The Merry Misogynist

believe,” the boxer replied. “Somewhere up in the north. She passed away.”
    Phosy took a step to his left to eclipse Madame Daeng. “Have you seen him with any women? Girlfriends? Doing any socializing on these trips?”
    “No, but like I say, apart from the journey out and back we don’t see each other that much. Why? What’s he done?”
    Phosy ignored the question. “How do you get along with him?”
    “He’s all right. He can be really charming at times. He knows some funny stories when he’s in the mood. But I don’t get the feeling he’s in this type of work for the social contact. I think it’s the isolation he likes, being up here in the hills. It can be addictive, I have to admit.”
    Madame Daeng had sidled around to get shade from a cow’s-earring tree. She was biding her time until Phosy ran out of questions. Her chance came sooner than she’d expected.
    “Well, thank you…” Phosy began. Daeng put up her hand. “What?”
    “One last question,” she said and smiled too sweetly for him to refuse.
    Phosy waved her on.
    “There are women at your office?”
    “Yes, about half a dozen.”
    “How does Buaphan act around them?”
    “Act?”
    “Yes, is he friendly? Does he flirt?”
    Ying laughed. “One thing I could never imagine is Comrade Buaphan flirting with the women at the office. If you wanted a playboy you couldn’t go past my office mate, Nouphet. He’s the charmer. But Buaphan, no ma’am. He’s really not that type.”
    “What type is he?” Phosy asked.
    “Well, he’s…don’t get me wrong. I get along with him OK. But Buaphan can be a bit…self-important. It’s as if he thinks he’s better than other people. It doesn’t worry me, but I know the clerks and the cleaner and the drivers complain about him treating them like servants. They gossip about him a lot.”
    From Ying, the boxer, they learned at which of the three locations Buaphan was based. In order to get there they had to return along the track they’d just taken and go all the way back to the intersection with the main road. There they were to head north, away from Natan, until they arrived at the small village of Nahoi, where Comrade Nouphet, the playboy, was billeted. The village was at a second turn-off that led up into the mountains to the remote outpost where Buaphan had chosen to spend his time.
    Phosy had yielded the driving to one of his men, who had his nose up against the windscreen studying the rocks ahead. Phosy sat in silence, riding the bumps.
    “I could drive if you get tired,” Daeng said.
    “No!” snapped Phosy, still deep in his huff.
    “You know?” Daeng said. “It doesn’t make sense. Something worries me about all this.”
    “And something’s worrying me,” said the policeman, with a finger pointed at her nose. “And do you know what that is? It’s you. I swear, old lady, if I have to tie you up and duct tape your mouth to keep you quiet, I will have no hesitation.”
    She wasn’t offended. He was a nice boy who had commanded men in the jungle. He was just a little too fixated on authority. She knew he’d get over it. She smiled serenely and watched the birds that fluttered from the bushes as the noisy jeep approached.
    The main road was only marginally better than the track. At the first intersection they were only five kilometres from Natan and Phosy considered making that detour to drop off the heavy weight that had attached herself to their party. But the drive to and from the first base had taken four hours and he couldn’t afford to waste any more time. He reassumed the role of driver on the way to Nahoi and decided it would be wise to stop off there to check as to whether Comrade Nouphet had seen Buaphan or the truck. While Daeng and the two officers went to the small roadside market to buy food and drink for the next leg of their journey, Phosy walked into the village to find the second census collator.
    It was an untidy place decked out all in brown, courtesy of the road dust. He was given directions by a six-year-old girl who had a two-year-old at her hip. She walked him up the dirt path to the headman’s house, where the man from Vientiane was staying. The headman was sitting on a homemade rocker on his porch. He was dark and bony like leather stretched over spare washing-machine parts. He waved as Phosy approached.
    “Good health,” the man said in very strongly accented Lao. “You looking for the boy?”
    “Good health,” Phosy replied. “The