Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

with the few teeth he had. He was the Vietnamese advisor at the Ministry of Justice. He and Siri had become close since his arrival in Vientiane. Their opinions of Judge Haeng’s suitability for his position had dragged them together.
    “Brother Siri,” Phat said as he walked into the office.
    “Phat, did you lose your way? I’ve never seen you near the morgue before.”
    “Just pacing out those final steps.”
    “And they lead you here? Are you expecting a violent death, brother?”
    “A knife in the back. It’s a feeling I’ve held since I first arrived at Justice.”
    Phat walked past Siri and sat on a chair, ignoring the fact that the doctor was clearly on his way home.
    “I only have cold tea to offer,” Siri said, returning to his desk.
    “I come as a harbinger of doom,” said Phat.
    “That’s a pity. I was planning on having a good-news-only day. Are you sure it can’t wait till I come back from Cambodia?”
    “That’s the point, brother Siri. I am here to strongly recommend that you don’t go there.”
    “I think the trip’s all booked and paid for.”
    “Then, come down with something that makes it impossible for you to travel. And tell your friend Civilai to do the same.”
    “What on earth for?”
    “Dr Siri, what exactly do you know about what’s happening in the swamp they call Kampuchea?”
    “Not much. The orientation only took half an hour. Most of it was read from some sort of travel brochure. Then they gave us an itinerary and a summary of the Red Khmer manifesto. It looked a lot like ours.”
    He didn’t bother to mention the warning he and Civilai had been given that they might get some subtle pressure from the Vietnamese not to go. Hanoi had mentored the fledgling Khmer Rouge and encouraged its overthrow of the corrupt Khmer royalists. But its plan to have Laos and Cambodia sit at its feet like tame naga dragons had been thwarted by the new revolutionary leaders in Phnom Penh. It was no secret that the Khmer and the Vietnamese had long since separated on ideological grounds, but, since the beginning of the year, the war drums had been beating on both sides of the border. Once an ally, Cambodia, now Kampuchea, had become a threat. Phnom Penh was drifting closer to China, just as Vietnam drifted further away from the big Red mother ship.
    “We are hearing terrible things from Khmer refugees at our borders,” Phat said. “I am seriously concerned for your safety, Comrade.”
    “Refugees have a habit of saying what they think their saviours want to hear. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
    Phat rose. He seemed to be offended by Siri’s attitude.
    “I came here on my own time and against the wishes of my embassy. I came out of friendship with a sincere warning.”
    Siri wondered whether Civilai was encountering his own delegation of Vietnamese friendship ambassadors.
    “I appreciate it,” Siri said. “But, I think it’s too late to get out of it, Comrade.” He stood and held out his hand to Phat. “But thank you for the warning. It was good to see you again.”
    Phat didn’t return the handshake.
    “It’s far more than a warning, Siri. Putting a man with your character in Phnom Penh at this time is like dropping petroleum on a bush fire. If you go to Kampuchea you will burn, Siri Paiboun. Trust me.”
    He turned and walked out.
    Siri had never seen him like this. It had been an impressive and – he had to admit – an unnerving visit. The Vietnamese certainly knew how to squeeze. The colonel’s words were still on his mind as he put the welcome mat inside and locked the front door. And the old woman’s voice telling him not to go. He liked his omens in threes. One more and he’d call in sick and let Civilai go by himself. All by himself to sample the fine wines and tasty Khmer food. The beautiful Khmer women. The charm of Phnom Penh. The memory of walking along Boulevard Noradom with Boua. The smiles of the locals. The music. What was a little prophecy of doom against all that?
    A voice from across the flooded hospital grounds reached him through the drizzle.
    “Feel like a drink?”
    Cast in silhouette against the gaudy strip lights of oncology, Phosy stood astride his Vespa in a foot of water. Siri took off his sandals, rolled up his trouser legs, and waded to the inspector.
    “I thought you’d given it up,” Siri told him.
    “Just saving myself for Lao new year and very special occasions,” Phosy smiled. Siri hadn’t seen him in such a good mood