Free The Merry Misogynist by Colin Cotterill

thinking that made him ignore the man who had carried the boy’s infirmity like a boulder on his back across a continent? Siri looked at big, soft, smiling Bhiku and wondered what wicked fate had dragged his life into the bogs.
    “Bhiku,” he said. “You strike me as an intelligent man. You read Hindi, and you speak my language quite beautifully…”
    “You are too kind, sir. I also have smatterings of Thai and Burmese…not to mention English.”
    “That’s what I thought. So why – and there’s no offence intended here – why are you grovelling about in this depressing restaurant earning…what do they pay you?”
    “Food and board, sir.”
    “Then that’s even worse. Why are you here earning nothing at all when you could hold down a decent job?”
    Bhiku smiled. “It is my fate, sir.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “My wife and I…and my children, we were born untouchables. Our caste dictates that we were destined to suffer – and life has certainly proven that to be true, sir.”
    “Oh, Mr Tickoo.” Siri shook his head and sighed. Not for the first time, a very strong urge came over him. If this wasn’t a needy case he didn’t know what was. Before he was taken by the wormy woman, Siri was determined to rescue Rajid’s father from servitude and set him free. He just had no idea how to go about it.
    “All right.” Siri came back to the here and now. “Let’s talk about where your son might be.”
    “Yes, sir. I have no awareness of this. I too am most worried. I have spent all my free time scouring the streets and the river. I even reported it to the police but they laughed at me.”
    “That doesn’t surprise me. When was the last time you saw him?”
    “Twelve days ago.”
    “Well, I met someone who saw him ten days ago, on the Thursday.”
    “I expected to see him on the Friday. He always used to go to the old French mansion on Fridays and stop off here first with a verse.”
    “Any idea why he went there?”
    “Oh yes, sir. My old employer bought that house from its French owner. He lived there during the heydays of Vientiane. So much life and vitality in the city then. Those were the days when the Americans still painted the town green. The restaurant was terribly popular. We had a singer, and we made as much on drink as we did on food. I had three co-workers. We only closed on Friday. And every Friday evening, our employer would invite the workers to eat at his house. It was a tradition. For Jogendranath it was the only time he sat down with what could be called a family and ate a civilized meal.
    “It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I imagine it brought back memories of our own family. When our old owner passed away and his boy took over, the tradition was stopped. But my son continued to go to the house. There was no explaining to him. That’s when I realized how important the Friday meals must have been. He knocks on the door every week at 5:30.”
    “But for the past two weeks he hasn’t knocked,” Siri said. “Do you think something might have happened to him?”
    “He is my son. I have worried about him every day of his life. I used to go to him and try to convince him to come home, but I have to admit that I lost him some time ago. Now he is a child of the streets and all the dangers it contains.”
    “But his writing?”
    “Sometimes he drops it off here. At others he leaves it at the door of the old house. I believe that is the location of the first riddle.”
    “Riddle?”
    “Yes, sir. He is very classical, my son. I believe that but for the tragedy, he would have been a scholar in the classics. A university lecturer. Of course our caste would have prevented this but I believe in my heart he had the ability. In his odes he writes that he is a prince. In order to find his palace of the One Hundred and Eleven Eyes, the common man must solve three riddles. The first riddle talks of the lace beneath the old French lady’s skirt. I wonder if he sees the