The Merry Misogynist (13 page)

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 kilometres 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 labour. 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 mid-afternoon 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 humour. 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, travelling 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 kilometres out of town along a dirt track that was all deep ruts. By the time he reached his destination, Siri had attained 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 travelling 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.

“I reckon I’ve been there once,” said Boonhee. “You lost?”

“No, I’m in the right place. I wanted to talk to you about your daughter.”

“Ngam?” The man seemed pleased. “You’ve met her, have you? How’s she doing?”

“Comrade Boonhee, has she been in touch with you since she left?”

The farmer laughed. “Look around you, brother. It’s not the easiest place to contact.”

“I can see.”

“So, what did she say? Are they off to overseas yet?”

“Is that what she told you? That they’d be leaving the country?”

“It’s what the young man told us: Phan. Said he was getting posted to…I don’t know, some country over in Europe somewhere. Her mother’d remember the name of it.”

“When was the last time you saw Ngam?”

“The party. The night of the ceremony. It was the seventh.”

“Comrade Boonhee,” Siri sighed, “does Ngam have a small mole, here?” He touched his temple above his ear.

“A small one, nothing a bit of make-up wouldn’t – wait, what are you doing here talking about our Ngam’s mole?”

Siri sighed again and removed the photograph from the envelope. “Mr Boonhee, can you come and sit over here with me, please.”

“I can stand well enough.”

Siri held up the photograph to the farmer who, despite his courageous words, was rocking unsteadily.

“What? Where’d you get that? That…that’s not a normal picture. Why’s her eyes closed?”

Siri often wondered how wealthy he would be if he’d received a franc for every time he’d said, “I’m sorry.”

“What you sorry about? What is this?”

“Ngam’s dead, Comrade.”

The two lethargic boys stood and ambled over to look at the photo. Boonhee couldn’t find words.

“I’m from the morgue,” Siri said. “I’ve been waiting for her family to get in touch. She needs a ceremony.”

Boonhee’s face twisted into a confused, working-out-a-puzzle type of expression. He looked up at Siri as if the answer might be somewhere on the doctor’s face.

“Her mother’s going to be…I don’t know. What happened?”

“She was murdered, strangled to death.”

There was the longest pause before Boonhee asked, “Do you know who did it?”

“No.”

Another gap.

“Does Phan know?”

“I don’t know.”

“Someone should tell him.”

Siri left the obvious conclusion to find its own way into the farmer’s mind.

“Do you know how we can get in touch with him?” the doctor asked.

“He’s with roads.”

“The Highways Department?”

“Something like that. The people that build the roads.”

“So you don’t have an address, papers, any way to contact him?”

“Ngam had all that. She took it all with her.” Siri could see that the man was forcing himself to stay on his feet so as not to lose face in front of the boys.

“Do you remember his family name?” Siri kept pushing.

“Ngam would know all that.”

“You didn’t sign the marriage documents?”

“We don’t write nor read. Not me or her mother.”

“Where is your wife? Perhaps she’d remember something about him.”

“She’s over at Nit’s place helping out.”

“Comrade, I’m sorry to keep asking questions. I know this has to be hard for you.”

“You can ask.”

Unless it surpassed all physical means, grief wasn’t something you shared with strangers in Laos.

“Do you have any pictures of the wedding?”

“Why do you want them?”

“Well, if we don’t have an address for Phan it might be the only way to find him.”

“Nit had a camera. The film was in it for a year or more. When he went into town to get it printed there wasn’t nothing but white.”

“I see. Is there any way we can get your wife back here to talk to? I think she should hear this.”

“You’re right.” Boonhee nodded at one of the silent youths and the boy set off across the fields at the speed of light. It had seemed hardly possible he could move so fast.

Boonhee’s wife was frozen into a fit by the news. Her husband had told her himself and shown her the photograph. She’d fainted. When she came around it astounded Siri just how many tears her dehydrated little body could produce. Still she couldn’t speak. Boonhee and Siri led her into the shanty and watched her lie on the thin mattress. Her body was curled in a knot of misery. Boonhee left her and walked with Siri to his bike.

“What else do you need?” he asked the doctor.

“Why was she covered? I mean when she worked in the fields.”

“Ngam? She was allergic to sunlight.”

“No she wasn’t.”

“Eh?” Boonhee stared at Siri.

“I’m a doctor.”

PALACE OF THE ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN EYES

A
s he rode back towards Vientiane, Siri considered every astonishing fact he’d learned. He couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Ngam had been a pretty baby. The parents had been astounded they could ever have produced such a prize. They changed her name to Ngam, which meant beautiful, to reflect her looks. They knew she’d grow up to be as pretty as a picture. But Mongaew, her mother, understood that to be truly beautiful in Asia, a girl had to be white. In all the advertisements, in the magazines, in the travelling film shows before the takeover, all the classic beauties had skin as white as china.

When she herself was little, Mongaew had fantasized about her own life. If only she were white, she might grow up to be Miss Sangkhan at the provincial festival parade. She’d get to carry the four-faced head of Phanya Kabilaphon on the decorated chariot. It was all an unreachable dream. She was neither white nor particularly attractive. But now she had been blessed with a miracle: a girl child who might truly grow up to win the competition. If only – if only they could keep her skin from the sun. So Mongaew and Boonhee invented an illness for her, an allergy that prevented her from exposing her skin to sunlight. She’d seen a specialist in Thailand, she’d told the neighbours. The girl might die if she were to go outside in the daytime.

Ngam, of course, had believed her parents and done as she was told. She played at home with her brothers and covered herself from head to foot when it came to harvest time. A kindly teacher from the local school felt sorry for the girl and volunteered to come by in the evenings to give her vitamins and a modest education. When Ngam reached sixteen her mother used the money she’d put aside to record her daughter’s beauty at a professional photographer’s in Phonhong. She sent the resulting snaps to the organizers of the festival. One committee member came to the farm to see the girl, to verify that the beauty they’d seen in the photograph was not a trick of the light. She had been astounded that such a vision could rise up from these humble origins. She assured the parents that their daughter was guaranteed a spot in the next year’s competition, and – off the record – that Ngam was so lovely the organizer couldn’t see anyone beating her.