Thirty-Three Teeth by Colin Cotterill Page A

with barbed wire and hard labor. Look, I know what you’re saying. I share some of your concerns. I don’t like locking people up for their beliefs. But I also understand that—at least in these early days—there’s a need for stability. The LPRP can’t afford to have vocal dissent stirring up anti-government feeling. They’ve got enough problems without that.”
    “But—”
    “And you have to admit that your old government officials and military and police weren’t exactly angels of purity. The Security Council’s been uncovering evidence of unbelievable corruption all the way up the ladder.”
    “I’m sure it won’t take your new officials long to master the fine art of graft. Greed is sadly inherent in the soul of man.”
    “Again, I agree. But we do have a lot of good people. They really have the well-being of Laos at heart. You don’t spend half your adult life in caves if your intention is to make yourself wealthy. They may not be popular in the towns, but let’s not forget that eighty-five percent of the population works the land. With all due respect, the old regime pretty much let them get on with it. You bought their products at a fraction of market value and didn’t do a thing to help them through droughts and epidemics.”
    “And your communist brothers and sisters will.”
    “I think they’ll try.”
    “Then let us thank the Lord Buddha for that.”
    Even while his words were still floating there in the air, Siri wondered whether he really believed what he’d just said. So many of those jungle dreams seemed to evaporate when exposed to reality. Once the cadres moved into the cities, the shoes of the old regime began to fit them quite well. There was already a rumor that officials at the Agricultural Ministry were taking kickbacks and rerouting seed stocks.
    When he was at the temple in Savanaketh, Siri had read a translation of Animal Farm as a French primer. He had thought it was a story about animals on a farm. It wasn’t until it was condemned by the Communist Party in Paris as capitalist propaganda that he read it again as a political statement. He was starting to recognize some of the beasts.
    Time passed quickly, and the two old men discussed Orwell and Voltaire, Engels and Guizot and Vailland, Césaire, spiraling down to Simenon and Hergé, wisely veering away from politics as the liquor slowly took hold.
    In one of their last moments of sober clarity, Siri and the king had the brilliant idea of mixing Wilaiwan’s lethal brew with the juice of some succulent fruits from the orchard. The result was an ideal aperitif to accompany the fish and the rice, and the perfect antidote to depression.
    When the whiskey bottles were empty, the two men lay side by side on a mat of lush grass, exhausted from a final bout of laughter, invigorated by talk of literature and music, at peace and at one with the aromatic fruit. There, Siri watched the cricket on the king’s shoulder, licking its fingernails, and he slowly joined the old regent in sleep.
     
    As the spirits resided in the trees, and the fruit grew on those trees and that fruit was now inside Siri, it was no surprise that his sleep should be filled with the light and color of a spectacular dream.
    It was day. He was in the orchard, but the orchard was enormous. The trees stretched far into the sky. The tree spirits were everywhere, dancing, singing, having a thoroughly good time. It was an animated Hieronymus Bosch scene similar to the one he’d seen in a visiting exhibition at the Louvre in Paris. In fact, it was exactly that scene, except all the participants were Lao and not quite as naked.
    Male angels juggled ripe oranges that had once been the breasts of the nymphs who cheered them on. The grand old dowager, Lady Tani, strummed on her Lao harp beside her dazzling yellow banana tree. Gooseberry sprites performed aerobatics. The whispering ghosts moved from spirit to spirit, telling them their futures and collecting star fruits as