Thirty-Three Teeth by Colin Cotterill

milky iris. The eye no longer saw. The elephant no longer lived. And at that moment, a surge, like a massive overdose of Vietnamese coffee, passed through Siri’s body. The breath was sucked from him, and his heart jived out of control in his chest. He knew right away that the spirit of the old beast had passed through him and that something undefinable had been left there. Even after his pulse slowed, he knew there was a difference about him.
    He was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of crumbling masonry. Some reaction had been started by the elephant’s tug-of-war. Old natural mortar was slowly turning to dust, and the clay bricks it once held secure were sliding from their housings, changing position.
    Soon there was nothing to hold up the leaning structure, and the stupa flopped to the earth. It disintegrated inelegantly, as if it could never have stood up to the elements of centuries. There was very little noise; no trumpets or choirs, nothing grand to suggest that history had tumbled.
    The official and his guards rushed over to the stupa’s base, which stood square and hollow like an old wishing well. But their wishes were not to come true. Even before they started to scoop the wayward bricks from the base, they knew this was an empty stupa. The early enthusiasm of the guards gradually turned to languor, and after twenty minutes they showed no interest whatsoever in shoveling.
    The official was left with nothing but professional obligation. He noted the time of the destruction for his report and wrapped one small brick in a sheet of newspaper to take back with him on the bus. He photographed the pile of bricks and the dead elephant. That meant more unnecessary paperwork. Siri was sitting in the shade of a nearby frangipani, still trying to count his teeth. Years of spice had numbed the tip of his tongue. Hard labor in the jungle had desensitized his fingertips.
    “Nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine,” he said.
    “What was that, comrade?”
    “Well, if this is Lan Xang, home of the million elephants….”
    The official gave a polite chuckle.
    “Yes. I see. Very droll.” He replaced his papers in his plastic briefcase with the camera and the brick. “Excuse me. I have a bus to catch.”
    Siri had been offered a bus ticket back to Vientiane by the District Chief, which he had naturally refused. Nothing would possess him to make that spine-jarring journey. He would take the plane or wait for the helicopter. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t available. It didn’t matter that it was off on some top-secret mission. It didn’t matter if he did have to wait two more days. He was flying back, and that was final.
    The guards had gone, and he was alone in the temple grounds. It was blissfully peaceful. The main sala was a simple white rectangular building, but he was fascinated by the beautiful carvings on the black hardwood doors. There was something mystical about the figures that played there: the angels, the naga, the children of old kings. He walked closer to look at the expressions on their faces. Each had the same troubled look. They gazed directly into Siri’s eyes, and something about their fear told him “Beware.”
    He shrugged off the feeling that came over him and set about hunting for accommodation. The monks had been temporarily removed, and a perfectly good dormitory terrace stood empty behind the prayer chapel. Bedrolls were piled at the far end in pyramids. As he wouldn’t be leaving that day, he could think of no better place to spend the night. He carried a mattress into the chapel and laid it out beneath the watchful gold eye of the Lord Buddha.
     
    Siri found Miss Latsamy in the City Law Administration Office where she worked for three dollars a month. She was stamping official seals onto documents that stood in rectangular towers across her desk. She looked up when he came in.
    “Ah. Hello, Uncle.”
    “Hello, Miss Latsamy. I was hoping you could