The Merry Misogynist

by Colin Cotterill

  He was interrupted by a woman’s scream. It was the type of scream used in the mountains to alert rather than to alarm. They rushed out of the hut. The ailing sun had bled the sky crimson and in its glow they could see the jeep in the clearing and the man’s wife standing beside it. She was pointing to the top of the track where three undernourished children stood beside the road like marker stakes.

  “Who are they?” Phosy asked.

  “Our kids,” the man answered proudly. The children were jumping up and down and pointing and beckoning for the policemen to come down.

  “It looks like they’ve found something,” said Daeng.

  “And if it isn’t the body of the driver I’ll eat the truck, starting at the wheels,” Phosy told her.

  They walked down the hill and across the clearing. They arrived at the top of the road where the children stood. In front of them some of the thick wayside plants had been flattened, leaving a narrow cave of leaves.

  “Bom was taking a pee,” said the oldest boy. He was about ten. “She found it.”

  Bom was half his age. She waved at Daeng and smiled. Phosy decided that if she’d found a body she was being very relaxed about it. He pushed his way into the bushes before Madame Daeng could take the lead. Only four meters in, he found a mound of branches. He knelt and cleared them carefully. Daeng and the two officers had followed him in and were staring over his shoulders. Even before all the leaves had been removed it was evident what had been hidden there.

  Daeng put her hands to her mouth and gasped, “Oh shit. Oh shit.” She turned and pushed her way out of the vegetation past the young policemen.

  “Isn’t that the doctor’s Triumph?” said one of them.

  The bike lay on its side beneath the broken branches. Its left side mirror was smashed.

  “Yes, it is,” Phosy replied, running his finger over a dark stain on the saddle.

  “That’s not gasoline, is it, sir?”

  “No, boy. It’s blood.”

  The happy couple drove toward the honeymoon supper. It was ten p.m., and the interminable wedding ceremony was over. They’d made an awful to-do of it. They’d had the villagers march along the track to the school carrying Phan on one litter and the bride on the other. There was nothing traditional about it. It was some cockamamy idea of the headman. There were lanterns along the route and people singing and ramwong dancing. The school had been done up like the damned presidential palace. Phan could think of better ways for the idiots to waste the little money they had.

  Visions of the feast kept haunting him: farmers who had nothing else to look forward to fattening up their favorite pigs for strangers to eat, sacrificing their hens’ precious eggs. Out comes Mother’s best phasin wrapped in tissue paper. Father gets his hair washed in rice water and has a shave for the first time in his worthless life. Teenaged girls experiment with cheap Chinese makeup that turns them into whorish circus performers. Granny, bent double from a lifetime of bowing to the rice stalks, finds a few dance moves to entertain the crowd. And, oh yes, the booze. The deeper you ventured into the countryside, the more reliant the peasants were on rice whisky for a good time. Heaven forbid the thought they might just possibly be able to have fun without being paralyzed with alcohol. And they didn’t offer it, they forced it on you. God help the man with cirrhosis of the liver at a village wedding.

  He sighed at the thought of it all.

  Wei used her teacher’s voice to be heard above the growl of the engine.

  “What are you thinking about?” Wei asked.

  That damned stupid question again. Surely, if a person was thinking something, wasn’t it because he chose not to speak it? “Be patient,” Phan told himself. He turned to his bride with the same smile that had won her.

  “You,” he lied. “Imagining what it will be like when we’re together.”

  He reached for the gear knob to drop the old truck into second and, before he realized it, she had leaned forward and squeezed his hand. The fine hairs on his arm bristled and bile rose in his throat. He switched back to third gear, throwing off her hand as if by accident. There certainly wouldn’t be any of that. If there was contact it would be when he was good and ready. Nothing would happen until its allotted time.

  “Are you nervous?” he yelled to his bride: his possession in the passenger seat. She was only a shadow, but he could tell she was smiling.

  “Not really nervous,” she shouted. “More excited. If I hadn’t had so much to drink I’d be scared to death, I’m sure.”

  “Really!” he mumbled beneath the angry engine noise. “You don’t know yet just how scared you’ll be, my little darling.”

  His mind wandered again. The day hadn’t gone the way he’d planned it. He’d killed two men that afternoon. Killing was nothing new to him. It didn’t trouble his soul at all, didn’t make a dent on his conscience. But it had disoriented him. The sense of control, so important on his wedding days, had been sent into a spin. He’d lost his calm. They’d asked for it. There was no question about that, the imbecile especially. Phan had caught him tinkering with the engine, threatening to take parts out and clean them. He’d said the truck would have to stay at the camp overnight. This was Phan’s wedding night, for God’s sake. Weddings only came around two or three times a year. He wasn’t going to let the idiot spoil this day for him. It was easier to kill him than argue about it. He’d slit him with a bayonet. He’d had it coming for a long time. There would be no more discussions over who was in charge of the truck.

  But for some reason that didn’t make him feel any better and as if he wasn’t already disoriented enough, then came the old man: nosy little blighter. He wouldn’t shut up with his questions. He saw the blood on Phan’s hands so there’d been no choice but to slit him too. Being forced to gut two men on your wedding day had to be a bad omen. It was as if he could feel a warning drape itself across his shoulders. He’d dragged the second body over beside the first, blood and entrails everywhere. He wasn’t worried about being caught. They were in bandit territory. All Phan had to do was shrug,“I wasn’t there, Comrade. I just drove up to the base and there they were—dead.” They’d blame the Hmong. They blamed everything on the Hmong.

  He should have been able to get it out of his mind but he’d been irritable all evening. Not even the thought of defiling the woman he owned could settle his mind. He just wanted it over and done with. All through the ceremony he’d been unable to summon his charming self. He was curt and insulting. He’d looked at his wristwatch more times than he’d looked at his bride. If they’d been sober, the guests might have put his mood down to nerves. But nobody seemed to care and it no longer mattered. He had his prize.

  An hour on the road and they hadn’t passed another vehicle. They were only ten kilometers from the Ban Nahoi turnoff. The moon nudged its way between two large clouds. Soon the rains would come, and all these roads would be impassable, even with a four-wheel drive. He slowed as he approached a withered tree that stretched its desperate branches across the road like the spines of a windblown umbrella. This was his marker. He stopped in the middle of the road. When he turned off the engine the silence hit them like a sigh of relief. Apart from the clicks and hisses of the cooling motor the sounds of nature all around were as soothing as a swim in a warm water stream.

  “Why have we stopped?” Wei asked.

  “I have a surprise for you,” he said. “But I need to prepare everything. Promise me you’ll stay here in the truck till it’s ready?”

  She laughed. “Phan, you really are a special man.”

  It was as if he couldn’t pretend anymore. Urgency had taken him over.

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  He climbed from the cab and ran around to the flatbed. He used the metal stirrup as a step and clambered up. One feature of the old Jiefang army trucks was a fixed tool chest that could be locked. It was nestled up against the back of the cab and had the dimensions of a good-sized coffin. He took out
his padlock key, unfastened the lid, and retrieved his holdall. There were other tools of his trade in the chest but this was all he needed for now. He jumped off the truck, called, “Don’t go anywhere,” and vanished into the undergrowth beside the road.

  Wei sat enjoying the buzz of the whisky and the silence and the thrill of being a wife. She’d imagined all the wonders the position might bring into her life. She couldn’t believe her luck. This was no ordinary man and this was an extraordinary day. He hadn’t really been himself this evening but who could be themselves on such an occasion? Goodness knows she hadn’t behaved naturally since she’d first met him.

  Ten minutes later her husband was back, running around the front of the truck. He waved at her through the windshield and climbed into the driver’s seat. He seemed so happy.

  “I have to park off the road,” he said. “We don’t want to be disturbed.”

  She started to speak but her words were overwhelmed by the restarting of the engine. He didn’t put on the lights. He reversed across the road, bumped heavily into a bank of dirt behind them, then aimed at a small gap between an old dead tree and a younger version to its left. There hardly seemed enough room to get through. The side mirror grazed the dead trunk. Wei laughed. It was all part of her fairy-tale adventure. The truck forged through the thick undergrowth, leaves and twigs caressing the windows, branches twanging from the mirrors.

  A little way ahead, a pale aura of light beckoned them on. She leaned forward in her seat excitedly to get a better look. They arrived at a sandy clearing barely twice the length and breadth of the truck and he switched off the engine. At the center of the clear patch of ground was a beautifully embroidered double quilt. It was surrounded by a ring of flat temple candles. Their flames were untroubled by the breeze. At the head of the forest marriage bed was a tray with a bottle of champagne and real champagne glasses and small snacks on a plate. To one side, pink ribbons were tied around a tree trunk.

  Wei looked at it all with her mouth open. She had never seen or imagined anything so beautiful. It was a scene from a mythical tale that perhaps she might tell her students: of handsome princes and poor country maids. A lump formed in her throat and tears began to flow from her eyes.

  “You don’t like it?” he asked.

  She finally found words, “Oh, Phan, it’s … it’s so lovely.”

  The cheap makeup was smeared around her eyes. She leaned across to kiss him but he was too fast for her. He was out of the door and standing in front of the truck, signaling for her to get down. Her legs wobbled as she walked into the circle. Her posture was bad. He’d already started to notice her failings. He was anxious. He couldn’t rush this but he didn’t want it to take forever.

  “There’s a bucket over there with soapy water,” he said. “And a mirror.”

  “You want me to wash?” she asked.

  “Just your face for now. They make brides put on so much junk at their weddings. You’re beautiful. I want to see the girl behind the mask. Just take off the makeup.”

  She shrugged and giggled and knelt by the bucket.

  “Have you had champagne before?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He kicked off his shoes and sat cross-legged on the quilt. He started to peel off the foil from around the cork.

  “There’s a shop in Vientiane,” he said. It was as if he were just reading his lines but not investing any emotion into their delivery. “They have imported luxury items for foreign dignitaries. You can get a lot of exo—”

  His eyes had wandered to his bride. She had unbuttoned the top of her blouse and rolled down the collar so she could wash. Her long neck was exposed and, at last, the feeling came to him. It was like a powerful drug that coursed through his veins and made him feel twice the man he was.

  “Enough,” he said. “Come over here.” He fought to keep the anxiety out of his voice. She walked to the edge of the quilt and stepped out of her shoes. She reached for the silver belt that held up her phasin.

  “Should I … ?”

  “No,” he said. “I mean, not yet. We have all the time in the world and I want this to be special. Come and sit here.”

  He patted a spot beside him and quickly put the glasses there as a barrier. She knelt, then eased herself into a polite sitting position with her legs out to one side. He could see that her hands were shaking. It wasn’t a cold night. He knew she wanted him, like they all did. He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath to calm himself.

  “One, two …, “ he began in English.

  “Three,” she said, and the champagne cork exploded high into the starry sky. He heard it land somewhere at the rear of the truck. He was quick enough to have the sparkling wine in the first glass before it spilled.

  “You’ve done this before,” she said and reached for the glass.

  “No, wait,” he told her. He poured his own drink then put down the bottle before reaching for the small plate of hors d’oeuvres. “There are customs in Europe about how to do this. You’ll have to get used to all this when we move there. This is caviar—real Russian caviar. You have to …”

  “I’ve heard of it,” she said. “They say it’s very expensive. You really shouldn’t sp—”

  “All right, and one of the customs is that you listen to the customs. There’ll be time to talk later.” He smiled, embarrassed by his lack of control. “To drink champagne after taking a mouthful of caviar is an experience like no other. You’ll think you’re in heaven.

  But the rule is that you have to close your eyes when you eat it.”

  “So many rules. I’m surprised the Russians—”

  “Here,” he said, holding out a spoon piled high with small dark pearls of sturgeon roe. “Close your eyes and imagine we’re sitting on a balcony overlooking the Black Sea.”

  She giggled again. He wanted to slap her.

  “Go on. Close them.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “Now open your mouth but keep your eyes closed. You have to promise to keep them closed until it’s all melted in your mouth.”

  She opened her mouth. With his right hand he placed the spoon on her tongue and she closed her lips around it. Meanwhile, his left hand reached into his shirt pocket, took out a small envelope, and held it over her glass.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  He looked at her face. Her eyes were wide open. Rules! Rules had to be obeyed.

  “I told you to shut your eyes.” He was furious. He poured the powder into her glass and swirled it around. He was somehow able to hold his temper. “It’s another surprise,” he said. “A love potion.”

  Her laugh now was less spontaneous, more affected than before. She looked into his angry eyes.

  “Where’s yours?”

  “What?”

  “If it’s a love potion, shouldn’t we both—?”

  He grabbed the bottle and hurled it with all his might at the tree. It didn’t break, merely bounced back in their direction. The champagne spewed across the quilt. She squirmed backward.

  “Phan, what’s happened?”

  “Just drink the damned champagne, will you?”

  “No, you’re scaring me.”

  “For Christ’s sake! Why is this so difficult?”

  He was across the quilt and had his forearm around her neck before she could react. He held her as if she were a calf ready for branding. She tried to pull his arm away but he was fearfully strong. His grip was unbreakable. Still confounded by what was happening, she reached for his hair with her free hand. She tried to yank at it but to her astonishment it just came away from his scalp with a slight tearing sound. She looked up at him, at the candlelight playing off his bald head, at the look of rage in his eyes. She had no idea who this man was.

  She kicked and flailed her legs as he dragged her back across the quilt to where the champagne glasses still stood on the small tray. He took hold of her drink and squeezed her neck tightly. He held the glass in front of her mouth, waiting for her to
gasp for breath so he could hurl the liquid down her throat.

  “Drink it,” he snarled. He was crying with frustration. “You’ve spoiled it. There were rules and you broke them. You’ve ruined the whole thing.”

  Her fingernails clawed at his flesh but he seemed not to notice. She clamped her lips shut and he threw the champagne in her face. He kept hold of her glass and smashed it against his. It left him with a stem and a jagged point in his fist. He held his new weapon in front of her face and drew his arm back to get full force. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, waiting for the inevitable.

  There came an almighty crack. The grip around her neck loosened and her attacker slumped against her. She opened her eyes in time to see the glass drop to the quilt. Phan was still draped over her but without strength—without life. She fought his body off hers and fell back, panting, onto the quilt. Her shirt was ripped almost off. Her hair had broken free of its bun and hung across her face. Phan lay as if asleep on his side of the bed. His face on the pillow wore an angelic smile, but his hairless skull was cracked like an egg. A puddle of red yolk spread beneath him.

  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-centimeter monkey wrench, the largest you could find in a standard Lao toolbox.