Slash and Burn

those around him. He scanned the dining room and could see everything in great detail. The white talisman vibrated against his chest. He didn’t need to turn around to know that Auntie Bpoo was staring at him from the rear table. There was a sudden connection between them as if she were holding a rope, the end of which was tied around his waist, tugging. He wondered whether this was the moment of his demise; perhaps a strip of lasagna had wedged in his throat and choked him. If so, it was a calm death; one observed rather than experienced. He turned to look at Bpoo but she shook her head. “Not yet, Siri. Not yet.”

When he turned back to the table, a remarkable thing had happened. It was as if the restaurant had been edited. The film had skipped several dozen frames and jumped from a full, noisy dining room to a room half-empty. He had no recollection of how and when the majority of the guests had left but only a few stragglers remained. The head table was empty now and most of the Americans had gone. Daeng sat beside him and the diehard Lao opposite. He turned to see the empty table where a few seconds before he’d shared a moment with Auntie Bpoo.

“Are you all right?” Daeng asked him.

Her hand was on his. Dtui was laughing at something Phosy had said. Civilai was showing Geung a fork trick. Siri couldn’t organize his thoughts. His lungs were heavy as if he’d undergone some physical exertion. His fingers were cold and he had a peculiar scent in his nostrils. What was it? Turnips?

“I think so,” Siri told her.

“You’ve been very quiet,” she said.

“Daeng?”

“Yes, my husband?”

“I’m going to ask you an odd question. I don’t want you to be surprised.”

“It’s the lack of odd questions that disorients me.”

“I’m serious.”

She assumed a serious expression.

“Have I been somewhere?” he asked.

She looked into his watery green eyes and understood he was having a Siri moment.

“You excused yourself for half an hour,” she said. “You’ve just this minute returned.”

“You saw me come back? I mean, on foot?”

“As opposed to…?”

“Reappearing out of thin air.”

“Is something happening?”

“I’ve just lost that half hour. One minute I was here enjoying the evening in a crowded room then-cut to now-sober and lost. Did I happen to mention where I was going?”

“No. You headed in the direction of the bathroom. When you didn’t come back I assumed you were still having problems with your insides. After a while, Geung went looking for you but you weren’t there. You don’t remember any of it, do you?”

“I feel as if I’ve been on a tiring journey. I feel a sense of … loss.”

“Never a dull moment with you in my life, Dr. Siri.”

“Oh for a dull moment.”

They had five minutes before the generator shut down for the night; five minutes to shower, shave, clean their teeth, find sleepwear and get under the covers to ward off the bitter night air. Despite this mad rush, the loose generator washers continued to rattle and the electricity did not cut out on the stroke of nine. It gave them an unnecessary seven-minute bonus. Siri could feel the anticipation all around. He lay awake, wheezing, searching his memory for his lost half hour but nothing came. And when the din of the generator finally subsided and the lights all died, there was a massive silence. It was as if they’d reached the end of the story and someone had shut the book on them.

He was awoken by the panicked screams of a bird; one he’d encountered many times in his jungle days. It was brown and unkempt like a feather duster and it had a voice to wake the dead. In all those years he’d never learned its real name, only that any day heralded by the feather-duster bird would be an awful one. And, seconds after the bird’s ominous fanfare, there was a frenzied banging at his door. It may have been morning. There was barely enough light to see the shape of his alarm clock and certainly not enough to make out the time.

“What is it?” he called.

The words he heard from beyond the door were in Hmong and they carried a good deal of urgency.

“Yeh Ming, are you awake?”

It was uncanny how many Hmong knew of Siri’s connection to the ancient shaman he hosted, and in moments of urgency it was Yeh Ming they called upon, not Siri. Madame Daeng stirred from her deep sleep.

“What do they want?” she asked.

“Help from the ancestor.”

“Can’t they just take him and let us sleep in?”

“I’m afraid we come as a set.”

Siri crawled from beneath the cover and was slapped by the morning cold like a man caught in a snowball ambush. He grabbed his topcoat and jogged to the door. The air smelled of soot. Manager Toua was standing in the shadows beyond the doorway. His face was as pale as crepe batter.

“Can you come please, Yeh Ming,” he said. “There’s been a disaster.”

Siri had never studied the Hmong language but one day he’d woken up to find himself fluent in it. It was a skill that came and went and he suspected his resident shaman had a hand in flicking on the switch in times of need. He returned for his trousers and slipped into his sandals. By the time he re-emerged through his door the manager had gone. Siri didn’t know which direction to head in so he opted for the dining room. As he felt his way along the corridor he became aware of the flicker of paraffin lamplight in the distance. The old parquet rattled underfoot. Toua was on the far side of the dining room beckoning him on toward the far west wing. They arrived at the last door which stood slightly ajar. The manager pointed to the gap and his finger shook. A familiar smell hung at the doorway.

“He always ordered coffee for six thirty,” said Toua. “My wife found him.”

Siri pushed at the door but it was obstructed by something heavy on the far side. He pushed again. Still he made no impression. He had no choice but to attempt to squeeze through the gap. He wedged in his shoulder and his head followed. His chest was more of a challenge and before it was halfway through he felt totally stuck. But he could see into the room now. The curtains were pulled and the large windows wide open. Dawn was struggling to make an impression on the morning outside. A grubby khaki daylight bathed the room blurred by the ever-present mist. On the ground low to his left were two fat bare legs, toes up, pointing away from the door. He squeezed further and the obstruction gave a little until he was inside and had an unrestricted view of the body that hung suspended from the door handle in a sitting position. Siri was not the type to be easily shocked. He’d seen his fair share of bizarre deaths but he’d never witnessed anything like the sight of Major Potter hung by the neck. A macrame twine was wrapped twice around his throat and tied to the handle. He wore nothing but a pair of woman’s knickers, crimson with black lace trim and far too small for him. They cut into his fat like a tourniquet. A post- mortem erection lurched upward from beneath the elastic waistband. His lips were daubed with lipstick and what at first appeared to be an insect on his cheek turned out to be a beauty spot, the type favored by madams at high class brothels.

Although it wasn’t necessary, Siri felt for a pulse. There was none. The body was cold and the smell of death was prominent. He took hold of the major’s fingers and worked the arm back and forth. He had to make allowance for the low temperature but the rigor mortis suggested the man had been dead for six to eight hours.

“Oh!” came a voice.

He looked up to see Madame Daeng’s head peeking through the gap beside the door. She was visibly shocked.

“Now that is weird,” she said. “Is he…?”

“Very much so.”

Dr. Siri and Madame Daeng sat on the edge of the smelly bed and looked at the body hanging from the door handle opposite. They were a couple not renowned for silence but this one lent itself most splendidly to speechlessness. They took in the too-red lipstick and the too-tight underwear. They breathed the whiskey fumes and the scent of vomit diluted with disinfectant.