the circumstances of that last day in Phonsavan, it would be only fair to overlook your disregard for regulations by smuggling a live animal onto an official government flight. I suspect none of them could imagine that … dog being of domestic value. I’ve torn up the report the pilot wrote.”
“Well, Judge, that’s decent of you.”
“Brothers, Siri. You and me. If there’s anything….”
“Actually there is one more small thing.”
“Oh.”
“Nothing a man of your stature couldn’t deal with. My wife and I are being blackmailed.”
“What? Blackmailed? That’s terrible.”
“A petty criminal came by the noodle shop a few days ago when I was out and threatened to tell the police that I have a library of foreign language books in my back bedroom.”
“The police would never believe such a blatant lie.”
Siri looked around for something recognizable to eat.
“It is a blatant lie, isn’t it, Siri?”
“No.”
“You have a library?”
“Back bedroom. Several hundred books. French.”
Judge Haeng was a dark-skinned man so when he blanched he turned a shade of gray.
“I … well, I … I suppose as long as they aren’t being distributed to the people they aren’t doing any harm.”
“That’s the way I look at it. Madame Daeng gave the blackmailer your telephone number and told him to call you. Then she hit him over the head with a skillet. He might get in touch.”
“I’ll … I’ll take care of it.”
“You’re so kind.”
“You’re welcome, Doctor.”
They shook hands warmly. Siri stood and watched the little judge walk away. Anyone overhearing their conversation, anyone who knew of the stormy history between the two men, might assume Judge Haeng had sustained permanent nerve damage as a result of the marijuana. But those nosy parkers who shouldn’t have been eavesdropping in the first place wouldn’t have known about that last manila envelope in Siri’s secret under- floorboard hiding place. And they wouldn’t have any idea that inside that envelope was a letter applying for political defection to the United States written by one Judge Haeng. It had been handed to the head of the USMIA mission on the night of Potter’s death. Unfortunate that it should go astray, considering what was written in it. The letter claimed that Judge Haeng was being persecuted by members of the supreme council as a result of his fearless diatribes against communism. As a result of threats, he now feared for his life. He claimed to have in his possession a number of top secret documents that the CIA would find particularly interesting. If the American consulate would consider smuggling him out of the country he could make those documents available as well as his personal experience as a ranking member of the Party. At the end of the letter was the flowery and pretentious signature which nobody would ever be able to fake. Like a good coward, by running away Haeng would have his revenge on all those who had bullied him.
Major Potter had obviously thought the offer interesting enough to secrete the envelope in his whiskey crate before drinking the coffee that would render him unconscious. People like Judge Haeng seemed to have an innate knack for bad timing. He probably confessed to Peach, not passing on any false information at all. Saw her as a potential ally in his escape to capitalism. As long as Siri had that document, he knew the judge would be a much more pleasant person and infinitely useful. Siri would enjoy this relationship for a while but deep down he knew he’d be returning the letter. How dull would retirement be without Judge Haeng snapping at his heels?
At exactly 3:25 the vice-minister hurried in the door with a secretary beside him, apparently briefing him on why he was there and what he had to do. He recognized and shook hands with General Suvan, Judge Haeng and Comrade Vinai. He recognized and ignored Siri and Civilai, whom he looked over his glasses at, causing him to trip over the step to the stage.
“Don’t tell me you’ve offended that one too.” Daeng shook her head.
“Have we offended that one?” Siri asked.
“Don’t recall,” said Civilai. “Wait. Isn’t he the one whose limousine we filled up with ducks?”
“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
“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.
