The Merry Misogynist (6 page)

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.

THE OVERSIZED MONDAY

D
ays had always had a standard length and breadth until that Monday. It began at six a.m. for Siri. He was awakened by Daeng stroking his temple. The sun had not yet risen so he saw her outline by the light of the Thai streetlights across the river. Silhouettes had always been a weakness of his.

“I might need a few minutes,” he said.

“It’s not
that
.”

“Why else would you be caressing me gently?”

“Because I’m not the type of girl to slap you and scream and say, “There are strange men gathered opposite our shop.””

“And are there?”

“Three of them.”

“Anyone we know?”

“The little one, Koomki. The others are bigger. I think they’re planning an attack.”

Siri laughed. “What should we do?”

“Well, imagine that I’m a young married woman and my husband’s just come home unexpectedly.”

“You want me to climb into a closet?”

“No, I think you should go out the back door, being very careful not to disturb the fowl, and hop over the fence into the garden behind ours.”

Siri laughed again and listened to the silence.

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“You want me to flee from the Department of Housing.”

“Just until we can sort everything out, get the twins registered and the bungalow fixed up.”

“Where does my dignity fit into all this?”

“I was thinking this might preserve some of it. Unless you want to be dragged to a hearing.”

“You’re right. Where should I hide out?”

“Go to the morgue. You’ll be safe there. It’s a shame you’ve alienated the people who could help you. A word from Judge Haeng and all this would go away. Won’t you consider talking to him?”

“I’d sooner eat my own foot.”

“I thought you might say that. But don’t rule it out. Think about it, for me.”

He looked at her erotic outline against the window and decided there was very little he wouldn’t do for her.

There wasn’t a great deal to do in a morgue at six thirty in the morning. Siri sat at his desk and tidied the files and pens that lived there. He decided to focus his mind on the conundrum of why a beautiful young woman had such gnarled feet and calluses on her hands. He returned to the freezer and slid out the tray, then talked through what he was seeing as if he were Dtui itemizing and explaining.

“No sun damage,” he said. “So…never outside or only when covered in some way. Covered from head to foot, or to ankle. Why would anyone go to so much trouble to stay out of the sun? And then, having gone to the trouble, leave their feet exposed? Madness.” And these weren’t feet baked from the sun and hardened by walking. They were soft. The only feet he could think of with a similar consistency were…

There was a sound from the office. Too early for Dtui, and he would have heard her footfalls, but Mr Geung might have sneaked in to sweep and dust. That was his early-morning hobby. He took pride in the cleanliness of the morgue. Who could say what time he normally left his cramped dormitory for the comfort of a place he loved?

“Morning!” Siri called. But there was no answer.

He walked through the shadowy vestibule and into the curtained office. There was nobody there. His missing earlobe tingled. The amulet at his neck felt warm against his skin. He knew there was a presence here. His first hope was that the corpse in the cutting room was about to confide in him at last. He headed back there. Halfway across the vestibule, a chill ran up his spine. A cold damp feeling caressed his skin, and he stopped midstride. There was a smell like wet earth in the air, a scent that seemed to take hold and squeeze him tightly. He knew at once it had nothing to do with the dead girl.

He heard a rustle behind him in the empty office and turned his head in time to see a shadow cross beyond the door. He stepped back into the doorway, and there on the floor at the centre of the round rug lay Saloop, drooling. It was a difficult moment. Siri had an affection for his dog, and his instinct was to lean down and pat him, tickle his ears. The animal used to like that. Surely a spirit dog would appreciate a little attention. But Saloop hadn’t come for petting. He stood and barked, although the sound was delayed for two seconds due to the difference in dimensions. He turned in circles as if he wanted his old master to follow him, even though there was nowhere to go.

Siri stepped past the door and saw immediately what Saloop was making all the fuss about. The doctor had considered himself unshockable. He’d seen the spirits of dead soldiers in legions. The ghost of a woman he believed was his own mother followed him around like an albatross. He’d held consultations with a monk at Hay Sok Temple who was clearly not of this world, but the figure sitting at his desk was enough to put the willies up even the most hardened shaman.

She was unpleasantly overweight, ugly as a lopsided toad, and unmistakably naked. Her skin, if it could be called skin, was a squirming mass of live worms. They crawled in and out of her eye sockets and her mouth and nose. Siri edged farther into the room and could see that what he had thought at first was a beer belly was probably an eight-month term of pregnancy. Her stomach glistened with sweat. He was nauseated by the sight of her but knew he had to observe. He knew the image wouldn’t last long. He waited for a word, a sign, but he could only smell the moist earth and feel the shudder of his amulet.

“Please,” he said. “I’m not very good at this. Couldn’t you…?”

But, as he’d feared, his words seemed to blow away the ugly woman and the dog like smoke. And all that remained was a feeling of doom.

When Dtui and Geung arrived together at eight, they found Dr Siri sitting at his desk staring at his knuckles.

“Goo…good morning, Comrade Doctor,” said Geung.

“Anybody else and I’d say you looked like you’d seen a ghost,” said Dtui. “But in your case…”

“Just a little tired is all.” Siri smiled. “I’m only being haunted by the Department of Housing. I could use a nap. They won’t leave me alone.”

“I heard about that,” she said.

Geung hurried off to clean up the spotless morgue. Dtui sat on the spare chair in front of Siri’s desk.

“The other day…” she began.

“It’s all right. I understand completely.”

“I mean, I know you care just as much as anyone.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Thanks. Doc, I’ve been putting a lot of sleepless nighttime thought into our girl in there.”

“Me too.”

“The feet?”

“Paddy fields?”

“Two great minds. It’s the only thing that makes any sense, although it doesn’t make sense at all. She had to have been shrouded from head to calf to work in the fields. Most farm women wrap themselves up when they can to prevent sun damage, but it’s hot out there. They put on one layer of clothing at the most. It’s not enough to stop them from tanning. Most of them are already dark skinned from when they’re little. By the looks of her, this girl hadn’t ever seen the sun. Do you think she might have had an allergy to sunlight?”

“Without sun she’d have to supplement the lack of vitamin D somehow. Her skin’s very pale, but there’s no evidence of an allergy in her pigmentation. I can read up on it, see if I’ve missed a condition. Failing that, it appears she just wanted to stay out of the sun. The only part she wouldn’t have been able to cover was her feet. I suppose rubber boots might have worked.”

“I’d bet she tried that for a while until she realized how many diseases you can pick up in sweaty boots in this climate. I tried it myself for a while when I was little and ended up with every skin disease you can imagine.”

“It is odd, though. If it isn’t an allergy, there has to be some other reason we haven’t thought of. I’ll work on it. Have you heard from Phosy?”

“I got a message from him last night. Said he’d give you a ring later this morning. Didn’t sound like he’d found much out.”

“All right, let me just get this autopsy report finished for Director Suk.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, why?”

“You really do look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Siri smiled, but he was starting to believe that what he’d seen wasn’t merely a ghost. It was an omen.

Phosy rang at ten thirty. The clerk from the administration building trotted downstairs, across the forecourt, and into the morgue to let Dr Siri know he had a phone call. By the time Siri had walked briskly back to the clerk’s office (his trotting days were behind him) the connection had been severed. It was half a cup of tea later before Phosy managed to get through again. Siri was beside the phone.

“Siri speaking. Any luck?”

“I went to the crime scene and looked around,” Phosy told him. “The only thing I found there was a circle of candles: the red ones with short wicks you get at temples.”

“How large was the circle?”

“Diameter of about four metres.”

“That’s interesting.”

“We’ve shown the photo all over the district. You’d think someone would recall a pretty girl like that. But no joy.”

“Phosy, have you been to the farms?”

“Some, but mostly around town. Why?”

Siri explained their shrouded-rice-worker theory. Phosy seemed sceptical.

“It would have been unbearable,” he said. “How could anyone work the fields wrapped up…and why?”

“If it did really happen,” Siri said, “there’d have to be a good reason for it. You might want to ask if anyone’s seen a girl like that working the fields.”

“All right. Anything from the stomach contents?”

“I’m just about to take them over to teacher Oum at the lycee. She was away at a seminar all weekend. It’s the first chance I’ve had. I hear they’ve released the chemicals from customs.”

“The ones the Soviets donated?”

“The Vladivostok Schools Cooperative.”

“You mean they’ve been at the docks for a year?”

“It’s an improvement. My new French forensic pathology textbooks have been stuck there since early ‘76. By the time they’re cleared you’ll be able to use them on me.”

Siri put the double plastic bag of stomach contents into a cloth shoulder bag and set off on his motorcycle. Teacher Oum’s chemistry class was the closest thing Siri could get to a lab. In his breast pocket he had his Chiang Mai University toxico-logical colour key pamphlet. It contained a rather limited range of tests that, with a bit of luck, might give clues as to any poison or drug remaining in the system. More often than not, they didn’t work. He wasn’t feeling particularly lucky today. In fact, the more he considered the spectres of that morning, the more he felt as if his luck was about to run out. He wanted to go for a ride in the countryside to improve his mood, but the contents of the bag needed to be refrigerated as soon as possible. He turned right in front of the old French governor general’s mansion that held court at the start of Ian Xang Avenue. Its grounds had been ignored since the arrival of the Pathet Lao, and all the exotic plants and expensive flowers and shrubs had gone to seed. It was a petty revenge for sixty years of colonialism. Even towards lunchtime there was scant traffic on the main avenue. With its own Lao Arc de Triomphe, Ian Xang had delusions of being the Champs-Elysees. At its widest it could accommodate ten and a half cars or fifty-seven bicycles but today it welcomed only Dr Siri and a small pack of dogs, all dusty.

He passed two government buildings, Finance and Foreign Affairs, which, until a week ago, had been mere departments. Overnight they had become ministries. He remembered a meeting in the caves of Vieng Xai where the old cadres had voted unanimously that when they came to power, they wouldn’t encumber their work with the linguistic ornaments of the decadent West. They didn’t need ministers or ministries because that would distance them from the common people. No, for them titles like ‘Comrade Bounlert in charge of agriculture’ would be sufficient. But the temptation to be Somebody had obviously proven too great and the Department of Information had announced that all departments, including itself, would thereafter be called ministries, ‘merely to avoid confusion among foreign diplomats’.