The Merry Misogynist

front porch, working on a second bottle of rice whisky. Crazy Rajid was still on Siri’s mind but, like him and Daeng, all the people at the house were immigrants from the provinces. The only Vientiane resident was Miss Vong next door and she was off on a one-week training programme in the north. Then something occurred to him. He called Lia over.
    “I sorry, sir,” she said.
    “It’s OK, love. It’s not about the roof.” He took her hand and smiled. “When you and your grandfather were begging around the city, do you remember seeing a half-naked man?”
    “India man,” she said straight away.
    “Yes, that’s it. His name’s Rajid, or maybe it isn’t. He’s a little bit…” He circled a finger around the side of his head.
    “I know he.”
    “Good, well, he’s missing. We can’t find him. Nobody’s seen him for ten days.”
    “I hope he no sick.”
    “So do I, Lia. Do you know about any places he might like to go to hide? Have you seen him anywhere apart from downtown?”
    “No, sir.”
    “That’s OK. We’ll keep looking.”
    “Maybe he father know.”
    “You mean, your father?”
    “No, sir. He father. India father.”
    “Rajid has a father? How could you possibly know that?”
    “One day he take us go eat. Meet father.”
    “Where?”
    “India restaurant near market. He father cooking. Big fat man.”
 
    The dinner was simple but Phan had learned to stomach the inadequate swill they served out here in the boondocks. He inquired about the recipe and charmed the girl’s mother by going so far as to write it down in his notebook to give to friends in Vientiane. He told her his hobby was collecting authentic ethnic recipes, and hers was one of the best. He was a consummate and convincing flatterer. He savoured the bitter stench as if it were nectar from the gods and let his eyes wander only briefly to the still-blushing face of Wei .
    Not bad this – only his second day and he was already in the circle: cross-legged on the bamboo matting, telling funny stories to the younger ones, sharing mechanical insights with the older brother. Not over the top. Modest. Not the entertainer who causes people to doubt his sincerity but the quiet, almost shy man who only speaks when spoken to. Perhaps he asks a question about the area: the wildlife, the irrigation system. The perfect guest .
    Wei sat on the far side of the circle ignored by this interesting stranger all but for his eyes. Yet she knew, as they all did, that she was the reason for his being there .
    On Saturday night he had presented his credentials to the headman and, according to protocol, dined with the old man and his wife. He might have mentioned the young teacher he’d seen at the pond, might have blushed a little, but he hadn’t pursued the matter. Once mentioned, the subject was dropped. Of course the old wife had asked him about his marital status .
    “I haven’t found the right woman,” he’d told her .
    ( Another blush.) He mentioned that he had only just arrived at the financial plateau upon which one could build a family life. (One more blush.) “I’m looking for a smart girl who loves children .”
    He’d noticed the old couple exchange glances at that point and knew the trap was set .
    On Sunday morning he’d cleaned his truck and spent the next seven hours or so in the space beneath the headman’s hut beside the loom. He had his back to the street and was writing at a makeshift table, poring over sheets of very complicated-looking documents. Serious. Dedicated. It was hot so he wore only shorts and an undershirt that showed his well-defined shoulders. Every footstep overhead on the old bamboo sent down a shower of dust but he ignored the inconvenience. They brought him water and lunch and he ate while working. He could tell that people were passing on the street, talking about him, stopping to admire his dedication. Nothing could disturb him until, at three o’clock, he was done. He leaned back on his stool and stretched .
    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