Dr Siri Paiboun 06 (2009) - The Merry Misogynist

by Colin Cotterill

  “I still have friends in high places,” he told his fellow diners. “You’d be surprised what our American colonists left behind. If you slip me a few bucks I can probably lay my hands on some Spam, canned soup, sardines in tomato sauce, franks and beans, you name it. There’s a larder full of the stuff.”

  “All that old tin should be rusty by now,” Phosy decided.

  “Ah, Inspector” – Civilai wagged his finger – “they say you can never have too much iron in your diet. And if iron is so beneficial, tin can only be one step below it.”

  Siri laughed. “Just think, Phosy. Before he retired, only the politburo had access to his brilliance. Now we all get to share.”

  “Good, I could use some brilliance,” Phosy admitted and became immediately glum.

  “The strangler?” Civilai asked.

  “We’re not getting anywhere. We’re just not cut out to do a nationwide investigation. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from your embroidery circle, Doctor?”

  “Don’t mock the Lao Patriotic Women’s Association, Inspector. They’ll come up with something. You mark my words.”

  “Meanwhile, we’ve come to a dead end with Phan. Not even anything on the truck. It was a Chinese Jiefang. The road builders in the north are bringing them in and selling them secondhand, cheap. Most government projects have one. Nobody thought to write down the licence number. One Chinese truck is pretty much the same as the next.”

  “It looks like the Chinese are invading us one street at a time,” Civilai bemoaned. “They’re doing whatever they want up north in the border provinces. I warned the old fogies on the committee, but nobody listened. It’s only because we don’t have any money that they’re not flooding us with cheap, shoddy goods.”

  “To replace the cheap, shoddy goods from Vietnam?” Siri asked.

  “Exactly. Some of those Chinese engineers have special dispensation to hop around the country without the inconvenience of applying for a laissez-passer.”

  “Like you and me, Siri,” said Phosy.

  “Yes, but you two are Lao. It’s your country…at least for a while.”

  “That’s it.” Phosy tried to click his fingers, but they were slick with mayonnaise. “Travel. We know Phan travelled across prefectural borders. Even if he was attached to a government project he’d need a laissez-passer. Private citizens can’t just pop into the Interior Ministry and say, “I fancy a bit of a drive up to Luang Prabang; could you give me a travel pass?””

  “Even if he had a valid and urgent need, the bureaucracy would delay him for a month or so,” Civilai added.

  “So how did Boonhee get down here so fast to claim his daughter’s body?” Siri asked.

  “Sihot got him a pass,” Phosy said. “We claimed he was a witness. But for Phan to go to Vang Vieng and then return there two weeks later, he had to be attached to some official project.”

  “So you’re assuming he was in the region for another purpose but changed his identity and project description in order to fool the people in Ban Xon?”

  “What do you think?” Phosy asked.

  “It’s a stretch, but it’s as good as anything else you’ve got,” Siri agreed.

  “So, let’s make a list,” said Civilai. He reached into his pack, pulled out three slices of his prize-winning pie, and hunted around for a pen and paper.

  “I have a notepad,” said Phosy. “I’ll exchange it for a piece of pie.”

  “You’ll finish your baguettes, give yourself a few minutes for the first course to digest, then I’ll think about letting you have dessert.”

  “You’re a tough nut.” Phosy laughed. He found his pencil and held it poised to write.

  “Number one, ‘military’,” said Civilai.

  “I don’t know.” Phosy shook his head. “This fellow doesn’t read like army to me. I get the feeling he’s a few pegs above soldier. He seems too polished, too charming. Plus the witnesses said his hair was longish, just over his collar. I know we don’t insist on five millimetres like the Thais, but if our Phan’s an officer he’d lead by example.”

  “I see him as someone who has, or used to have, influence.” Siri thought out loud. “He knows how to talk. Has some breeding. Now if you’d told me he was a Royalist officer I’d believe that. There were a lot of smooth tin soldiers in that outfit. But not the National People’s Liberation Army. They’re too country. Too simple.”

  “How about the police?” Civilai asked.

  Phosy shook his head. “The only unit that does any travelling is the one I’m in charge of.”

  “All right, then let’s start the list with politburo members and their aides, members of the Central Committee.” Civilai smiled, happy to finger his old colleagues. “They get travel passes at the drop of a hat.”

  “I don’t know about that either,” said Siri, dusting the last of his breadcrumbs from his lap. “They’re too high profile. If anyone with a name was in the region all the local cadres would know.”

  “But it’s worth a shot,” Phosy said and began the list. “I’ll get Sihot to check whether there were any political meetings in the district at the time Phan was there.”

  “But don’t forget he had to be there twice,” Siri reminded him. “Once for the seduction and once for the wedding. There had to be some kind of flexibility in his schedule.”

  “Or he picked a location he knew he’d be going back to in a few weeks,” Phosy said.

  “All right,” said Siri. “Let’s include all the departments – I’m sorry, I mean ministries – that are likely to have projects up in the Vang Vieng⁄Ban Xon area. Let’s start with forestry. We know it’s not roads.”

  “Fishery, health, agriculture,” Civilai reeled off.

  “Rural development, culture,” Siri added, “and I’m thinking specifically of the people who go out to hill-tribe villages and convince them they’d be better off as Lao citizens.”

  “Slow down,” said Phosy.

  “Come on, you know which they are,” Civilai told him. “Virtually every department has a division that goes out into the countryside. You’d have to contact all of them and find out whether they had any projects up there on the dates we’ve got.”

  “And you might want to cross-reference with old projects conducted in Luang Nam Tha in the late sixties,” Siri offered. “If there are any old-timers who haven’t managed to swim across the river, they might recall what was going on up there. Wait, isn’t there an office that coordinates all the projects?”

  “The National Coordination Directorate: three men and one woman and so much paperwork you need snowshoes to walk from one side of the office to the other,” Civilai told him. “Forget it. This is going to take legwork, Phosy. Good old-fashioned policing.”

  13

  A HONEYMOON IN HELL

  The letter Phan had been waiting for arrived on the Tuesday lunchtime. He took the truck to the Bureau de Poste and found two envelopes in his box. One was pink and scented and from Thaxi. He didn’t even bother to read it. He ripped it in half and threw it into the large plastic waste basket that stood by the door. She’d failed, this smelly perfume girl. In her last letter, wracked with remorse, she’d admitted that she’d lied to him at their last meeting. She confessed to a small sexual encounter when she was fifteen. She hoped he’d appreciate her honesty as she didn’t want there to be any secrets between them. She hoped it wouldn’t interfere with the plans for their marriage.

  “No, dearie. It didn’t interfere with them. It obliterated them. You are a slut!” The only thing he wanted from her she no longer possessed.

  This second letter, this was what he needed. It had arrived in his box without a stamp through the magic of acquaintanceships. He sat beneath a large Mangifera on the grounds and unfolded the lined school paper. A tiny delicate green caterpillar abseiled down a fine silk thread and landed on the open page. It was an omen. He didn’t need omens. He crushed it with his thumb and wiped his hand on the side of his navy blue trousers.
<
br />   He read her neat handwriting.

  Dearest Phan,

  I can’t tell you how special your letter was for me. I’d prayed at our temple that you would take me to your world. I’ve seen and learned everything I can here in mine. Now it’s time for me to grow and improve myself. We have planned the wedding ceremony for the evening of the 26th. I hope that’s convenient for you and your work. It means we can leave directly on the morning of the 27th.

  Phan, there are so many thoughts and words in my heart that I am too shy to write. Like you I have never written a love letter. I hope you’ll be able to teach me how to express myself so I don’t embarrass you in front of the Lords and Ladies of Europe.

  From Wei to Phan

  Five days away. That was more like it. To the point. No mushy sentiment or scents or last-second confessions. No poetry or bad grammar. She really was perfect, this schoolteacher. He climbed back into his truck and sat behind the wheel. He turned the key and pulled the ignition knob. His beast roared. People on the post office steps turned to stare. “Yes, yes, morons. It’s me. Notice me! You’ll all hear about me soon enough.” He let his foot growl on the accelerator. This was it. This was the feeling. A woman and a truck. What else could a real man want? He pulled out onto Ian Xang Avenue without bothering to look. If anyone on the road was so deaf they couldn’t hear his engine they deserved to be mowed down. He drove twenty metres on the wrong side of the street before crossing to the far lane. It rarely mattered in Vientiane. He allowed himself a gratuitous honk of the horn. He was a very merry misogynist.

  Siri had ridden to the Morning Market after lunch and bought some chicken wire. The hornbill wasn’t getting along too well with the ducks and chickens in Madame Daeng’s backyard so he was planning to divide the garden like East and West Berlin. He hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to machine-gun turrets and barbed wire. On his way back, some idiot in a truck almost wiped him out in front of the post office. Siri’s heart was still pounding when he arrived at the morgue. Mr Geung was standing waiting for him on the front step with a note in each hand. He held them up in front of Siri’s face.

  “M…messages,” he said.

  “What do they say?” Siri asked, walking past him and into the office.

  “I…I don’t know. They’re in…in writing.”

  After many hundred hours of earth-staggering patience, Dtui and Siri had succeeded in teaching Geung some of the mechanics of reading. He had what Dtui called a ‘learn-two-forget-three letter system’. He finally recognized words more from their overall shape than their spelling. Handwriting was noodles to Mr Geung.

  Siri read the notes aloud for Geung’s benefit. The first was from the Lao Patriotic Women’s Association.

  Siri, how are you?

  I’m sure you’re very busy, but it would be wonderful if you could come and see me as soon as possible.

  Very best wishes, your friend,

  Pornsawan

  The second note was from Justice.

  Siri, I expect you here at 1:30, my office. Don’t be late. Haeng

  Siri smiled. “Now, Mr Geung, did you notice any difference in style between these two notes?”

  Geung shook his head.

  “Perhaps I read them badly. Here!” He read them again using his soft and fluffy voice on the first and his Judge Haeng impersonation on the second.

  “Now did you see any difference?”

  “This one,” Geung pointed, “is…is nice. This one is bad.”

  “That’s quite right, Geung. So which one do you think I’m going to respond to first?”

  “The nice one.”

  “Correct. See? You’ll be reading in no time.”

  “Judge H…Haeng is going to be, to be p…pissed off.”

  “You might be right.”

  Dr Pornsawan was working with a group of rural medical interns when Siri arrived at the Women’s Association. As soon as she saw him outside the room she excused herself and went to greet him. She swung his hand from side to side and squeezed his fingers.

  “Hello, Siri. Thank you so much for coming. My office?”

  He followed her to the simple doorless booth she called her own and they both sat. She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a thick wad of notes.

  “You’d be surprised how small our country can be, Dr Siri.”

  “This is all in response to our strangling?”

  “Some of it’s dross – some fantasy and myths,” she said. “But there are one or two reports in there I think could be relevant.”

  “But it’s only been three days,” Siri reminded her. “And one of those was a Sunday.”

  “We don’t mess about, Doctor. We had ladies coming here from the provinces for training and girls going out for workshops. The word got around very quickly. An angry bunch of women actually knows no bounds.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “I’ve taken the liberty of singling out two stories. One was from a lady’s personal experience. The other was anecdotal. Would you like some tea?”

  “Thank you.”

  Pornsawan poured and related the first tale.

  “A girl in Champasak, in the south,” she began. “It was in September of last year. Her parents had sent her off to work on a logging concession in the neighbouring province: Attapeu. It appears one of the foremen had taken a shine to her when he was on leave and saw her around Pakse town. He convinced her parents she’d make a good secretary for the projects in the hills. She’d only completed grade three and had never seen a typewriter, so obviously the foreman was a master at recognizing potential.”

  “Obviously.”

  She sat and let her tea cool on the desk beneath the ceiling fan. Siri sipped at his right away.

  “The foreman arranged her travel documents and drove her up into the hills. On her first night there he made his inevitable advances, and the girl, a virgin, ran to the house of the local headman and his family to complain and seek refuge. Staying at the house was a gentleman attached to the Department of Agriculture. He was shocked by the girl’s story and went to the logging foreman’s house and thumped him one. Some rumours would have it that he beat him half to death, but we all know what rumours are like, brother Siri. We’re doctors so we aren’t allowed to say things like, “He had it coming.” The girl stayed at the headman’s house for a few days, and she and the gentleman from Agriculture fell in love. They were parted for two weeks, but as soon as they reunited they were married.”

  “That was quick.”

  “One of our policies here is to return to the old tradition of getting to know the person you marry. It sounds fundamental but what with all the upheavals – troops relocating, men dying, and roads being built through remote villages – there are families only too willing to put their daughters into the hands of a stranger who is better off than themselves..Our peasantry is getting poorer and more desperate.

  “But I digress. On the night of the wedding at the girl’s home in Champasak, the groom announced that he had to return to Vientiane in two days. Given the state of the road, that seemed like an insurmountable task. So he left with his bride directly after the ceremony. He had a truck, but our witness couldn’t say what type it was, just that the village boys were all gathered around it oohing and aahing. That was the last the parents saw of their daughter. They didn’t hear from her again.”

  “And that was the anecdote?”

  “No, it came directly from the wife of the headman in Attapeu. She hadn’t been able to get a laissez-passer in time for the wedding, but the next time she went to Champasak on Women’s Association business she looked up the family and discovered they hadn’t heard from their daughter.”

  “Did she remember the man’s name?”

  “Yes, it was the same as her eldest son’s. Khamphan.”

  Siri whistled. “Another Phan. Anything else?”

  “That’s all she could remember. She’s going back south tomorrow, and she’s promised to look for the man’s lett
er of introduction to her husband.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be as fake as the last one. Doctor, I’d like to put the lady in touch with Inspector Phosy before she travels. Did she happen to say what the man looked like?”

  “Tall, muscular, mid to late thirties, hair a little too long. Sound familiar?”

  “Much too familiar, I’m afraid.”

  “It is all thoroughly depressing, isn’t it?”

  “Just the thought that he’s out there killing innocent girls and we can’t do anything to stop him makes me sick. You said there was another story?”

  “Much more sketchy, this one. One of our members heard about a woman who attended a wedding just outside Pakxan. Country girl, sophisticated city man. He lived in Vientiane and planned to take her overseas.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Only that they left for a secret romantic honeymoon directly after the ceremony and vanished.”

  “Any time frame?”

  “No, we’re checking up on it.”

  “Did she recall when she heard the story or from whom?”

  Pornsawan consulted her copious notes. “She said it was early last year – when she heard the story, I mean. I’ll let you know what comes of this one.”

  “Excellent. You’re sure the other reports – ?”

  “I’ll give you the lot. If you think there might be anything else, you can get back to me and I’ll follow it up.”

  “You’re doing a marvellous job, Comrade.”

  “I’m sure there’ll be more.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Bo ben nyang.”

  He stood to leave and she walked him to the door.

  “I must say you’re looking good, considering your exploits at Si Muang Temple,” she said.

  Siri rolled his eyes. “How on earth could you have…? All right. Silly question. Yes, thank you. I’m fine.”

  “How’s your Indian friend?”

  “Doing well. Very soon he’ll be well enough to roll about in mud, eat worms, and walk aimlessly around Nam Poo Fountain again.”