The Merry Misogynist

by Colin Cotterill

  Siri and Daeng went to the old building and asked the few people who were home. They supported Ba See’s story. Nobody had any idea why he knocked on the door every week, and nobody had seen him for the last two Fridays. Siri leaned his head against Daeng’s shoulder blade. They were sitting on his bike. No greater love has any man than to let his wife have a turn at driving his beloved motorcycle.

  “So what do we do next?” Daeng asked.

  “If we had TV we could put an artist’s impression of him on the evening news.”

  “Failing that?”

  “Failing that I think we’ve come to the end of our leads for the day. Let’s mark it down as ongoing and move on to the next impossible situation.”

  “Your house?”

  “Are you up for it?”

  “If you are.”

  * * *

  They pulled up in front of Siri’s old bungalow and conducted a quick surveillance of the property. There were some six children frozen like statues in the front yard. Daeng turned to Siri, who could only shrug. On the roof was what looked like a handleless red-and-white-polkadot umbrella forming a dome in the center of the tiles. A makeshift clothesline had been strung up between a tree and a very ornate spirit house, one that hadn’t been there on Siri’s last visit. An assortment of brightly colored ladies’ undergarments hung from the rope like distress flags on a ship. Thai religious music filled the street in front of the house, and one of the front windows bore brown tape in the shape of a cross.

  “I don’t know,” Daeng said. “Fighting the French in the jungles is one thing …”

  “Be brave, ma Pasionaria. A warning, though: I may have to feign anger. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t burst out laughing.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Siri’s habit of collecting strays had begun when his original lodging was blown up and he was relocated to the suburbs. It hadn’t seemed logical for a single man to live alone in such a mansion. Several down-and-outs had passed through over the previous year. Some had stayed. On the current roster, as far as he knew, were: Mr. Inthanet, the puppet master from Luang Prabang; Mrs. Fah, whose husband had been haunted to death, and her two children, Mee and Nounou; the two hopefully inactive prostitutes, Tong and Gongjai; Comrade Noo, the renegade monk fleeing the Thai junta; and a blind Hmong beggar, Pao, and his granddaughter, Lia, who had been swept from the road in front of Daeng’s shop before the police could tidy them away. Then there were the baby twins, temporarily named Athit and Jun, awaiting collection, and that was a story in itself.

  Siri and Daeng walked toward the front door and paused to look at the frozen children.

  “I think they’re dead,” said Daeng.

  “Stuffed probably,” Siri added.

  “You could do anything to them and they wouldn’t feel it.”

  “You mean if I stick my finger up one of their nostrils … ?”

  Nounou, beneath the young lumyai tree, burst into laughter, and the others came to life giggling and pointing at their playmate.

  “You lost,” they shouted.

  “That’s not fair,” Nounou pouted. “Grandfather’s not in the game. He’s not allowed.”

  Siri laughed, put his hands together in a polite nop of apology, and escorted Daeng inside. The source of the music was a large cassette recorder in the front room. It was so loud the machine was dancing back and forth on the concrete floor. Siri bent down and turned it off. Halfway down the hall, the handle of the roof umbrella hung down from a hole in the ceiling with a bucket attached to it. Through the open bedroom door to their left, they saw Pao and his granddaughter lying on a mattress. The old man’s eyes stared wide at Siri even though the sound of snoring suggested he was in a deep sleep. Lia smiled and waved.

  It wasn’t until they hit the backyard that they found other signs of life. Comrade Noo was lying in Siri’s old hammock like a Roman emperor. Ten people, some of whom Siri recognized as neighbors, others as the official residents of the house, were seated cross-legged at his feet in some kind of trance. Siri had no qualms about disturbing them.

  “Tell me you aren’t conducting a Buddhist ceremony in the back garden of my house,” he barked.

  The acolytes came out of their reverie as one and greeted Siri with nops and “Good healths.” Comrade Noo lifted his head and smiled broadly at his benefactor.

  “It’s merely a meditation session,” said the Thai. “A cleansing. Some of the neighbors asked if they could join us. They miss their religion. I hope you don’t mind.”

  By 1978 the opium of the people had been powdered down to fine mist. Fewer than three thousand monks remained in the entire country, and they were growing their own alms and making a living teaching. An illegal Thai monk performing a service in the garden of a government worker might just be construed as treason. It would very likely warrant a prolonged stay for all of them in the reeducation camps in the north. Siri hadn’t arrived a moment too soon.

  “Mind?” he shouted. “Mind? I want everyone not registered in this house out of here this minute. And take your petrified children with you. Now!”

  This proclamation didn’t exactly lead to a frenzy. Given all they’d suffered in their lives, the Lao no longer panicked, nor did they move very fast. There was an orderly departure during which they exchanged friendly conversation, made obeisance to the monk, and strolled past Siri, who stood with his fists on his waist.

  “Hello, brother Siri,” said Inthanet. “We don’t get to see you nearly enough these days.

  “Is that so?” Siri replied. “Well, the way things are going, you’ll be able to come to visit me in prison for the next few years.”

  “Why?” asked Mrs. Fah with an expression of surprise on her face. “What have you done?”

  “It’s not what I’ve done,” he replied. “It’s you lot. This house is under surveillance, and you’ve broken every ordinance there is.”

  Inthanet smiled and came out with the inevitable, “Bo ben nyang! “

  If the founding fathers of the great European languages had been at all aware of the efficacy of the Lao expression bo ben nyang, they would certainly have invented their own versions of it. It magically expressed, That’s all right, it’s not important, I don’t care, you’re welcome, no problem, plus several more obscure nuances, but with a Lao slant that suggested there was no matter of such great importance in the world that one needed to get one’s knickers in a twist. The slender panic grass would continue to grow, and the orb of the sun would not cease its lethargic lob from horizon to horizon. It was a heal-all balm of a phrase, but there were times when it could be utterly infuriating.

  “That’s easy for you to say, old man,” said Siri through clenched teeth. “I don’t see your name on the lease. No,” he addressed everyone. “Changes have to be made here, starting today.”

  “Perhaps you’d like an orange cordial to help you cool down, uncle,” said lady of the night Gongjai.

  “I don’t want to be cool,” Siri replied. “I want my head as hot as I can make it so you understand I’m not just speaking for my own benefit.”

  “So you don’t want a drink?” Gongjai tried again.

  “I didn’t say that. I just don’t want you thinking it’s going to make me any calmer.”

  “Right, I’ll go and mix it.” She smiled. “And you, Madame Daeng?”

  “Please.”

  “Or you could have some rice whisky,” said Inthanet. “It’s not yet cooled off from the still but it—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re brewing your own hooch here too,” Siri interrupted.

  Inthanet laughed. “Of course not, brother. Old Khout from the ice works brings it in payment for teacher Noo’s serm … for his meditation services.”

  The monk lifted his eyes toward heaven and smiled, showing his few remaining betel-ravaged teeth.

  Once everyone except Comrade Noo had a drink in front of them, Siri, seated beside his wife on his old wooden cot, called the house meeting to order.


  “Right,” he began. “Madame Daeng will be taking the minutes and will post them on the bathroom door when we’re finished.”

  Daeng held up her pen to show them it wasn’t an idle threat.

  “Rule one,” Siri continued, “no vulgar underwear visible at the front of the house.”

  Gongjai and Tong were about to protest, not at the rule, but at the description of their underwear. Their aunt settled them down and reminded them whose house they were staying in.

  “Rule two, down comes the spirit house.” There was a momentary mumble from Inthanet. “I have it on good authority that officials will soon be going from building to building registering spirit houses and we don’t want any more government people nosing around here than we already have. If there are resident spirits, apologize to them, and move it round the back where no one can see it.

  “Rule three, no more religious services in, behind, or in the close vicinity of this house.”

  “I was merely—” Comrade Noo began.

  “You’re hiding out, you damned fool,” Siri interrupted. The girls looked shocked. “You aren’t even supposed to be in the country. Even our own monks don’t feel safe performing services. I didn’t invite you to stay here so you could turn the place into the great Vientiane alternative temple. From today, you’re an inactive monk. You want to preach, you go back to Thailand.”

  “But—”

  “There’s no but. You quit or you’re out. Rule four, where are the twins?”

  “In the refrigerator,” Inthanet said calmly.

  “What?” Siri felt Daeng stiffen beside him.

  “It’s an old one I found at the dump.” The puppet man put them at ease.

  Mrs. Fah added, “We laid it on its side and converted it into a double crib. Very comfortable.”

  “They’re asleep,” said Tong.

  “Good, right.” Siri nodded to Daeng. “In that case, I need one of you to volunteer to register them at Births, Deaths, and Marriages as your own. We can’t have unregistered children here. It would be on a temporary basis, until they’re collected by their real relatives. I’d ask Madame Daeng here to do it but I think that might stretch credibility.”

  “We can do it,” said Gongjai, “me and Tong. We’ve been taking care of them since they got here.”

  Madame Daeng spoke up. “I don’t know, girls. There’ll be some ugly questions about who the fathers are.”

  Tong laughed. “Auntie, don’t you think we’ve heard all the ugly questions there are? They drained what little dignity we had left a long time ago. One more day of insults isn’t going to leave any more bruises.”

  “If you’re sure?” Daeng said. They nodded. “Thank you.”

  Siri wasn’t cut out to be a landlord. He’d started sweating long before the sun edged over the roof. It was getting hot out in the yard, but he didn’t want to interrupt himself by taking a recess. Mrs. Fah brought a small fan out onto the veranda at the end of a long extension cord and set it on swing. It didn’t make any difference at all to the temperature.

  “Finally,” Siri said, “rule five, Inthanet?”

  “Yes, mon general?”

  “Should I assume the front window is your doing?”

  “Yes, Comrade,” he smiled. “Indirectly.”

  “And should I gather that it’s a result of a brick flying over the next-door fence?”

  “A 1972 Asian Games commemorative mug,” he corrected.

  “That’s rather dangerous, don’t you think?”

  “She did wait till the children were out of the house.”

  “That’s a small mercy. But, my friend, it really is time for this feud to cease. There was a period when you and Miss Vong were very fond of each other. Talk of marriage, I seem to recall. We can’t have any of the neighbors out for revenge. Do you know what I mean? I want you to apologize to her.”

  “For what?” Inthanet asked indignantly. “Being married to someone else?”

  “For not telling her you were before you started to woo her.”

  “It slipped my mind.”

  “The fact that you have four children and nine grandchildren slipped your mind?”

  “No, just the married part. My wife left me a long time ago. Long before the kids were out of the house. I’d erased her from my mind.”

  “Right, then that’s the angle we’ll go with—amnesia. It isn’t going to be easy, I grant you, but I want peace in this neighborhood. Got it?”

  Inthanet nodded.

  “Good, then I think that’s it.”

  “The umbrella,” Daeng reminded him.

  “Oh, yes. Perhaps someone can tell me why there’s an umbrella poking through the roof.”

  Lia, the blind Hmong’s granddaughter, sheepishly put up her hand.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, love?”

  “I’m do it. I’m make hole in roof.”

  “Why?”

  “Grandfather tell it danger make fire in house if no hole in roof to make smoke go away. I use broomstick. Stand on chair.”

  “Well, you’re a very strong girl,” Siri said. “That was a very tough roof.”

  “Take one hour.”

  “But does your grandfather realize he shouldn’t light fires in the house?”

  “Hmong house have hole in roof.”

  “I know. But this house has a gas range and an open window. Can you explain that to him?”

  “I tell.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I put the umbrella up there in case the rains come early this year,” Inthanet explained. “Used the bucket to stop it blowing away.”

  “Right.” Siri understood. “But if I bring some new tiles, do you think you could get up there and fix the hole?”

  “No problem.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Bo ben nyang!” said the old puppet master.

  With a group sigh of relief, the meeting ended; it seemed to Siri that all the issues had been resolved quite amicably. The women had retired to the kitchen, where smoke from the range escaped through an open window. The smell of cooking filled the house. Siri and Inthanet were seated on the front porch, working on a second bottle of rice whisky. Crazy Rajid was still on Siri’s mind but, like him and Daeng, all the people at the house were immigrants from the provinces. The only Vientiane resident was Miss Vong next door and she was off on a one-week training program in the north. Then something occurred to him. He called Lia over.

  “I sorry, sir,” she said.

  “It’s OK, love. It’s not about the roof.” He took her hand and smiled. “When you and your grandfather were begging around the city, do you remember seeing a half-naked man?”

  “India man,” she said straightaway.

  “Yes, that’s it. His name’s Rajid, or maybe it isn’t. He’s a little bit …” He circled a finger around the side of his head.

  “I know he.”

  “Good, well, he’s missing. We can’t find him. Nobody’s seen him for ten days.”

  “I hope he no sick.”

  “So do I, Lia. Do you know about any places he might like to go to hide? Have you seen him anywhere apart from downtown?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s OK. We’ll keep looking.”

  “Maybe he father know.”

  “You mean, your father?”

  “No, sir. He father. India father.”

  “Rajid has a father? How could you possibly know that?”

  “One day he take us go eat. Meet father.”

  “Where?”

  “India restaurant near market. He father cooking. Big fat man.”

  The dinner was simple but Phan had learned to stomach the inadequate swill they served out here in the boondocks. He inquired about the recipe and charmed the girl’s mother by going so far as to write it down in his notebook to give to friends in Vientiane. He told her his hobby was collecting authentic ethnic recipes, and hers was one of the best. He was a consummate and convincing flatterer. He sa
vored the bitter stench as if it were nectar from the gods and let his eyes wander only briefly to the still-blushing face of Wei.

  Not bad this—only his second day and he was already in the circle: cross-legged on the bamboo matting, telling funny stories to the younger ones, sharing mechanical insights with the older brother. Not over the top. Modest. Not the entertainer who causes people to doubt his sincerity but the quiet, almost shy man who only speaks when spoken to. Perhaps he asks a question about the area: the wildlife, the irrigation system. The perfect guest.

  Wei sat on the far side of the circle ignored by this interesting stranger all but for his eyes. Yet she knew, as they all did, that she was the reason for his being there.

  On Saturday night he had presented his credentials to the headman and, according to protocol, dined with the old man and his wife. He might have mentioned the young teacher he’d seen at the pond, might have blushed a little, but he hadn’t pursued the matter. Once mentioned, the subject was dropped. Of course the old wife had asked him about his marital status.

  “I haven’t found the right woman,” he’d told her. (Another blush.) He mentioned that he had only just arrived at the financial plateau upon which one could build a family life. (One more blush.) “I’m looking for a smart girl who loves children.”

  He’d noticed the old couple exchange glances at that point and knew the trap was set.

  On Sunday morning he’d cleaned his truck and spent the next seven hours or so in the space beneath the headman’s hut beside the loom. He had his back to the street and was writing at a makeshift table, poring over sheets of very complicated-looking documents. Serious. Dedicated. It was hot so he wore only shorts and an undershirt that showed his well-defined shoulders. Every footstep overhead on the old bamboo sent down a shower of dust but he ignored the inconvenience. They brought him water and lunch and he ate while working. He could tell that people were passing on the street, talking about him, stopping to admire his dedication. Nothing could disturb him until, at three o’clock, he was done. He leaned back on his stool and stretched.

  He put on a pair of sand shoes and walked through the village in search of the inevitable game of takraw. After asking directions, he found it behind the school—teenagers and married men in a knockout competition, standard rules. A three-man team owned the court until it was beaten. He didn’t push himself on to a team, just sat and admired the skills of the players and chatted. When he was given his chance to play he didn’t out do the locals even though it wouldn’t have been hard. He did just enough to fit in.