Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

hadn’t looked once into Siri’s frog-green eyes.
    “Must have been a shock. Did you know her?”
    “She’s new. Didn’t speak a lot of Vietnamese. Friendly enough though.”
    “And nice looking.”
    “Not bad, sir. Not really my type.”
    “I gather your patrol was just strolling past and somebody smelt something odd. Is that right?”
    “Not exactly, Comrade. There was no patrol scheduled. The major sent us out specially.”
    “Major Dung?”
    “Yes, sir. I gathered there’d been a report of something odd over in this sector. He sent half a dozen of us down to take a look.”
    “That’s a lot of men – I mean, just for taking a look.”
    “Probably thought there was a security breach.”
    “I imagine.”
    “And we got down here and we could all smell it; sickly, sweet smell.”
    “Who went in first?”
    “None of us. We knew the stink only too well. One of the men went back to get the major. The rest of us hung around outside. When he arrived, he went to the door and took a look inside. I was standing behind him. I saw the girl. Shocking, it was.”
    “When was this?”
    “I don’t know. About half an hour ago…an hour?”
    “And Major Dung went straight over to the cinema to find security chief Phoumi?”
    “So it seems. He sent the other men back to the barracks and left me here to watch the crime scene.”
    “Good. Very good. And, apart from the major, nobody else went into the box?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Any idea who reported the ‘something odd’?”
    “You’d have to ask the major that.”
    “I’ll do just that. I imagine he’ll be back very soon. I just have to go and see someone for a minute. Tell him I’ll be right back.”
    “I will, sir.”
    “By the way, was this overhead light on when you got here?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Siri walked out into the drizzle and headed across Sixth Street. He had a cinematic urge to take out an umbrella and dance in the puddles but not the stomach for it. He also had a very strong feeling that he’d just been lied to.
∗
    They’ve transferred the manacle to my left hand and put a restraint around my ankles: two parallel metal bars with chains as heavy as doom that keep my feet forty centimetres apart. They came a few hours earlier, the boy guards, and nailed plywood across all the windows. Since then the fluorescents have been burning continuously and I have no idea of time. I’m covered in flea and mosquito bites and it’s taking all my will power not to scratch myself raw. In fact I should have paid more attention at the temple when I was a novice. In a situation like this I really could use an off switch. This would be a good time to step outside my body .
    The teenage guards bring me rice gruel that tastes of motor oil and vomit. But I have to eat. Bad nutrition is better than none at all. They bring a bucket too, as if I can perform here and now. The first time that happened, I started to explain the natural process of excretion, that the body needs seventy-five hours to process food. But one of the boys rammed the butt of his pistol into the side of my foolish head and I was suddenly flapping around inside an aviary of bats and blackbirds. When I came round, the bucket and the unruly youth were gone. I can feel my head now. It’s swollen to the size and shape of a pomelo. At first I thought I might be enjoying one of my fabulous nightmares. But the lump and the pain and the blood on my shoulder aren’t imagined. Of course, that doesn’t make this any less of a nightmare .
    Behind me on a long, scratched and partially burned blackboard there are ten chalked sentences that I can’t read. When my ex-roommate first arrived, they forced him to recite the sentences aloud. The man was barely able to see through his swollen black eyes. They kicked the words out of him. I closed my eyes and diverted my mind from the awful sounds by thinking about language. I’d always thought of it as a friend. It’s guided me through life and shown me new directions. Each new language I learned added to me. I’d become richer. But a language you don’t know, sir, that is one mean, unfriendly son-of-a-bitch. It’s rude and secretive and it pushes you away, keeps you on the outside. And that’s where I am now, on the outside. Not knowing what’s going on makes my teeth curl in frustration. I’ve been grovelling for a quote about language to make myself feel more secure, but nothing comes to mind. It was true what the clerk said. I don’t