Slash and Burn

“Americans.”

“They’re back? Did they forget something?”

“It’s a delegation, Siri.”

“What do they want?”

“I … I’m not … I….”

“You don’t know.”

“Of course I do. I’m just….”

“You don’t speak English, do you?”

“I know a good number of phrases. I’m just a little rusty, that’s all. What about you?”

“Can’t speak a damned word of any importance.”

“I thought you were in western Europe?”

“France. Different language entirely. The only English I know I picked up from sailors in dockside bars.” He said loudly, “Rule Britannia,” and held up a thumb. All he received were stares of incomprehension. “See? No use at all. None of them speaks Lao?”

“No.”

“What type of delegation travels without an interpreter?”

“There seems to have been a bit of a hold up. The minister ushered them all in here and told me to entertain them till the interpreters arrive.”

“Have you shown them your impersonation of Richard Nixon yet?”

It was a line wasted on a man bereft of a sense of humor.

“I don’t do-”

“So, how have you been entertaining them, Judge?”

“We didn’t have any fizzy drinks. I sent Manivon off to get some. I wasn’t expecting them, you see? The rest of the staff are preparing lunch. These have been here for fifteen minutes, just standing around.”

Siri laughed again.

“But you, Siri,” Haeng changed his tone, “you’re late. I told you to be here at one. It’s now one-fifteen.”

“They took my clock away. I had to estimate the time by the position of the sun and it was too dusty to see it. Judge, you do realize it honks in here with all this meat stewing? Any chance of turning on the old A/C?”

“It’s been out of order since last Wednesday.”

“Can’t we put them outside under a tree?”

“They aren’t sheep, Siri.”

Siri smiled at the wilting guests.

“I bet they’d be grateful for some air.”

“The minister said-”

And at that moment the office door was thrust into the backside of the same man accosted at Siri’s arrival. He hadn’t changed his position so it appeared he enjoyed being hit with doors. A blonde girl burst into the room all laughs and fluster. The space was suddenly filled with her language; brief introductions, shared comments, and an overall atmosphere of relief offering hope that the delegation might be allowed out. After one cursory circuit of the room she turned at last to Siri and Haeng and performed a most splendid nop, palms together at the chin, her nose just a fraction above her fingernails, upper torso angled toward them.

“Respected gentlemen,” she said in beautiful Lao. “Good health. I’m extremely sorry for my tardiness.”

Siri and Haeng, in spite of their ages and status, found themselves returning the nop. Siri did so with a smile. Haeng blushed with embarrassment. The Politburo had condemned the gesture as a bourgeois throwback to the days of royalist-instigated servitude. But here was a white imperialist using his language and gestures in his country so this intrusion had really left him no choice but to retaliate. His unease was compounded by the fact that she was uncomfortably attractive.

“I have a class at the lycee,” she continued with a smile. “It should have only taken me ten minutes to get over here but my bicycle had a flat tire which I had to repair, hence the dust on my skirt and the sweat smudges on my face. I’m usually a lot neater. Really.”

If Siri had shut his eyes he might have been listening to the musical lilt of a young lass from the north of Luang Prabang. It was by far his favorite accent. Even the largest women in Luang Prabang with the hairiest toes could turn a man’s heart with such an accent.

“Where did you learn Lao?” he asked her, fascinated.

“My parents were missionaries in Ban Le on the Luang Prabang border. I was born there,” she said.

“You’re a Lao,” he laughed, without a hint of con descension.

“My heart is, yes,” she said. “But my passport has an eagle on the cover and I have to live in this big awkward farang body. Officially I’m one of them.”

She looked around at the damp delegation. They spoke. She replied. There was suddenly an impressive display of fine dentistry. She’d obviously said something to please them. She was as inspiring politically as she was physically. There really was nothing awkward about her body. She was long-boned like a young racehorse, and fresh-faced. She would undoubtedly break many men’s hearts if she hadn’t done so already. Although it was hard to tell the age of Westerners, Siri put her down as no more than sixteen or seventeen. She told them her name was Peach, which only served to make her appear even more delicious.

Judge Haeng, whose penchant for young women was legendary in the few surviving nightclubs of Vientiane, seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion. He’d renovated his flagging smile and was sitting with his chin leaning on his palm like some vain author’s publicity photograph.

“You’re very beautiful,” he said. An old lecher’s remark.

“Thank you,” she said. “But it’s merely a temporary bonus of youth. I’ll probably find myself eating and drinking too much and turning into a Chinese doughnut before I reach thirty.”

She smiled and the room became brighter. Siri was fascinated. A mythical creature from whatever the Americans called their version of the Ramayana had landed in his midst and could speak his language. And it was true, despite her fluency in Lao she was alien. Perhaps it could be attributed to her youth but she had none of the modest charm of his countrywomen. She didn’t defer to the male of the species. She was rough-hearted like a soldier and Siri suspected she’d happily bite off the head of a mate when she was done with him. Judge Haeng would be sorely out of his depth if he thought he could use his standard courting rituals on such a creature.

4

SUMO IN A SUNDRESS

The Lao Justice Minister’s office had an adjoining suite with a conference table made of teak. It was so large and heavy they’d had to cut it in slices in order to get it up to the third floor. Its reassembly hadn’t been terribly successful and there were two incongruous lines of Happy New Year adhesive tape stretching across the table top to disguise the joins. At this table sat the American delegation to one side, and the Lao to the other. There were two perfectly good table ends but it appeared nobody was allowed to sit there. Instead, they faced off like American football teams. There were seven Americans, not including the interpreter, and eight Lao.

Siri wasn’t terribly surprised to learn that the Lao simultaneous interpreter, Judge Haeng’s cousin Vinai, was in bed with laryngitis. To the vice-minister’s displeasure, the meeting was conducted through the competent but unverifiable translation of Peach, the missionary’s daughter. But so confident was she in her interpretation that both sides soon settled into a seamless row of pleasantries and introductions. Like all very good translators she quickly became invisible; invisible that is to all except for Judge Haeng who ogled and grinned at her from across the table.

Like all the leaders, Minister of Justice Bounchu was a military man. For some, the transition from camouflage to charcoal gray had been an uneasy one. He’d been fighting for most of his life and living in the caves of Sam Neua throughout the revolution. It was obvious he’d be more comfortable with mortar fire exploding around him than he was in diplomatic circles. Despite his bulk and his ferocious countenance, there was something timid about him, like a polar bear shaved and put in an ill-fitting suit. This ministry was his sweet fish reward at the end of a heroic life,