“I tested negative,” Crosby said again, with some pride.
“When did you go?” asked Purcell.
“At eleven this morning. I said, ‘Don’t take my blood unless you can give me the results today. I don’t want to sit around waiting all night thinking about the possibilities.’ I guess I’m not the first one who has told them that. The nurse said, ‘No problem, roll up your sleeve and phone us back this afternoon.’ ”
“You made sure it was a new needle?” asked Snow.
“I watched her unwrap it myself,” said Crosby. “And sure enough by three this afternoon they had the results. Negative.”
“Where did you go?” asked Purcell.
“To a clinic on Silom Road,” he sighed and was silent for a moment. “Two hours later I started thinking about my test. My negative score. The first time my negative score made sure I graduated. And I started going a little weird. I said to myself, what if…”
“What if, what?” asked Snow, the veins sticking out of his neck.
“What if the doctors at the clinic were told by certain officials, when a farang comes in for an AIDS test, tell him to call back in two, three hours and tell him the result is negative. You know how the Thais hate confrontation, weeping farangs and generally giving out bad news. The farang would immediately blame the Thais. I got this shit from one of your whores, what are you going to do about this? I’m gonna die. Your whores killed me. I’m going back to America, crying in the press, suing your ass and then finding me an offensive handgun and coming back here to even the score. Then I said to myself, would the Thai doctor, educated in the West, do such a thing? They have Western values—ethics—it comes through their education. They know it is wrong to lie; and that a doctor must tell his patient the truth. But telling the truth is not the only factor. There is pride in culture and country. There is image. If you tell the truth, and bring disgrace on your people, then you lose a ton of face as well. So what has the truth earned you? From a Thai perspective, not a whole lot. By lying, however, you see nothing but happy, smiling faces. Everyone is feeling sabaay, sabaay. No one is angry, raising their voice, crying, wailing, gnashing their teeth. Let the poor sod go back to his own country, with instructions to get re-tested in six months just to make sure. Let an American doctor break the news to an American; and an English doctor to an Englishman, and so on. So I’m negative, so they say. But am I really negative, or is being negative part of some larger conspiracy?”
Purcell sighed, watching Crosby, his hands shaking with fear.
“You ever think of a career in the arms business?” asked Purcell, turning to Snow.
“Get out of here,” said Snow.
“You have all the right qualifications.”
“Such as?”
“Massive paranoia and a child’s pure vision of offensive and defensive weapons,” replied Purcell.
6
DAENG’S HALF MOON
A Short Story
by
Robert Tuttle
NOT LONG AFTER she was born in a bamboo hut beside the Nan River, her father bestowed on her the nickname Daeng. The literal translation into English of Daeng is red. The color red has special power and influence—the color which deflects fear and demons. The Chinese gold shops throughout Bangkok are painted red. Phalluses planted in the beach of Pattaya are painted red. Red is the lightning rod attracting prosperity and wealth. Red-light districts attract men from across oceans. Red is the color painted on brothel window lights. Gold is wealth; a large, bold, erect phallus a sign of fertility and prosperity; a red light beacon hitting the walls of lust. Her father loved his child the moment he laid eyes on her. This beautiful new child promised to bring him wealth and prosperity. As a child, Daeng was noted for her beauty. Nan Province had many beautiful girls so to have a beauty which rose above the crowds of beautiful children was a special omen for the entire family. Her reputation spread among other villages. One day just before Chinese New Year, a merchant came in a boat with two other men. The merchant was from Phrae, the capital of a nearby province also called Phrae, and ran a successful Chinese restaurant. He asked the headman about this young girl named Daeng whose reputation had reached his ears, and the headman took the merchant to the family house.
The father greeted the merchant and invited him to drink inside the house. After the drinks were laid out, Daeng’s mother brought Daeng who was about twelve years old up the stairs and into the main room.
“Yes, she is as beautiful as they say,” said the merchant.
The father beamed with pride.
“She is the light of my life,” said the father.
They drank to Daeng who then went off and sat in the corner, with her knees pulled up under her chin. She watched the stranger drinking with her father, and the way he glanced back at her.
It seemed to Daeng that her father and the merchant talked for hours. When the merchant removed a leather pouch from his belt the room was silent. He counted stacks of purple bank notes, carefully laying them out on the floor. There was a piece of paper folded into three parts. The merchant had put on his eye glasses and began to read the paper. Only then did Daeng see the mood swiftly change on her father’s face. The way his eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched hard like a fist ready to strike; even his breathing changed from the steady, even stroke to a sound she recognized as choking anger. As the merchant started to read, her father held up his hand and shook his head. The merchant smiled the kind of smile of someone reacting to trouble and fear. When the merchant began to read again, her father snatched the paper from his hands and tore it into shreds. Her mother, who had been standing slightly behind the father, shuffled across the room and sat next to Daeng.
“You will leave now,” said the father.
The merchant removed the large stack of purple bank notes and pushed them back into this leather pouch.
“You will be sorry for this attitude. I offered you twenty thousand baht. I raised it to twenty five thousand baht. That is more than twice what any other family receives. And you are too arrogant to take this money. I curse you. From this day nothing but misfortune will strike you, your family and your daughter.”
If the two men who had accompanied the merchant had not been waiting outside, Daeng was certain her father would have struck the merchant. Instead he ordered him out of the house. At the top of the stairs, the merchant turned, pointed his finger, shaking it at her father, mother and Daeng. “You will all suffer for this. You waste my time. You waste your daughter for nothing. You are fools and your life will come to ruin. I promise you, it will be smashed by the curse.”
Then the merchant from Phrae was gone in his boat.
No more than two weeks later, Daeng had walked to the river where she was attacked by a village dog. The four-year-old large white and brown dog had bitten others before, and on more than one occasion, villagers had threatened to destroy the animal, and each time the owner, a cousin of the headman, was able to hide the dog until the hard feelings had subsided. On this occasion with Daeng, the dog attack occurred precisely at the spot where the merchant had docked his boat. She had tried to run. But she fell, and the dog’s teeth sank deep into her face, tearing the flesh away from the bone. She felt the sharp sting of teeth, the blood, and the shock of pain caused her to pass out. When a villager found her, some boys were sent running to Daeng’s house. Her father ran to the river, saw his daughter and burst into tears. He lifted her and carried her back to their house. While her mother cleaned the wound, her father took a needle from the family sewing kit and after twelve stitches had closed the wound into a perfect half moon.
After he had washed his hands, he went down the stairs and walked straight to the house where the dog was kept. He went inside without taking off his sandals and found the old woman cowering in the corner, her arms wrapped around the dog. Daeng’s father pushed the old woman away, and wrapped a rope around the dog’s neck. He pulled the dog across the wooden floor, down the stairs, and down the dirt path
to the river. The dog howled with fear as Daeng’s father pulled him, all four paws dragging against the rope. A group of villagers gathered and watched as Daeng’s father pulled the dog to the edge of the river. He then tied the rope to a boat. He turned back and looked at the crowd, then without saying a word, launched the boat, jumping inside as it left the bank. He rowed toward the center of the river. The dog paddled as best it could against the river currents. The wild-eyed fear of the dog and the wild-eyed hatred of the father locked in a stare down on the river. The father paddled and paddled until the dog’s eyes finally disappeared below the water line. Even then the father did not stop. He continued rowing back and forth in front of the village and the villagers, dragging the carcass of the drowned dog, until Daeng’s mother came down to the river bank and told him to come home, that his daughter was calling for him. When he returned to shore dragging the wet, drowned dog, one of the villagers said he had made a mistake by turning away the merchant. He left the dog’s carcass on the river bank. No one in the village claimed it or buried it. Flies and worms appeared after a few days, the body bloated and burst. The stench hung over the village for days. The villagers said the father had brought a curse onto himself and the entire village suffered in fear and silence. Now who would want his daughter? Who would offer such a large sum of money for a damaged girl? He struck the man who said these things, and without looking back at the man who lay in the dirt, he returned to his house.
He found Daeng crying. He dropped to his knees and comforted her. She suffered the agony of one who had experienced great pain, worry, and had to accept the loss of her beauty.
“I’m sorry your Daeng is no longer beautiful,” she sobbed.
This broke his heart and he sobbed with her.
“I will buy it back,” he said.
A couple of months later he found work through a broker who sent men to work in Saudi Arabia. He announced his plan to save money to have her face restored, her beauty restored, her innocence brought back, and the curse ended.
Daeng pleaded with her father not to leave the village. He sat beside her, wiped away her tears. “I will always be there for you. I will take care of you. I will come back. You’ll see. Nothing could stop me from seeing my daughter again. No curse can stop me.”
He was away for nearly three months, and had paid back the broker’s fee when he suddenly took ill and died in Saudi Arabia. A one-page letter was sent to the broker from Saudi. One of the broker’s employees delivered it to Daeng’s mother. The letter said that the father died of a heart attack in the desert. They had no money to bring his body back to Thailand. He was buried in the sand. They sent home his personal belongings. Among them was a photograph of Daeng in her school outfit.
“Don’t worry, mother, I will take care of you,” said Daeng.
Her mother wept until the letter was soaked in tears. Her daughter’s beauty was gone; her husband dead. What was she to do to survive? How would they live now that everything in her life had changed for the worse? She blamed the merchant’s curse. She blamed herself for not overriding her husband’s decision not to let Daeng go and work for the merchant. So many of the daughters had gone and for so much less. The merchant had been right—her husband had been arrogant and selfish, and now who was left to suffer?
The next time a man came to the village, the mother did what the father would not have allowed. She sent her daughter away from the village in the company of an agent who said she would work in a Bangkok restaurant. He promised it would be a respectable restaurant and gave the mother two thousand baht. She signed a piece of paper but she couldn’t read. She didn’t know what it said, and the agent said it wasn’t important. Just a receipt for the money she had received. When the boat left, the mother cried bitterly. Now she was alone—it was her husband’s village and she had no relatives living there—and the villagers, including her husband’s relatives, avoided her. They were afraid this curse might not be finished and might drag others down like the father had dragged the dog under the river. The isolation and loneliness overcame the old woman. She waited for a sign. Some way of undoing what her husband would have never allowed. Then she had her chance when she saw a farang who had docked on the same spot the merchant who made the curse had used. She showed him Daeng’s picture. She offered him the money she had taken from the agent and had never had the heart to spend. The farang looked up from the photograph and promised to find her daughter, and return her to the village. He refused to accept the money paid to the mother for Daeng’s services. Her blood-red money. It was on that thread of hope, a man, who like her husband would not take money for his Daeng, that she passed the hours of each day.
7
THE FIRST THING Crosby said when Snow came into HQ was, “So the war’s over.”
Snow snarled. “It’s in remission. It’s not like baseball. War ain’t over even when it’s over. It just goes to sleep for awhile, then rears up like a monster to bite your ass just when you start to relax.”
“Is that the sound of fear?”
“Fear is your friend,” said Snow, with a crooked grin on his angular, unshaven face. “An ex-Green Beret friend told me that in Jakarta. In jungle combat, fear is what keeps you alive. When you learn to be unscared is when the trouble starts.” He was talking to Crosby and didn’t see someone come up from behind him.
“I agree with everything Snow just said. Paranoia is your right hand man,” said Ross, who was drunk when he wandered into HQ.
“Hey, man, pull up a chair,” said Snow.
“What do you mean pull up a chair? You’re sitting in a booth.”
“So I am, so pull up a booth.”
Ross looked confused, dazed, as he looked around at the girls, and then he sat down hard beside Snow.
“What were we just talking about?” asked Ross.
“Fear, paranoia…” said Crosby, who gestured for the waiter to bring Ross a drink.
“Now, I remember. What I wanted to say, Snow, was you let me come up behind you. I could have killed you by sticking an ice pick through the back of your neck.”
“Hey, I saw that on Star Trek. Klingons with ice picks.”
“I’m serious. Soldiers survive on fear. Lawyers prosper on paranoia. You never want a lawyer who doesn’t think whatever deal you are doing someone is out to get you—your money, your wealth, your women. You go to a lawyer because you fear people you do business with will hurt you, inflict pain, and hunt you down even if you are honest. You worry about the day when your back is turned, and they gun you down.”
“Are you serious, man?” asked Snow, glancing over at Crosby who showed no expression one way or another.
“Of course, I’m serious. My role as a lawyer is to educate clients about the dangers of business. How to fully develop their paranoia to succeed in the modern world, to teach them the kinds of conspiracies which others will unleash against them, and the kinds of conspiracies they can employ to confuse, defeat, and generally fuck up friends and enemies,” said Ross, stopping to gulp down the drink the waiter had set before him. Before the waiter had gone two steps away from the table, Ross ordered him to immediately bring another Old Granddad and soda. “What were we…”
“About people waiting to gun you down,” said Crosby.
“Or smash into your car and kill you. Or say terrible things on the radio about you. Like that evil asshole Denny Addison.”
Ross had captured the attention of Snow and Crosby, who liked the stark simplicity of his world view.
“My first experience with a girl was in a slum on Soi 22,” said Crosby.
“Slum girls always make you sentimental,” said Snow.
“I hope they cure AIDS before they cure poverty,” said Crosby.
“That would be a bummer,” replied Snow.
“You have no idea the damage this has caused my client,” said Ross. “You’re not taking it seriously.”
“It could have been worse, Ross,” replied Crosby, raising a Kloster to his lips.
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br /> “How?” asked Ross.
Crosby lowered the bottle.
“In the early 80s, Tuttle, Snow and me went over to Pratunam—meaning door to the water—where girls waited in long boats. If you were a local you paid forty baht.”
“Or eighty baht for the farang,” said Snow. “Yeah, I remember the boat girls. They existed long before the boat people.”
“They rowed you out into the klong and under the bridge where they tied the boat up to one of the pilings. Then the girl hiked up her dress and you had your go,” said Crosby.
“All I can remember is the evil, sick smell of the klong and the movement of the boat, the noise of long-tail boats, the overhead traffic. Only Crosby could ever finish the act in the boat. The rest of us sat with limp dicks wondering what combination of vile substances and noise could stop Crosby.”
“You see, Ross,” said Crosby, “Addison could have broadcast the boat girl story. The slum girl story is nothing. It’s common as pollution in Bangkok. But taking boat girls is something altogether different. People would have remembered that one.”
Ross was about to lose his temper. His face flushed and he clutched both fists around his glass, then quickly drained it.
“The law of libel doesn’t rest on associating another with the lowest form of perversion,” said Ross.
“Okay, man, Addison’s an evil punk.”
“It’s obviously right for a T-shirt,” said Crosby, making a note on his pad.
“Are you stealing that?” asked Snow
“Which one?” asked Crosby.
“The last one. That Addison’s an evil punk. Ross said it first, right, Ross?”
“Did I? I could have. But then again, someone else might have. It’s likely public domain. And it’s the truth. So it’s neither copyrighted nor libel. That will cost you another drink, Crosby.”
Ross had their close attention and didn’t notice that Tuttle had arrived, and was standing a couple of feet away, talking to one of the girls from the old days.
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