They sat down and ordered sour Tequila Sunrises and a couple of B52 shots. They lit cigarettes and Louis then told her that he had no choice but to heed Paul’s advice and sleep on it. He could not ask for her help since he was not yet sure how to proceed. As her eyes misted, he tried to reassure her, telling her that he was confident he would have it figured out by the morning. And so they sat and drank in silence, watching the rare tourists trying to mix with the locals. To distract him from his conundrum, Jade explained every cultural mistake the tourists made and what the Thais were thinking in return. They laughed together and the tension finally broken, they spoke of where Louis might want to go, which country would suit him best and what he would like to do in the years ahead. Finally, a little past midnight, they walked back to the car and drove back wistfully, surrounded by the eerie sounds of the teeming jungle. Timidly, Louis invited Jade to stay the night and to his surprise, she had agreed. As soon as Louis had laid his head on the pillow though, he fell asleep. He cradled Jade in his arms, who lay awake at first, watching him, her heart aching as to what laid ahead, until she too succumbed to all the emotions of the day gone past.
Louis’s sleep was fretful. He kept on dreaming of his mother. He kept remembering his sisters and the times they shared together. He visited over and over again the pain and incomprehension so often etched on his father’s face, whenever the latter was confronted by another relapse. He saw the hope in each pair of eyes, every time his family waited for him to come through the front door of too many clinics to remember its names. He could not bear recalling their disappointment and frustration a few weeks after that, when it was once again clear that it had all been for naught. He tried to remember details of the last few years, but phantoms were all he could grab. He admitted that they had simply been a blur of jagged emotions. What had he done with his life, really? What had been his mark on the world so far? Had there been anything constructive he could bank on or just a series of destructive bends? The more sleep eluded him, the more he convinced himself that Paul was doing him a huge favour by offering him the possibility of starting over again in a world where he could no longer hurt the people he loved. After tossing and turning, Louis finally fell into a deep sleep just as the sun rose. He had made up his mind and knew exactly what he would say to Paul when they next talked. In his mind though, first and foremost, he needed to protect his sisters, in case things did not go exactly as planned. Before falling asleep he had left a note on the table, requesting Jade to wake him at noon. He would then go and see Paul and begin the most important discussion of his entire life.
Louis remembered fondly his grandfather’s lawyers, whom he had met a few years back. The original founders of the famed firm of Ferguson and Freehill had known his grandfather since the end of the first war, when Francois Ferguson and his grandfather, both prominent members of the French Resistance, had saved Frederic Freehill’s neck when his plane had fallen behind enemy lines. Publicly, they rarely talked about that time but an enduring friendship had been born. Louis knew the firm to be one of the most powerful international law firms of its day, with branches in most capital cities. Surely they would have an office in Bangkok: while he could not recall offhand Ferguson’s grand-son’s name, since he had met him only once at his sister Lily’s 21st Birthday, he was sure that it would not be very difficult to speak to him. Louis recalled that the latter had inherited his grandfather’s stake in the firm and was doing his 4th year stint in South East Asia, which would conclude his foreign apprenticeship before returning to Paris and taking his rightful place in the family firm. Indeed, Frederic Freehill had gone back to London after the war and opened the first foreign office. Likewise his sons and granddaughters seemed to have inherited the legal bug, making the firm prosper further. While Louis did not have access to a computer, he was sure that his sister Sophie would have such a number in her rolodex. And instinct told him that a call to Sydney would be met with a lot less resistance and a lot less questions than one to Paris.
At lunch he told Paul that he would accept the proposal but with certain conditions. He wanted to share the money with his sisters and wanted their share to be placed in trust. To that end, he needed to contact the family’s legal firm branch in Bangkok. He told Paul that he did not know the lawyer personally, but while there was nothing particularly suspicious in naming his sisters as beneficiaries for what he would refer to as his life insurance, he wanted to insure that a simple will reinforced the fact so that no possible contestations could arise later. It was the last thing Paul had expected and he felt slightly trapped by his own game. However, he could not refuse Louis without the young man being overly suspicious as to why he would so object. At worst, he reasoned, he would only lose half of the promised money and it still remained commercially viable. Louis politely requested one hour of privacy and access to a phone. Due to the time difference, he decided that calling Sydney was indeed his best bet. He hoped however that his sister would not ask too many questions and that he would be able to keep it light.
“Wedding Unlimited, at your service. How can I direct your call?” answered Adriana crisply.
“Is Sophie available, please?”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Her brother.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Louis. This is Adriana, her personal secretary. I’m afraid she is out with a client. We had some sort of a crisis. Can I leave her a message? Could she call you back somewhere? Is everything all right?”
Why would she ask that? mused Louis. “Everything is fine. I’m calling from Thailand where I’ve been vacationing. I need a favour though. Does my sister by chance have the number of our family lawyer in her rolodex?”
“You mean Ferguson and Freehill? Of course. But only here in Sydney. Are you sure you are OK?”
“Yes, yes I just need to record a deed for the film I’m working on,” replied Louis stumbling for an explanation.
“Of course.”
Adriana rattled the number.
“Thank you. Tell Sophie I love her, will you? Tell her I’m sorry I missed her. And tell her I’ll try to detour by Sydney on my way home.”
As things turned out, it would be a few weeks before Adriana remembered the conversation, so upsetting the day had been with the bride-to-be committing suicide at the Gap at Watsons Bay, two hours before the start of the wedding ceremony.
Louis immediately dialled the Sydney office and was soon given the contact number for the small Bangkok branch. Each conversation had been brief and Paul, monitoring his protégé from behind a one-way glass, could not see anything that may prejudice him later. The best-laid plans take time to devise and since Louis had no idea that he was in mortal danger, he would thus have no need to protect himself, reasoned Paul. As far as he could surmise, the young man was only guided by a sense of retort, wanting to pay retribution to those he had wronged. There was nothing wrong in that and Paul thought it almost noble: he had not expected him to come up with such selfless conditions. He would wire the money to the firm as instructed and give Louis the confirmation he was after. His only regret was that it was one of the only firms in which he did not have any contact: bribes went a long way in Thailand but this time, he had to hedge his bets. After all, even if he had to pay Louis the complete sum, it remained a small sum compared to what the run would net him. Louis had also informed him that he wanted his share of the money wired to a bank account in Switzerland, whose numbers he curiously seemed to recall by heart. That was fine too. Agreeing to his demands would only speed things up and he could not wait for the transfers to be finally over; after all, it was a small price to pay and the cost of doing business. The negotiations finally drew to a close and Louis announced he would go back to his room and wait for the confirmations. Then he would happily devote Paul his time so that his host could lay out the specifics of the scheme. For now though, he just wanted to be alone. Jade followed him out but Louis insisted he needed to be on his own and think. Sadly she had understood.
/> Chapter VIII
The Dream
Lily did not bother warning her office that she was heading back home. She wanted some time on her own anyway. As soon as she stepped off the plane, she remembered why she usually avoided New York in the summer. The city was in the grip of a heat wave courtesy of Al Nino. The heat simmered, crushed between the high rises, whilst the top of buildings disappeared in a cloud of pollution which stubbornly refused to move out to sea. The sultry humidity did not help either and she knew from experience that by switching often between the sweltering heat outside and the icy cold air conditioning inside, which blasted everyone entering almost any building in the city, it was just the perfect type of weather to catch a cold within hours. The trick, she knew, was to carry a pashmina shawl in her bag at all times, something she however, often forgot to bother with. She exited the airport, already exasperated by the prospect of the day ahead, pondering what she would do with it, since she had decided not to rush back to the office immediately. She should air out her apartment first of all. She hoped her plants had been watered: with this heat, they were sure to be otherwise dead since she had switched off the air conditioning before leaving. What should she do first? Shopping therapy was not her style and she could not think of anything worse than burying her sorrows amongst the stands of Bloomingdale’s or Neiman Marcus. She was vaguely listening to a news story on the cab radio about Donald Trump’s intended candidacy to the Presidency, who was he kidding? she thought immediately, how could the American public put up with that horrible toupee and his chauvinistic remarks for 4 years straight?, when an ad came on inviting New Yorkers to the Central Park Summer Concert series. Queen Bee was playing that night and Lily delighted at the idea of listening to hip hop rap under the stars. If Lil’ Kim’s soulful songs could not make forget her pain for a couple of hours, what would?
Her doorman greeted her effusively, offering his condolences at once. “Bad news travel fast,” muttered Lily to herself, while thanking him with a smile. He carried her luggage to the elevator, chatting about the unbearable weather, undeniably any New York doorman’s favourite subject. She found her apartment as she had left it. Her secretary had reliably come and watered her plants. She had filled the refrigerator with fresh juices and stone fruits and the milk had not yet expired. She opted for a shower and then let the answering machine play back her messages of the last two weeks, while she brewed a cup of coffee. Most messages delivered the usual condolences, and her friend, Tracy, asked that she call the minute she came back, so that she could take her out immediately. She reflected Tracy would be an ideal companion to attend that night’s concert in the park. She would definitely call her back. There was also a call from her family’s law firm and she reckoned it had something to do with Louis, but thought it could wait. Louis was no longer in a hurry, now was he? And she certainly was in no hurry to sign whatever papers were coming her way either. She turned on her television and wondered whether she would listen to Judge Judy’s sceptical handling of litigants or watch lower middle class America making a fool of itself on the Jerry Springer Show. She was in the midst of switching channels when the phone rang again and she picked it up without thinking.
“Lily! You’re back! I was expecting to leave yet another message! How are you?” asked Tracy’s too cheerful voice.
“Hi, darling! I’m fine,” replied Lily caught off-guard.
“It’s me you’re taking to! How are you really?” repeated Tracy undeterred.
“I’m fine. Really. Just got off the plane though and I feel a bit zonked. It is…it was pretty surreal. I admit I’m quite tired and quite wired at the same time,” explained Lily smiling.
’Well, we know how to get rid of the wired part, a good night sleep will fix the tired part, and I’ve a cure for the Zombie part."
“Oh and what would that be?” questioned Lily, intrigued in spite of herself.
“Well, we could go see the stand-up comedy hit of that Korean, Asian-American Cho something at the Westbeth Theatre or go to the Jazz concert at MoMa sculpture garden? It starts at 9pm.”
Lily replied quickly.
“I already saw I am the One that I want show before I left, and forget the jazz concert at MoMa. It’ll be too uptight: I’m not in the mood. It’ll be all about the ‘nice crowd’ anyway. The I-want-to-be-seen crowd, I-am-on-a-terribly-important-assignment otherwise why would-I-be-here-instead-of-the-Hamptons or my family estate crowd. I don’t have the stomach for it today, sweetheart, but what about the Oyster Bar and then Lil Kim’s concert in the Park?”
“You’ve been back less than one hour and you already upstage me in the evening plans? It’s a deal! Sounds great. Come by at 6:00 pm, what do you think? Go to sleep or go to Bliss in the meantime. They had the good idea not to close this summer and they’re surprised to see they’re as booked as ever! Ciao, see you later. And welcome home. I missed you.”
Lily hung up exhausted. Bliss was a good idea though. The urban oasis on Prince Street would not be too busy and she knew the popular ‘Herbie’ treatment would put her right to sleep. The only advantage of New York in the summer was the traffic or rather the lack of it. She could actually plan ahead and know that she could be almost anywhere more or less on time. She booked her spa treatment and searched her desk for the little lacquer box that should still contain one or two joints, neatly rolled up. That at least was bound to relax her.
Stephanie wondered what she was doing home. Why did she go back to work right away? Why was she so compulsive? All of a sudden she hated the city. She hated the too blond Dutch with their open smiles at the ready. She suddenly found the canals too banal, lacking in beauty and mystery. She found the people surrounding her both slow and narrow-minded. She suddenly thought her staff obtuse and incompetent. She realised her patience was at an old time low and her tolerance for the idiosyncrasies of others almost non-existent. She reasoned though that she could not have stayed in Paris either. She could not bear neither her mother’s raw pain nor her father’s pretence at normality. Yet home was home. It was the heart of where their memories laid; here there was so little of him. Why had not Louis come to visit more often? More accurately, why had she not invited him over more often? Yet, she knew why and she felt incredibly guilty. Would the outcome have changed if she had been more open with him, if she had not listen to her mother and her advocacy for tough love? She had understood though that Amsterdam would never stand as a Mecca for recovering addicts since temptation beckoned at every corner, with mindless evasion offered at every café with the morning latte, but she could have watched him carefully. Instead, every time Louis had hinted he would like to spend more time with her, she had pretended she had too much work or she was travelling that particular week, excuses she had put forth to avoid confrontations, to sidestep painful conversations and escape the manic rollercoaster. Now, as she wandered the streets on her bike for hours on end, guilt stabbed at her heart at every bend.
The day of her return though had been particularly busy with several of her prized finches having given birth the day before. Isolating the mothers from the young to better their chances at survival was always a delicate operation. Moreover, she also had just received a container of rare orchids from Thailand which had required gentle handling; they were due in Paris by the end of the week for the famed jeweller, Boucheron, as part of his latest launch of cabochon tiaras. But now that she was back in her routine, she did not understand why what had given her pleasure a fortnight ago, now failed to raise her enthusiasm. A good night sleep had also eluded her ever since the funeral, with recurring nightmares eating at her subconscious: she was one of those people who needed an eight hour uninterrupted sleep in order to cope with the world and the lack of sleep had seriously started to have impact on her sanity. She wondered often whether her feelings of inadequacy were a simple manifestation of depression setting in.
When Sophie felt particularly blue, she listened for hours on end to the songs of Yves Duteil, Yves Montand, George Br
assens, Maxime Le Forestier and Jacques Brel, the irreverent folk singers and poets of her teenage years. In her view, their songs and ballads, accompanied by the heart wrenching notes of a poignant guitar, most accurately translated her anxieties, her lonesomeness and her yearning for something she could not quite define. As she would sing her favourite passages at the top of her lungs, her heart would often break, with salty tears running silently down her cheeks. When her trips down memory lane failed to cheer her up, she would then drown the silence with Mendelssohn’s violin concertos and Tchaikovsky’s symphonies, while immersing herself in the latest novel at hand, hoping that the intrigue would somehow help her forget the present, fleeing with the protagonists into a world of the author’s construction. Yet, regardless of what she tried to escape her present, the usual tricks which had worked wonders for her in the past, seemed to no longer operate their magic. In the end, her thoughts always returned to the funeral, to thoughts of her parents, to their overwhelming pain, to the questions they would keep rehashing until they lost all meaning. Sophie wanted to act, to do something constructive, but energy and motivation failed her. She seriously considered making an appointment with a psychologist or a grief counsellor. Yet bearing her soul to the tune of $200.00 an hour, only to be told that the process of grief could not be hurried, and that denial and anger were integral parts of the process, was in her opinion pointless.
Nonetheless, she knew instinctively that her dreams were too vivid, too palpable, and too present to be simple symptoms of denial: her subconscious was knocking insistently at the door and she could no longer ignore it. She still woke up night after night breaking into cold sweats. Her nightmare was like a film stuck on a perpetual rewind loop: she knew what would happen next but she was powerless to stop it. She needed badly to make sense of it all and finally decided to write down what she remembered instead, placing pen and paper on her nightstand to try and fill in the blanks on the following night.
The Samui Conspiracy Page 17