The Merry Misogynist (7 page)

At last he rode beneath the arch of the old French lycee. So as not to disturb classes, or, as teacher Oum would have it, wake up the pupils, he switched off his motor and scooted along the driveway to the building that housed the chemistry department. He’d been in graveyards less silent. Education, it appeared, had given way to copying large tracts of text from a blackboard. It saved the vocal cords of the teachers and the brain matter of the children.

He waited in Oum’s tiny office until the bell sounded for lunch. Siri had been forced to repeat his high school education in Paris and the sounding of a bell there had been the signal for euphoric screams of freedom and laughter and gaiety. Here at the lycee it was more of an alarm clock that sent sleepy children to their meal. Teacher Oum burst from her classroom like a claustrophobic chick from an egg. She was thirtyish and roundish with an infectious smile. She ran into her office in a panic.

“Oh, Siri,” she said. “I need a cigarette.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“I started last Wednesday. I’m addicted already.”

“But why?”

“I needed something after three hours of the new curriculum. I couldn’t scream or run head first into a wall. Cigarettes were the next best thing. Like my new decorations?”

Siri looked around the walls at the neat shelves that held brand-new bottles of chemicals all labelled with little black skulls and crossbones and Russian lettering. Oum struck a match and sucked at the flame through a Red A cigarette.

“Are you sure you should be lighting fires with all this around you?” Siri asked, not in jest.

She coughed her response. “With a bit of luck, the whole” – cough – “the whole place will go up.” Cough. “What can I do for you?”

Siri went to the small refrigerator.

“I’ve brought you stomach contents,” he said, removing the bag.

“How sweet. Gary used to bring me chocolates.”

Gary was the Australian who had deflowered young Oum during her study period in Sydney. Apart from chocolates, he’d left another gift. She’d named the child Nali. He was seven now, and his red hair made him hard to disguise.

“How’s Nali?” Siri asked.

“His Aussie genes are starting to show through. He punched a four-year-old girl last week.”

“Perhaps it’s rebellion against the smoking.”

“He’ll have to get used to it. I’m planning to have a lot more vices before he grows up.”

“Good for you.”

Oum was spooning stomach contents into six Petri dishes. “What are we looking for?”

“I’m guessing traces of a sedative, a very strong one.” He went back to the fridge and took out another small vial. “I brought this too. I wasn’t sure we’d be able to do anything with it. I didn’t see anything in the book.”

“What are you hoping to find?” she asked.

“Traces of semen.”

“Ah, so this was a rape?”

“I just need to know whether he…”

“I get it. It’s too bad we’re so limited in what we can do here. You need a real lab, Dr Siri.”

“I’ll tell the president.”

“Let him know you’ve got a ready-made assistant to work in it too. I tell you what. This is a long shot, Siri, but there may be a way. I read about it when I was in Sydney. You need an ultraviolet light. It shows up the phosphates.”

“And you just happen to have an ultraviolet lamp lying around?”

“I hope that wasn’t sarcasm, Doctor, because yes, we do. It’s over in the gym. They used it at the school discotheque in the good old days. I have no idea whether it’ll work but it’s worth a try.”

“Indeed it is.”

“I’ll get on to it after school this evening. Let’s look at these fellows first.”

While they worked their way down the list from the handbook, Siri decided to describe the case. Given Dtui’s reaction, he was reluctant to spoil Oum’s day, but he knew in the small world they shared, she’d hear about the strangling sooner or later. He left the part about the pestle to the very end. Oum dropped the pipette into a glass bowl with a crash and pushed herself back on the chair.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “There was no delicate way – ”

“No, Siri. This story. I’ve heard the selfsame thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“The beautiful girl strangled, tied to a tree…the pestle.”

“How could you have heard it so soon? It only happened on Friday.”

“No, Siri. It happened a long time ago.”

“Where did you get it from?”

“Here, at the school. It’s one of those legends the kids pass around to scare the daylights out of each other. I put a girl in detention when I heard her telling it. I thought it was sick for children to be coming up with stories like that.”

“Well, believe me, Oum, this wasn’t a story. When did you hear it?”

“A year ago? Maybe two.”

The anger rose in Siri’s throat. “He’s done this before, the bastard. Do you remember the student?”

“Kumdee Vilavong. She’s also big on dirty jokes and scandal. I put her in detention all the time. I’m quite fond of her.”

Siri stood. “Can we go and talk to her?”

“What? Now?”

“Yes, right now.”

HINDIPENDENCE

T
he lunchtime rush at the Happy Dine Indian restaurant was over and the proprietor was sitting with his waitress in the open frontage looking at the street. At eleven, they’d sprinkled the pavement out front with a watering can. For about thirty minutes it kept the dust from flying into the tin lunch trays. They’d repeated the dousing at twelve and one. It was 1:15 and no evidence of their efforts remained. The hot pavement had devoured the water as soon as it made contact. That might explain, in some small way, why the lunchtime rush had numbered five people, one of whom had brought his own drink. Everybody agreed the Happy Dine had gone downhill since the old regime.

A motorcycle went past, braked, and turned back. It kicked up a dust storm. The waitress pulled up her T-shirt to cover her nose and exposed her belly. The proprietor looked down forlornly at his once white shirt. Dr Siri emerged from the cloud and cast a faint shadow across both of them. He quickly explained that he’d already eaten lunch, thus curtailing their excitement before it got out of hand.

“I’m here to see your chef,” he said.

“We have nobody here of that name,” said the proprietor. He was one of the southern Indians who had weathered the takeover of ‘75. His accent was so thick, it would have stuck to the wall if you’d thrown it. Siri wasn’t absolutely sure it was Lao he was hearing.

“The father of the crazy man who walks around the streets?” Siri tried again.

“My chef is not available for other positions. He is bonded,” said the proprietor.

Siri stared at him.

“He’s out the back, uncle,” said the waitress. The young man glared at her, but she ignored him.

Out the back actually meant ‘out the back’.

The kitchen was at the rear of the restaurant in the yard roofed over by a large green tarpaulin with grease stains. Attached to a cross beam were two remarkable fans. Someone had come up with the bright idea of removing the covers and attaching long streamers to the blades. The intention had obviously been to keep insects away from the food and keep the cook cool at the same time. But the weight of the streamers had slowed the rotors to such a pace that the device merely stirred the hot air and the flies together like ingredients in a large stew. A fat man in a navy blue undershirt and long black trousers was on the far side of the small yard washing dishes in a bucket.

“Excuse me,” Siri said.

The man looked over his shoulder with a shocked expression. His was a bulbous chocolaty face with a nose that looked like it might pop. He dropped the dishes into the unsoapy water and hurried over to Siri, wiping his hands on his belly. He crouched as he walked in order to keep his head below the visitor’s. He smiled broadly and rocked his head and performed a very wobbly version of the Lao, hands-together
nop
. Siri was afraid the man might drop to his knees.

“Yes, sir? Yes, sir?” he said, apparently delighted to see Siri. This out-of-shape Indian was in his fifties, and Siri doubted the man had known a year of those fifty when he wasn’t being bossed or bullied. He had the air of a man whose idea of Nirvana was a place where the canes were shorter and the whips merely made of horsehair.

“Do you speak Lao?” Siri asked.

The man nodded several times. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

“You could stop bobbing up and down for a start. I’m getting motion sickness.”

“Very well. Yes, sir.”

Siri pulled over two bathroom stools and signalled for the man to sit on one. But as soon as Siri sat on the other, the Indian dropped to the floor like a sack of soft noodles. It appeared to be familiar territory for him so the doctor conceded.

“What’s your name?” Siri asked.

“Yes, sir. I am Bhiku David Tickoo.”

“May I call you Bhiku?”

“Sir, I would be an honoree.”

“Very well, I’m here about Rajid.” Bhiku smiled silently. “You don’t know who that is, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Thought not. It’s the name we’ve given to the young man who walks half naked around the streets.”

“Ah, sir. Then that would be my son, Jogendranath, as named after the great reformist.”

“Really, well that’s quite a mouthful. Could I just call him Rajid for now?”

“As you wish, sir.”

Without warning, Bhiku climbed uneasily to his feet and hurried into the shop. Siri wondered whether he’d offended him by renaming his son, but he returned in seconds with a glass of misty water. He lowered himself to the ground once more before handing it to Siri.

“Forgive me, sir. Where were my manners?”

Siri knew better than to drink unidentified water so he merely touched his lips to the surface.

“Thank you, Bhiku. I was wondering whether you might know where Rajid is right now. Nobody’s seen him for ten days.”

“I know this, sir. I too am very concerned.”

“Does your son ever tell you about places he likes to go? Places where he hides out?”

“Sir, it is sad that I am to say this, but my poor son has not uttered a word since our family tragedy.”

Siri personally knew that not to be true but he didn’t see this as an appropriate moment to say so.

“If it’s not too difficult for you,” Siri said, “I’d like to hear that, story.”

“Oh, sir. It is such a small tale for such a great man to waste his time with.”

Siri laughed. “Dear Bhiku, I really am not a great man.”

“Forgive me for begging to differ, sir, but you are Dr Siri Paiboun. You were pointed out to me at the hospital. You are the greatest man in the entire hemisphere.”

Siri wanted to laugh again but it felt oddly irreverent to do so. He absentmindedly took a sip of his water. “You shouldn’t believe everything my wife tells you,” he joked to shake off the embarrassment.

“I have seen it with my own eyes. My son adores you.”

“He does?”

“Yes, sir. He has informed me of your nature and your ability.”

“You said he can’t speak.”

“And that is true, sir. But he writes.”

“Cr – Rajid writes?”

“Indeed, sir. He writes beautifully. I taught all of my children as my father had taught me. Although my son’s body and mind have been taken by the
Asuras
, his true self is still with us in his script.”

“Could I see it?”

“I am delighted to show you, sir. Unfortunately, you cannot read his words for yourself as they are in Hindi, and he writes in old verse. But there are several stanzas dedicated to you, Doctor.”

Siri was astounded. Crazy Rajid, aka Jogendranath, had always been a character on the fringes of Siri and Civilai’s lunches, swinging in trees, bathing naked in the Mekhong, occasionally masturbating. The thought that he might, like a coma patient, have been aware of everything that was being said, while unable to express himself, made Siri feel a sudden pang of guilt. The two old men could be unkind at times.

“What did he write?” Siri asked.

“Yes, sir. He mentions your kindness, and the kindness of your friends. You brought him clothes, fed him, included him in your celebrations. I know that others treated him well – it is the Lao way to be kind to those less fortunate – but I feel that you did not look down on him.”

Siri was touched.

“I’d like to hear about your tragedy,” Siri said.

“If you insist, sir. In a nutshell, we – my wife and two daughters and two sons – were travelling to Burma by boat. For a better life, it was. I had been offered work in a factory there. Alas, the boat was not as strong as our resolve. There was a storm. Only myself and Jogendranath survived. We were adrift for four days. By the time we were rescued, my son had lost hold of his sanity.”

“So, you and he…?”

“Some work in Burma, sir, until the junta put a crackdown on us illegals. Then to Thailand and casual work. Then a kind Punjabi invited us here. I had cooked for him in Rangoon. He was coming to open this restaurant in Vientiane. He sadly is demised now. It is his son who runs it today.”

His life story had been told in five minutes, and there was sorrow in his large puffy eyes.

“And Rajid?”

“He has periods when he remembers me. At other times I am absent from his mind, sir. We have not spoken since the final day on the boat.”

Siri knew the Indian could speak. He’d heard him. He wondered what blockage there was between son and father. What was Rajid thinking that made him ignore the man who had carried the boy’s infirmity like a boulder on his back across a continent? Siri looked at big, soft, smiling Bhiku and wondered what wicked fate had dragged his life into the bogs.

“Bhiku,” he said. “You strike me as an intelligent man. You read Hindi, and you speak my language quite beautifully…”

“You are too kind, sir. I also have smatterings of Thai and Burmese…not to mention English.”

“That’s what I thought. So why – and there’s no offence intended here – why are you grovelling about in this depressing restaurant earning…what do they pay you?”

“Food and board, sir.”

“Then that’s even worse. Why are you here earning nothing at all when you could hold down a decent job?”