Dr Siri Paiboun 06 (2009) - The Merry Misogynist

by Colin Cotterill

  “I think that’s the point,” said Phosy. “He wants the bodies to be found.”

  “Exactly,” Siri agreed. “It completes the humiliation of the women.”

  “Who is he, Doctor?” Phosy asked. “I mean what’s going on in his head? What are we looking for exactly?”

  Siri stood his spoon in his coffee and let it go. It didn’t fall to the edge, just stood there, trapped.

  “Well,” he said, “my psychology training was two semesters, fifty-odd years ago, and it leaned rather heavily towards Freud. And Freud would probably have suggested that our strangler had problems with his mother, or at least a woman in his past. The symbolism of the pestle doesn’t take a great deal of imagination to work out. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was impotent. All I can be certain of is this: for him to go to so much trouble, something happened to make our Phan hate women with a vengeance.”

  14

  COMING TO ONE’S CENSUS

  Siri and Daeng sat across from the closed noodle shop on the high bank of the river. They were perched on two old rattan chairs that creaked more than they did. They were well down a bottle of rice whisky, and they both agreed it was pretty damned good stuff. They held their glasses in their outside hands while their inside hands were clasped together. They stared across the tar black Mekhong, which reflected the little lights on the Thai side. The breezes that skipped off the water suggested the rains might come on time this year and spare the earth any more suffering.

  “Dr Siri…?” Daeng began.

  “You know I’m always tempted to call you Noodle-seller Daeng whenever you say that?”

  By this time of night even their slurring was compatible.

  “I wasn’t referring to you.”

  “There’s another Dr Siri?”

  “That handsome young fellow I met in the south. I was a peanut in those days.”

  “You were never a peanut.”

  “I was. You just don’t understand. You know how peanuts live in their own little shell chambers, and they can see the peanut next door every day, but the gap between them’s too narrow to crawl through?”

  “I have to confess I’ve never really thought about peanuts like that.”

  “Well, I was that peanut. There you were with Boua, and you were in love then, and you were perfect together. And I was so close every day…but I couldn’t touch you. I couldn’t get through the gap. And once you both left, I never got over how close we’d been. Eventually I found myself a husband. He was a good man, a rebel like us. And we were content. But every time I saw a peanut it made me sad.”

  Siri laughed. “Daeng, you’re starting to sound like Judge Haeng.”

  “Don’t laugh at me. You know I have trouble expressing myself when I’ve had a drink or ten. I’m serious.”

  “How can you be serious about a peanut?”

  “Siri!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “All I want to say is, even if you hadn’t been with Boua then, we were too important, too big for our own lives. If we’d tried to be together it wouldn’t have worked. It could never have been like this. But over the years we got smaller, and I crawled through to your chamber, and now we are…”

  “The happy peanuts.”

  “Exactly.”

  “My love, you’re so poetic when you’ve had a few drinks I should keep you sloshed all day.”

  “And all day I’d tell you how happy I am with you and thank you for taking me in.”

  They leaned their heads together.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  “To what?”

  “To say something nice about me.”

  “Shouldn’t it be spontaneous?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Daeng poured them another drink and Siri considered what story might suit the occasion. He didn’t have any fruit or cereal analogies so he resorted to something he knew.

  “All right,” he said. “You know I told you about the visions I was having?”

  “The wormy lady and the dog?”

  “Yes, well, I told you they were spectres warning me that Rajid was in danger. But at the time I actually thought they were omens about me and the end of my life.”

  “I knew that.”

  “You did?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He wasn’t really surprised. Daeng had a far better understanding of Siri Paiboun than he did.

  “Anyway, once I got it into my head that I was on my way out, all I could think was how unfair it was that we’d had so little time together. If it had happened a year ago before our reunion I would have held out my wrists for the deathly shackles and gone happily. Now you’ve given me a reason to fight. I don’t want either of us popping off into the ether.”

  “That’s lovely.”

  They looked up at the clear, starry sky and grinned at the Great Bear, who always seemed to be falling on his backside.

  “The census,” she said.

  “You’ve just changed the subject, haven’t you?”

  “Not really. It’s an ongoing subject. It’s what you asked me on Wednesday, about a department that’s high profile, has a reasonable budget, whose employees might go back to the same location twice. It just came to me.”

  Siri sat up in his seat and glared at his wife.

  “To distribute and collect questionnaires,” Siri said.

  “Right.”

  “You’re brilliant.”

  “I know. Don’t tell Phosy yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s a policeman. He’s not very subtle. He’d go strutting into their office with his police bell ringing and alert everyone that he’s on to them and, if he’s there, your maniac would go to ground.”

  “What then?”

  “Just wander in there. Have a look around. Just some old fellow interested in the census. No danger. You get your information and if you see anything fishy you tell Phosy. That way you can nail the bastard.”

  “And you came up with this plan while you were staring at the moon, billing and cooing with me?”

  “The woman’s brain has two hemispheres,” she slurred. “One for loving, one for hating. They can operate quite competently at the same time.”

  The Minorities Census of ‘77-‘78 was one that the government officially knew nothing about. Despite all the recent posturing on the rights of the non-lowland Lao, it was apparent that nobody actually had a clue as to how many different ethnic groups there were. The prime minister in his annual address put the number at over a hundred, but the Ministry of Culture quoted a figure of sixty-eight. And within those groups, nobody knew how many had survived the war and how many had fled. Before anyone in power was prepared to put his name to a bill to protect the rights and culture of minorities, the Central Committee needed to know just how many people were involved and what slice of the budget it might eat up. Some sceptics, Siri included, suggested that this might just be a subtle plot to seek out and remove groups still opposed to the PL, but nobody was prepared to admit to such subterfuge.

  The collection of data had commenced in early ‘77. The logistics were daunting, especially considering the fact that most ethnic groups lived in remote locations specifically so they wouldn’t be bothered by the government. The census was organized by the Ministry of Interior but operated independently out of a two-storey building on Koovieng Road. There was a director, Comrade Kummai, a clerical staff of six who collated data, three drivers, three mobile teams of survey collectors, and a woman who cleaned and made tea. Of the mobile teams, two flew to remote sites, hired a four-wheel-drive vehicle at the location, and headed off into the hills. The other team operated within convenient driving distance of Vientiane and paid local lowland Lao officials to conduct the surveys among isolated communities in their districts.

  When Siri arrived that morning, the cleaning lady showed him directly upstairs to Comrade Kummai’s office without asking who he was. The director’s door was open, and Kummai was facing an enormous wall
chart, making ‘Pshh, pshh’ sounds, and scratching his head. He seemed to be searching for something in the tangle of lines and figures. The maid left Siri there without saying a word to the director, so he had no choice but to introduce himself.

  “Excuse me, Comrade.”

  Kummai turned. He was a portly man not much taller than Siri. He wore a white shirt tucked into his belt only where it was in the mood to be. He wore no socks and his trousers were rolled up his shins.

  “You’re Dr Siri,” he said.

  “I am.”

  Siri tried to place the director but he was nowhere to be found in Siri’s memory.

  “Kummai, northern zone 3 regiment,” said the man. “It’s me, Captain Kummai. You were attached to us for a few months. Hot season – ’65, I think it was.”

  “You’ve got a good memory, Comrade.”

  “Names and dates stick. That’s why I ended up here, I suppose. Not surprised you don’t remember me, though. I was a slim fellow back then.”

  Siri couldn’t place him at all but he’d seen so many soldiers. Now if he’d died, that would be a different matter entirely. To Siri’s surprise, the head of the Census Department began to unbutton his shirt. Siri took a step back towards the door.

  “Remember this?” asked Kummai. He lifted a roll of fat to reveal an appendix scar. Not surprisingly, to Siri it looked like any other appendix scar.

  “It’s very neat,” Siri decided.

  “Of course it is. This is your handiwork. I’d wager half the men in our section have scars courtesy of Dr Siri. Wouldn’t be surprised if they boasted to their loved ones about having Siri originals.”

  “I should have signed them.”

  Kummai laughed uproariously. He crossed to Siri and shook his hand and patted his back.

  “Well, well,” he said. “Dr Siri still alive. What are you now? Eighty? Ninety?”

  Siri laughed. “It feels that way sometimes.”

  “I bet it does. I bet it does. Well now, Dr Siri. Let me show you around my domain.”

  “I don’t want to be a nuisance,” Siri said.

  “Nonsense.” Kummai took the doctor’s arm and led him out of the office. Siri and Daeng had put together an elaborate ruse to get a look at the inside of the building but the director didn’t even ask what he’d come for. The tour began with the upstairs clerical section.

  “This is old Dr Siri,” Kummai told the girls. “Saved my life in the war. Still alive, both of us. Ha ha.”

  The clerks seemed mentally exhausted by their director’s unending joy. While Kummai went into detail about his burst appendix, Siri noted that the walls were lined with samples of every type of official document there was. As they were leaving the room, he asked the director what they were doing there.

  “Checks, Siri. Checks. We often have to verify that documents are authentic. Our lasses in there just compare an original with the sample. If it looks suspicious they call in the heavy brigade. That’s me.”

  He was still laughing when he reached the bottom of the stairs. In one of the main rooms, two men sat at one desk poring over a large map draped over the desktop like an oversized tablecloth. One of the men was tall and slim with eyes dark and deep enough to dip a fountain pen into. The other was stocky with a broken nose and a scar on his cheek. He could have been nothing other than a boxer.

  “Comrades,” said Kummai. The two men looked up. “This is Siri, my old doctor from the war. I still have his handiwork on my gut.”

  Siri and the men shook hands and wished each other good health. Both men had impressive grips.

  “These brave men are leaving for the wilds of the Thon River.”

  “To interview?” Siri asked.

  “To collect the data,” said the boxer. “We gather a team of locals and train them. They go off into the remote areas with our forms and fill them out. Two weeks later we collect the paperwork and pay off the workers.”

  Siri noticed that the slim man was staring at him. It was a look of distrust. A fear of strangers perhaps? Siri felt a tingle the length of his spine.

  “Two weeks exactly?” he asked.

  “That’s how long it usually takes,” said the deep-eyed man.

  “And it’s just the two of you?”

  “These two plus the head of the unit, Comrade Buaphan,” said Kummai. The tingle became a shudder.

  Deep Eyes seemed to notice the doctor’s change of mood. He raised his brow. “Are you all right, Doctor?” he asked.

  “Of course he’s all right,” Kummai cut in. “In fact he’s remarkable for a man his age. I doubt I’ll be able to stand up when I’m ninety.”

  “Well,” said Siri, “I’ve seen everyone else on the project. I suppose I should meet Comrade Buaphan too.”

  “Quite right,” said the director. “I want all my boys and girls to meet the great Dr Siri.” The two men returned Siri’s nod and he followed Kummai out of the room. There was a closed door on the far side of the entrance hall and Kummai entered without knocking. Sitting on an armchair reading a Thai magazine was a tall, elegant man with high cheekbones and thick ebony hair that curled at his collar. He was at the opposite end of the best-dressed spectrum from Kummai: light brown stay-press slacks, white shirt buttoned to the collar, and, despite the heat, navy blue socks. This was exactly the identikit picture of the strangler that Siri had drawn in his mind’s eye. The man looked up slowly from his article.

  “Ah, Buaphan, nothing to do?” asked the director with uncomfortable levity.

  “No,” the man replied. His voice was deep and authoritative.

  “I thought you might be in a last-minute panic.”

  “I’m not.”

  Kummai laughed as if it were a joke.

  “Right, then,” he said. “This is Dr Siri, our old bush surgeon.”

  Buaphan didn’t let go of his magazine or proffer his large hand. He gave a slight nod. “Doctor.”

  “Comrade Buaphan,” said Siri, returning the nod. “I hear you’re taking your team to the Thon River district today.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I didn’t see a truck in the yard.”

  “Probably because it’s not there,” Buaphan said drily then returned to his story. Siri and Kummai looked at one another.

  “It’s off getting all its bits checked,” said the director. “And oil and water and all that. Make it fit for the road, you know?”

  “Do you drive, Comrade?” Siri asked the top of the tall man’s head.

  “Yes,” he replied. “If I had my way.”

  “Comrade Buaphan has a problem with our drivers,” the director told Siri.

  Buaphan slapped his magazine shut.

  “Actually, Doctor, I don’t have a problem with the drivers,” he said. “I have a problem with inefficiency and waste. The three of us on the team are perfectly capable of driving the truck. Hiring a halfwit to take the wheel seems to me a perfect example of the departure from thrift that our Central Committee is so adamantly against.”

  “Comrade Buaphan is a little upset that the ministry insists there be a designated driver on the mission.” Kummai smiled at Siri. The doctor was starting to wonder which of these two was the director of the Census Department and how they’d ever be able to communicate without someone else in the room. The section chief showed a remarkable lack of respect for Kummai, and the old soldier seemed to be in awe of his subordinate.

  “I wouldn’t mind so much if he could drive,” Buaphan mumbled to himself.

  “Comrade Buaphan is a jack-of-all-trades, Doctor,” said the director. “He wants to drive and coordinate the project at the same – ”

  Kummai was interrupted by a crunch of gears outside the window. All three men looked out as a large green truck lurched into the yard and screeched to a halt. The driver was bald as a bubble and hunched over the wheel, almost clutching it to his chest. He took his foot off the clutch before taking it out of gear and the vehicle hopped half a metre forward and stalled.

&n
bsp; “See what I mean, Doctor?” said Buaphan. “He always does that. He thinks it’s how you’re supposed to stop a truck. He has no respect for his engine.”

  “Dr Siri,” said Kummai, “I’m sure you understand you can’t just throw somebody out of a job. The driver’s a political appointee just as I am. You could no sooner get rid of him than you could me.”

  Siri saw Buaphan look away with a ‘would that I could’ expression. He wondered what kind of appointee the bad-mannered section head might have been. He had the type of arrogance that the doctor had seen before in the children of influential men. Perhaps he was the relative of one of the rich business families bankrolling underground military projects. He certainly had breeding, albeit with an absence of manners. Was he one of the advantaged who could buy his way into a position of authority? And if so, why this job? What was there about regular trips into the countryside to appeal to a man like Buaphan?

  “Have you been involved in this project long, Comrade Buaphan?” he asked.

  “If I didn’t know better, Doctor, I’d say you’d left medicine and gone to work for the secret police,” answered the man. He stood and tossed his magazine onto the chair.

  “Buaphan has been with the project since the beginning,” said Kummai.

  The section head took a pile of documents and his briefcase from the desk and walked past the two men without saying another word. His footsteps creaked on the parquet floorboards.

  “Friendly chap,” Siri said.

  “He’s a bit brusque but he’s very good at his job,” said Kummai.

  “And you’ve worked with him for over a year?”

  “Almost two.”

  “I would have thumped him long ago.”

  Kummai’s laugh was genuine but his eyes seemed to agree. They watched through the open window as Buaphan climbed into the passenger seat beside the smiling driver. Deep Eyes and Broken Nose made themselves comfortable among the bags on the flatbed. They put on large straw hats and rolled down their sleeves. It would be a long journey for them.

  “Nice truck,” said Siri.

  “It’s sturdy enough,” Kummai told him. “It belonged to the Chinese military. We converted it.”