The Merry Misogynist

by Colin Cotterill

  Siri and Daeng had strolled through reception arm in arm as if they owned the place. They dismissed the night clerk with a “Don’t even think about asking us a question” look and ambled toward the door that gave access to the grounds. To any observer they were merely guests who intended to take a short promenade before retiring to their suite. Once they were outside they were alone. Squashed up against one wall there were four cages that had housed a variety of wild inmates in their time. Currently they served as an aviary. There was a crane in one, a dowdy hornbill in the next, a couple of dubious characters that looked like chickens in heavy makeup in the third, and a male peacock with barely enough space to spread his impressive tail in the last.

  “Where was the bear?” Daeng asked.

  “That one.”

  Siri pointed to the sad hornbill.

  “She looks depressed,” Daeng decided. “Why can’t they let her just wander around the grounds?”

  “That’s the problem with birds. They have this nasty habit of flying.”

  “She’s lovely. I doubt there are many of these left in the wild.”

  “It’s her own fault. Look at all that meat. She’d make three square meals. She’s in the cage for her own protection.”

  Siri had spent much of his life in the jungle and had eaten every endangered species there was. In those days a man didn’t give a hoot about the survival of an avian family lineage. It was them or us. If a hornbill with a machete had run across Siri in the bush and hacked him to death, he would have succumbed in good grace: a victim of the survival of the fittest rule. He believed that if God made you colorful, overweight, and delicious and didn’t give you any survival skills, you deserved to get eaten.

  Daeng obviously didn’t see it that way. Siri knew straightaway what his unblushing bride had in mind. There were large padlocks on the cages, but he knew his lady had ways and means.

  “Can we solve the last riddle before you liberate her?” he pleaded.

  “What does he say about the sun?”

  “The all-night sun.”

  They looked up simultaneously at the single electric bulb that dangled in front of the cages. There were other bulbs that hung here and there from the same untidy cable. One hung by the pool, another by the garbage bins. The extension to the cages was nailed to a tree.

  “Our night sun’s up that tree, Siri.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Well, you surely don’t expect me to climb up there in my condition?”

  Siri had climbed enough trees in his life, but none since he had turned seventy. He held up his fist.

  “Surely not,” said Daeng, but she knew this was the only solution. She raised her own fist to the same height as his and stared into his eyes. Their version of rock-paper-scissors was elephant—fist, mouse—palm, and ant—little finger. The elephant crushed the mouse, the mouse squashed the ant, and the ant crawled up the elephant’s trunk and paralyzed his brain.

  They shook their fists twice and disclosed their opening gambits for the first round: Siri-elephant, Daeng-mouse. The second shake was Daeng-ant, Siri-elephant. All even. Everything came down to the last shake. They glared into one another’s eyes and let loose their final creatures.

  Siri-mouse … Daeng-ant.

  “Shit,” said Daeng.

  Luckily she was wearing fisherman’s trousers and not a skirt. There was no need to disrobe. She walked once around the tree and homed in on her branch of choice. Faster than Siri’s eye could follow she was up on the first hub and above the dangling bulb.

  “You’re only part human,” he called up to her.

  She edged along the branch. “I don’t see anything that looks like a note,” she said. “We might have outsmarted ourselves again.”

  “Can you get closer to the bulb? They’d have to replace them regularly so take a look at the socket.”

  Daeng hung like a sloth. She reached down and, sure enough, wrapped around the socket and held in place with a rubber band was a slip of paper: the last clue. A map.

  “Are we or are we not a team?” she asked.

  It wasn’t easy to disagree with a sixty-six-year-old lady hanging upside down from a tree.

  “We are indeed,” he said.

  An Invisible Rice Farmer

  Phan had the letter written already. His handwriting was impeccable: not one questionable vowel or missing tone marker. The paper was headed Department of Water Management, and the contact details had a false telephone number and post office box number. All he needed to add was the date and the name of the recipient.

  Dearest—How did she spell her name? Oh, yes—Wei,

  I am back in Vientiane, although my heart is still in your village with you and all the wonderful people I met on my trip. I cannot concentrate on my work because you are in my mind all the time.

  My life has suddenly changed because of you.

  I received wonderful news today. I have to return to your area on—he checked the schedule

  on the wall—March 26 to do a follow-up to my project there. I will only be there for a day or two.

  When I heard this news I felt so happy because it means I can see you again. I have been afraid we wouldn’t get together for three or four months.

  Sadly, this will be my last trip of the year. It pains me that our marriage will be such a long way off. That is why I want to make this presumptuous suggestion. The thought of being apart from you for so long makes me feel ill; so, if you are will ing, I have a solution. My darling, what if we were to marry during this coming visit? I know it’s short notice, and you might have trouble mak ing arrangements, but I would be so happy if you could return to Vientiane with me as my wife. I have a nice home here, and I believe we would have a chance to go to Eastern Europe soon for my work. I would be so honored if you could be there at my side.

  I would understand completely if this is not convenient for you, but I hope with all my heart that you agree. I apologize if this letter is too for mal and not chatty. I have never had the oppor tunity to write a letter of love before, so I’m not certain how to go about it.

  I miss you so much that my eyes are wet with tears as I write this. I pray that you are thinking of me and that we can be together soon and forever.

  With all my heart,

  Phan

  He shook his head and let out a little puff of air. He wrote the name of

  his betrothed and her address on the envelope and ran the gummed

  edge across the damp sponge that sat permanently on the desk before

  sealing it. There was a long-distance bus scheduled to leave the next

  morning for Natan. He’d give the driver a few kip to drop it off on

  his way through her so-called town. He had to play the game carefully. There were so many things that could go wrong. The last one—the ridiculous white girl with her imperfect hands and ugly feet—white cotton socks on the wedding night. He put that down as a fault in his vetting process. But she was beautiful, there was no question about that at all. Every man in the district wanted her. And who won her? Phan, the man.

  That’s why he was so proud of his kills. Five already in a little over two years, and that wasn’t including the whore. He never included the whore. She was ancient history. This was his new life with its new meaning. Five was a good catch. And this Wei, she didn’t have the looks of the last girl but she had bearing and education. Those two attributes didn’t exactly add up to class but she was a step up. He was honing his skills, attracting a better-quality victim. Naïveté in the inferior female gender knew no barriers. They were all pretty damned gullible.

  Between Madame Daeng’s hours at the shop and Dr. Siri’s commitments at the morgue, there were only a few times when the couple could get together for adventures. These amounted to before six in the morning, when Daeng started to get her noodle broth brewing; after 8 p.m., when the evening rush subsided; or Sundays. As they hadn’t returned from the Lan Xang Hotel until after eleven the previous night, not ev
en the excitement of having a hand-drawn map was enough to deprive them of a few hours of sleep. They’d opted to leave their search for Crazy Rajid’s palace until the following night. Siri’s morning was occupied with sweeping imaginary worms off his desk and forming a philosophy of life in time for his death, and with having the strangled lady investigation dropped squarely on his lap.

  When two clearly drunk but ominously heavy men wandered into the morgue at nine, yelling and screaming with the scent of stale rice liquor on their breath, Siri was inclined to send them packing.

  “This is a hospital,” he said. “At least have the decency to sober up before you come staggering around here.”

  He didn’t have anything against drunks per se—goodness knows he’d been one often enough—but there was a time and a place. Nine in the morning in a morgue was neither.

  “You a doctor?” asked the less sotted of the two. “We’re looking for a doctor.”

  “I’m a coroner,” Siri told him. “Come back when you’re dead.”

  “What’s his name?” one man asked his colleague.

  “Who?”

  “The doctor they told us. Come and see Dr—shit, what was his name?”

  By now, Geung and Dtui were at the office door squaring up to the intruders, ready to throw them out.

  “Dr. Sorry,” slurred the other drunk.

  “Siri,” said the first, “Siri Pai … something.”

  “I think you two should go away and come back when you regain possession of your minds,” Siri told them. He stepped over a sleeping dog that nobody else saw and came around to their side of the desk.

  “But the police sent us,” said the first man.

  “They sent you here? Why?”

  “We was looking for the inspector.”

  He held out a slip of paper with Phosy’s name and number written on it but dropped it and watched it float under the desk. His colleague fell to his knees to give chase.

  “Don’t bother,” Siri said. “I saw it.” But the second man was already on the trail of the elusive slip of paper. He tried to rise when he heard Siri’s voice but, forgetting he was under a desk, banged his head on its underside and crashed back to the floor. This caused both men to laugh hysterically.

  “Dtui, get my gun,” said Siri. Siri didn’t have a gun but Dtui ran off to get it anyway.

  “No,” shouted the first drunk. He threw his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot. The cop said if I could remember who told me about the invibisible rice worker he’d give me a half … I mean a full bottle of Thai rum.”

  It suddenly dawned on Siri what this was all about.

  “I take it you mean ‘invisible’?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “The woman who works the fields covered from head to foot?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Who told you?”

  “He did.”

  He pointed to the legs of the second drunk, who had apparently passed out under the table.

  “Mr. Geung, could you please extract this gentleman from under my desk?”

  Geung was stronger than he looked and had the large man out and in a sitting position in a matter of seconds.

  “Thank you,” said Siri. He leaned over the groggy driver and glared at him. “Hey, you!”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You saw the woman?”

  “I did?”

  “The one they convinced you was invisible.”

  The man’s eyes stared ahead as if recalling a nightmare. “Oh, she was. She was.”

  “Where was she?”

  “Just a shape … nothing … inside the …”

  “Where—was—she?

  “In the field.”

  “All right. My fault. Bad question. Where was the field?”

  “Where?”

  “The district.”

  “Ban Xon.”

  Ban Xon was only seventy kilometers from Vientiane and most of the road there was straight. Siri would have preferred to travel with somebody else, if possible in a car or truck. Civilai had a car, but he drove so slowly the twins would be reaching puberty by the time they got back. Neighbour, Miss Vong, had a truck, but she still wasn’t speaking to Mr. Inthanet so there was no hope of getting help there. Judge Haeng could probably sign him out a Justice Ministry car, but Siri would sooner slide naked down a splintery plank than beg the boy for anything else.

  So Siri was on his Triumph, the hot air blow-drying the features off his face. Dtui had wanted to ride pillion, but there was too much of her now, and Siri feared the potholes and bumps might prematurely bring on labor. So he was alone: Easy Rider. He and Civilai had watched the film in Hanoi, dubbed in French. Siri wanted to look up and smile at the sky like Peter Fonda, but he knew he’d be on his back counting stars if he didn’t study the road all the way. Motorcyclists in Laos didn’t get to appreciate a lot of scenery. He didn’t take any stretches fast enough to feel his hair flapping against the side of his head but he was able to smell the scent of the share-a-fistful blossoms that edged the highway. At that speed there wasn’t a worm on earth that could keep up with him. For a man standing at the exit of existence, it was exactly what he needed.

  He arrived in Ban Xon midafternoon looking like he’d been dipped in powdered cinnamon. He removed his goggles and stared at himself in the mirror. He was a perfect photographic negative of the Lone Ranger. He needed a wash very badly. He went into the nearest coffee stall, ordered water and coffee, and selected a packet of Vietnamese munchies that hung from a string at the front of the shop. He dusted himself down and washed from the communal clay water pot. When he was presentable he sat down to drink his coffee. Inevitably, it tasted of road dust.

  The shop owner was a heavily built and—after a little coaxing—jolly woman in her fifties. She was the same well built, jolly woman who ran the coffee shops and noodle stalls the length and breadth of the country. He’d seen her everywhere: the same smile, hair in an untidy bun, the same bawdy humor. The same washed-out pastel blouse and threadbare purple phasin.

  Siri was the only customer and the woman must have been starved for company because she sat with him as soon as she’d served the glass of coffee. Once all the preliminaries—work, traveling from, age (you look much younger), marital status, children, etc.—were out of the way, she got around to “What brings you to Ban Xon?”

  “I’m here to see the invisible woman,” he said and smiled.

  “You know, Granddad?” She leaned on the table and it creaked. “It beats me how that silly rumour got so much mileage. I have people stop here all the time asking if it’s true.”

  “And it’s not?”

  “You’re a doctor, Granddad. How likely is it?”

  “I see things all the time I can’t explain.”

  “Well this is just … just silly. There was a perfectly good reason why the girl was wrapped up like that.”

  Siri’s heart did a little dance. “So there was a girl?”

  “Oh, yes. And you could see her. Very pretty. She came to dances and village events. All after dark, of course.”

  “Why, of course?”

  “She had a condition. Some medical thing to do with the sun. Everyone knew about it. People round here like to tease strangers who pass through. I suppose that’s how the invisible woman story started.”

  “Why do you talk about her in past tense?”

  “Oh, she’s gone, Granddad. Stroke of luck, if you ask me. Married a very eligible young man and left.”

  “When was this?”

  “Over a week ago now. I was at the wedding party. It was a good do.”

  “So you saw the groom?”

  “Interesting-looking chap. Nice personality. Very happy man, I’d say. I wouldn’t have minded a fling with him myself. He’s something important with the roads department if I remember rightly.”

  The rice farm was four kilometers out of town along a dirt track that was all deep ruts. By the time he reached his destination, Siri had atta
ined the dexterity of a gramophone needle. It didn’t take a great detective to see how poor the family was. The house was loosely woven elephant-grass panels on a bamboo-and-wood frame. The roof was thatched. There was a bamboo conduit that snaked down from the hills, bringing water from a spring to a large oil drum. Three chickens scratched around in the dirt, and an anorexic dog, one that Siri didn’t recognize, slept under a bush of thistles. Siri called out. There was nobody home.

  In March there was no water in the paddies; so the farmer’s work was to repair damaged levees and clear land for new fields. Siri passed the little altar that held offerings to the spirits of the land. With the kind cooperation of Lady Kosob, the rice goddess, there would be early rains, and they would not fall in torrents that destroyed the earth embankments that separated the rice troughs. It was clear the offerings had been too paltry to raise this family from poverty. There were only two small paddies attached to the farm but they appeared to be deserted. After a long, circuitous walk, Siri finally found a sunburned man and two teenaged boys sheltering in a flimsy grass-roofed lean-to. There wasn’t an ounce of fat between the three of them. The youths seemed drugged with ennui.

  “Good health,” Siri said with a big smile on his face. They returned his greeting, apparently unfazed to find a stranger in their midst. “I’m looking for Comrades Boonhee and Mongaew.”

  “Well you’ve found Boonhee,” said the man, returning Siri’s smile. “What can I do for you, brother?”

  Siri sat beneath a short chicken-guts tree and fanned himself with the manila envelope he carried.

  “I’m too old for this,” he said. “All this traveling will have me in my grave.”

  “Long time before that happens I’d bet,” said Boonhee. He brought over a plastic ice bucket with a screw top. Inside was a small tin cup floating in water. Siri forwent his aversion to unidentified liquids and helped himself to a cupful. The water was hot but deliciously sweet, probably due to a high concentration of streptococcus.

  “I’m Siri Paiboun from Mahosot Hospital in Vientiane,” he said.