Dr Siri Paiboun 06 (2009) - The Merry Misogynist

by Colin Cotterill

  Wei swept back her hair and looked up. Standing beside the quilt was an old man with green eyes and snowy white hair. He seemed drugged and woozy. She could hear his breaths like saw cuts on teak. In his right hand he held a fifty-centimetre monkey wrench, the largest you could find in a standard Lao toolbox.

  18

  THE BUDDHA AMUSEMENT PARK

  It was a rare treat. Mr Inthanet had somehow managed to convince his ex-fiancee, Miss Vong, that he didn’t actually have a wife in Luang Prabang. Or at least that he hadn’t seen her for so long that some sort of statute of limitations was now in place that technically made him single. The engagement was back on, and she’d given him permission to use the teacher training department truck that Sunday. It meant that everyone from Siri’s house at That Luang, plus one or two stragglers, could make the trip out to the Buddha Park. The fantasy park at Xiang Khuan had been built in 1958 by an eccentric mystic called Luang Pa Bunleua. It housed a collection of concrete interpretations of various scenes from the Ramayana and other mythical tales as well as Buddhist and Hindi deities.

  Luang Pa himself had been deported the previous year for antisocial behaviour, which many had taken to mean antisocialist behaviour. The Party was a little overwhelmed by a man so steeped in religious convictions that he would build a theme park to the gods. Luang Pa’s first task upon arriving in Thailand had been to build a brand-new Buddha Park in Nong Kai, even grander and weirder than its predecessor. Rather than bulldoze the Lao site, the government declared it a national park and hoped children would grow up believing the huge stone figures were Thai cartoon characters with no religious connections.

  It was a busy place on weekends. Goodness knows there was little enough entertainment in the country, and locals gravitated to the ex-deities as if the monuments had some drawing power of their own. There were a few army and government vehicles in the car park and some motorcycles, but most people found their way to the Buddha Park by public bus. The department of road transport had laid on extra buses on weekends to cater to the numbers.

  Even though there was a guard on duty specifically to discourage acts of obeisance, Mr Tickoo, Crazy Rajid’s father, had smuggled in a dozen jasmine leis and a whole box of incense to give thanks to the Lord Shiva for his son’s recovery. He had astounded Siri and Daeng earlier when they cornered him at his room above the Happy Dine. Given his knowledge of foreign languages and his obvious intelligence, Siri had decided the man could make better use of his talents. The Lao Huksat newsletter was expanding into English and they needed a writer and editor. Siri knew the publisher and had made a very good presentation on the Indian’s behalf. There was a small but livable wage and a free room behind the office. It meant Mr Tickoo could have money rather than curried potatoes in his bank account.

  “Oh, sir,” he had said, “you are far too kind. But, you see, I have promised to look after the owner of this restaurant. I made a vow to his father that I would not allow him to go bankrupt and destitute. I fear without me he would be on the streets. But I am deeply honoured by your offer.”

  Mr Tickoo laid a discreet prayer that down behind a bush at the Lord’s left hand and told the others to collect him on their way out.

  Mrs Fah’s children, Mee and Nounou, were running excited rings around the inside of a giant pumpkin. Dtui and Phosy walked with Malee from statue to statue, explaining who these giants actually were. It was an early step along the little girl’s path to becoming a doctor. Tong and Gongjai, the ladies of ill repute, were carrying a twin apiece, and everyone wondered how they’d cope with being separated from their surrogate babies. They had all the appearances of kidnappers about to make off with their button-nosed loot.

  Comrade Noo, the renegade Thai monk, had wanted very badly to join the house excursion. Siri had explained that it might be inadvisable for an incommunicado alien member of the Sangha to be seen strolling around Buddha’s own Disneyland in robes. Noo had obviously taken the teachings of Siri to heart because, as they were all loading into the truck, he’d appeared in white slacks, a bowling shirt, sunglasses, and a straw hat. He had entered the Buddha Park unnoticed, yet, despite his clever disguise, he still had the walk: head bowed, hands gently clasped, that left nobody in any doubt as to his calling.

  “You can take the man out of the saffron, but you can’t take the saffron out of the man,” Daeng said as they watched him wander around in the afternoon heat.

  There was one more unexpected participant in this Sunday jaunt. Comrade Civilai hadn’t come to see the nine drowning victims or the waving naked damsels or the five-headed serpent. Nor could he care less about the five-metre-high reclining Buddha. He’d been forced to attend because for four days he’d been hounding Siri for the facts leading up to the denouement of the strangler case. He had everything clear up until Siri’s sudden departure by motorcycle for the Thon River district. He knew that the killer had been cornered and somehow lost his life in a struggle. It was all the stuffing in between that he lacked and it was driving him insane. In the space of four months the old politburo member had been relegated from a man who was told everything to one who didn’t even know the name of his next-door neighbour. As his best friend, Siri was obliged to fill his dull life with adventure, and if Civilai had to endure a day at the Buddha Park to get it, so be it.

  After the picnic lunch, he cornered the doctor once more.

  “It doesn’t look like your little Hmong general’s going to put in an appearance,” he said.

  “She’ll come,” Siri told him with confidence. “I know her.”

  “Good, then while we’re waiting…”

  Siri smiled. He enjoyed the odd occasion when he could keep his older, non-related brother dangling.

  “I promised Madame Daeng I’d show her the…” Siri began.

  “She’s seen it already. Siri!”

  “Tsk, tsk. And you used to be such a calm elder statesman.”

  “I’ve been having testosterone injections. You’d better not mess with me, little brother.”

  “All right. You win.”

  Siri laughed again and led Civilai to a concrete bench overlooking the river. They were shaded by an old-fart bamboo, which seemed appropriate. Siri began by telling him of Phosy’s mission to Pakxan and everything leading up to their arrival at Phan’s base in Nahoi.

  “Which brings me to my contribution,” Siri said at last. “You wouldn’t like to go and get a soft drink or visit the bathroom at this juncture, would you?”

  “Just get on with it.”

  “Certainly. Here we go. Although I’d hit the road several hours after the census truck, I was on a thunderous machine and I had the spirit of Steve McQueen. You’ll recall we saw The Great Escape in that illegal back-room cinema in Da Nang? You’ll agree that was – ”

  “Can we dispense with the garnish and go straight to the meat?”

  “If you insist. I caught up with the truck just after we passed the Thon tributary turn-off but I decided I could afford to hang back. A truck isn’t a helicopter, and it’s limited to roads, and there weren’t that many to choose from in that part of the world. So I stayed a way back and kept out of sight. The first major intersection was at Natan. I assumed they’d report to the local cadre and drop off the census coordinators at their respective sites. Avoiding police checkpoints isn’t really that hard on a motorcycle. I didn’t want anyone reporting that there was an old codger asking questions so I steered clear of anyone who looked official.”

  “That wouldn’t be a bad philosophy for you to adopt in your day-to-day life,” Civilai suggested.

  “If you insist on interrupting, you won’t get the story.”

  Civilai afforded him a polite nop. “My humble apologies.”

  “I’d had a lot of time to think about things during the ride. Phan was my prime suspect, but one of the other collectors, young Nouphet, also fitted the bill in some respects. So I wanted to keep my options open. All I knew for certain was that the truck was involved. They’d
seen it in Vang Vieng and in the south. I believed if I could keep the truck in sight, or at least in earshot, I’d have a good chance of discovering who was using it for his nefarious deeds.

  “I learned from the locals that there was only one track leading to the first base at Ban Noo and there was nothing beyond it. When the truck came back down I was sitting by the road with a group of old fogies eating peanuts so I was fittingly camouflaged. Nobody in the truck noticed me. I could see they’d dropped off the first census collector. They dropped off the second, Nouphet, at base two: the next intersection at Ban Nahoi. That only left Buaphan and the driver on the journey to base three. I decided that was where I should be. Sound carries up there in the hills so when I saw the lamplight up ahead I got off and pushed the bike the last kilometre.”

  “I admire your stamina.”

  “It killed me. I hid the bike in the bushes at the top of the track. It was dark. I was covering it with branches so they wouldn’t know I was there and I managed to skewer my hand on a sharp sprig and bled like a spigot.”

  “But you didn’t cry out in pain, thus giving away your position?”

  “No. By now I was in my undercover mode. I swept around the outskirts of the village like a black moth on a dark night and located the hut of Buaphan. He was sitting out front, reading by the light of a hurricane lamp. There was something…how can I put it? Something serene about him. I talked to Daeng about it after the event and she’d come to the same conclusion in her own way. He didn’t match our mental picture of the perpetrator at all. The man we were looking for had to be charming. He had to win hearts. Neither of us could imagine Buaphan switching so drastically. He just didn’t like people. His Nirvana was to be alone. That was his motivation for working on the census project.

  “And it was while sitting watching Buaphan read that I heard the truck start up. I could see the headlights veer off down the track. I’d adopted a ‘keep the truck in sight’ policy but I wasn’t sure how I’d be able to follow it without the driver seeing my lights. I was tired and I knew by the time I’d uncovered the bike he’d be long gone. And I still had my mind set on the census collectors at that point. Nouphet had moved up to take the lead in my suspicions. I planned to go down the track the next day and see what he was up to.

  “But as I sat there and meditated, I started to think about the driver. He spent a lot of his time ferrying between the three bases. He was their only form of communication. Who could possibly know where he was at any given time? He could tell base two that he’d spent the night at base one and none of them would be any the wiser. He had plenty of opportunity to disappear. The only thing that made him an unlikely suspect was his looks.”

  “Plain – bald?”

  “It didn’t fit. Then I thought back to the reports. Nobody ever said the man was good-looking. They talked about his healthy hair and his interesting face and his bearing. You tend to use the term ‘interesting’ to describe someone who’s average-looking but oozing with sexual charisma. You, for instance – you’re quite ugly but women find you irresistible. They see beyond your bald head and your grasshopper features.”

  “I take your point.”

  “Our perpetrator had to be a clever actor. He was able to lie to his victims credibly. The driver had every reason to hate Buaphan but he also had the opportunity to study him. He could steal his identity: walk like him, talk like him, adopt his mannerisms. All he needed was hair. And, these days, with so much vanity in the world, a convincing wig isn’t that hard to find.”

  “And all this came to you as you sat in the bushes watching your original suspect fade from your reckoning?”

  “Yes, until I fell asleep. It had been a long day. Much as I love Madame Daeng, I sleep much better beside a shrub. Being surrounded by greenery takes me back to my years in the jungle. I slept like a sloth. It was the sound of the truck returning that woke me up.”

  Civilai sat entranced with his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists. “And what time was this?” he asked.

  “From the position of the sun I assumed it was around ten. I should wear a watch. The driver came up to talk to Buaphan in the hut. I took the opportunity to slide back down the butte and sneak a look at the truck. It was parked in the shade to one side of the clearing. But there were children down there playing around. I didn’t want them to see me, so I waited. On reflection I have to presume it was around this time that the driver killed Buaphan. Then he had to do away with the old census collector who had the misfortune to turn up asking for his fee. I knew nothing about it.

  “After about an hour the children were called to the house for lunch and I had my chance. I can’t say for sure what I was looking for in the truck. While I was scratching around in the cab the driver came down. I was sure he’d find me and I had no idea what I was going to tell him. But the banshees were on my side that day. He didn’t get in the front. He climbed up on the flatbed and unlocked the metal chest. I heard him rummaging around back there and then the sound of the lid closing. He jumped off the truck and headed back up to the butte. He’d left the chest unlocked. I went to have a look. And that’s when I knew I had the killer. There was a holdall in there. It contained some pretty fancy hors d’oeuvres in cans, and dry crackers and a bottle of champagne as well as two rolls of pink ribbon. It was incriminating in itself but there’s nothing illegal about drinking champagne. It wasn’t solid evidence that he’d killed anyone. What I should have done then was left on my bike and gone to contact Phosy. He could have arrested the driver and had witnesses identify him as the man they knew as Phan.”

  “But of course you didn’t?”

  “It was difficult, Civilai. If I’d left then I didn’t know how long it would take me to find Phosy. I had no idea that he was already in the district. I was afraid that if I went to the local police, they wouldn’t believe me. They certainly wouldn’t arrest a man on my say-so. And in the meantime, I was giving the driver free rein to run off and kill again. So I made my decision. There was a rubber groundsheet in the chest. I wrapped it around myself and waited. I’d left myself breathing room in the chest, just a wedge of daylight under the lid. Through the gap I could see him approach the truck. The driver had completed his transformation already. It was astounding. He was Buaphan, complete with hair and clothes and confidence. It was as if he’d taken over the other man’s skin.

  “To my horror, he climbed onto the bed of the truck, threw something into the chest on top of me, slammed the lid shut, and locked it. As you know, I’ve had more than my fair share of claustrophobic dices with death since I became coroner, but this was a nightmare. It was midday, and the temperature in there was in the mid thirties, so hot, I needed to do something fast. It was a solid, Chinese-built metal coffin riveted to the bed of the truck. I calmed myself, slowed my breathing, and recalled that there was a toolbox in the chest. I fumbled my way to it and found a hammer and a screwdriver. A metal drill bit would have been handy but fate wasn’t that kind.

  “The truck started and I used the cover of the noisy engine to hammer myself an airhole. But these Chinese, I tell you. Why use twenty-millimetre metal plate when you can use fifty? I pounded myself into a good old sweat making the tiniest of holes. I was still going at it when I passed out for the first time. And, Civilai, that pinprick of a hole saved my life. When I came round I had no idea where I was. The truck was stopped and it was quiet out. I was afraid someone might hear me but I needed more air. I used the sharp end of a file to gouge out a larger hole. After an hour I had it to the size of a nostril. I could see through it. It was dark out. We were parked beside a road in some sort of village. There was nobody in sight. All I could think about was Phan being with a new victim somewhere and me stuck in the chest.

  “I was deciding whether to yell for help and risk him catching me when I heard the music. It was a band of bamboo instruments and a small choir of drunk-sounding singers. The music was getting closer. I wrapped myself up in the groundsheet again in case anyone o
pened the chest. It wasn’t a logical response, but I was suffering from oxygen deficiency by then, so don’t expect common sense.”

  “I never do. You know? If only we had a campfire and a good bottle of whisky, this would be one of your most classic Siri tales of the improbable.”

  “We can still do that sometime. Trust me. This story will get better every time I tell it. Where was I?”

  “Wrapped in a groundsheet.”

  “Right. I have the groundsheet over my head, and I am blocked from the airhole, so I pass out for a second time. On this occasion I absolutely believe I’m a goner. As I’m fighting off the black moths, I try to summon my resident spirits: my mother, my dead dog, even the pregnant lady with worms, anybody to get me through it. But I was alone. When you need a good spirit there’s never one around. But next thing I know, the lid of the chest is open, and I can see actual stars. I can see Phan’s face looking down at me. I’m drowsy from the lack of air, and he’s a blur, but I’m sure he must be able to see me if I can see him. Yet he didn’t. It was dark in the chest and he was in a hurry. He reached beside me for something – the holdall, it must have been – yanked it out, and he was gone.

  “I was disoriented, nauseous. My breathing was awful, but the rush of night air cleared my head a little. Sounds and images were passing in and out of my consciousness: footsteps, the truck starting, driving through thick undergrowth, silence, a distant conversation. I tried to climb out of the chest, but I couldn’t summon the energy.”