Free Slash and Burn by Colin Cotterill Page A

understand a goddamned word. Can’t they get the interpreter to do it?”
    “Comrade Vinai is the head interpreter, Major.”
    “What about the big woman?”
    “What big woman would that be, sir?”
    “The one they put on our chopper yesterday. She spoke pretty good.”
    “On our helicopter?”
    “Yeah, you didn’t see her? She was the only Laotian on board.”
    “I was stuck at the back behind a wall of cans, but, no, can’t say I noticed her.”
    “Well, she was damned good.”
    Once the Judge Haeng/Cousin Vinai double act was over and the plates emptied, everyone sat with their coffee waiting for the main event. Peach tapped the major’s arm.
    “You’re up, Major,” she said.
    Potter wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and inflated to a standing position. He said something loud and full of expression and then paused. There was an embarrassing silence. All eyes were on Cousin Vinai who was burrowing down into a bowl of rice soup. He waved his spoon at Peach.
    “You take it, little sister,” he said. “This is the first chance I’ve had to eat.”
    So, once again, Peach assumed the mantle of interpreter. She explained that Major Potter had planned a small activity as an icebreaker for the two sides to get to know each other. It was an adaptation of the game charades, of which none of the Lao apart from Siri and Civilai had heard. Siri gritted his teeth. For charades to be fun—if it ever truly was—you had to be three sheets to the wind, not hungover and stone-cold sober at breakfast. But there was no fighting it. Sergeant Johnson, perhaps the blackest live man Siri had seen in Laos, handed out cards apologetically. He was a marine based at the US Consulate in Vientiane. He had a booming sugary voice. He leaned into his walk like a meatless Nebraska Man in a hurry to catch up with evolution. But his gait put his smile out in front of him and it was a marvelous smile. It fitted on that handsome face with its gleaming eyes that took in everything around them.
    The names of all those in attendance had been written in both Lao and English and the cards had strings attached so they could be hung around the neck.
    “Oh, heaven help us,” said Civilai. “Didn’t the Chinese do something like this during the cultural revolution? What humiliation.”
    “Get into the spirit, brother,” Siri said.
    “If only I could.”
    But to make matters worse, the Americans all stood and pushed their tables and chairs back to the wall. The Lao assumed they were supposed to do the same so the moment arrived when both teams were standing facing each other with no barriers between them. The symbolism was poignant. Whether this was his idea or a directive from Washington nobody would know, but Major Potter stepped forward and said, “ Kwoi soo Harold.”
    The Lao looked on in amazement. Had the major actually announced in Thai that he had a fighting penis? It was a bold statement if true. But they racked their brains for another possible meaning. It was Dtui who found it.
    “Ah, koi seu Harold,” she said. “My name is Harold.”
    The Lao echoed the utterance in relief and the ice began to break quite accidentally and all by itself. You couldn’t go downhill from there. The point of the game was to give your name in English and Lao and then mime what you did for a living for the other team to guess. The major launched into a gala performance of marching and shooting and saluting and the Lao kept silent. Everyone knew he was a retired major but they wanted to draw out the embarrassment. Oddly, the more he mimed the happier he appeared to be and the more the US contingent laughed. They were an amusing bunch with apparently no shame at all. It was Judge Haeng who finally called out enthusiastically, “He’s a soldier.”
    This was translated and the Americans and Mr. Geung applauded and whooped.
    “He’s a soldier,” laughed Mr. Geung.
    This delighted the Lao who were now officially into the spirit of the moment. Even