The Merry Misogynist (17 page)

“I don’t believe that.” Siri shook his head. “There was all that paraphernalia. He had to get that from somewhere.”

“It could have been any one of fifty temples in a five-kilometre radius.”

“But this one matches: the pregnant woman, the age of the pots. We know he was nosing around underground.”

“But certainly not here,” Civilai decided.

“It must be the pipes,” Siri said. “They must be bigger than the monk remembers them.”

“Look” – Civilai put his hand on Siri’s shoulder – “we aren’t likely to bring spades and dig up the entire temple grounds, are we now? Why don’t we go together to the Iand Department on Monday morning and see if they have a record of any tunnels or underground chambers around here.”

“Monday’s too late.”

“Well, you were wrong about Si Muang Temple; perhaps you’re wrong about his dying too.”

Siri bit his lip.

“I think we should all go home and have a nice rest,” said Dtui. “I’m sure the solution will come to us in a flash after a little sleep.” She put her hand on her belly. “I feel like I’m carrying the entire politburo around, and they’re starting to give me indigestion.”

“You’re right.” Siri nodded. “I apologize for my over-enthusiasm. Let’s go back – ”

“Good.”

“After one quick circuit of the temple.” Siri stood. “Nurse, you may stay here on this shady bench and wait for us. If you feel a birth coming on, just scream and we’ll come running.”

After probing around the gardens and the monks’ quarters, and a very thorough search of the old Khmer ruins, Siri and Civilai stood on the shady side of the stupa. Apart from one poorly renovated patch halfway up, the
chedi
was a sad structure. The Thais would have cemented it over and painted it gold long ago but here it stood like a stack of charred rusks. To their right a concrete lion sat obediently on a plinth, and sleeping in its shade was Saloop.

“This is the place. He has to be here somewhere,” Siri said. “We can’t – ”

He was interrupted by a woman’s scream.

“Somebody sounds distressed,” Civilai decided.

Another scream.

“If I didn’t know better,” Siri smiled, “I’d say that was our own Nurse Dtui having a little fun with us.”

The third scream was straight out of
Bride of Frankenstein
, and it didn’t end.

Phosy, Siri, and Civilai paced up and down in front of the maternity theatre at Mahosot like three expectant fathers. In front, in this case, meant under the stars and beneath the electric bulb that burned over the door. A cloud of flying ants competed with them for space and forced the men back whenever they dared step forward to listen at the door. The short-lived and very annoying creatures usually appeared as a result of sudden rainstorms, but there hadn’t been a drop since November. Civilai put it down to the fact that Dtui’s water had broken with such force, the insect kingdom had interpreted it as the coming of the monsoons. Dtui hadn’t been in the mood to see the funny side of that. Whatever the reason, the theatre had been forced to close its doors and shutters to keep the insects out.

“You were supposed to be a doctor,” Phosy said angrily.

Siri raised his eyebrows. “And when did I cease to be?”

“There you were, forcing her to work and having her traipse around hot temples on the day she was giving birth to our baby.”

“Phosy, these things are unpredictable. The baby doesn’t have a wall calendar in there. She comes when she’s ready. She just happened to be ready a few weeks before we were expecting her. It happens.”

Phosy seemed to be enjoying his bad mood.

“Why does everyone keep assuming the baby’s a girl?” he asked.

“Auntie Bpoo, the fortune-teller, told us,” Siri smiled.

“You’re all mad,” Phosy decided. “And who is that clown in there birthing her? Why aren’t you doing it?”

“The clown in there is Dr Bountien, the head of gynaecology,” Siri said patiently. “Although he may know more egg jokes than most, he is probably the best man in the country for this job. The reason I’m not doing it myself is that I’m a coroner, Phosy. The skills don’t overlap.”

“It’s just not good enough,” Phosy huffed. Neither Siri nor Civilai was certain what ‘it’ was.

“The world will seem a better place as soon as you see your daughter,” Siri told him.

“Why’s it taking so long?”

It occurred to Civilai that he had no cause to pace so he sat cross-legged on the dry grass. “Honestly, Phosy,” he said. “You’re acting like you’ve never had children before.”

“I haven’t. Not live and in person. My ex always managed to produce when I was far from home.”

“It could have been that you were far from home more often than not,” Siri commented.

“Which in turn might explain why she’s his ex,” Civilai added.

“Will you two stop bullying me? Can’t you see I’m tense?” They all heard a shrill sound like a whistle being squeezed out of a sparrow. “What was that?”

“If I’m not mistaken, that was the sound of Dtui Junior making her debut,” Siri smiled.

“Are you sure? Is it supposed to sound like that?”

“If she’s got that much wind already, I think you should be very proud of her.”

When the door finally opened, the nurse carrying five-minute-old Malee looked up at the cloud of insects and immediately covered the new arrival’s face with the towel. She ran a few metres until she was clear of the plague then turned to ask who the father was. Siri and Civilai both put up their hands but it was Phosy who stepped forward. The nurse unveiled the tiny girl, and Phosy’s face lit up like the fairy lights at the That Luang Festival. He looked at his friends with a smile so bright the insects left the lightbulb and started to circle around the inspector.

“I’m a father,” he beamed.

As the theatre and the maternity ward were in different buildings, the nurse hurried away, leaving Phosy by himself. Siri was about to remind him that he was a husband as well as a father, but the policeman had already started for the door. He knocked once and was told to go around the side where Dtui was recovering in an alcove.

“She’s all right?” Phosy shouted through the door.

“Fitter than I’ll ever be,” replied the doctor.

Phosy punched the air and started for the side door. He paused, turned back, and hugged first Siri then Civilai – then Siri again – before vanishing around the side of the building.

“Funny. I didn’t get the impression he was the hugging type,” said Civilai.

“He’s a strong lad,” wheezed Siri.

IN A STUPA

M
adame Daeng always slept as if there were no cares in the world. She smiled in her sleep and chewed the corners of her mouth. At times her eyes would roll inside their lids and the lashes would twitch. Siri thought he wouldn’t mind if he never slept again in his life as long as he had her to watch.

When the Saturday night noodle rush had subsided, Daeng had gone to the hospital to sit with Dtui and the baby. She’d stayed there until past ten. When she returned to the shop she’d found her husband going through the items from Rajid’s box. Mr Tickoo had stopped by earlier to see whether there had been any progress in the search for his son. He confessed that he’d been having very negative feelings that day. He looked through the box of treasures but they meant nothing to him either. He and Siri parted with a sense of hopelessness. Neither man had the heart to say what he believed: that Rajid was probably no longer of this world.

Siri told Daeng that he would come to bed soon, but he remained at his desk, running his fingers over the dry bones, waiting for a message that didn’t come. He was still wide awake when he finally climbed into bed. Although he had no inclination to sleep, he closed his eyes and visualized Si Muang Temple. He pictured Rajid hanging around there, making a nuisance of himself, perhaps flashing at unsuspecting ladies as they made offerings. He could imagine the Indian annoying the abbot by climbing the walls of the prayer chamber and hanging upside down from the eaves. In the wet season he’d…

Siri’s body became rigid. He opened his eyes. His heart was pounding. He shook Daeng and was surprised at how quickly she came to life, sitting up alert. Siri was already out of bed pulling on his trousers.

“Are we going somewhere?” she asked.

“Do we still have the sledgehammer out back?”

“Unless it walked somewhere.”

“Good. Are you coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She began to throw on her clothes with the same urgency as her husband. “Where are we going?”

“I’ll tell you on the way.”

They stopped first at Mahosot, where Siri retrieved the bamboo stepladder from behind the morgue. He alerted two night orderlies and told them to follow him on their bicycles. It was just as well the police were all tucked up soundly in bed because they might have seen something suspicious in a couple on a motorcycle speeding through Vientiane at two in the morning with a stepladder and a sledgehammer. Siri skidded to a noisy halt on the gravel in front of Si Muang Temple. He hoped he wouldn’t find the gate locked. In the old days it was unthinkable that the temple might not be available for troubled souls twenty-four hours a day. But the country had entered a period of suspicion and fear, and even monks slept behind locked gates.

They were in luck. There was a chain wrapped around the two gates giving the impression they were padlocked, but they were not. Siri unwrapped the chain noisily, not caring whom he woke up. The more the merrier. He and Daeng carried the ladder between them while Siri hoisted the hammer, and Daeng held a torch. They went directly to the stupa and set up the ladder against the structure. It barely reached the renovation work.

“You steady me and I’ll go up,” Siri said. He knew if this had been anything but a temple stupa, Daeng would have wanted to elephant-mouse-ant him about it, but there were deep-rooted Buddhist taboos against women climbing religious structures. He was on his own and there was no time to lose – perhaps none at all. Daeng tucked the torch into his belt and squeezed his hand.

“There’s just a hint of sacrilege in what we’re about to do,” she told him as he climbed up the steps with his sledgehammer slung over one shoulder. “There’d be a lot of explaining to do if we’ve – heaven forbid – got this wrong.”

Siri wasn’t in a talking mood. He saved what little breath he had for the job at hand. He couldn’t get into a position to use both hands on the hammer, so he grabbed the ladder top with his left hand and grasped the heavy sledgehammer in his right.

Only four monks and the abbot remained at Si Muang, and they’d all been roused by the sound of the chain being removed. By the time they reached the stupa, Siri had already made an impression on the new brickwork.

“What in the name of all that is sacred are you doing?” shouted the abbot.

Daeng called up to Siri, “My love, I might be forced to kill a monk or two tonight. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me if I’m sent to hell.”

The abbot stopped in his tracks.

“My goodness. They’re both mad. Stop them!” he told his acolytes.

He stepped back and let the monks make the advance. They prowled forward. Daeng reached into her shoulder bag and produced an extremely long knife. She brandished it halfheartedly, and the monks froze.

“Look, I’m really sorry about this,” she said. “I personally have nothing against the temple. In fact, I’ve been a fairly good Buddhist all my life. But I will be forced to use this if you come any closer.”

She looked up at Siri, who was flagging. He wheezed in counterpoint to the thumps of his hammer on the brickwork. She turned back to the stunned monks and smiled.

“Perhaps I could ask,” Daeng continued, “exactly when was the renovation here completed?”

“If he has a problem with renovations we could always discuss it like sensible adults,” the abbot said. “There’s really no need to – ”

“If you could just answer the question,” Daeng said.

“About three weeks ago,” said the soccer monk.

Daeng heaved a sigh. “Thank goodness for that. We might be on the right track then. If you’d said three months it would have been one of those embarrassing moments you see in the comics.”

She laughed but nobody joined her.

“Does anyone know what in hell she’s talking about?” asked the abbot.

When the two orderlies arrived from Mahosot, wheeling their bicycles, the scene that confronted them defied common sense. Dr Siri was up a ladder battering a hole in one of the city’s oldest stupas with a sledgehammer. His wife was holding back five monks with a carving knife.

They looked at each other to be sure they were both seeing the same thing.

Dr Siri had only one last swing left in him. He defied gravity, gripped the hammer in both hands, lifted it above his head, and sent it crashing down onto the seriously wounded brickwork. The sledgehammer bounced out of Siri’s hands and passed not four centimetres from his wife’s head. Siri clung to the ladder in time to prevent his backward tumble. Seen from the ground, his mission appeared to have failed. The doctor prostrated himself against the stupa, desperately searching for breath.

“Siri, this would be an embarrassing moment to die,” Daeng called up to him.

Siri recovered, put his hands out in front of him, and pushed. What was left of the renovated brickwork caved inward, leaving a jagged triangular window some sixty centimetres by thirty.

“My Thor,” cheered Daeng.

“Oh, my heaven!” said the abbot.

Siri reached to the back of his belt and took out the torch. He pressed the switch and climbed the last step in order to see inside the stupa. The original walls were eighty centimetres thick, which explained why the new brickwork had been so hard to dislodge. He’d put all his effort into weakening the old masonry around the new cement. As he’d hoped, the workers had been too lazy to make the patch any thicker than the eye could see. He pulled himself through the narrow gap and edged forward. There was a narrow chimney of space at the core of the stupa, and he leaned over the precipice so he could look down into the bowels. The ancient bricks crumbled as he progressed. He recognized the earthy, wormy smell that rose to greet him.