The Merry Misogynist

time they reached the stupa, Siri had already made an impression on the new brickwork.
    “What in the name of all that is sacred are you doing?” shouted the abbot.
    Daeng called up to Siri, “My love, I might be forced to kill a monk or two tonight. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me if I’m sent to hell.”
    The abbot stopped in his tracks.
    “My goodness. They’re both mad. Stop them!” he told his acolytes.
    He stepped back and let the monks make the advance. They prowled forward. Daeng reached into her shoulder bag and produced an extremely long knife. She brandished it halfheartedly, and the monks froze.
    “Look, I’m really sorry about this,” she said. “I personally have nothing against the temple. In fact, I’ve been a fairly good Buddhist all my life. But I will be forced to use this if you come any closer.”
    She looked up at Siri, who was flagging. He wheezed in counterpoint to the thumps of his hammer on the brickwork. She turned back to the stunned monks and smiled.
    “Perhaps I could ask,” Daeng continued, “exactly when was the renovation here completed?”
    “If he has a problem with renovations we could always discuss it like sensible adults,” the abbot said. “There’s really no need to – ”
    “If you could just answer the question,” Daeng said.
    “About three weeks ago,” said the soccer monk.
    Daeng heaved a sigh. “Thank goodness for that. We might be on the right track then. If you’d said three months it would have been one of those embarrassing moments you see in the comics.”
    She laughed but nobody joined her.
    “Does anyone know what in hell she’s talking about?” asked the abbot.
    When the two orderlies arrived from Mahosot, wheeling their bicycles, the scene that confronted them defied common sense. Dr Siri was up a ladder battering a hole in one of the city’s oldest stupas with a sledgehammer. His wife was holding back five monks with a carving knife.
    They looked at each other to be sure they were both seeing the same thing.
    Dr Siri had only one last swing left in him. He defied gravity, gripped the hammer in both hands, lifted it above his head, and sent it crashing down onto the seriously wounded brickwork. The sledgehammer bounced out of Siri’s hands and passed not four centimetres from his wife’s head. Siri clung to the ladder in time to prevent his backward tumble. Seen from the ground, his mission appeared to have failed. The doctor prostrated himself against the stupa, desperately searching for breath.
    “Siri, this would be an embarrassing moment to die,” Daeng called up to him.
    Siri recovered, put his hands out in front of him, and pushed. What was left of the renovated brickwork caved inward, leaving a jagged triangular window some sixty centimetres by thirty.
    “My Thor,” cheered Daeng.
    “Oh, my heaven!” said the abbot.
    Siri reached to the back of his belt and took out the torch. He pressed the switch and climbed the last step in order to see inside the stupa. The original walls were eighty centimetres thick, which explained why the new brickwork had been so hard to dislodge. He’d put all his effort into weakening the old masonry around the new cement. As he’d hoped, the workers had been too lazy to make the patch any thicker than the eye could see. He pulled himself through the narrow gap and edged forward. There was a narrow chimney of space at the core of the stupa, and he leaned over the precipice so he could look down into the bowels. The ancient bricks crumbled as he progressed. He recognized the earthy, wormy smell that rose to greet him.
    “Rajid?” he called. “Rajid?” Siri’s lungs ached, and the mustiness of the air caused him to struggle for breath. He heard his own voice as a whisper. There was a rustle from below, barely audible, perhaps caused by insects. Siri pulled himself forward until he was looking directly down. He shone his light, and there below him on the dirt floor was the crumpled body of Rajid in a space no wider than the inside of a mail box.
    “Are you dead, Rajid?”
    Siri could see crusted blood on the Indian’s head and, from his perch, he couldn’t make out any breathing. There was no movement, no sound. Siri grabbed a chunk of brick and tossed it down into the hole. It hit Rajid on the shoulder. There was still no reaction.
    “Wake up, damn you,” Siri shouted. He wanted desperately to climb down into the hole but had no more energy. His head was