the imprisoned singing
of live frogs
——
‘Where to, Mister?’ the tuk-tuk driver said. His name was Mr. Kop and he was high on life, and amphetamines.
‘The airport,’ Joe said. Mr. Kop cranked up the engine and grinned. ‘Bor pan yang,’ he said, ‘bor pan yang. No problem, no problem. Mr. Kop he take you any place you want go.’ The engine made the tuk-tuk-tuk sound that had given the vehicle its name. Mr. Kop released the gear and sped off down the road, Joe holding on at the back, the artificial wind coming through, cooling against his scalp.
They had tried to shoot him. Why would anyone want to shoot him?
The worst moment was outside, just before he had hailed down Mr. Kop. Indecision. An irrational part of him wanted to head over the Mekong, into Siam and a train or bus to Bangkok, or disappear entirely in that great empty space of the continent that lay beyond the river: isolated villages, small fields, a scarcity of roads, a great open silence.
It only lasted a moment and then he dismissed it and Mr. Kop had stopped for him and he told him the airport. Mr. Kop drove as fast as his ancient vehicle allowed him, taking every bump on the road with relish, singing to himself as he drove, and grinning and twitching a little. Soon they were on the smooth, wide road to the airport and the Mekong was visible, still dry, the rains having not yet filled it up. The distant sand-banks had the colour of Mr. Kop’s teeth. Joe leaned back and stretched out his legs. He thought fleetingly about the girl.
He paid Mr. Kop outside the terminal building and went inside. He had seen no black cars along the road. He came to the TransAtlantic Airways desk and a girl looked up at him with a pleasant smile. His ticket was there, ready, and the girl directed him to Gate Three. The terminal was small, old but clean. The concrete floor was worn smooth. The sunlight streamed in through high windows. He bought himself an espresso at the kiosk by the entrance and sipped it standing up outside. He lit a cigarette and watched people come and go past.
They couldn’t know he was going to the airport because he had only made the booking that morning, and so he felt reasonably calm. He had not spotted a tail on the road either, and that was good too. There was the other possibility of course – that they knew he would be going to Paris because that way the trail leading to Mike Longshott lay and they knew about that, about Longshott and Osama, but it wasn’t an option he was entertaining just then. He finished the espresso and bought another and searched for black shoes. An elderly Indian man went past, dressed in a suit, wearing an expensive-looking gold wristwatch. A Chinese family went past, the father ramrod-straight, the mother plump and wearing a loose dress and a worried expression, then two children, a boy and a girl, the boy holding a soldier doll, the girl a paper-bound book, a Lao nanny bringing out the rear of the campaign with the youngest member of the regiment in her arms, a boy or a girl it was impossible to tell. Three white men casually dressed – the kind of casual it cost money to achieve – two in their twenties, one with silver hair and black shades, talking to each other in French. During the war the airport had been used as a base for a loose unit of French pilots who worked under the guise of a civilian airline company. They were called Ravens, and flew missions across the border, into Vietnam. The Secret War, they called it. Some of the old-timers stayed on, still, but the only remains of French Indochina these days were the coins that now sold to tourists in the Talat Sao market. A woman carrying a bamboo basket with two chickens inside. Five Africans in flowing robes, and escorted by Laotian functionaries – a diplomatic delegation from Ivory Coast or Senegal, maybe. Two young European women carrying backpacks. One smiled at Joe as she went past him. A bearded Muslim cleric wheeling a suitcase. Two Japanese, a man and a woman, power-walking, movements synchronised, not speaking. A group of Hmong villagers, carrying baskets, one imprisoning the singing of live frogs. Dark shapes peered at Joe through the woven bars of their jail. Joe ground his cigarette into the espresso cup, threw it in the bin, and went to catch his plane.