Colin Cotterill - The Woman Who Wouldn't die

‘Hello, Mr B,’ said Dtui. ‘I’m looking for Jogendranath.’ Crazy Rajid’s actual name.

‘Oh, goodness. What has he done now?’ asked Mr Bhiku.

‘Well, I believe he might have saved the life of me and my daughter here.’

Mr B’s face gave off a glow like a two-bar electric heater.

‘If that is so, I would be most delighted,’ he said. ‘Most delighted indeed.’

‘Have you seen him lately?’ she asked.

‘Sadly, not for four days. He was given to sleeping here in my open-air kitchen but I have seen neither hide nor hair of him since Sunday.’

Crazy Rajid’s walkabouts were legendary so this was not a matter of concern to either of them.

‘When he gets back, could you tell him that Malee and I would really like to see him.’

‘I most certainly will,’ he said. ‘And how is your handsome and hardworking police husband?’

‘He’s fine. He’s off training the untrainable in the north-east. Should be back in a day or two.’

‘Give him my regards.’

It wasn’t until she was almost back at the nursing school that a thought entered Dtui’s head. One that she couldn’t shake away. Nobody had seen Crazy Rajid since Sunday. Sunday was probably the day that Herve Barnard had crossed into Thailand in order to enter Sanyaburi from the rear.

Could Rajid really have followed the Frenchman across the border? And if so, what chance of survival would a mentally disturbed Indian have on the Thai side?

Siri and Daeng were actually living in Siri’s allotted house at That Luang. Daeng’s restaurant was a shell but it was a tough shell and somehow the block had held up. There was no roof, of course, and they had no money to begin refurbishing, but there was promise. Of Siri’s splendid library there was no trace. In Phnom Penh, he had shed tears at the sight of all the tomes from the national library ruined by rain and smoke. But that had been a premeditated act by the Khmer Rouge. The books had been the enemy. His own library was an innocent bystander shot with a stray bullet. It wasn’t the same. His books died loved. There would be more.

The house refugees had started to filter back. Pao and Lia were already in their room. Comrade Noo, the Thai forest monk, had reclaimed his wooden cot on the back balcony. With the position of Head of Housing Allocation currently unfilled, and the file of Dr Siri temporarily sequestered by the police investing Comrade Koomki’s death, there was every hope that the Siri residence would soon dance to the tune of companionship once again. But, this night, it was just Siri and Daeng sitting alone on the front step.

‘So?’ said Daeng.

‘So what?’ said Siri.

‘Why haven’t you said anything about my book?’

‘I said it was good.’

‘You said it was good that I’d finished it. I’m still waiting for the review.’

Siri looked at the stars that dotted the tarpaulin of night above his head.

‘It’s history, Daeng. A personal historical document. I’m not about to make fun of your spelling and grammar.’

‘I don’t want you to. I want to … to know how it made you feel.’

‘As in …?’

‘As in … Damn it, Siri. I’ve confessed to … to using intimacy to extract information. I’ve slept with men I didn’t love. Men I hated.’

‘A lot of women sleep with men they hate. But they’re usually related.’

‘Siri!’

‘What?’

‘How can you be … be near somebody like me after you’ve read all that?’

‘You know? I’ve been thinking about it.’

‘And?’

‘Did you always hate it?’

‘What?’

‘Was it always really awful or did the thrill become a drug?’

Daeng lowered her face from the freckled night sky and stared at her husband.

‘Siri …’

‘You’re a passionate woman, Daeng. My goodness, do I know that. Once you realized you held that weapon, and that you could use it on any one of those faux empereurs and destroy them any time you liked, that’s an awful lot of power to hold in your gut. Oh, you must have been full of that power. Bursting. I wouldn’t be surprised if the adrenalin channelled itself right to your pleasure nodes.’

‘I didn’t …’

‘And, as a result of that, I wonder if in subsequent years you didn’t sit on your noodle stool after the lunchtime rush and start to feel guilty about it all. Not the lies. Not the subterfuge. Not even the killing. That was all unavoidable. But the fact that you enjoyed it. The fact that there were times you took pleasure from those men. That your work had given you an excuse to break out of your culture and be promiscuous. There was even something about the awful times that made you happy, because you could always see the final scene played out in front of you. You knew your victims would suffer one way or another. And, Daeng, I tell you, if the French army had been all female, I would have been at the front of the queue of volunteers.’

She laughed.

‘I doubt you would have been recruited,’ she smiled.

He leaned away from her.

‘Madam, are you casting aspersions as to my prowess on the mattress?’

‘Not at all. You’re a veritable gymnast. But women like to look up at their men. French military Amazons would tower over you, my husband. You’d need stilts just to dance with them.’

‘I’d win them over with my boyish charm. We’re all the same height lying down, you know. And, no matter how ugly they were, I would engage them boldly for the nation.’

‘Now you’re making fun of me.’

‘No I’m not. I’m just telling you I admire you for what you did. That, if roles had been reversed …’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re a man, and men are lauded in our society for the number of times their pestle hits the mortar. I’m a Lao woman. Do you honestly believe if that document were published, there wouldn’t be an outcry about my morality? That mothers wouldn’t tell their daughters, “If you continue with your loose ways you’ll end up a Madame Daeng”?’

They were silent for a long time. They both knew she was right. He took her hand and massaged her palm with his thumb.

‘So you wrote it for me,’ said Siri.

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. Siri?’

‘Yes?’

‘What was so funny about my spelling and grammar?’

It was the night of Auntie Bpoo’s Phasing Away party. Siri and Daeng had debated not going. It seemed … weird. Were it a wake, at least you’d know what to wear. Everybody had a white or black wardrobe for such occasions. But to arrive at a party knowing that the host-cum-hostess would be kicking the bucket sometime in the middle of it all, made you want to take your funeral clothing in a plastic bag and change when the time was ripe. But Siri was concerned that nobody would show up at all. That Auntie Bpoo would die alone and friendless — a lonely, wandering spirit for eternity. And so Siri and Daeng spruced themselves up and decided to make the best of it. And there was one more reason for attending. Inspector Phosy had been off in Vieng Xai since before their return and would have arrived back in Vientiane late that afternoon. They’d all bullied Nurse Dtui to drag him along. There were numerous questions about his investigation of Madame Peung that still had no answers.

Auntie Bpoo had told them to meet her at the Russian Club at six. The Russian Club was neither Russian, nor a club. It was one of the few surviving nightlife venues in Vientiane still standing on the bank of the Mekhong. It was a large wooden restaurant whose only walls surrounded the kitchen. The rest was open to the elements. It held on to its licence and its profits by catering to the large Eastern European expat community. It had an endless supply of beer and other more expensive tipples such as vodka, leading one to believe that the owner had friends in high places. The restaurant was always full and it often stayed open after curfew. Siri had bemoaned the choice of venue.