The Merry Misogynist

of them. To the left of the grill there was a shadow. It was about thirty centimetres tall and had all the makings of a hairy creature lurking, ready to pounce.
    “Shine your light on it.”
    “I left mine in the bathroom.”
    “Me too.”
    “Did it just move?” Siri asked. “Perhaps not. If I had a stick I could give it a poke.”
    “Don’t go away.”
    Daeng went back to the bathroom and walked in on the man as he was tossing water over himself with a ladle. He opened one eye and looked at her through the shampoo.
    “Excuse me,” she said, grabbing a mop and their torches.
    “No problem,” he replied.
    She paused briefly in the doorway to glance back, then took the mop to Siri. It was just long enough to reach the hairy object in the corner. It didn’t leap to life when Siri prodded it. The torches revealed its identity. With a little manual dexterity, Siri was able to coax the object towards them. Daeng reached down and grabbed it by the hair. It was a porcelain doll: the cold daughter of the daughter . Her clothes were tattered and insect ravaged but her hair and face looked as gay as on the day she first arrived in the tropics with her French owner.
    “You don’t suppose if we pull its string it might tell us the next riddle?” Daeng asked.
    “This young lady pre-dates talking dolls by about fifty years, I’d say, but look.” Siri had lifted the frayed dress to reveal a conservative pair of knickers and, in the waistband, a tightly rolled slip of paper. “Ah, Rajid, sleazy as ever.”

6
IN THE BELLY OF THE BRAINLESS ONE
    I t had been four days since Phan had begun courting Wei, the schoolteacher. Everything had gone very smoothly. He and her brother were best friends, her parents called him ‘son’, and Granny would have had him in her attic bunk in the blink of an eye. Wei wasn’t as eager as some. She had to save face at the school, he imagined. But she was certainly in love with him. He hadn’t exactly asked her to marry him, not in so many words. But there was an unspoken inevitability. It was his last night in the village. His work in the region was done for this trip. He’d weaved his magic so deftly he imagined more than a few villagers would shed tears to see him go .
    There were only two more steps: tonight’s tearful goodbye and one, perhaps two, love letters. That should do it. But first there had to be the question. It was a final test. If she got the answer wrong she couldn’t have him, not ever. It would mean the end of all this hokum. Ironically, the wrong answer might actually save her worthless life. By now he’d developed an instinct about it but he needed to hear it from the girl’s mouth and read the truth in her eyes .
    He was sitting by the same urine-coloured pond, ignoring the mosquitoes that sucked at his blood. The sun had set, and he was weaving a grass goldfish by the light of a small kerosene lamp. He heard the crunch of two sets of footsteps on the gravel. It was a very good sign. She wasn’t alone .
 
    She saw him there in the warm orange glow of the lamp and felt Nook squeeze her hand. It was a scene from the Ramayana she’d seen in an illustration. Rama, with his princely aura, sitting by the lake of Manas. She’d found no fault in him, not one in four days. He was a sincere, hardworking government cadre, warm and funny and strong, and…not handsome exactly; but noble looking. A face that would age well. She’d become somebody different since he’d arrived: somebody better. Her village and her life were so much more important when she saw them through his eyes. And she…? She had become…no, that was it. She had become.
 
    He watched her say goodbye to her queer friend and walk towards him. But the queer didn’t turn around and go back. He was her chaperone. Excellent that she had one but why choose that aberration? Why would a man, born with all the right attributes, aspire to be female? It was sickening. Phan felt the nausea rise in his throat. But he had to ignore it. He had to ignore the freak and concentrate on the task at hand .
 
    He rose when she approached and gestured toward a large rock. He’d placed his folded windbreaker on top of it for her comfort.
    “Hello, Phan.” She looked at the completed grass sculpture in his hand. “Can I see it?”
    “It’s for you,” he said.
    “It’s beautiful.”
    She blushed when he handed it to her.
    “It’s only a fish,” he smiled.
    “I know. Fish are my