The Merry Misogynist (10 page)

“Has something happened?”

“Seventy-three years have happened.”

“Have you had a medical examination I don’t know about?”

“No. It’s…ah,
bo ben nyang
.”

Siri arrived at the shop at the end of the noodle rush hour. Daeng was dishing out supper as fast as the pot could boil. If the Thai secret service had trained their binoculars on her shop that evening, they would never have believed Laos was undergoing an economic crisis. They’d have considered the second devaluation of the
kip
to have been a ruse and rumours of financial ruin to be a dastardly communist plot. But they wouldn’t have known the real reason everybody flocked to Daeng’s shop. A bowl of the most delicious noodles north of the Singapore equator cost the equivalent of five pence and few could refuse such a temptation. There was nobody like her in the capital. Even travellers from outside the district had begun to turn up as word spread. Delicious food, low prices, minimal chances of contracting hepatitis.

Siri sneaked in over the fence and through the back door. He whistled to Daeng, who turned around from her kettle.

“Psst. Is the coast clear?” he asked.

“Darling, you’re alive,” she shouted. A dozen diners looked up and Siri retreated behind the door frame. “I was sure Housing had assassinated you.”

Siri hurried to the staircase and held up two fingers, which signified Daeng’s special Number Two, seasoned with tree frogs and jelly mushrooms. Then he vanished upstairs.

By eight thirty the tables were wiped and the shutters pulled. Nobody stayed out late any more unless they were Eastern European experts or connected to somebody important. Daeng went up to see how her husband was doing. He was scooped over his desk. She kissed the lighter of his ears.

“People our age don’t do that,” he said.

“Then they’re mad.” She kissed him again. “What are you doing?”

“I’m reading a Hindi riddle.”

“And we mere humans struggle with the
Lao Huksat
newsletter.”

“It’s been translated.”

She pulled over a rattan stool and sat beside him, her hand on his thigh. He told her about his meeting with Crazy Rajid’s father and the incredible fact that the silent and troubled Rajid could write beautiful poetry. Daeng said it reminded her of a rubber plantation, such a clutter of trees that seemed to have no order at all until you looked at them from the right angle. Then they were all lined up and parallel.

“So, what do – we have from our demented poet?” she asked.

Siri held up the paper and recited like an ancient scholar,

Beneath the old French lady’s skirt

Black lace and too much pink

The cold daughter of the daughter

Hides in a dark corner
.

“It probably rhymed in Hindi,” Daeng decided.

“And made sense,” Siri added.

“But it is potentially cracking good fun. Like a treasure hunt clue. Let’s go for it.”

“Bhiku seems to think the old French lady is one of the colonial buildings on Samsenthai.”

“He does? So let’s go there.”

“Don’t you want to relax after a busy day?”

“What I want after a busy day of noodling is to use my sadly inactive brain. Grab a torch. I’ll get changed into my mystery-solving outfit.”

They decided to walk the short distance to the three colonial buildings on the main street. Daeng firmly believed that arthritis could be cured by ignoring it completely, that it would give up and go away. So far the ploy hadn’t worked. Odd lamps burned in closed shops along their way. The streetlights attached to public buildings were poorly placed and seemed to leak light rather than express it. They cast deceptive shadows on the footpaths that might have been ruts or two-metre-deep holes. Luckily, Siri and Daeng had their torches with them.

When they arrived at the first of the three old ladies, it was evident that the new generation of government officials retired early. Only four of the fifteen or so windows shone dully with electric light. Like most of the houses of the moneyed families of the old regime, this ancient lady had been hurriedly converted to accommodate several families. They all shared one bathroom and lived their lives crammed in one room. Senior Party members sometimes had two. Siri had lived in such a house when he first came to Vientiane. There was no supervisor to make complaints to. If something broke down, as things often did, the residents would get together, pool their resources, and fix it. That, as they said, was what communism was all about.

There was nobody to ask permission from, so Siri and Daeng decided to nose around. Colonial homes in the tropics generally were built without basements because in the monsoon season they tended to fill with water that ruined everything in them. They decided to skirt the building from the outside, shining their torches. They arrived back at the front door with nettles attached to their trousers but no hint of lace undergarments.

“I suppose we should go inside,” Siri suggested.

“After me,” said Daeng, scooting up the step.

The front door was solid teak, obviously very old. When they pushed, there was a defiant creak from the hinges. Three rooms led off the long passageway that stretched before them. The hallway itself was covered in once stylish – now sadly worn – linoleum. A staircase on their left rose darkly to the second floor. Two rooms on the right were residences. Hasps had been attached to the outsides of their doors and one had a name on a small rectangle of card taped beside it. It was too dark to read it. The only light in the hallway came from the third room, a bathroom on the left beyond the stairs.

Attracted like moths to the light, Siri and Daeng went in. It was spotlessly clean. Different coloured plastic bowls and scoops seemed to demarcate each family’s spot.

“See a trapdoor anywhere?” Daeng asked. She exhibited none of the characteristics of an interloper sneaking around someone else’s house. She had been a spy for the Lao underground so a stranger’s bathroom presented no threat to her.

She sat on one of the tiny plastic stools. “Come on, Siri, use your imagination. He came here every Friday as a child. He would have had a chance to explore. All the adults are sitting at the table drinking wine, having a good time. Young Rajid wanders through the house by himself. Think like Rajid.”

“Perhaps I should take off my clothes and play with myself.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Siri stopped pacing. “No, that’s it. Think like Rajid. He may be a scholar deep down, but on the surface he’s a randy beast. What if we’re thinking too deeply?”

“The old French lady’s really an old lady? One of the neighbours?”

“And the lace…”

“Is her underwear. And there’s too much pink under there. Brilliant! All right. How does he get to see her undies?”

“Well, assuming she didn’t strip off at the dinner table I’d say we’re in the most likely place.”

“Nowhere to hide in here, really, and the window’s too high.”

Siri sat on the Western toilet and looked around.

“There,” he said, pointing at the baseboard in which there was a small rectangular grate no bigger than a business envelope.

“He must have been a lot smaller when he was young.” Daeng laughed, getting on her knees to take a look.

“The stairs,” Siri said. “This grate is directly under the staircase.” He was hurrying towards the door when he bumped into a muscular man in a towel. “Good health,” he said.

“Good health,” said the man, obviously surprised to have collided with a strange old gentleman in his own bathroom. He looked at the old lady on her hands and knees on the bare concrete.

“We’re just about to move in,” said Siri, “so we’ve come to…to…”

“To measure for curtains,” Daeng helped him out. She climbed to her feet and followed Siri into the hall, taking more time than necessary to study the man’s torso. He blushed and hurried to close the door.

“Curtains?” muttered Siri as they walked to the stairs.

“Yes.”

“In the bathroom?”

“Why not? You would have said something like toilet inspector.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

They stood at the foot of the stairs, wondering how anyone could get inside the staircase. A Peeping Tom would have to be directly beneath it. Siri tapped at the front of the wooden steps with his toe. The first and second emitted resounding thuds. The third plonked and seemed to give way a little. Although the panel had been stained the same colour as the others, it was obviously a plywood substitute for the original. Siri knelt on the first stair and carefully pushed one side of the loose panel. It was held in place only by its snug fit between the steps. It gave way easily and he was able to wrest it free without its falling into the gap beneath.

“See anything?” Daeng asked, hunkering down beside him. They heard the scampering of cockroaches, perhaps the patter of a mouse.

“The gap’s too narrow to crawl through,” Siri decided.

“Well, thank goodness for that.”

“But I can see a skinny little Indian getting in here easily enough.”

“What’s that over there?”

They both leaned into the gap. The bathroom light shone yellow through the grill three metres ahead of them. To the left of the grill there was a shadow. It was about thirty centimetres tall and had all the makings of a hairy creature lurking, ready to pounce.

“Shine your light on it.”

“I left mine in the bathroom.”

“Me too.”

“Did it just move?” Siri asked. “Perhaps not. If I had a stick I could give it a poke.”

“Don’t go away.”

Daeng went back to the bathroom and walked in on the man as he was tossing water over himself with a ladle. He opened one eye and looked at her through the shampoo.

“Excuse me,” she said, grabbing a mop and their torches.

“No problem,” he replied.

She paused briefly in the doorway to glance back, then took the mop to Siri. It was just long enough to reach the hairy object in the corner. It didn’t leap to life when Siri prodded it. The torches revealed its identity. With a little manual dexterity, Siri was able to coax the object towards them. Daeng reached down and grabbed it by the hair. It was a porcelain doll:
the cold daughter of the daughter
. Her clothes were tattered and insect ravaged but her hair and face looked as gay as on the day she first arrived in the tropics with her French owner.

“You don’t suppose if we pull its string it might tell us the next riddle?” Daeng asked.

“This young lady pre-dates talking dolls by about fifty years, I’d say, but look.” Siri had lifted the frayed dress to reveal a conservative pair of knickers and, in the waistband, a tightly rolled slip of paper. “Ah, Rajid, sleazy as ever.”

IN THE BELLY OF THE BRAINLESS ONE

I
t 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.”