The Coroner's Lunch Read Online Free PDF Page A

country. You are a cog just as I am a cog and The President is a cog. Each cog can help our machine run smoothly. But by the same token, one broken cog can jam and stop the works completely. At this important time in our creation, we need all our cogs meshing and coordinated. Don’t let us down. Don’t stop the machine, Siri.”
    He gave one last painful squeeze, nodded, and went off to insert himself into another circle. Siri, in a daze, looked around him at the revisionist mechanics. Lubricated by the alcohol, the wheels had already become misshapen. At one point, two wheels had buckled together into a figure-of-eight. There were big important cogs and little insignificant ones, some of whom had gone off to the toilet and not returned. This left large gaps in their wheels. Others were huddled together in small sub-wheels ignoring the big machine altogether.
    Siri, suddenly depressed, explained to his wheel that he had to go pee. He staggered in that direction, but walked past the toilet and through the town hall entrance. Guards on either side of the door raised their rifles in salute. He saluted back and yanked his black necktie off. He walked to one of the boy guards and hooked it over the shiny bayonet, where it swung back and forth.
    With a grin and thanks, he waved away the drivers of the black second-hand Russian Zil limousines that were waiting to ferry the comrades to their temporary barracks. It was a chilly December morning and there were no stars in the sky, but the way back was a straight line. He walked unsteadily along a deserted Lan Xang Avenue. Ahead of him was the Presidential Palace and a future he didn’t much want.
     
     
     

Comrade Kham’s Wife
     
     
    Even when times were at their hardest in Vientiane, the old stone kiln near the mosque still fired up at three every morning to produce the best bread to be had in the country. Three bare-chested men stoked the wood fire and kneaded the dough into long fingers and laid them out in rows on rusting black metal trays. There was nothing hygienic about it. But there were those who argued it was the dust, soot, sweat, and rust that made Auntie Lah’s baguettes the sweetest in Vientiane. Her three sons pulled the sizzling loaves from the kiln with their hands wrapped in old grey towels and put them directly onto her cart.
    At six every morning, Auntie Lah wheeled her sweet-smelling bread to the corner by the black stupa. By seven-thirty she’d usually sold the lot and returned to the shop for a new batch. These she carted to the corner of Sethathirat and Nong Bon streets, where most of the government departments were. By this time, the baguette trolley had become a customized sandwich deli. Government officials on their way to work could order from the menu of “condensed milk, sardine, or salted buffalo meat,” which she lovingly prepared and garnished for them while they waited.
    But there was always one sandwich with extras, wrapped in greaseproof paper, waiting for her very special customer to collect every day. Siri never had to order his fancy. He just ate whatever Auntie Lah felt like making for him. It was always different and always delicious. He paid her at the end of each week, and she never asked for more than her standard rate.
    When Siri was too busy to come out himself, he sent Dtui, who swore she could feel the old lady’s disappointment even before she crossed the road.
    “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    “I can. She’s got a crush on you.” At least seven of Siri’s eight pints of blood rushed to his face. Dtui chuckled and handed him his lunch.
    “People our age don’t…well, we just don’t.”
    “Fall in love?”
    “Certainly not.”
    “Rot.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Somchai Asanajinda says as long as your heart can still beat for one, it can always beat for two.”
    “Then Somchai Asanajinda obviously isn’t a doctor.”
    “Didn’t they let you people watch any films up there in the caves? He’s probably the