The Merry Misogynist dsp-6

by Colin Cotterill

  They laughed again.

  "Darn it," said Civilai. "And here I was thinking the tin man had found his heart."

  "And here I am thinking it's time to shake out the creases from Rajid's sheets and let him get some rest," Dtui announced with a laugh. She stood with her baby and let everyone have a little hand squeeze and cheek sniff of Malee before stepping out. Geung followed her. Mr Tickoo stacked the stools and bowed a goodbye to his son's guests.

  Phosy cornered Siri and Civilai and told them he wanted a word with them. They went to the canteen and ordered three glasses of Mahosot coffee, a gooey brew rumoured to have polished off a number of patients who might have pulled through otherwise. They sat by an open window where the scent from the hairy jasmine bushes overwhelmed the general antiseptic atmosphere of the hospital. A fan above their heads kept off the evening mosquitoes.

  "All right, boys. Here's the latest," Phosy said. "First, we've had no luck at all with the ministries, the Central Committee, or any of the aid programmes. No projects planned or executed in or around Vang Vieng on the dates our villain was there."

  "Damn," said Siri.

  "Doctor, as soon as I got your information yesterday, I contacted the police station in Pakse. It's one of the few places you can get a phone call through to these days. They're a bit behind in submitting their case ledgers. They still had the last two years' books down there. I thought it might take a few days for them to go through them, but one of the officers remembered a complaint filed by the parents of a missing girl. It rang a bell with the sergeant when I mentioned the logging concession incident."

  "I know the officers in Pakse," said Siri. "There wasn't a lot of bell ringing going on down there."

  "I imagine the complaint wouldn't have been remembered, and perhaps not even filed at all, if it hadn't been for the peculiar events that surrounded it," Phosy continued. "The mother was still upset about what happened, or almost happened, to her daughter at the concession. The girl had promised solemnly that she'd phone her at the Bureau de Poste on a certain day at a certain time. The mother and father travelled overnight to be there. She didn't call. The parents waited there for five hours. They tried to get through to the Vientiane number the groom had given them for emergencies but the post office clerk told them there was no such code. That's when they went to file with the police.

  "It was while they were telling their story that the sergeant tied it together with another case being looked into. And this sounds very much like our villain. There'd been a complaint about a false laissez-passer. You both know how it works — when you travel between provinces you have to report at a police box."

  "Do they take down licence plate numbers?" Siri asked excitedly.

  "I'm afraid not."

  "Typical. Something that might have been useful…"

  "There are army barricades that take down plate numbers, but they tend to ignore anything that isn't privately owned. We're checking with the military posts down there anyway. All they do at the migration checkpoints is slowly and painfully copy down all the information on the laissez-passer and write the date in an exercise book. That information goes to the central registry in Pakse, where somebody else copies it out of the exercise book and into a bigger book — "

  "So on ad infinitum," said Civilai.

  "Well, it turns out that the registrar who noted the information was out drinking one night with a couple of mates from the Champasak Forestry Department — "

  "Which I believe is now officially known as the Champasak Deforestry Department," Civilai cut in again.

  "Are you going to let me finish, Comrade?"

  "Sorry."

  "He told his drinking friends that he'd noticed Forestry had a bigwig from Vientiane in town. They said they hadn't heard about it. They mentioned it to their regional boss, and he confirmed there weren't any visitors from anywhere around the date noted in the book, hence the fake laissez-passer complaint. After further investigation they found that the impostor had checked out of the province at the same checkpoint two days later. Don't forget it takes a while for the checkpoint information to reach the city. These were exactly the dates the parents of the missing girl claimed her suitor was in town. He was calling himself Khamphan this time, by the way. There aren't that many non-military strangers hanging around so the Pakse police put two and two together."

  "Brilliant," Siri said. "And what did they do about it?"

  "Nothing," Phosy confessed. He stirred the coffee and condensed milk together in the glass. It was barely liquid. "They thought it was just a lover's tryst, that the fellow faked the pass so that he could marry his fiancee. They didn't see it as very important."

  "That's more like the police force we know and love," Siri decided. "So the story ends there?"

  "Yes. We're gathering information about any ongoing projects within a day's drive of Attapeu town over that period. We're going back to all the same ministries. You see, Phan told the parents he was heading north to Vientiane on the night of the wedding. But he didn't cross the northern border. He crossed back into Attapeu. He'd told the parents he'd arranged a laissez-passer for his new bride but there was no mention of her in the ledger at the police checkpoint."

  Civilai whistled. "So he killed her in Champasak because it was easier than getting her across the border."

  "Either that or he just snuck her across after dark when the police were partying or fast asleep. He could have bribed his way through the barrier with her."

  "I'd go with the first theory myself," said Siri.

  "Me too," Phosy agreed.

  Despite its heat, Siri cradled his glass between his palms, putting off the drinking for as long as possible.

  "So," he said, "what we have here is a nasty piece of work who's travelling around the country on some official business. It's work that involves returning after two weeks to — I don't know — to follow up or something. He has influence because he's able to falsify documents that pass cursory inspection. He has a truck, which suggests he's at least the head of a section or department."

  "With a very generous gas allowance, judging from all the travelling he's been doing," Phosy added.

  "Quite. So it's a project that's far more important than the usual road measuring or rice testing — 'Let's look like we've actually done something' — mission. He goes out to the countryside some way from his actual project site and assumes a false identity. He woos a country girl, takes advantage of her naivete, and she falls in love with him. He promises to come back and marry her. Two weeks later he's in the village bamboozling everyone with all the paperwork he's put together. He convinces them he's registered the marriage and arranged travel documents, and he whisks her off on their wedding night."

  "To a honeymoon in hell." Civilai sighed.

  "You aren't wrong, brother."

  "Then why would somebody so smart be so sloppy?" Civilai asked.

  "How do you mean?"

  "Well, he was clever enough to fool the regional cadres, and parents and village elders, and then he left the bodies no more than twenty metres from a main road where anyone might stumble across them."

  "I think that's the point," said Phosy. "He wants the bodies to be found."

  "Exactly," Siri agreed. "It completes the humiliation of the women."

  "Who is he, Doctor?" Phosy asked. "I mean what's going on in his head? What are we looking for exactly?"

  Siri stood his spoon in his coffee and let it go. It didn't fall to the edge, just stood there, trapped.

  "Well," he said, "my psychology training was two semesters, fifty-odd years ago, and it leaned rather heavily towards Freud. And Freud would probably have suggested that our strangler had problems with his mother, or at least a woman in his past. The symbolism of the pestle doesn't take a great deal of imagination to work out. I wouldn't be surprised if he was impotent. All I can be certain of is this: for him to go to so much trouble, something happened to make our Phan hate women with a vengeance."

  14
r />   COMING TO ONE'S CENSUS

  Siri and Daeng sat across from the closed noodle shop on the high bank of the river. They were perched on two old rattan chairs that creaked more than they did. They were well down a bottle of rice whisky, and they both agreed it was pretty damned good stuff. They held their glasses in their outside hands while their inside hands were clasped together. They stared across the tar black Mekhong, which reflected the little lights on the Thai side. The breezes that skipped off the water suggested the rains might come on time this year and spare the earth any more suffering.

  "Dr Siri…?" Daeng began.

  "You know I'm always tempted to call you Noodle-seller Daeng whenever you say that?"

  By this time of night even their slurring was compatible.

  "I wasn't referring to you."

  "There's another Dr Siri?"

  "That handsome young fellow I met in the south. I was a peanut in those days."

  "You were never a peanut."

  "I was. You just don't understand. You know how peanuts live in their own little shell chambers, and they can see the peanut next door every day, but the gap between them's too narrow to crawl through?"

  "I have to confess I've never really thought about peanuts like that."

  "Well, I was that peanut. There you were with Boua, and you were in love then, and you were perfect together. And I was so close every day…but I couldn't touch you. I couldn't get through the gap. And once you both left, I never got over how close we'd been. Eventually I found myself a husband. He was a good man, a rebel like us. And we were content. But every time I saw a peanut it made me sad."

  Siri laughed. "Daeng, you're starting to sound like Judge Haeng."

  "Don't laugh at me. You know I have trouble expressing myself when I've had a drink or ten. I'm serious."

  "How can you be serious about a peanut?"

  "Siri!"

  "I'm sorry."

  "All I want to say is, even if you hadn't been with Boua then, we were too important, too big for our own lives. If we'd tried to be together it wouldn't have worked. It could never have been like this. But over the years we got smaller, and I crawled through to your chamber, and now we are…"

  "The happy peanuts."

  "Exactly."

  "My love, you're so poetic when you've had a few drinks I should keep you sloshed all day."

  "And all day I'd tell you how happy I am with you and thank you for taking me in."

  They leaned their heads together.

  "Your turn," she said.

  "To what?"

  "To say something nice about me."

  "Shouldn't it be spontaneous?"

  "Not necessarily."

  Daeng poured them another drink and Siri considered what story might suit the occasion. He didn't have any fruit or cereal analogies so he resorted to something he knew.

  "All right," he said. "You know I told you about the visions I was having?"

  "The wormy lady and the dog?"

  "Yes, well, I told you they were spectres warning me that Rajid was in danger. But at the time I actually thought they were omens about me and the end of my life."

  "I knew that."

  "You did?"

  "Absolutely."

  He wasn't really surprised. Daeng had a far better understanding of Siri Paiboun than he did.

  "Anyway, once I got it into my head that I was on my way out, all I could think was how unfair it was that we'd had so little time together. If it had happened a year ago before our reunion I would have held out my wrists for the deathly shackles and gone happily. Now you've given me a reason to fight. I don't want either of us popping off into the ether."

  "That's lovely."

  They looked up at the clear, starry sky and grinned at the Great Bear, who always seemed to be falling on his backside.

  "The census," she said.

  "You've just changed the subject, haven't you?"

  "Not really. It's an ongoing subject. It's what you asked me on Wednesday, about a department that's high profile, has a reasonable budget, whose employees might go back to the same location twice. It just came to me."

  Siri sat up in his seat and glared at his wife.

  "To distribute and collect questionnaires," Siri said.

  "Right."

  "You're brilliant."

  "I know. Don't tell Phosy yet."

  "Why not?"

  "Because he's a policeman. He's not very subtle. He'd go strutting into their office with his police bell ringing and alert everyone that he's on to them and, if he's there, your maniac would go to ground."

  "What then?"

  "Just wander in there. Have a look around. Just some old fellow interested in the census. No danger. You get your information and if you see anything fishy you tell Phosy. That way you can nail the bastard."

  "And you came up with this plan while you were staring at the moon, billing and cooing with me?"

  "The woman's brain has two hemispheres," she slurred. "One for loving, one for hating. They can operate quite competently at the same time."

  The Minorities Census of '77-'78 was one that the government officially knew nothing about. Despite all the recent posturing on the rights of the non-lowland Lao, it was apparent that nobody actually had a clue as to how many different ethnic groups there were. The prime minister in his annual address put the number at over a hundred, but the Ministry of Culture quoted a figure of sixty-eight. And within those groups, nobody knew how many had survived the war and how many had fled. Before anyone in power was prepared to put his name to a bill to protect the rights and culture of minorities, the Central Committee needed to know just how many people were involved and what slice of the budget it might eat up. Some sceptics, Siri included, suggested that this might just be a subtle plot to seek out and remove groups still opposed to the PL, but nobody was prepared to admit to such subterfuge.

  The collection of data had commenced in early '77. The logistics were daunting, especially considering the fact that most ethnic groups lived in remote locations specifically so they wouldn't be bothered by the government. The census was organized by the Ministry of Interior but operated independently out of a two-storey building on Koovieng Road. There was a director, Comrade Kummai, a clerical staff of six who collated data, three drivers, three mobile teams of survey collectors, and a woman who cleaned and made tea. Of the mobile teams, two flew to remote sites, hired a four-wheel-drive vehicle at the location, and headed off into the hills. The other team operated within convenient driving distance of Vientiane and paid local lowland Lao officials to conduct the surveys among isolated communities in their districts.

  When Siri arrived that morning, the cleaning lady showed him directly upstairs to Comrade Kummai's office without asking who he was. The director's door was open, and Kummai was facing an enormous wall chart, making 'Pshh, pshh' sounds, and scratching his head. He seemed to be searching for something in the tangle of lines and figures. The maid left Siri there without saying a word to the director, so he had no choice but to introduce himself.

  "Excuse me, Comrade."

  Kummai turned. He was a portly man not much taller than Siri. He wore a white shirt tucked into his belt only where it was in the mood to be. He wore no socks and his trousers were rolled up his shins.

  "You're Dr Siri," he said.

  "I am."

  Siri tried to place the director but he was nowhere to be found in Siri's memory.

  "Kummai, northern zone 3 regiment," said the man. "It's me, Captain Kummai. You were attached to us for a few months. Hot season — '65, I think it was."

  "You've got a good memory, Comrade."

  "Names and dates stick. That's why I ended up here, I suppose. Not surprised you don't remember me, though. I was a slim fellow back then."

  Siri couldn't place him at all but he'd seen so many soldiers. Now if he'd died, that would be a different matter entirely. To Siri's surprise, the head of the Census Department began to unbutton his shirt. Siri took a
step back towards the door.

  "Remember this?" asked Kummai. He lifted a roll of fat to reveal an appendix scar. Not surprisingly, to Siri it looked like any other appendix scar.

  "It's very neat," Siri decided.

  "Of course it is. This is your handiwork. I'd wager half the men in our section have scars courtesy of Dr Siri. Wouldn't be surprised if they boasted to their loved ones about having Siri originals."

  "I should have signed them."

  Kummai laughed uproariously. He crossed to Siri and shook his hand and patted his back.

  "Well, well," he said. "Dr Siri still alive. What are you now? Eighty? Ninety?"

  Siri laughed. "It feels that way sometimes."

  "I bet it does. I bet it does. Well now, Dr Siri. Let me show you around my domain."

  "I don't want to be a nuisance," Siri said.

  "Nonsense." Kummai took the doctor's arm and led him out of the office. Siri and Daeng had put together an elaborate ruse to get a look at the inside of the building but the director didn't even ask what he'd come for. The tour began with the upstairs clerical section.

  "This is old Dr Siri," Kummai told the girls. "Saved my life in the war. Still alive, both of us. Ha ha."

  The clerks seemed mentally exhausted by their director's unending joy. While Kummai went into detail about his burst appendix, Siri noted that the walls were lined with samples of every type of official document there was. As they were leaving the room, he asked the director what they were doing there.

  "Checks, Siri. Checks. We often have to verify that documents are authentic. Our lasses in there just compare an original with the sample. If it looks suspicious they call in the heavy brigade. That's me."