The Merry Misogynist

moments later with a young man who had all the appearances – shaved head, victimized expression – of being a monk, but wore only royal blue soccer shorts.
    “This fellow knows Rajid,” said Civilai.
    The young man covered his chest with his arm as if he were ashamed of his nipples.
    “He used to come often,” said the monk, “but I didn’t know his name. We’d feed him if we had anything to give and let him wander around. He was harmless enough.”
    “When was the last time you saw him?” Dtui asked.
    “Ooh, I don’t know. A few weeks? Three perhaps?”
    Siri recalled the worms and the scent of wet earth. “Do you have any catacombs here, son?” he asked.
    The soccer monk laughed. “We flood here every wet season, uncle. If there were chambers down below they’d be mud by now. That’s why they started to put in the pipes.”
    “Pipes?” Siri perked up at the mention. “Where do they run?”
    “They don’t, uncle. They were supposed to drain out the rainwater. The temple grounds are half a metre lower than the streets in front and back. In the monsoons it’s like living in a rice paddy. They were going to lay the pipes from here all the way down to the river, but the project was put on hold when the new people took over.”
    “How far did they get?” Civilai asked.
    “I don’t know. About seven metres? They dug the trench, put in the pipes, then didn’t come back. We had to fill in the trench ourselves. They didn’t even make it as far as the road.”
    “Are there drains?” Siri asked.
    “They didn’t get around to putting any in.”
    “So there’s no way down?”
    “Wouldn’t make any difference if there was.”
    “Why not?”
    “The pipe’s only twenty centimetres in diameter.”
    “Why didn’t you say so?” Siri was annoyed.
    “You didn’t ask.”
 
    “The good news,” Dtui said, “is that we won’t have to go burrowing around underground. Heaven knows how much we all enjoy that.”
    The three of them were sitting on one of the concrete benches donated to the temple by a follower who had long since fled. A fearful monkey king watched over them. They were shaded by a mango tree but it was still painfully hot. Dtui fanned herself with a handful of calling cards from her purse.
    “The bad news,” Civilai continued, “is that we aren’t any closer to finding poor Rajid. Everything here’s above ground. Looks like your premonition was a false alarm, little brother.”
    “I don’t believe that.” Siri shook his head. “There was all that paraphernalia. He had to get that from somewhere.”
    “It could have been any one of fifty temples in a five-kilometre radius.”
    “But this one matches: the pregnant woman, the age of the pots. We know he was nosing around underground.”
    “But certainly not here,” Civilai decided.
    “It must be the pipes,” Siri said. “They must be bigger than the monk remembers them.”
    “Look” – Civilai put his hand on Siri’s shoulder – “we aren’t likely to bring spades and dig up the entire temple grounds, are we now? Why don’t we go together to the Iand Department on Monday morning and see if they have a record of any tunnels or underground chambers around here.”
    “Monday’s too late.”
    “Well, you were wrong about Si Muang Temple; perhaps you’re wrong about his dying too.”
    Siri bit his lip.
    “I think we should all go home and have a nice rest,” said Dtui. “I’m sure the solution will come to us in a flash after a little sleep.” She put her hand on her belly. “I feel like I’m carrying the entire politburo around, and they’re starting to give me indigestion.”
    “You’re right.” Siri nodded. “I apologize for my over-enthusiasm. Let’s go back – ”
    “Good.”
    “After one quick circuit of the temple.” Siri stood. “Nurse, you may stay here on this shady bench and wait for us. If you feel a birth coming on, just scream and we’ll come running.”
    After probing around the gardens and the monks’ quarters, and a very thorough search of the old Khmer ruins, Siri and Civilai stood on the shady side of the stupa. Apart from one poorly renovated patch halfway up, the chedi was a sad structure. The Thais would have cemented it over and painted it gold long ago but here it stood like a stack of charred rusks. To their right a concrete lion sat obediently on a plinth, and sleeping in its shade was Saloop.
    “This is the place. He has to be here somewhere,” Siri