"I don't know how I'm going to get through my current one."
"No, you don't," she says. "And that's a problem for me. I have problems, lots of problems, that you can't see, Poke, and some of them are about you. I see things in your life and mine, and Miaow's, that can't just be fixed." Her hair has fallen forward, and she pulls her hands from her pockets, slips them beneath the long fall of hair, and throws it back over her shoulders, a gesture he has always found compellingly beautiful. "You see a problem and your response is to fix it, like it's a broken air conditioner, or forget about it. I can't do that. That's not how life works for me. The things we do, the things we don't do, they carry forward into other lives. Lives that come after this one. And they affect other people's lives, now and in the future."
Rafferty's head feels like it weighs fifty pounds. He lets it drop forward so his chin almost rests on his chest. "Give me an example."
"My life before I met you." Her voice is defiant.
Poke had expected this subject, but not in this context. "I know all about that."
"Do you? I don't think you do. You know about it the same way you'd know the story of a movie you watched." She raises her hands to her shoulders and brings them straight down, putting herself inside an invisible frame. "She danced, she went with men, she quit. End of story, except that you get to feel good about yourself by putting it all in the past, by saying it doesn't matter anymore. But it does matter."
"I know this is probably the wrong thing to say, but it doesn't matter to me."
"Do you understand the damage I did to myself? Do you know what I have to carry with me? That I danced up on that bar night after night with my rear end showing, so men could say, 'Send me Number 57,' like I was a sandwich? That I went to their hotels, no matter what they wanted-whether they wanted to make a pornographic video, or have me pee on them, or give it to me in the ass? I did that, Poke, I did all of it. I took money for it. I could have walked out of those rooms at any time, and I didn't."
She stops herself and draws two deep breaths. Her shoulders slump, and suddenly she is sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch. She picks up a pack of cigarettes, works one out, flicks the lighter, and looks at him over the flame.
"There's nothing I can do about that," Poke says, "except to love you and to understand why you did it."
"Yes," she says. She inhales hard, brightening the coal at the cigarette's tip enough to cast a red glow on her cheekbones. "You do understand that. I did it for my family."
"And that makes merit," Poke says. He has both hands on the edge of the table, leaning forward with enough force to whiten his knuckles. "That has to mean something. It has to…I don't know, cancel out some of…some of the other stuff."
"I'll carry it with me as long as I live," she says. "And beyond." The cigarette dangles loosely from her fingers, forgotten. "And I bring that damage into your life. Into Miaow's."
"We need you," he says.
"You think you do. And you think I'll be good for you and you'll be good for me, and that will fix me, just like adopting Miaow will fix her, just like you want to fix the boy. That's good of you, Poke. It's generous. It comes from a warm heart. But we're not air conditioners. We are who we are because of who we've been, in this life and in the past. It's too deep to tinker with, and you can't see that, even though to me it's a wall fifty feet high." She rediscovers the cigarette, puts it to her lips, and lowers it again without taking a drag. "And it will be here, that damage, in this house."
And then she's up again, walking away from him. "You think you understand about my family," she says without looking back. "You know I worked the bars because of my family. But if I did that for them, Poke, what else will I do?"
"You'll take care of them. I'll help you take care of them."
She turns to face him. "We have ten dollars left," she says. Her voice is so low he has to strain to hear it. "Miaow is hungry. My little sister up north is hungry. Who gets the ten dollars?"
Rafferty pushes the table so hard it slides away from him. "We're never going to be down to ten dollars, Rose. You can't take an insurance policy against the entire future."
"I would send the money to my sister," Rose says. "Without a minute's thought. Is this a problem?"
After a moment too long for Rafferty to measure it, he says, "Yes."
"Well, that's what you would be getting, Poke. You would be getting my damage, my mama and papa, and my brothers and sisters, too. You would be getting my priorities. And I would be getting the knowledge that I might harm you, and even Miaow."
"How much harm would you do to Miaow if you left?"
She shakes her head, and for a second he thinks he misunderstood something she said. "I'm not talking about leaving. You said you wanted to marry me. That's different than playing house. That's joining souls, Poke. The threads they'll tie around our heads will join my soul to yours. I do you the honor of taking that seriously." She holds up a hand, palm out, to stop him from replying. "Don't you think this is difficult for me? Don't you think it would be easier for me to pretend that none of this matters? I could just say yes, Poke, and bring you into a world you'd never understand. You wouldn't even know who was sleeping next to you. Most girls who came out of the bars would say yes in the amount of time it would take their hearts to beat. And then they'd clean out your bank account and leave you in the middle of the night, and I know lots of girls who would think I'm crazy for not doing that."
"They're not you."
"No, they're not. But what they would have done to you might be better for you than marrying me."
He leans back, suddenly aware that he looks like someone who is about to spring. "I'm listening to you. I'm trying to understand what you're saying. Do I get to talk?"
She gives him a half smile. "I've never known you not to."
"Okay." He folds his hands, looking desperately for the words. "So here's me. I'm not the greatest bargain in the world. I've spent most of my life looking for something easy, something that might be fun for an hour or an evening. I've been the guy in the hotel room, remember? Ask Fon. I'm not proud of that. I'm not proud of much I've done. I've wasted a lot of my life." He grabs a breath. "This life anyway." Rose lowers her head to hide another smile. "Maybe the best thing I can say about myself is that I try not to hurt other people. I don't always succeed, but I try."
"That counts." Rose has leaned against the edge of the desk, her back straight. Holding her left shoulder with her right hand. To Rafferty it looks like a defense.
"And you…well, you're one of the best people I've ever met. You're good and generous and truthful and beautiful. I could look at you for the rest of my life without my eyes getting tired. Maybe you're right, maybe I don't see most of what you see. Maybe I'm lost, maybe I'm sleepwalking. Maybe you could wake me up."
Rose draws a long breath and blows it out, turning slowly to the glass doors. She could be counting the lights in the windows. "A while ago, you said 'I can try,'" she says. She looks back to him. "I can try, too."
"I promise to keep my eyes open. I promise to listen. I promise not to think I can make everything right by fixing your intake valve or something. But I don't promise not to try to make things right. That's part of the way I love you."
Rose brings both hands to her mouth. The gesture stops him.
"I haven't said I love you," Rose says. "I should have said that first. I do love you. I love you enough to try to do this right or not do it at all."
"We can try," Rafferty says. "We can try together." For the first time, he feels confident enough to stand.
"There's one more thing," Rose says. "And, Poke? I don't expect us to solve all these things tonight. But I want it all said. I don't want to leave anything under-what is it you say? — under the couch."
"Under the rug." He is aching to hold her.
"All right, under the rug." She brings her hands together in front of her, loosely folded. "I'm someone who is changing her life. I'm the person, the only person, who takes
care of my family. I'm someone who has been used and lied to, and lied to again, for years. I've met the experts."
"I know."
She holds up both hands. "Right now, Poke, I'm balanced on top of a high wall. If I walk exactly right, I'll be fine. If I take a wrong step, I'll fall. What happens to me is not important, but what happens to my family if I fall is very important. But, Poke? You're balanced on top of a wall, too. I don't want to be…to be what you trip over."
"I'll walk carefully. And I'll look out for you, too."
"Then listen to me now. I won't talk about this again." Her eyes close slowly, and when she reopens them, she is looking at a spot on the floor, midway between them. "I danced on that stage a long time. There were a lot of men, hundreds of men. To them I was Number 57." She brings her eyes up. "Your wife. Number 57."
"My wife. Rose."
"We'll meet them," she says. "They're everywhere in Bangkok." She extends a hand, mimicking an introduction. "'This is my wife, Number 57.'" She widens her eyes in mock surprise. "'Oh, I see. You've already met.' It'll be you and Fon all over again, except that the girl will be me. Your wife."
"Do you honestly think I'd feel that way?"
"Or suppose Number 58 comes along."
"That's not going to happen."
"No," she says, pulling her hair back again. "It probably won't. You're an honorable man."
"Then is that it?"
She sighs. "Poor baby," she says. "That's it. But promise me you'll think about it, Poke. About all of it."
"Fine, but I'm going to ask you to think about something, too."
"What?"
"Miaow."
She puts long fingers to her eyes and rubs them gently. Without looking at him, she says, "I think about Miaow all the time. Almost as much as I think about you."
"I know you do."
She gives him the smile that starts with her eyes, slowly finds its way to the corners of her mouth, and always makes his legs wobble. "You know what I think about, do you? Then what am I thinking right now?"
He grins back at her. "You're thinking about kissing me."
"You are paying attention. How about it?"
"A kiss is a viable option," he says in English. He takes a step toward her.
The telephone rings.
"Wait a minute," Rafferty says to the phone without picking it up. He wraps his arms around her, feels the long, strong back, the deeply rounded gully of her spine. She tilts her head, and their lips meet. The tip of her tongue traces the shape of his lips and then darts into his mouth. He tastes her sweetness and breathes in the faint fragrance of her skin. Her cheeks are dusted with baby powder.
She steps back, her face flushed. "You'd better get that now, or you won't get it at all."
Rafferty picks up the phone. In the background he hears a shrieking that sounds like a thousand rusty hinges, like a convention of crows, like nothing human.
"You must come," says Pak. "You must come this minute."
30
Madame Is in an Excitable State
He can hear her screams even while he is talking with the guard at the gate. Pak meets him halfway up the drive, dripping sweat, with panic widening his eyes. They head toward the house at a run.
"What is it?"
"She will tell you." Pak is out of breath. He has to fight to get the words out. The back of his jacket is soaked with perspiration.
The front door stands open, light pouring out into the night. Pak leads him to the right, toward the screams. "You must be patient with her," he says over his shoulder. "Madame is in an excitable state."
"Thanks for the bulletin."
They enter the small room where he first met Madame Wing. She is crumpled in her wheelchair with her knees drawn up to her shoulders, looking as angular and insubstantial as a swatted spider. A blanket covers the lower half of her body. Two enormous male servants are in the room, their heads bowed, as Madame Wing pours her fury on them, a shrill stream high enough to make dogs howl. When Rafferty comes in, she breaks off and gives him a glare that is intended to nail him to the wall.
"You," she spits. "What have you been doing? What earthly good are you? Your mother should have aborted you."
"I'm fine, thanks," Rafferty says. "And you?"
"Idiot. You took my money and you have done nothing. I placed my faith in you-"
"And I identified the man who robbed you in less than twenty-four hours. By the way, his name is Chouk Ran."
"A lot of good that does. A name." She almost chokes on the word. "What use is a fucking name? I need that man's skin."
The hell with it, Rafferty thinks. Take the fifteen K and walk.
She strikes at the arms of her wheelchair with the gnarled hands as though she could beat the truth out of it. "He made a demand," she snarls. "He had the effrontery to make a demand. If you had done your job-"
"When did the demand come?"
She breaks off, her mouth open and quivering. She swallows loudly enough to be heard across the room. "Early this morning."
"Excuse me? Did you say early this morning?"
"Are you deaf as well as useless?"
"No, I'm just having a little trouble believing my ears. I thought you said it came early this morning-"
"That is what I said-"
"— and, see, that doesn't make sense, because I know you would have called me. Since I'm working on this for you, remember? It would have been stupid not to call."
Pak inhales sharply behind him.
Madame Wing stares at him with something like disbelief. Finally she says, in a tone so cold he can almost see her breath cloud, "You were not needed."
"Apparently I was. Or am I missing something? He made a demand, and you met it, and he kept what he stole from you. Something along those lines?"
"Mr. Rafferty-" Pak begins, but Madame Wing silences him with a look.
"Yes," she says. She is watching him, the dark eyes flat and still as a snake's.
"What did he want?"
The steel returns to her voice. "Ten million baht."
"And you sent it to him. Who took it?"
Her mouth twists as though she would spit at his feet. "A maid," she says.
"Bring her."
"That is not necessary."
Rafferty is suddenly so angry his throat is almost blocked. "How about this? How about bring her or I leave?"
She blinks as though she has received a blow to the face. "Leave?"
"Go home. Send your fucking money back and let you deal with this yourself."
For a moment Rafferty thinks Madame Wing will fly out of her wheelchair and straight at him, but instead she settles back and, in a voice like a grinding knife, says to Pak, "Get her."
"Did he send you anything?" Rafferty asks when Pak is gone.
"Oh, yes," she says. "He sent me something." She reaches beneath the blanket on her lap and withdraws an envelope. She holds it out, and he crosses the room and takes it from her. Her hand is shaking for the first time. In the envelope are three sheets of cardboard, very much like the ones that came in the shirts he bought for Superman.
"And I'm correct in assuming that this was not what he stole."
"Do not bait me, Mr. Rafferty. Better people than you have tried."
"I'm not afraid of you. Whoever you are, you're not used to people who hit back."
She coils herself deeper in the chair, but before she can reply, she suddenly registers that the other two servants are still in the room. "Out," she snaps. They practically collide in their eagerness to leave.
"Did Chouk pick up the money himself?" Rafferty asks before she can launch into whatever she was going to say.
She is looking at him as though she is trying to guess his weight. "It would seem so."
"How did he do it?"
Grudgingly at first and then with mounting fury, she tells him about the taxis and the cell phone.
"It sounds like he's alone," Rafferty says, working it through. "There's nothing he woul
d have needed a partner for. He gets into a taxi and pays it to wait on the boulevard for two or three hours before the maid is supposed to come out. He's looking for a setup. He writes down the plate numbers of the cars that seem to be idling around, if any are. Then, when the maid gets into her taxi, he follows for an hour or so to make sure there's no one behind him, and then he calls her and tells her where to stop."
"What could you have done about it?"
He studies the bas-relief for a moment, not really seeing it. "Well, off the top of my head, I would have been in a private car with a driver, a few blocks away. The maid would have had two cell phones, one I could call on and the one he gave her, so he would never get a busy signal. She would have called me the moment she was in the cab, so I could hit the street just as she pulled away. I would have changed cars once or twice so I wouldn't be spotted, and called her to find out where they were so I could direct my driver. I suppose there's a small chance that they might have made the exchange when I wasn't around, but not much of one."
After a moment she says in a withering tone, "Pak did not think of this."
"Yeah," Rafferty says, "and neither did you."
He hears people enter the room behind him and turns to see Pak, trailed by a plump maid with a blunt-chopped schoolgirl's haircut, no more than eighteen or nineteen years old. She wears a black skirt and white blouse, and she is hanging her head. It is not until she lifts her chin that he sees the quivering jaw and, above it, the bandages.
One eye is completely swathed in white adhesive, with the puffy edges of a cotton pad peeping out from beneath it. The bandages continue down both cheeks, all the way to her jawline. One slants white across her nose. Above the bandages on the left side of her face are two long, red gouges, scored deep into the defenseless tissue and stained with iodine. Her eyes skitter toward him for an instant and then drop to the floor.
Rafferty turns to Madame Wing, feeling the tightness come back to his neck and shoulders. "Did you do this?"
Madame Wing's chin comes up, and the corners of her mouth pull down. "And if I did?"
"Then you're an appalling old bitch." Pak lays a hand on his shoulder, and Rafferty pivots quickly and knocks it off. "Don't touch me again unless you want a lot of stuff to get broken." To Madame Wing he says, "Who the fuck do you think you are, the empress dowager?"
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