“That one is not lethal. It is an adder. The one next to it is a banded krait, and would kill you within thirty seconds. More people die from a falling coconut than from snakebites. Which merely proves the obvious—most seemingly safe, ordinary things in life may be more lethal than the dramatic strike of a banded krait. We shouldn’t fear snakes. We should fear coconuts.” Valentine paused, taking the jar with the banded krait snake curled inside. He sighed and put it back on the shelf. “Prasit had absolutely no fear of snakes. You could almost say he loved catching snakes. He had a great deal of knowledge about them. He knew the various kinds of adders and cobras. What snakes were aggressive and which would give a nasty bite but wouldn’t kill you. Collecting snakes became a hobby that we both enjoyed. Now I am without my gardener, and my collection risks a halt. I trust your journey was without incident.” It was an innocent question. One that Valentine assumed could only be answered in one way. There had been no problem.
“I delivered your goat feed. The bags are behind your pickup.”
Valentine sensed something hadn’t gone right. “Som didn’t organize that?”
“She organized it perfectly. Just as you promised, no heavy lifting.”
“See—what did I tell you?” “You are a man of your word.”
“Welcome to my humble abode.”
“For a man with most of your employees on strike, you seem to be relaxed, even comfortable.”
“Som told you about the strike,” he said with a shudder. “Som can be a naughty girl. Spreading our family secrets to guests. That’s disloyal. Beyond that, what she said is inaccurate. It isn’t really a strike so much as a misunderstanding. It can and will be cleared up very quickly.”
“Misunderstandings, like strikes, can go on for a long time. What makes you think this one is about to end?”
“Because you are here.” He smiled, his arms open, and embraced Calvino.
Valentine’s face and neck were tanned. Calvino thought the tan came from working outside in the garden, walking his estate, looking after the dogs and the livestock. Also, Valentine’s short-cropped hair was grayer. Standing at six three, he towered over the Thais. With a swimmer’s slender body, Valentine still had a boyish face, grinning like a twelve-year-old after landing his first fish—or snake. When he sat at the grand piano, he seemed larger than life; a presence that commanded awe. The music flowed out of his fingertips.
“Come over here and sit down,” said Valentine. “I am afraid my yings won’t be happy with me as long as you are on the premises. Competition is such a bore when it comes to women. They thrive on it and I find it not worthy of my attention. I have too many other things to concern myself with.”
“I’ll keep a distance,” said Calvino.
“That will only make you more irresistible.”
Valentine wore a white shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and unbelted baggy tan-colored pants. The casual look of a man relaxed.
Two Thai women in their twenties carrying plates and bowls followed in orderly procession behind Som. There appeared to be an order in their entrance. They set the dishes down on the counter saying little as Som lifted the lid on the large porcelain bowl heaped high with rice and came to the table. She served Calvino first, scooping out one large spoon of white rice and then another until Calvino raised his hand.
“Enough,” he said. Swooping in behind Som, a young Thai woman dressed in black shorts and a black T-shirt—“Hazard Design” written in white—held a plate in front of Calvino. Asparagus tips and sliced mushrooms basted in butter. She waited until Calvino helped himself, lifting the serving spoon and fork from the side of the platter.
“This is Maew. She’s my Number One,” said Valentine.
“Maew, say hello to Khun Vinee. He’s a nak suep. The private investigator I sent for.”
“My first assignment was to deliver three bags of goat feed,” said Calvino.
“I am afraid farang irony isn’t her forte. But she has other more important skills. Maew has been a very bad Ubonratcha Thani ying of late. She’s the ringleader for the wildcat strike. Isn’t that right, Maew? She has insisted on wearing black as a protest. Her behavior has not exactly been what one would call a show of loyalty.”
The young woman smiled as Calvino returned the serving spoon and fork to the platter. She moved over and stood beside Valentine, who helped himself. “And the ying offering you that rather succulent steamed sea bass is Kem. Who, despite her nickname, isn’t salty at all. She is my Number Two and is from Buriram. You can see the Khmer influence in her cheekbones. The high forehead is a dead giveaway. My Number Three, Gop, is in the kitchen slaving over a hot oven. Soon she will bring out a very nice green curry.”
Calvino glanced at the empty place across the table. “You’re expecting someone else?”
Valentine stared up from his large piece of sea bass.
“That is for the gardener. Or should I say, for his spirit that I have been assured lurks nearby. The women organize an offering to his spirit every day. It is in their heads that with you com- ing to look into his death, a place should be set for him. I’m informed that they believe his spirit hasn’t left the premises and that his ghost continues to wander the grounds. And Prasit’s spirit will not leave until his murderer is found. That, I tell them, is difficult, as the poor man hanged himself. A fact confirmed by the police. A fact confirmed by the medical examiner that inspected the body. Obviously facts aren’t what these ladies are interested in understanding. Savages believe in the occult, mysticism and black magic, and those dark forces can be expelled only by using supernatural means. Speak not to them of reason or logic or science. Savages live in a world of speculation, rumors and gossip, fearful of unknown forces and unseen worlds.”
“I am an investigator, not a shaman,” said Calvino.
“There is no such distinction. And I believe that Sherlock Holmes would have agreed with me. How is the fish?”
Calvino looked up. “It tastes like fish.”
Valentine grinned. “Better than chicken. No one eats chicken. We all live in a world imprisoned by our own worst fears, wouldn’t you agree?”
He pulled out a chilled bottle of Pouilly Fuissé and poured Calvino’s glass half full, then filled his own. Valentine raised his glass, swirling the white wine around the inside. He stood up from the end of the table. “I propose a toast.”
Calvino rose to a half-standing position, holding his wine glass by the stem until it touched the rim of Valentine’s glass.
“To exorcising Prasit’s ghost and any other ghost haunting this place,” said Valentine, his fingers dancing along the stem of the glass. “May the poor man rest in peace. Did you know that spectrophilia is a condition that means a person is sexually aroused by having intercourse with a spirit or ghost?”
Calvino admitted he hadn’t heard the term.
“I am beginning to wonder about Number Three in that department.”
Gop, hips swaying as if she were listening to music inside her head, appeared from the kitchen carrying a bowl of green curry. She was the youngest of the three serving women. Her playful eyes darted from Valentine to Som and back to the bowl. She grinned like a hooker who had spotted her all-time big spender just come through the door. Her painted red nails matched her lipstick. Gop liked to dress up and go out for fun. Instead what she had to settle for was carrying in bowls of curry and serving up Valentine, a middle-aged private investigator and a ghost. Valentine wrapped his arm around Gop’s waist and reeled her in.
“You, my little frog, are late. You’ve been painting your nails and leaving us without our curry. What shall your punishment be? You are already my number three sanom, so demotion is out of the question. Later we can discuss something suitable.”
Calvino then drank, then swatted at a squad of mosquitoes launching a simultaneous attack from overhead and at ankle level. He reached down and smacked his ankle.
“Damn, mosquitoes,” said Valentine. “Som, ple
ase light mosquito coils.”
As the mosquito coils were lit and slipped under the table at the feet of Valentine and his guest, Som served another helping of rice from a large bowl. Splashes of lantern light reflected in the calm surface of the swimming pool. Some bamboo leaves floated in the light.
Calvino nodded at the empty place set for the ghost of the gardener. “Tell me what happened.”
“I’ve already given you the general outline. But of course you need more information. Right. Prasit was very good with the goats–”
Calvino interrupted. “How long had he worked for you?”
“Nearly two years.”
“And before that?”
“He had been unemployed. And before that he had worked as a handyman, and before that? I have no idea.”
“Was he having any personal problems? With money, booze, or his wife?”
“None. That was the thing about Prasit. The man seemed problem-free. He never complained. He never beat his wife. He rarely left the compound and then only to buy supplies or goat feed. Until a couple of weeks before his death, I never saw him upset. He was a happy man. Well paid. He had his housing and food provided. He was in paradise.”
“What happened to him in those two weeks before his death?” asked Calvino.
“He seemed depressed. His work became uneven and sloppy. He slept in late and started drinking.”
“Any idea why?”
“I asked him. ‘Prasit, what is happening to you? Why are you falling apart?’ And he said, ‘My brother died. I feel bad.’ And I thought, the man’s suffered a personal loss. That is understandable. Cut him a little slack and let him bounce back to his old self. But he went the other direction into pure despair. And inside that black cloud he killed himself. It happens frequently. People give up. And when you look at most people’s lives, it is a miracle that it doesn’t happen more often. I would like you to spend two or three days here. Talk to the yings. Talk to Prasit’s wife. Talk to anyone you wish. I will see you get a full list of all the people employed by me. Listen to all of their stories. And, at the end, tell them the police and the doctors were telling the truth. No one is hiding anything.”
“You’ve had the monks in?”
“Yes, of course. They came, performed their ritual and went. You’d think that would have appeased the ghost. The monks didn’t work. The strike continues.”
This was a serious problem, thought Calvino.
Valentine had made up his mind. The job had been offered in order to give the appearance of addressing the concerns of the household but Calvino had grasped what was required of him—to confirm the master’s opinion. The last thing Valentine wanted was an investigation. Not because he had anything to hide. His motive was not sinister; it was selfishness. Like most very rich people, Valentine was proudly selfish. He simply wished to end the turmoil Prasit’s death had brought to his estate. He wanted his peace of mind restored. He wanted his women to smile again and stop shivering every time one of the dogs howled at night.
“What was the brother’s name?”
“Som, what was Prasit’s brother’s name?”
She looked up from the bowl of rice.
“Sombat.”
“When did he die?” asked Calvino.
“Early July,” said Valentine. “How did he die?”
“Shot. That was the first week of July. The police say he was silenced by gangsters in the drug business.”
“Was he in the drug business?”
“Good God, how could I possibly know?”
He had a point. Valentine couldn’t even remember the dead man’s name.
“How long between when the brother was killed and Prasit died?”
Valentine sighed. “Prasit died last month. The 27th of August. I very much hope that I won’t have to spend days answering so many questions. I said Prasit was depressed because he brother died. Other than that, the rest seems impossibly irrelevant. And I don’t see what I can usefully add.”
Calvino put away his notebook. Three weeks has passed since Prasit’s death. He watched Som clear the table. The sanom one by one vanished from the dining area without a word. Valentine looked alone sitting at the end of the table. It wasn’t going to be an easy investigation. No murder investiga- tion ever was. Calvino told himself that work was the antidote his spirit needed. And when that work was establishing why and how a man died, there could be no greater puzzle to solve.
EIGHT
CALVINO STRETCHED OUT out on the bed. The room provided by Valentine was large and clean. Tiled floors and a king-size bed, a nightstand with a pitcher of water and a glass. The toilet, washbasin and shower were in an area behind the room and ran the entire length of the room.
He held the cellphone between his shoulder and ear, writing as he spoke to Ratana.
“My father taught me a Chinese word,” said Ratana.
He waited.
“Aren’t you going to ask what word?”
“What’s the word?”
“The Chinese word for marriage. It is woman plus the symbol for blurry vision, confusion, or lack of consciousness.”
“A form of mental disease?” She laughed. “It’s true.”
“Your mother didn’t tell you.”
“Father said she only teaches the Chinese she wants to teach.”
“He sounds very wise.”
“What did Valentine say about the murder?” she asked.
He liked the fact that she had gradually eased herself into the business question. “He doesn’t think it was murder. He wants me to back him up and say that the gardener hanged himself.”
“Did he?”
“You know that Thai proverb about the strand of hair blocking the sight of the mountain?” asked Calvino.
“Sen phom bang poo khao,” she said.
“In Valentine’s case, there are three strands of hair. His three sanom.”
“I am about to lose consciousness. He has three wives?”
“They have gone on strike. Tomorrow, I’ll interview them and find out why. I have a feeling something is going on that no one’s talking about.”
“Are the wives beautiful?”
“A reasonable collection.”
That isn’t what she had wanted to hear. “It’s because he was famous.”
“He was a big celebrity once. Or maybe he still is. Anyone that famous has advantages. That’s one of the things that I am sure is in the back of his mind.”
Ratana’s mother had come into the room. He could tell because Ratana had started talking through her mask.
“Mother said two more police were killed in the south yesterday. One shot and another one hacked to death with a machete.”
“Any news of violence spreading to Bangkok?”
“Not yet,” she said.
That was the end of the conversation. Calvino climbed off the bed, stripped down, and entered the Bali-styled bathing area. A wall that came to his shoulders surrounded the bathing area. He crossed the tiled floor, turned on the water and eased himself under the showerhead, looking into the night beyond. Beyond the trees he saw the moon through curved iron bars spaced three feet apart on top of the wall. Rows of flowers grew in a three-foot space that ran next to the wall. And creepers had begun to snarl their vines around the iron bars, softening the feel of the enclosure, making it a kind of moonlit paradise. That had been the word Valentine had used at dinner. Paradise. Prasit had lived in paradise but even people in Eden killed themselves.
As the jet of hot water massaged his shoulders and back, Calvino breathed in the air. He held it in his lungs. Bangkok air was something taken in small sips and immediately exhaled before any residue of dust, pitch, tar, and fumes could stick. Here the air was sweet and clean. He smiled to himself as he stared at the dark outline of forest and above the trees, the night sky dotted with bright stars. He wondered if it was still raining in Bangkok. He’d forgotten to ask Ratana. Insects bounced off the mirror just below the light and fell into
the washbasin. A couple of cats perched on the wall, slinging down low, watching him under the shower.
Coming from a settlement of squat houses beyond the rice fields, above the sound of the running water, he heard the sound of laughter and singing and loud music. The pounding of a drum and playing of flutes. Not the lilting classical music of Valentine’s grand piano crowd. But a deep, immediate, earthy music, beaten out frantically with drums, accompanied with the howl of horns and reed instruments. The music of intense passion. Earlier in the car as he had driven along the country road off the highway, Calvino had seen a group of crudely built shacks made of wood and cement blocks and built on stilts. Chickens that had survived the culling pecked in the dirt. Small children played with a battered football, kicking it so that he had had to stop his car on the main road while one of them ran after the ball. The music and laughter came from the direction of where the people lived in those houses. A wedding, a funeral, or someone had won the lottery. Slums were what people called places like Klong Toey where thousands of upcountry poor people lived in makeshift wooden shacks built over black, swampy land. They came to Bangkok to find their fortune and instead mostly found a life that was even more miserable, dangerous and hopeless than the one they’d left.
Like in upcountry New York, clusters of people who lived in rural poverty had some small dignity that came from being part of village life. There were no city folk to look down on them. But with city and villages running together, that time was ending. The sprawl had begun the long process of connecting Bangkok and Pattaya. In ten years, no patch would be left without its accumulated mass of houses, factories and shopping malls. Maybe it was a myth that there was a time when everyone enjoyed a life filled with playing, fun, not thinking too much, and no problem that was larger than the phrase mai pen rai. Or maybe there had never been such a pure time. Hearing the racket in the distance was a reminder that life was on an uncertain course of change, and that the time for play and fun was being constricted by new laws and old grievances, and nearly everyone was thinking too much, and the new set of problems promised to swallow and spit out mai pen rai.
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