The Merry Misogynist Read Online Free PDF Page A

juice?”
    “Something with a bite.”
    Civilai fumbled deep in his old green kit bag and emerged with a flask. He unscrewed the cap, took a whiff, and handed it to Siri.
    “It’ll probably go down better if you don’t ask me what it is,” he said.
    Siri took a swig and felt a handful of burning tacks embed themselves in his liver.
    “Ouch! Holy Father of the Lord Buddha,” he said.
    “Potent, isn’t it?”
    “We used something like this to strip paint off tanks.”
    “Give it back then.”
    “Not on your life.” Siri took another swig.
    They sat for a while, willing the flies to leave them alone, admiring the industry of a river rat ferrying mushrooms to and from her hole.
    “How’s Dtui?” Civilai asked, allowing Siri his own sweet time to tell what was troubling him.
    “A month short of giving birth to what looks like a small bulldozer,” Siri said.
    “And the marriage?”
    “They seem content.”
    “I meant yours.”
    “Me?” At last a happy thought. “I’m a very lucky man, old brother. I’d forgotten what a pleasure it was to watch a woman breathe in her sleep…see her chest rise and fall.”
    “Steady, you’ll be writing poetry next.” Siri was silent. “You haven’t?”
    “Only a short one.”
    “You’re like me, Siri. Can’t get through life without a woman. Too bad you’ll have to settle for just the one.”
    “One what?”
    “Wife. Our friends up at the roundabout are introducing a law against polygamy. I know the average lowland Lao in his right mind can’t handle more than one wife, so it would appear to be one more kick in the testicles for the hill tribes.”
    “How do you find out all these things?”
    “They keep me in the loop. A driver comes by once a week with politburo news, a copy of Lao Huksat newsletter, and a calendar of meetings I don’t bother to go to. Want to know the highlights of the week?”
    “Go on, make me laugh.”
    “My favourite is the fact that they’ve decided all spirit houses have to be registered.”
    “By the occupants?”
    Civilai laughed. “Oh, and there’s a new ban on contraceptive devices, not that anyone could afford one anyway. It appears they’re offering rice tax deductions to families with more than three children. Got to shore up the dwindling proletariat.”
    “They offering to feed them too?”
    “Not as far as I know. Then there’s the usual list of Western paranoia measures: a moratorium on blue jeans to go with the one on long hair. And they’ll be sending inspectors around to coffee shops to make sure the lighting isn’t too dim.”
    “So you can see the stains on the tablecloths?”
    “Dim lighting apparently leads to lasciviousness and lewdness.”
    “Which in turn leads to pregnancy and a higher population. I wish they’d make their minds up.”
    “It would all be hilarious if it weren’t true.”
    “How’s our old friend collectivism?”
    “It’s all in the advanced planning stage.”
    “They’re really going ahead with it? They’re madder than I thought.”
    “Collectivism: the gathering of farmers who have nothing to meet once a week to distribute it.”
    “That just about sums it up. The communists in Russia introduced it to help the peasants rise up against the oppressive landlords. We haven’t got any oppressive landlords.”
    “They’ll probably hire one or two before they start the programme.”
    “I’m sure I’d be on their list.”
    “How so?”
    “I’m about to go to jail for absentee landlordism and pimping. A fifty-centimetre-tall official from Housing came by this morning and told me I have to give up my house.”
    “And all the freaks it contains?”
    “They think I don’t live there.”
    “You don’t.”
    “I know.”
    The two old men smiled and shared a banana.
    “Hot, isn’t it?” Civilai said at last.
    “Bloody hot.”
    “This place seems to switch from the cool season to the bloody hot season without passing through a tepid or a lukewarm season on the way.