Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

“It’s Dr Siri Paiboun.”
    The secretary ignored her and continued, “in Phnom Penh in May 1978. The Republic of Democratic Kampuchea has diligently and fairly carried out an extensive investigation with regard to the whereabouts of Lao national delegate Siri Paiboun. It is our duty to inform you that the citizen in question is dead.”
    There were no sighs or murmurs of shock at that disclosure as, after ten days, they had all arrived at that conclusion. Following Civilai’s revelations, the Vietnamese had been invited to share their own intelligence of the situation inside Kampuchea. On this occasion, the Lao had been more prepared to listen. The rumours from refugees and defecting Khmer Rouge soldiers were not fantasy. Cambodia really had gone to hell. Siri and Civilai, being expendable, had been sent to test the temperature. Only one of them had returned. The secretary continued to read.
    “Despite a number of warnings about the dangers of venturing beyond designated zones, it appears that Siri Paiboun illegally entered a part of the city of Phnom Penh not yet cleared of live ammunition dropped by the pitiless American imperialists during the Revolutionary Army of Kampuchea’s liberation of our capital. He was killed when stepping on an unexploded bomb. The Republic of Democratic Kampuchea sends its condolences to his countrymen and to his widow, and we – ”
    “Where’s his body?” Daeng interrupted.
    The secretary attempted to complete his reading but she cut him off again.
    “His body!” she said, loudly.
    The Khmer soldier who had thus far remained silent and immobile spoke loudly in Khmer to the secretary, staring all the time at Daeng. The Lao translator was about to interpret but the old man did so himself.
    “Our ambassador regrets that the explosion did not leave any trace,” he said.
    “Convenient,” said Civilai.
    “I’m sure the Khmer are doing their best,” Judge Haeng assured them. “This is a very delicate matter and we don’t want it to affect the relationship with our southern neighbours.”
    “No it isn’t,” said Daeng. “It isn’t a delicate matter. It’s a big thumping noisy matter that’s being handled delicately. Why are they still here with diplomatic status, calling themselves ambassadors and first secretaries?”
    “Madame – ” Judge Haeng began.
    “What are they doing in our country?” she continued. “Haven’t you lot heard enough? Send the bastards home. Better still, lock them up.”
    Haeng and the clerk were making a move towards the distraught woman. She stood and lunged at them and they fell back.
    “If either of you goons so much as touches me I’ll break every bone in your hands,” she said.
    “And she can,” Civilai confirmed.
    Daeng stepped back and knocked over her chair. She sneered at the Khmer secretary and spat at the soldier and pushed past the officials on her way to the door. Civilai nodded and followed her out. Judge Haeng finally broke the silence.
    “She’s upset,” he said. “You know what women can be like.”
∗
    It was midnight and Daeng sat in the Dr Siri memorial library plodding through Inspector Maigret. She couldn’t understand why her husband had been such a fan. She invariably knew who killed whom and why a minute after all the characters had been introduced. Sometimes before. Perhaps it was a French thing. Perhaps there were nuances she lost because she had a dictionary open on her lap the entire time. Or perhaps it was one of those peculiar male traits. It played up to their big male egos to think they could solve a mystery, imagine nobody was as smart as them.
    It had been six weeks since Siri had left for Wittay Airport. Six weeks since she told him not to forget his noodles. She hoped they didn’t have show-and-tell nights in the other world or wherever he’d gone.
    “And, Dr Siri, what were the last words you heard from your beloved wife?”
    She knew she’d have to reopen the shop again soon. She had money put aside but with this crowd in power, her savings were shrinking before her eyes. Perhaps she’d shut up shop and move back south. At least there she’d be spared the sympathy. They had all come to see her. Nice people. They invited her to visit. To stay over. Even offered to move into the shop to keep her company. Brought presents. Yes, nice people. She hated every one of them. Did she really need to know how much they loved her husband? Did she care how sorry they were? Eventually