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Authors: Colin Cotterill
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You shouldn’t play there.”
“Mr. Geung, you’re quite right. This is where you put the bags before they get thrown in the furnace, right?”
“Yes.”
“The janitor doesn’t seem to be around. Do you know if he burned our waste yesterday?”
“He must. He must. It’s the rules. He must destroy all hospital waste no more than twelve hours from when it arrives. He must.”
“Twelve hours. So what we threw out on Monday evening would have been sitting here overnight?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Please put our little friends here in the refrigerator while I go and get cleaned up.”
“Ha. Little friends.” Geung laughed and ran off inside with the jar.
Siri showered, changed, and again left at about ten without telling them where he was going.
He crossed the road in front of the hospital and picked up his lunch from Auntie Lah. Following Dtui’s comments on Monday, he took the trouble to notice a blush in the lady’s cheeks. For a second, he believed there may have been some truth in it. They exchanged polite conversation for a few minutes, and then he said “Good health” and walked on.
“The hospital’s that way, brother Siri,” she reminded him.
“I’m playing hooky. Don’t tell the director.”
“You should play hooky with me sometime.”
He laughed.
She laughed.
There
was
something.
He walked along the river and turned onto one of the small dirt lanes. The Lao Women’s Union was housed in a two-storey building whose frontage was overgrown with flowering shrubs. They’d been tended to look natural but were kept under total control. The Union sign had been freshly repainted. A slight dribble of white descended from one letter.
He walked into a bustling foyer where everyone seemed to have urgent business, and he wasn’t part of it. He had to throw himself in front of one fast-moving girl to ask his question.
“Do you know where I can find Dr. Pornsawan?”
She was flustered. “Oh, she’s around somewhere. Do you have an appointment?”
“No. Do I need one?”
“You should have phoned. It’s chaotic here today. The wife of the president of Mongolia’s coming.”
Siri felt like he’d come to a strange foreign land. So much speed. So much activity. Appointments. Telephones. He didn’t feel like he was in Laos at all. His wasn’t an appointment culture: you’d turn up; you’d see if the person was there; you’d sit and wait for an hour if he was, go home if he wasn’t.
Who were they, these women of the Union with their alien ideas? And why was there so much excitement about the wife of the president of Mongolia?
After flustering two more busy women, he finally found Dr. Pornsawan in the canteen putting up decorations hand-made from plastic drinking straws. There was a huge banner behind the stage that said WELCOME TO OUR FRIENDS FROM MONGOLIA in Lao and French, two languages the president’s wife probably couldn’t read.
Pornsawan was less flustered and more accommodating than her sisters. She’d heard of the famous Dr. Siri and had some unaccountable professional respect for him. But she still forced him to tie cotton threads to blue and red drinking straws while they spoke. She was a slender lady in her thirties, and she had no eyebrows. She’d briefly entered a nunnery where they had been shaved off and hadn’t ever grown back. She was so devoid of vanity, she didn’t bother to have new ones tattooed or even to draw them on. It left her with a very clean look.
“You’re here about Mrs. Nitnoy.”
“Yes. You were at the table with her when she died?”
“Directly opposite.”
“And she ate from communal plates?”
“Ah. Now, this is intriguing.”
“What is?”
“You’ve done the autopsy and you still think she was poisoned.”
Siri’s cheeks become a little more flushed than normal. “I don’t have any idea.”
“Of course not. Sorry.” She smiled at the straws in her hand. “She ate the same food as all of us, and we’d already
“Mr. Geung, you’re quite right. This is where you put the bags before they get thrown in the furnace, right?”
“Yes.”
“The janitor doesn’t seem to be around. Do you know if he burned our waste yesterday?”
“He must. He must. It’s the rules. He must destroy all hospital waste no more than twelve hours from when it arrives. He must.”
“Twelve hours. So what we threw out on Monday evening would have been sitting here overnight?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Please put our little friends here in the refrigerator while I go and get cleaned up.”
“Ha. Little friends.” Geung laughed and ran off inside with the jar.
Siri showered, changed, and again left at about ten without telling them where he was going.
He crossed the road in front of the hospital and picked up his lunch from Auntie Lah. Following Dtui’s comments on Monday, he took the trouble to notice a blush in the lady’s cheeks. For a second, he believed there may have been some truth in it. They exchanged polite conversation for a few minutes, and then he said “Good health” and walked on.
“The hospital’s that way, brother Siri,” she reminded him.
“I’m playing hooky. Don’t tell the director.”
“You should play hooky with me sometime.”
He laughed.
She laughed.
There
was
something.
He walked along the river and turned onto one of the small dirt lanes. The Lao Women’s Union was housed in a two-storey building whose frontage was overgrown with flowering shrubs. They’d been tended to look natural but were kept under total control. The Union sign had been freshly repainted. A slight dribble of white descended from one letter.
He walked into a bustling foyer where everyone seemed to have urgent business, and he wasn’t part of it. He had to throw himself in front of one fast-moving girl to ask his question.
“Do you know where I can find Dr. Pornsawan?”
She was flustered. “Oh, she’s around somewhere. Do you have an appointment?”
“No. Do I need one?”
“You should have phoned. It’s chaotic here today. The wife of the president of Mongolia’s coming.”
Siri felt like he’d come to a strange foreign land. So much speed. So much activity. Appointments. Telephones. He didn’t feel like he was in Laos at all. His wasn’t an appointment culture: you’d turn up; you’d see if the person was there; you’d sit and wait for an hour if he was, go home if he wasn’t.
Who were they, these women of the Union with their alien ideas? And why was there so much excitement about the wife of the president of Mongolia?
After flustering two more busy women, he finally found Dr. Pornsawan in the canteen putting up decorations hand-made from plastic drinking straws. There was a huge banner behind the stage that said WELCOME TO OUR FRIENDS FROM MONGOLIA in Lao and French, two languages the president’s wife probably couldn’t read.
Pornsawan was less flustered and more accommodating than her sisters. She’d heard of the famous Dr. Siri and had some unaccountable professional respect for him. But she still forced him to tie cotton threads to blue and red drinking straws while they spoke. She was a slender lady in her thirties, and she had no eyebrows. She’d briefly entered a nunnery where they had been shaved off and hadn’t ever grown back. She was so devoid of vanity, she didn’t bother to have new ones tattooed or even to draw them on. It left her with a very clean look.
“You’re here about Mrs. Nitnoy.”
“Yes. You were at the table with her when she died?”
“Directly opposite.”
“And she ate from communal plates?”
“Ah. Now, this is intriguing.”
“What is?”
“You’ve done the autopsy and you still think she was poisoned.”
Siri’s cheeks become a little more flushed than normal. “I don’t have any idea.”
“Of course not. Sorry.” She smiled at the straws in her hand. “She ate the same food as all of us, and we’d already
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