The Merry Misogynist

6

It had been four days since Phan had begun courting Wei, the schoolteacher. Everything had gone very smoothly. He and her brother were best friends, her parents called him 'son', and Granny would have had him in her attic bunk in the blink of an eye. Wei wasn't as eager as some. She had to save face at the school, he imagined. But she was certainly in love with him. He hadn't exactly asked her to marry him, not in so many words. But there was an unspoken inevitability. It was his last night in the village. His work in the region was done for this trip. He'd weaved his magic so deftly he imagined more than a few villagers would shed tears to see him go.

There were only two more steps: tonight's tearful goodbye and one, perhaps two, love letters. That should do it. But first there had to be the question. It was a final test. If she got the answer wrong she couldn't have him, not ever. It would mean the end of all this hokum. Ironically, the wrong answer might actually save her worthless life. By now he'd developed an instinct about it but he needed to hear it from the girl's mouth and read the truth in her eyes.

He was sitting by the same urine-coloured pond, ignoring the mosquitoes that sucked at his blood. The sun had set, and he was weaving a grass goldfish by the light of a small kerosene lamp. He heard the crunch of two sets of footsteps on the gravel. It was a very good sign. She wasn't alone.

She saw him there in the warm orange glow of the lamp and felt Nook squeeze her hand. It was a scene from the Ramayana she'd seen in an illustration. Rama, with his princely aura, sitting by the lake of Manas. She'd found no fault in him, not one in four days. He was a sincere, hardworking government cadre, warm and funny and strong, and…not handsome exactly; but noble looking. A face that would age well. She'd become somebody different since he'd arrived: somebody better. Her village and her life were so much more important when she saw them through his eyes. And she…? She had become…no, that was it. She had become.

He watched her say goodbye to her queer friend and walk towards him. But the queer didn't turn around and go back. He was her chaperone. Excellent that she had one but why choose that aberration? Why would a man, born with all the right attributes, aspire to be female? It was sickening. Phan felt the nausea rise in his throat. But he had to ignore it. He had to ignore the freak and concentrate on the task at hand.

He rose when she approached and gestured toward a large rock. He'd placed his folded windbreaker on top of it for her comfort.

"Hello, Phan." She looked at the completed grass sculpture in his hand. "Can I see it?"

"It's for you," he said.

"It's beautiful."

She blushed when he handed it to her.

"It's only a fish," he smiled.

"I know. Fish are my favourites."

"You're very easy to be around, Wei."

"I hope so."

"You know I'm leaving very early in the morning?"

"Yes, we'll be sorry to see you go." She cursed herself. She wasn't saying any of the things she meant.

"I can't tell you how much I'll miss this town, and especially you," he said.

She blushed again and looked out at the water.

He continued. "Wei, I have a question I need to ask you. It's something I've never asked anyone before. It's very personal, probably the most personal question a man can ask a woman."

She felt a mixture of joy and trepidation but no words came to her.

Phan kept going. "I've been agonizing about it all day. But it's vital that I know. You see? My family…my upbringing was very proper. I was instilled with ideals that seem to have lost value in this day and age. If I ask I know you'll think me rude and old-fashioned. And still I don't know how to put my question. Wei, everybody possesses a gift. They are born with that gift and decide when they should share it, although some people don't realize its value and…no, I'm not doing very well. Wei, you might find this hard to believe but I have never been with a woman, sexually."

She let out all the air she'd been holding back in one loud gasp. Her face turned the colour of an overripe chilli.

"I kept my gift until I found somebody worthy to give it to. I need to know…" he continued.

"Than, it's all right," she said, but she was far too stunned to look him in the eye. She spoke to the surface of the pond. "I understand, and I don't think you're rude or old-fashioned at all. You don't need to be embarrassed. I think it's lovely. I haven't either…I mean, with a man…or anyone."

He liked the fact that she was tongue-tied, and he laughed with her. He reached for her hands. They were damp and trembling, most unpleasant. It was just as well he hadn't touched her fingers earlier or he might not be here in this situation now. But it was too late to turn back.

"Then I can't think of any reason why I shouldn't go to speak with your parents."

She pulled her hands away, not because she wanted to but because it was proper to do so. She stood and turned her back to him. Her hands went to her face.

"It's not that bad, is it?" he asked.

She spoke through her finger mask. "No, it's…I'm pleased."

Good, a woman of few words. Nothing worse than one who wouldn't shut up — gushing, annoying. When at last she was able to pull herself together and turn back to him, he showed her the ring. It was a single gold band.

"Where did you…?"

"It was my mother's," he told her. "I always carry it with me in her memory. It's an old tradition our family picked up from the French. I know I can't give it to you till I talk with your father, but I was curious to see whether it fitted." He took hold of her slimy hand again and slid the ring onto what in the West they called the engagement finger. It paused briefly at the joint then eased down towards the knuckle. He always got it right. He had a dozen rings of varying sizes in the truck and could judge with impressive accuracy which would fit. "I'm afraid it's rather plain. It's just a symbol of my sincerity. I promise I'll do better with the wedding ring."

"Oh, no, Phan. It's perfect."

"No, Wei. It's you who's perfect. Trust me."

They'd passed the midpoint of the week in Vientiane and there still was no new evidence in the strangled woman case. The ribbon that had been used was sold in two or three shops in the city but the shopkeepers couldn't recall selling it to any suspicious characters. The pestle was made in Thailand and was expensive. Only one shop sold them, a store that specialized in exotic imported fare. The woman who owned the establishment hadn't sold more than one to any of her customers. The strangler would have had to travel to Thailand to buy them there before travel restrictions had been imposed.

Inspector Phosy's meeting with the truck driver had proven fruitless. The man claimed that his sighting of the shrouded farmer and the invisible woman story were made up. Either that or he'd heard them from another driver. He couldn't remember who because, assuming that really was how he'd come by the story, he must have been drunk at the time. Phosy had given the man his telephone number at police headquarters and told him that if the fuzziness ever cleared, Phosy would give him half a bottle of Thai rum in thanks.

Later that same day, Phosy was bumped from the Luang Nam Tha flight in favour of some visiting VIPs from North Korea and several Party officials. He didn't have any strings to pull higher than that. On Wednesday the flight didn't take off as the visibility at their destination was poor due to crop burn offs. So it was Thursday, and he was killing time at the morgue before heading off to Wattay Airport for his third attempt. They were all in the cutting room — Siri, Dtui, and Mr Geung. Phosy was leaning against the freezer door.

"B…be careful, Comrade Ph…Phosy," Geung said. "You might f…f…freeze your eggs." Geung laughed uproariously and the others chuckled along with him. The egg joke frenzy had gripped a Vientiane that was obviously in need of cheering up. When word got out that the prime minister himself had been in the limousine involved in the great scramble it had become something of a national campaign. Molutn singers, the common man's humorists, had already performed several live versions of the saga. It had even found its way into Geung's simple humour reservoir.

"Steady, Geung." Dtui smiled. "We don't want little Malee hearing dirty jokes at her age."

Geung bent forward and touched Dtui's enormous belly. "Sorry, Malee," he said.

"How much longer do you plan to keep the girl on ice?" asked Phosy, tapping on the freezer door.

"Really, I don't like to keep anyone in there for too long," Siri confessed. "If we don't find a family for her soon we'll have to take her to the temple and give her an anonymous send-off. They don't like that."

They all knew what he meant.

"Anything on Crazy Rajid?" Phosy asked.

"No sign of him," said Siri. "It's been two weeks already since anyone last saw him."

"Of course he might have just wandered off," Phosy reminded them. "That's what street people do. He could be anywhere."

"I don't know." Dtui shook her head. "He wandered pretty close to home as a rule. I mean to his dad's home."

"Who'd have thought Crazy Rajid had a father?" said Phosy. "And could write. Wonders will never cease. Any luck with the second riddle?"

"Not exactly," said Siri. "I think the combination of its being written by a madman and translated from Hindi makes it doubly difficult."

"But he isn't a madman, is he, Dr Siri?" Dtui asked. "I mean, he wasn't born crazy. It was a trauma in his childhood that made him like this."

"You're right," Siri agreed. "And he may very well have a treatable condition for all we know. But we don't have the expertise or the resources here to do anything for him. We can barely treat basic medical conditions."

Phosy took the note from Siri. "It's obvious there's a sane person in there somewhere or he wouldn't be able to write things like this." He unrolled the paper and read aloud, In the belly of the brainless one, Made in Thailand. Watched by four thousand eyes.

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to call it sane," said Dtui.

"It's a riddle, Nurse," Siri reminded her. "It's supposed to be confusing."

"Then it succeeds," she decided.

"Made in Thailand. Made in Thailand." Phosy seemed to hope that repeating it might make it clearer. "Should we be thinking dirty?"

"I think Madame Daeng and I have been through all the dirty possibilities," said Siri with a slight blush.

"Is…is four thousand m…more than am…million?" Geung asked.

"No, mate," Dtui told him, "it's not that many. But it's a hell of a lot of eyes."

"We thought 'brainless one' might refer to the grand assembly building," Siri confessed. "But we would never know which seat to look under."

"The national stadium?" Phosy offered.

"Come off it." Dtui laughed. "When was the last time they got more than fifty people watching anything there?"

"True."

"Because if…if…if it's a million…" Geung persisted.

"It could be the spot where the Thai military intelligence put their telescope to watch what we're doing over here," Dtui suggested.

"Not sure Crazy Rajid can swim that far," Siri smiled.

"…then th…there's at least a m…million eyes at…at…at Wat Si Saket."

"Then there's…What was that, Geung?" Dtui asked.

"Wat Si Saket," repeated Geung.

"The little Buddhas." Phosy nodded his head. "There are certainly a lot of them."

"It isn't out of the question," Dtui agreed.

"But what's the 'made in Thailand' connection?" Phosy asked.

Siri clicked his fingers so loudly the others were afraid he'd broken a bone.

"Of course," he said and added another handprint to his forehead. "Shame on me. They taught us all this stuff at the temple in Savanaketh. Why is it I can remember verbatim French radio jingles for chocolate biscuits and not the history of my own country?"

"Probably because — " Dtui started.

"It was a rhetorical question, Dtui."

"Sorry."

"Wat Si Saket," Siri began, "is the oldest surviving temple in Vientiane, and that's probably because, when the Thais flooded in to rape and sack and pillage in eighteen something or other, they didn't want to destroy anything that reminded them of home. The temple was one of Prince Chao Anou's creations. He was educated in Bangkok and was probably more Thai than Lao. The Thais set him up as a puppet king here, and he built old Si Saket in the Thai style. Made in Thailand. Voila."

He walked to Geung and planted a large kiss on his forehead. Geung wiped the kiss away violently but grinned with pleasure.

"I don't know why we just don't hand all our mysteries directly to you, Geung," Phosy said with very little sarcasm in his voice.

"Any thoughts on the lady in the freezer, Inspector Geung?" Dtui asked.

"Sh…she's very pretty," Geung decided.

"So who's the brainless one?" Phosy asked. He shouldered his bag for the trip to the airport.

"It could refer to us," Siri conceded. "But I think I shall take Madame Daeng for a cultural soiree at the temple this evening."

"Well, I'm husbandless tonight, so I'm coming too," said Dtui.

"I'm husbless t…too, so so am I," said Geung.

"That's settled then." Siri laughed. "It looks like Si Saket Temple will be doubling its annual quota of visitors in one evening."

Siri had been speaking only partly in jest. The residents of Vientiane had become very self-conscious about being seen in temples. People had begun to worship discreetly. Their faith had not been dented by the constant notices and the loudspeaker broadcasts decrying the curse of religion, but they found it prudent not to advertise their beliefs. The government interpreted the empty temple grounds as evidence that socialism was a more powerful dogma than Buddhism.

This perhaps explains why, on that warm evening in March, the visitors arriving at Si Saket had to find the keeper of the keys in the nearby compound and convince him it was vitally important to the security of the nation that they gain access to the inner sanctum of the temple immediately. As there were no lights, they were forced to buy sanctified orange candles from the abbot and place them at intervals around the rectangular cloister. This created a splendid, albeit rather creepy, atmosphere. The walls on all four sides contained small alcoves from floor to beam, and each nook had its own Buddha image in bronze or silver or stone: three-dimensional dharmic wallpaper.

"How many eyes would you say?" Siri asked Daeng.

"At least four thousand. Do you suppose he counted them?"

"Nothing about Rajid would surprise me. It does make me think we're in the right place. All we need now is to decide which is the brainless one."

"We could ask them all twenty general-knowledge questions."

"By my calculations that would take longer than I have left on this earth," he said. He smiled uneasily and Daeng glared at him. "What? Why are you giving me that look?"

"Has something happened to you this week that I should know about?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean has the spectre of death landed in your morgue and handed you an invitation?"

Daeng's comment was intended as a joke but, like a hammer thrown from the far side of the room, it had somehow managed to hit the nail on the head. Siri felt a now familiar clenching at his heart. Every day the harbingers had visited him. Worms travelled the extremities of his desk, and the scent of damp earth filled his lungs. Saloop was everywhere — beside the road, beneath the table in the cutting room, outside the shop in the undergrowth opposite. Tonight, as they walked to the temple, the dog's yellow eyes had glared from every alleyway and nook. Death was closing in on Dr Siri, but it was news he'd decided to keep to himself. There was no point in depressing anyone else.

"I don't know what you mean," he lied.

"Oh, Siri, you've managed to swing every other conversation we've had this week around to death."

"I have not."

"You have. You've mentioned graves at least twenty times."

"Let me hear the tapes."

"Take my word for it."

"Daeng, I'm a coroner. It comes with the territory. If you wanted sweet talk you should have married someone at the boiled candy works. Death is my stock-in-trade."

"Then why do I get this niggling feeling it's getting personal?"

"Because you're not as young as you used to be. Elderly people start to have delusions."

"Is that so?"

She might have wrestled him to the ground at that point and twisted his arm behind his back had it not been for a shout from Dtui at the far end of the cloister.

"Doc, Auntie Daeng, I think we've found brainless."

They joined Dtui and Geung in front of a small gallery of much larger Buddhas, some up to one metre tall. They stood or sat as if in a line-up of suspects: similar but different. And the fellow who stood out from the crowd had a head that ended above the ears. He was made of hollow cast iron and had obviously experienced a traumatic event that had removed the top of his head and half his back. His vintage and historical significance allowed him a place in otherwise complete company.

"Looks like a candidate," said Daeng. "Anyone feel like sticking their hand in there?"

Geung raised his arm.

"Yes, Mr Geung?"

"I will."

"Go ahead."

Geung put his hands together and muttered a quick prayer of apology before very excitedly reaching down into the bowels of the Buddha. He rummaged around for a few seconds before re-emerging with a small roll of paper. He handed it to Siri, who unrolled it to reveal a page of unfathomable Hindi letters.

"Mr Tickoo," Siri shouted, "Bhiku."

"Wake up, Mr Tickoo!" Daeng yelled even louder, her voice echoing around the silent neighbourhood. They stood in front of the shutters of the Happy Dine Indian restaurant, looking up at the gaping open window on the second floor. Geung's dormitory at Mahosot and Dtui's police hostel room weren't far from the temple, so they'd agreed to walk each other home, leaving Siri and Daeng to pursue what was hopefully the last instalment of the riddle. They all hoped this final clue would lead them to Prince Crazy Rajid's palace. Mr Tickoo's face arrived at the window with a smile that lit up the sidewalk around them.

"It is even more fiendish," said Rajid's father. Mr Tickoo was sitting inside the restaurant with Siri and Daeng. The fluorescent tube above them was buzzing and cutting out every now and then like at an amateur discotheque. It was annoying but the note kept them spellbound. They watched the Indian consider and contemplate and finally compose. They sipped their tea impatiently, waiting for the last word of the last line. When it arrived and Bhiku looked up with a satisfied smile, they pirouetted the notepad around to see its Lao translation. One million pachyderms And one spirited bear Look sadly at the all-night sun.

Siri looked up from the paper as if he'd won the national lottery.

"Why so smug?" Daeng asked.

"I've got it," he replied.

"Already?"

"More by luck than intelligence, my love."

"Well, that's no fun at all. Don't tell me the answer. Let me get it for myself. Pachyderms…the old word for…"

"Elephants," Siri put in.

"I said don't tell me. I knew that. So obviously a million old elephants equals Ian Xang. Name of the ancient kingdom of Laos."

"And?"

"Several businesses."

"The largest being?"

"The Ian Xang Hotel?"

"Spot on."

Mr Tickoo clapped his hands. "My word," he said. "It's like watching the gods laying out their plan for the universe. Such brilliance."

Daeng and Siri looked at each other.

"Don't let yourself be diverted by conceit," Siri said.

Daeng continued, "I know I'm close here. A bear. The logo on a bottle or a can? No? A bearskin rug? A certain configuration of stars? Spirit…a drunken bear? A dead bear? A dead bear at the Ian Xang Hotel…the empty cages."

"You are remarkable." Siri smiled and squeezed her hand. The riddle had only been simple for him because it paralleled a case he'd handled the previous year. The Ian Xang Hotel had previously imprisoned live animals for the edification of the general public. One black bear had been the star attraction until it was freed. Siri could imagine Rajid wandering into the Ian Xang grounds and watching the poor old girl behind her bars. Somewhere there lay the secret to the location of Rajid's palace.

"What time is it?" Siri asked.

"Who cares?" answered Daeng.

The grounds of the Ian Xang were spacious for a Lao hotel. There was some thick tropical vegetation, native flowers that had been dug up and replanted in unnatural rows, and a swimming pool that was starting to look more like a lotus pond. It had so many leaves floating on it a skinny teenager could have walked across its surface without getting wet.

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 towards 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 make-up 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 colourful, 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 straight away 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.