The Merry Misogynist

2

Despite the heat, Saturday lunch was alfresco on a log beside the languid Mekhong. Comrade Civilai had brought baguettes he'd baked himself. Since his retirement, Civilai had spent much of his free time in the kitchen. As an ex-politburo member he'd been allowed to keep his ranch-style home in the old American compound at kilometre 6 and the gas oven it contained. Civilai had taken to baking like a pig takes to slops. His expanding waist size was testament to his experimentation in the kitchen. Whereas the populace often arrived at an empty market of a morning, there was no shortage of ingredients available for the senior Party members. Even Civilai's large bald head seemed to be putting on weight. He was the first to admit that his baguettes were modest compared to those of old Auntie Lah behind the mosque but he was getting there, and Siri was his official taster.

"How is it?" Civilai asked, watching his best friend chew on the crusty shell.

"It tastes less like tree bark than usual," Siri admitted.

Siri had considered cancelling his luncheon date. That morning's autopsy still haunted him. His anger hadn't subsided but he'd long since learned to keep his feelings to himself unless sharing them would help with a case in some way. He could fool most people most of the time, but he knew bluffing astute Civilai would be another matter. And perhaps it would be useful to get his friend's thoughts on what had transpired in Vang Vieng the previous day.

"Come on, little brother," Civilai pleaded. "I've used her exact recipe. I bribed her with a half bottle of rum to get it."

"And it's a commendable effort. But you need more than a recipe. You need all those elements that can't be accounted for: the patina of the kiln, the sweat of the workers, the experience. A real baguette is a time capsule of every little stage that's gone into the making of it."

"So you don't like it?"

"I didn't say that. It's pleasant."

"You're a tough audience, Siri. I should know better than to ask on one of your bad days."

"What makes you think I'm having a bad day?"

"Your face is as long as that thing."

He raised his chin towards the Mekhong. The river was almost humble in March, like a large dirty puddle doing its best to fill its banks. Once again, the dry-season gardeners had planted their vegetables along its shores and marked off their allotments with string and slips of paper with their names or marks on them. That was the limit of the security system. They figured that if someone was so hungry they were forced to steal a head of lettuce, then they deserved to have it.

"Got anything to drink in that bag?" Siri asked.

"From your tone, I'm assuming you wouldn't settle for chrysanthemum juice?"

"Something with a bite."

Civilai fumbled deep in his old green kit bag and emerged with a flask. He unscrewed the cap, took a whiff, and handed it to Siri.

"It'll probably go down better if you don't ask me what it is," he said.

Siri took a swig and felt a handful of burning tacks embed themselves in his liver.

"Ouch! Holy Father of the Lord Buddha," he said.

"Potent, isn't it?"

"We used something like this to strip paint off tanks."

"Give it back then."

"Not on your life." Siri took another swig.

They sat for a while, willing the flies to leave them alone, admiring the industry of a river rat ferrying mushrooms to and from her hole.

"How's Dtui?" Civilai asked, allowing Siri his own sweet time to tell what was troubling him.

"A month short of giving birth to what looks like a small bulldozer," Siri said.

"And the marriage?"

"They seem content."

"I meant yours."

"Me?" At last a happy thought. "I'm a very lucky man, old brother. I'd forgotten what a pleasure it was to watch a woman breathe in her sleep…see her chest rise and fall."

"Steady, you'll be writing poetry next." Siri was silent. "You haven't?"

"Only a short one."

"You're like me, Siri. Can't get through life without a woman. Too bad you'll have to settle for just the one."

"One what?"

"Wife. Our friends up at the roundabout are introducing a law against polygamy. I know the average lowland Lao in his right mind can't handle more than one wife, so it would appear to be one more kick in the testicles for the hill tribes."

"How do you find out all these things?"

"They keep me in the loop. A driver comes by once a week with politburo news, a copy of Lao Huksat newsletter, and a calendar of meetings I don't bother to go to. Want to know the highlights of the week?"

"Go on, make me laugh."

"My favourite is the fact that they've decided all spirit houses have to be registered."

"By the occupants?"

Civilai laughed. "Oh, and there's a new ban on contraceptive devices, not that anyone could afford one anyway. It appears they're offering rice tax deductions to families with more than three children. Got to shore up the dwindling proletariat."

"They offering to feed them too?"

"Not as far as I know. Then there's the usual list of Western paranoia measures: a moratorium on blue jeans to go with the one on long hair. And they'll be sending inspectors around to coffee shops to make sure the lighting isn't too dim."

"So you can see the stains on the tablecloths?"

"Dim lighting apparently leads to lasciviousness and lewdness."

"Which in turn leads to pregnancy and a higher population. I wish they'd make their minds up."

"It would all be hilarious if it weren't true."

"How's our old friend collectivism?"

"It's all in the advanced planning stage."

"They're really going ahead with it? They're madder than I thought."

"Collectivism: the gathering of farmers who have nothing to meet once a week to distribute it."

"That just about sums it up. The communists in Russia introduced it to help the peasants rise up against the oppressive landlords. We haven't got any oppressive landlords."

"They'll probably hire one or two before they start the programme."

"I'm sure I'd be on their list."

"How so?"

"I'm about to go to jail for absentee landlordism and pimping. A fifty-centimetre-tall official from Housing came by this morning and told me I have to give up my house."

"And all the freaks it contains?"

"They think I don't live there."

"You don't."

"I know."

The two old men smiled and shared a banana.

"Hot, isn't it?" Civilai said at last.

"Bloody hot."

"This place seems to switch from the cool season to the bloody hot season without passing through a tepid or a lukewarm season on the way. You'd expect to find Crazy Rajid stark naked in the river on days like these."

"Hmm, now you mention it, I haven't seen him walking aimlessly around town for a while."

"Me neither."

"I hope he's all right." Siri's brow furrowed.

"I'm not sure how you'd go about checking up on an insane homeless Indian. He might have just curled up and died and nobody would be any the wiser."

"I think I'll ask around. But for a few wonky genes here, and an overdose of vodka there, it could be you or me walking endless circles around Nam Poo Fountain in our underwear."

"Speak for yourself. You know what Nietzsche says about madness?"

"No."

"Me neither."

Siri laughed. "Ah, Civilai, you're a waste of perfectly good skin and body parts."

He took another swig of the vindictive spirits. He detected a hint of turnip but he really didn't want to ask what it was made of. It hurt his insides and he decided it was exactly what he needed. He decided also that it was time to tell Civilai about his morning.

All Siri wanted to do after lunch was go home and sleep, but he'd arranged to meet Inspector Phosy at the morgue. Saturday was officially a half day; so when he returned, Dtui and Mr Geung had already left. He unlocked the door and went directly to the cutting room. He unfastened the freezer and pulled out the drawer. His beautiful Madonna was wrapped in a blue plastic sheet that he rolled down as far as her neck. He took a step back and looked at her pale mask of a face. She had been so lovely. What had led to this? Why could he not rub some consecrated sticks together and summon her spirit? Why was his supernatural power so ineffective when he could most make use of it? One or two answers from the beyond and he'd have the bastard who did this. He hated his own psychic impotence every bit as much as he hated the maniac who had erased this beauty's life and stolen her dignity.

"She must have been very pretty."

Siri hadn't heard Phosy arrive. The inspector — upright, middle-aged, and muscular — looked none the worse for his seven months of marriage to Nurse Dtui. He ate like a horse, but it melted off. He had raven black hair that Dtui assured everyone didn't come from a bottle, and a keen, curious face.

"Did Dtui tell you everything?" Siri asked, forgetting his greeting manners.

"Yes, she was home for lunch. She wanted me to tell you she was sorry for — "

"I understand. Do you have any idea who'll be handling this case? I want to be involved."

"You already are," Phosy told him. "It's me."

"I thought you only handled political issues these days."

"It was Comrade Surachai's idea. He's the committee member who rode in with her this morning. He knew about me from Kham, my old boss. Surachai has some clout with my chief. The folks up at Vang Vieng are frightened there might be a killer on the loose. So let's get to it."

Siri was delighted. He'd worked with Phosy on a number of cases; he thought they made a splendid team. Siri had been ramrodded into the coroner's job, but it did give him the opportunity to vent his detective proclivities. As a penniless young medical-school student in Paris he had been deprived of the type of raunchy entertainment other men his age sought. Instead, he'd found solace in the two old-franc cinema halls and in libraries where Maurice LeBlanc, Gaston Leroux, and Stanislas-Andre Steeman took him on noir journeys through the nettle-strewn undergrowth of the criminal world. His hero, Inspector Maigret, had convinced him that there could be no better career than that of solving crimes and putting blackguards behind bars.

There hadn't been much detecting to be done in the jungles of Vietnam and northern Laos in his army days; so his dream, like most of the dreams men harbour, had turned to snuff and been huffed away by history. Until now.

"Where do we start?" Phosy asked, a question every closet member of the surete de police yearns to hear. Although brilliant in his own way, Phosy never pretended to be anything he wasn't. He knew his limitations.

"You already have a picture of the girl?" Siri asked, although he knew Phosy's subordinate, Sergeant Sihot, had arrived that morning to meet the body and taken a Polaroid instant photograph. The camera was one of the police department's latest crime-fighting tools.

"Sihot went back with the cadre to Vang Vieng. He'll show the picture around and try to get an identification."

"Good." Siri nodded. "Then I suggest we look at the pestle."

Rinsed clean now and tagged, the object sat innocently on a shelf above the dissection table.

"It's not your common or garden variety," Phosy noticed, weighing the heavy, blunt tool in his hand. "Unusual size; somewhere between a cooking implement and a medicine crusher."

"Black stone. Looks expensive," Siri agreed.

"I'll have someone show it around, too, and see what we can come up with. Does the body tell us anything?"

Siri walked to the corpse and pulled back the plastic wrapping. He held up the callused fingers and indicated the sunburned ankles. He and Phosy ping-ponged ideas back and forth for almost an hour but still they were unable to come up with anything plausible. The state of the corpse left them both baffled.?

Dtui usually put her foot firmly down on any plans her husband might have to work on the weekend, but this case had become personal to her. She'd told him to do everything he could to avenge the girl's death. He would leave that afternoon for Vang Vieng to join Sergeant Sihot. Siri vowed to invest more thought into the condition of his Madonna while the policemen were away.

To the great displeasure of many, Madame Daeng's noodle shop was not open on Sunday. This was Siri's day off and she insisted on spending every one of its twenty-four hours with her husband. He had no objection whatsoever. They both loved to walk but Daeng's arthritis limited their treks. Invariably, they would head off on Siri's motorcycle to beauty spots that in another era would have been crowded with happy people. These days they often enjoyed their picnics alone.

But Siri had designated this Sunday a Vientiane day. The capital was somewhat ghostly when they set out at nine. Stores were shuttered, many for so long the locks had rusted to the hasps. Houses were in permanent disrepair. The dusts of March had settled on the city like a grey-brown layer of snow. Roads, even those with bitumen surfaces, looked like dirt tracks. There were no obvious colours anywhere, only shades. Even the gaudiest billboards had been reduced to a fuzzy pastel. The most common sounds they heard as they cruised the streets were the sweeping of front steps and the dry-clearing of throats.

Theirs was not an aimless tour of the city. Siri and Daeng passed all the spots at which Crazy Rajid had been a feature: the Nam Poo Fountain, the Black Stupa, the three old French villas on Samsenthai, and the bank of the river. As far as they knew, that was the young man's territory. Siri stopped at every open door he passed and chatted with neighbours. Yes, they knew Crazy Rajid, although not by name. Siri began to wonder whether he and Civilai might have christened the poor man themselves. Some had given the vagrant food; most had offered him water at one time or another. Some had tried to engage him in conversation, but it appeared that nobody other than Siri, Civilai, and Inspector Phosy had ever heard him speak, and even to them he had uttered only a word or two.

Everyone considered him a feature of their landscape and all agreed, "Now you come to mention it, I haven't seen him for a while." The last time anyone recalled a sighting had been the previous Thursday. That meant the local crazy man had been absent for ten days. Details were sketchy at best. Nobody makes a note of seeing a street person. But the account of one witness was accurate enough to give Siri cause for concern.

Ba See sold old stamps and coins from a tiny shopfront near the corner of Samsenthai Road and Pangkham. It was unlikely she made a living from it but she enjoyed sitting on her threadbare wicker armchair and watching the street.

"Every Friday," she said. "Regular as clockwork for the past two years he'd turn up at five thirty a.m. on the dot. Don't know how he managed it. Never saw him wear a watch, or much else for that matter. He'd go over to the first of them colonials across the street." She pointed to three ancient French buildings behind a low white wall. At one time they'd been white, but time and weather had turned them as ugly as a smoker's teeth.

"He'd go over and bang on the door," she continued. "No point in it at all. There are six families living in there, government workers from the provinces, and they've all got their own rooms. The front door's never locked. But he didn't ever go in. He just stood there knocking. People came down to see what he wanted but he never wanted anything. Only wanted to bang by the looks of it. Every damned week. Then, last Friday, he didn't show up. I was waiting for my regular five thirty bang but he didn't come. It surprised me. Even some of the women in the house came down and looked out the door like they were expecting him. Day before yesterday, he didn't come again. Must be something wrong."

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-polka-dot umbrella forming a dome in the centre 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 coloured 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 neighbours, 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 neighbours 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 towards 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 neighbours 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 neighbourhood. 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 programme 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 straight away.

"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 savoured 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 outdo the locals even though it wouldn't have been hard. He did just enough to fit in.

Children came and laughed and poked fun. Teenaged girls came by, pretending not to be interested in the game, secretly whispering together about his fine muscles and his interesting face. And Wei came. She came with a queer friend. Phan couldn't abide queers. What was she thinking? Didn't she have any pride? Perhaps she was just kind. He put it out of his mind, became wrapped up in the tournament: slapped backs, told jokes, lost when he had to, put on a show, and took off his shirt.

He wouldn't have been disappointed if he'd had to wait three or four days for the invitation. That was normal. He knew he had her. But at the headman's house that evening as he was showering off sweat and dust in the backyard, the old lady called to him, "Better put on your best shirt, young Comrade Phan. You've got a date for dinner tonight."

Wei's father wasn't a wealthy man, but he had buffalo and the knack of breeding them. It gave him a steady income and allowed him to keep his promise to his wife that their children would study up to the level of their abilities. This was a minority Tai Dum village, and opportunities were not readily available to hill dwellers. Wei had done well at the local primary school, and they'd sent her off to stay with an aunt in town to become a teacher. At the age of fifteen she'd received her pedagogical certificate from the provincial governor and come home to the two-room school she'd left three years earlier. Now, at seventeen, she had lived her little dream and was beginning to wonder whether she'd used up all her luck. Then he'd arrived.

She looked at him over the rim of her glass and wished to the gods that she could keep from blushing. The last thing she wanted him to think was that she was merely a girl.