The Merry Misogynist

question ‘How much?’ springs to mind,” she replied.
    The Housing man was getting more and more flustered and the scent of Daeng’s noodles was very seductive.
    “The question refers to two young women residing at your house who have criminal records for engaging in prostitution.”
    “Tsk, tsk, and they’re plying their trade from my house?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “That’s similar to ‘no’, isn’t it?”
    “We are still investigating that charge. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been sent here to fetch you. We have a hearing scheduled for you at seven thirty.”
    “Am I under arrest?” Siri stood and held out his wrists.
    “Well, no. I’m not a – ”
    “Because if I’m not under arrest and if you don’t have at least four burly thugs waiting outside to haul me away, it looks like you’re going to have to conduct your little trial without me.”
    “That isn’t an option, Comrade.” The man’s voice was beginning to crack. He fumbled through the sheets on his board. “I have a summons here signed by the director of Housing.”
    “Oh, then that’s different.” Siri nodded. “Could I get a better look at that?”
    Koomki held it out and, in one smooth sweeping movement, unexpected in a man of his age, Siri grasped the sheet in his hand and was halfway across the shop. Daeng took a step back. Siri folded the paper neatly before placing it on the earthenware hearth in which burned a merry fire. It crumpled to black within seconds. Where the mouth of the man from Housing had previously been, there was now a large gaping hole.
    “And, if you’ll excuse me,” Siri said, wiping his hands, “I intend to have a little breakfast before heading off to work.”
    The man seemed unable to move. “That was government property,” he managed finally.
    Siri went over to Koomki, put his arm around him, and led him to the front of the shop.
    “You blatantly destroyed government property,” the man stammered in case Siri hadn’t heard the first time.
    “Then it’s an eye for an eye. You see, I am the national coroner, which makes me government property too. I am owned exclusively by the Justice Department. Yet you come here and attempt to destroy my reputation. A little slip of paper is cheap by comparison, don’t you think?”
    Siri had Koomki on the uneven pavement now, but before sending him on his way, Siri leaned close to the man’s wet eyes and said, “So please tell your colleagues that if they have any charges to bring against me, they should have me picked up by the police. They may then pursue my case through the courts. Otherwise, leave me alone. I’m not going to get into a panic about a couple of minor officials in an office playing pocket politburo. And if you even consider confiscating my house I’ll have you up in front of the Party union representative before you can get to verse two of ‘The Red Flag’. I’ve been a fully paid-up member for longer than our own prime minister. Don’t forget that.”
    He launched Koomki on his way and stood back. It was always good to have a little sport before breakfast. Siri laughed and took in a breath of early Vientiane. It had become a peaceful place. The only ugly sounds floated across the river: motorcycles and tape recorders, loudspeaker trucks urging people to buy plastic buckets and sweet potatoes. Somewhere, a man was shouting at his wife, sharing their family scandal with his Lao brothers and sisters. Thais weren’t a race you’d ever accuse of peace and quiet. Their televisions and radios had two adjustments on the dial: off and loud.
    Madame Daeng wheeled her cart out to the pavement and joined Siri in his revelry. She put her arm around his waist.
    “Poor man,” she said.
    “Him or me?”
    “Comrade Koomki. I don’t suppose I need to tell you what you just did probably wasn’t a good idea.”
    “Good idea? He comes here, spying, at six o’clock on a Saturday morning to see if I’m wearing pyjamas…?”
    “I know.”
    “What’s the country coming to? Is this what we labored in the jungles for thirty years to produce?”
    “I know.”
    “Bloody little bureaucrat with his clipboard and lists. If he were 50 centimetres taller I might have given him a right hook.” He showed her his right hook, and she felt his muscle. “Even the old one-two.”
    “My hero.”
    They gazed at the retrograde fisherman until he turned to look at them and waved. They waved back.
    “But it probably wasn’t a good idea,”