, then Vietnamese and I found a great assortment of books and magazines left behind by travellers. There was no mention of Laos in any of them. It made me feel even more that I was an insignificant person living in an insignificant country. I learned that the world worshipped money. Only the sons and daughters of the royals were sent overseas to study and they came back having laundered out all that dirty Laoness from their personalities. They were more French than Asian.

  It saddened me that I had no value. Nothing to contribute. The Vietnamese boys were always trying to date me. I’d been flattered at first. They wore the best clothes, rode new bicycles. A couple even had motorcycles. But they weren’t wooing me so we could drink café au lait and discuss politics. I was Lao. I didn’t even make it on to the pecking order. I saw the Lao girls give in to them. They all needed somebody to love them in whatever way was available. But they couldn’t have me. They tried but I was handy with a knife even then. Nobody messed with me. I’d inherited my father’s fire. My mother told me stories about him. How he marched up to the administrator’s office in his handmade straw sandals and announced that there would be no taxes paid that season.

  ‘What do we get for our taxes?’ he’d asked the government interpreter. ‘We have no roads. No clean water. No help when the crops fail. You take our men for slave labour to grow your coffee and mine our gems. And then you have the gall to tax us for the privilege.’

  My father returned from that first meeting with fifty lashes across his back. That night he sat shirtless at a bonfire and one by one the men walked passed him and spat raw rice liquor into his wounds. They drank through the night heaping curses upon the white gods. By sunlight they were prepared for their first riot. The revolution spread through the hills. The French called in more soldiers. My father recruited more fighters. And for three years they matched the French arms with Lao grit.

  He told his men,

  ‘Individually, the French are clerks and bookkeepers. Weedy men resentful at being posted to this sweaty country with its mosquitoes and biting centipedes and godless brown people. But you put enough clerks and bookkeepers together and arm them and they think they can do whatever they want. One of us is worth ten of them. Twenty.’

  But they did put enough clerks and bookkeepers together and they put down the riots and then there were just the women and children. And what could we do against the might of a great European nation?

  The official from the department of Housing was short. Not legally a midget but unlikely to reach 140 centimetres in his remaining lifetime. He stood in the open doorway of the hotel room looking up at the tall Frenchman.

  ‘Oui?’ said the Frenchman.

  Comrade Koomki introduced himself in Lao, then broken Vietnamese, then Russian. The Frenchman only knew four words of Russian.

  ‘I don’t speak Russian.’

  Comrade Koomki shook his head, looked at his shoes, held up one index finger and ran off along the corridor. Ten minutes later there was another knock at Barnard’s door. This time there were two visitors. Comrade Koomki had returned with a dirty man in gloves. He was barefooted and wore a large straw hat.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Barnard.

  ‘I am the gardener,’ the man replied in very good French. ‘My name is Apsara.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Because this man asked me to come.’

  ‘And who is he?’

  ‘He would prefer not to say.’

  ‘Why do you speak French?’

  ‘In the old regime I was the night manager here. I’m being retrained from the grass roots up. I shall return.’

  ‘So?’

  The gardener and Comrade Koomki spoke together in Lao.

  ‘The comrade’s cousin sells spices at the morning market. She heard you asking for Daeng Keopakam. Nobody there knew that name. But the comrade here rememb
ered it. The lady in question has since married and has a new surname. He knows where they live.’

  ‘And when so many comrades in so many government departments refuse to give me this information, why is this nameless comrade prepared to deal with me?’

  More Lao.

  ‘The comrade wants to know whether you intend to do any harm.’

  ‘And do you recommend I give him a positive or a negative response to this?’

  ‘The comrade has just lost his position due to them. He is keen to have revenge on your Madame Daeng and her husband. He would be pleased if some ill fortune were to befall them. He would also like a more fiscal reward.’

  ‘Then tell him I can promise both riches and ill fortune in large helpings.’

  ‘Then I believe you two can do business.’

  Nurse Dtui had been through a rough day at the chalk face. Her first-year nurses fell into a giggling fit every time Dtui poked her ruler anywhere near the midriff of the plaster dummy of a man with all his organs visible. The spinal injuries teacher was off with malaria so Dtui had to teach back-to-back classes all day. And, not for the first time, the administrators had announced that, due to problems at the treasury, the staff would be receiving its salary in vermicelli rice noodles this month. Even without the rapidly growing daughter strapped to her back, Dtui would have creaked under the weight of responsibility. There was a Lao proverb that called teachers the engineers of the soul and Professor Dtui was starting to wonder whether she had the right nuts and bolts for the job.

  She arrived at the police dormitory at nine p.m. The lights were on in every room but hers. Why had she chosen the only conscientious police inspector in Vientiane? She walked past a slim man who was sitting cross-legged on top of the bicycle shed. From a distance he’d looked like some geometrical diagram. As it would have been foolish for a robber to lie in wait in front of the police dormitory, she assumed he was an off-duty policeman and passed him quite calmly.

  ‘You Dtui?’ he asked.

  ‘Depends,’ she said.