The Merry Misogynist

government buildings, Finance and Foreign Affairs, which, until a week ago, had been mere departments. Overnight they had become ministries. He remembered a meeting in the caves of Vieng Xai where the old cadres had voted unanimously that when they came to power, they wouldn’t encumber their work with the linguistic ornaments of the decadent West. They didn’t need ministers or ministries because that would distance them from the common people. No, for them titles like ‘Comrade Bounlert in charge of agriculture’ would be sufficient. But the temptation to be Somebody had obviously proven too great and the Department of Information had announced that all departments, including itself, would thereafter be called ministries, ‘merely to avoid confusion among foreign diplomats’.
    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