Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

need to communicate with. He had a lot of gaps in his early memories. But she sat and chewed and made no effort at all to answer his questions.
    Judge Haeng was babbling on about something in the background. Siri interrupted him.
    “If you were a bank I’d understand,” he said. “You could use me on advertising hoardings. “Dr Siri is proud to be a director of the such and such bank.” That type of thing. Or a farm implement manufacturer. “Dr Siri drives a Kwailek tractor. Why don’t you?” But you’re a ministry.”
    “And a fledgling ministry in a fledgling democracy, Siri. We need the farmers to trust us.”
    “Then stop making them join collectives.”
    Haeng ignored the comment.
    “We need the common people on our side,” he said. “The simple man is a moth drawn to the bright light of a halo around the head of a great leader. We need their support and they need a hero.”
    Siri saw himself in his green leotard, flying down from the ministry turrets to aid the commoners, fix that dam, shift that bale. He laughed and shrugged in the direction of his dead mother. He felt a ‘but’ coming.
    “We’re almost there,” Haeng said. “There’s just one small area that needs addressing.”
    “I’m not giving up on the Hmong,” Siri told him.
    “The…? Oh, no problem. We’re a multi-ethnic society, Siri. Compassion for our ethnic brothers and sisters can do you no harm at the polls. It won’t get you anywhere, but it won’t hurt.”
    “So, what’s my ‘small area’?”
    “Siri, there are rumours about you…and ghosts.”
    Siri’s mother was dribbling betel juice all over the judged reports. Siri smiled and she might have smiled back. It was hard to tell.
    “What type of rumours?” Siri asked.
    “Siri, I’m going to ask you bluntly and I expect a blunt answer. Are you a shaman?”
    “Absolutely not.”
    He hosted a shaman, but that was hardly the same thing. He had conducted a seance and travelled to the other world, and confronted demons, but that wasn’t the question. Haeng leaned back and sighed as if a javelin had been removed from his foot.
    “Excellent,” he said, “because I have heard second-hand reports that you are…apparently, that you dabble in spirit worship.”
    “Judge Haeng,” Siri said earnestly. “I can honestly say that the only spirit I worship is fermented from rice and left to stand for a month.”
    “That’s what I thought. Good. I can forward my report tomorrow with a clear conscience. Glad we cleared that up. Good luck.”
    Haeng lifted his Cola and Siri raised his and heard the clink as the two glasses met. He sipped the bubbleless, lukewarm sugar-oil without tasting it. He was surprised at how effortlessly he had skirted around the judged accusations. His normal self would have left doubts and messed with the judge’s mind. But Siri knew what was at stake here; hero status. And, if he were honest with himself he would have to admit, yes, he wanted to be a hero. He’d earned it. It wasn’t the glory and adulation he desired. It was simply that he’d been a fair, honest and hard-working man all his life. Assuming the DHC didn’t turn him into some Asian Errol Flynn, there were far worse role models out there for young Lao to follow. He was proud of the decisions he’d made and the direction he’d taken. Damn it. Yes. He would be a hero even if it killed him.
    He looked at his mother who was sitting on the desk ripping up reports. She nodded. Yes there were character flaws; he was disrespectful, and given to grumpiness, he talked to dead people and he drank too much, but, as everyone knew, time had a way of smudging over a hero’s personality faults.
∗
    The electricity is back on and the eternal day has returned to my classroom. My tough Lao belly has been invaded by foreign devils – bacteria whose names should not be spoken aloud. I am suffering from cramps and chronic diarrhoea. As I have no control over my bowels I have removed all my clothes and piled them at one extreme of the length of my chains. Soiled clothing is a breeding ground for more diseases than I care to tell you. At the other extreme of my shackles is my toilet. I use half the water they give me to keep myself clean as best I can. It’s as sanitary as I am able to manage given the conditions. I’m a doctor. I balance the risks .
    The monk is asleep, chained not a leg’s length away. There’s a smile on his face. His subconscious is apparently unaware of the terror