by John Burdett
In the back of his Bentley, with “The Ride of the Valkyries” screaming from the sound system, his driver with his usual supercilious expression plastered all over his mug, my Colonel places a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to forget last night. It never happened. You’re going to concentrate on the Mitch Turner case.”
“At least tell me what your Plan C is.”
“You might not want to know. Anyway, it’s classified.”
I can hardly believe my generosity of soul. I’m actually pleased he’s still fighting Zinna, even if I have missed my promotion (and the hundred thousand dollars). I don’t want to let him off too lightly, though; this is quite a letdown I’m dealing with. I look out the window of the Bentley as we speed along Rama IV. “For a moment I thought you were getting old.”
He spares me a contemptuous glance. “You think that’s all it is? A primitive vendetta between two old men?” Leaning toward me to prod me in the gut: “What I do to keep the brakes on Zinna isn’t just for Ravi. It’s for the country, too. Let the army run the drug trade, and you get rich generals. Rich generals get big ideas and stage coups—that was the whole problem with the opium trade. Before you know it, we’re back to military rule. And what do Thai army generals know about the global economy, human rights, the rule of law, the welfare of women, the twenty-first century in general? Next time you vote in a more or less straight democratic election, think about it. Thai police may not be the world’s finest, but we’re not military. Under us there are free elections. No farang would understand, but I expect better from you.”
He still hasn’t finished. In fact, he is digging me in the ribs. “Who knows, under democracy the country might flourish until it’s worthy of a refined fellow like you. But if that happens, it will be because badasses like me kept the army snout out of the feeding trough, not because some monk manqué rescued a few dumb dogs off the street.”
I shake my head in wonderment. He always has an answer. His dexterous use of the word manqué is particularly irritating; in Thai the word has exactly the same quality of supercilious pretension and is just the sort of thing I come out with when I want to irritate him. Who told him he could say manqué and get away with it?
I brood for a long moment. His driver stops at the beginning of Pat Pong, our most venerable—and famous—red-light district. There is no way the limo is going to squeeze down this crowded street at this time of night. Vikorn and I get out and walk while his chauffeur takes the car away. The Colonel is in plain clothes and looks like just another Thai man, somewhat on the short side by Western standards, indistinguishable from the other middle-aged Thai men who work this street, virtually all of whom are pimps. Vikorn seems to suffer no threat to his ego, though, when a young white tourist in cutaway singlet and walking shorts, regulation nose stud and eyebrow pin, asks him where the Ping-Pong show is. Vikorn stops in midstride and, with a smile expressive of deep greed and sympathetic lechery, points to a small sign on an upper terrace: Girls, dirty dancing, ping-pong, bananas . . . “Great,” says the young farang, mirroring Vikorn’s smile.
“Fuckee, fuckee,” says Vikorn with a dumb grin.
The street is crammed, not only with horny white men but with greedy white women too, for some of the best designer rip-offs in Asia are on sale at the stalls that fill the center of the street. Tear aside the veil of conventional morality—see with a meditator’s eyes—and the looks on the faces of the women are not so different from the men’s:
“Only two hundred baht for Tommy Bahama jeans—that’s just over three quid.” Eyes bulging: “You can’t get a gin and tonic for that in Stoke Newington.”
“See this fake Rolex? Look, the second hand goes around all smooth without jerking, just like the real thing. It’s only ten pounds.”
Examining it with wonder: “We could buy a few and sell them—even at a hundred quid it’s cheap.”
“Would we tell everybody they’re fakes?”
Thinking about it: “Have to, really, they’re all going to know we’ve been over here.”
“But they don’t know what they cost in Pat Pong, do they? I mean, we could be buying at ninety and only making a ten percent markup?”
Nodding thoughtfully: “For all they know.”
The Princess Club is in a side soi that is jam-packed with people. We have to squeeze past big Caucasian bodies, then into the bar, which is also packed. The mamasan recognizes Vikorn instantly, and a quite different expression appears on her face, in contrast to the tough/dumb look she wears for the customers. The Colonel is not merely immensely rich and the owner of the club, he is also her liege lord, the man who provides her, her aging mother, and her teenage son with food, lodging, and dignity. The relationship is complex and goes beyond money. (Even after her retirement he will keep her in food and pride—the bondage works both ways.) She wais him and makes a little curtsy; he nods at her and smiles; face has been exchanged across the sea of pink drunken mugs, most of whom are watching the girls on stage.
Whether the girls are allowed to dance topless (or naked) in a particular club depends entirely on the whim of whichever police colonel is running the street. This is not Vikorn’s street, but no one is going to interfere with his bar, so here the girls are all topless. They don’t bother to put their bras on when they come down to the floor to mix with customers, and yet they always seem in control. Strange how these wild-looking young farang men, who with their tattoos and body piercings and alcohol abuse might be barbarians on a break from sacking ancient Rome, don’t dare to grope any of those oh-so-tempting young mammary glands as they wobble and swing past their eyes—not without a franchise from the owners, anyway, which always costs a couple of drinks.
The mamasan points upstairs, and we manage to squeeze past the wild hordes to the far end of the bar, then up two flights to a reception room, where they have prepared Vikorn’s supper. We sit cross-legged on the floor, as we were both brought up to do, at a low benchlike table that is already laden with yam met ma-muang himaphaan (yam with cashews), naam phrik num (a northern dish consisting of a chile and eggplant dip), miang kham (ginger, shallot, peanuts, coconut flakes, lime, and dried shrimp), Mekong whiskey with chut (ice, halved limes, and mixers), and some phat phet (spicy stir-fry).
No sooner are we seated than two of the dancing girls appear, wearing T-shirts and bras now, to ask what we want to drink in addition to the Mekong. Vikorn orders a couple of beers, to be followed by a cold white wine from New Zealand. (This is all my fault. I started him on wine a few years ago, and now he cannot eat his kaeng khiaw-waan without it.) I ask between mouthfuls if he has any idea how exactly Mitch Turner died.
He looks at me as if I’m a particularly slow-witted fellow who needs help. “What does it matter how he died? We’re dealing with theater, not reality. Farang gave up on reality when they invented democracy, then added television. What matters is what we tell the world. Handle it right, and we all live happily ever after. Handle it wrong, and . . .” He opens his hands, indicating just how tragically unpredictable life can be for nonmanipulators. The girls arrive with his green curry with extra chili along with the wine in an aluminum ice bucket, stir-fried mixed vegetables, tom yam, Chinese kale, a spicy duck salad, mouse-shit peppers, and some shredded kai yaang (grilled chicken).
“So how do we handle it right?” I ask, humbled, irritated, and relishing the feast all at the same time.
He makes a gesture with his left hand that might appear obscene if one did not know its country origins. What he is actually doing is tickling a fish—fishing by hand was his favorite sport as a boy. It takes a quite incredible patience—merely getting close enough to the fish to tickle its belly is only the beginning—fools make a grab and lose the catch—only the cool stay the course long enough to mesmerize the fish, then grab it. All you need is a heart as cold as the fish’s.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Just concentrate. Our friends from the CIA will come calling very soon now. Follow the roa
d signs and keep your mouth shut. Or do you want them to drag Chanya off to Guantánamo Bay?”
“They wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not? Turner was CIA checking out Muslims. He was murdered. She did it. They could leave her to rot over there for the rest of her life, or until she’s totally insane.”
He is using Piercing Eyes to stare at me. I know he’s playing three-dimensional chess and probably has me mated on every level; but he needs something, that’s why he’s taken me to dinner.
“If you’re a good boy and stick to the Mitch Turner case, I’ll tell you why my Indonesia trip will protect Chanya.” I gasp at his ruthlessness. He leans forward. “You think you’re so smart? You’ve been in love with that whore since the day she came to work for us. I know it, your mother knows it, she certainly knows it, and so do all the other girls.”
I fall strategically silent. Then with what I think is fine timing and a not-bad display of low cunning, I say: “So how’s the mia noi?”
Feigning indifference: “Which one?”
“The fourth one who lives in your mansion in Chiang Mai.”
“Oh, her.” Frowning. “She’s fine.” For a moment I’m foolish enough to believe I’ve hit a nerve, but this is Police Colonel Vikorn—he doesn’t seem to have any. Flashing me a grin, he launches into a brilliant parody of his paramour, mimicking perfectly her screechy voice when in the throes of a tantrum: “ ‘You shit, I’m giving you the best years of my life, and you don’t appreciate it, you keep me cooped up here in this hick town when I could be in Bangkok, what d’you want me for, some kind of trophy? You haven’t fucked me for a month, my body’s going to waste, I’d rather be on the Game than your personal property. What d’you think this is, the fucking Middle Ages? Why don’t you give me some decent money at least? Just because I don’t want your kids, you’re punishing me with exile from everyone and everything I love, as if you haven’t got plenty. You’ve got more dough than twenty Chinamen, you have. I’m going to have an affair with one of the security guards, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m a young woman, and you’re a miserable old fart who can’t get it up. I’m going to have the biggest tattoo on my ass and a silver ring in my pussy whatever you have to say about it. I could have men crawling at my feet, I could . . .’ “
What can I do? I’m doubled up and coughing from laughing too hard. It’s as if she were here sitting at the table with us.
In the Bentley on the way back to the station, Vikorn gives me an unusually tender tap on the shoulder. Reaching into the door pocket on his side, he brings out a small satchel and hands it to me. I peek inside. It is a Heckler and Koch machine pistol. I gulp.
“It’s just a precaution. Keep it with you when you can, especially at night. Take this too.” It is a piece of paper with a number on it. “Plug that into your autodial numbers, so you can call it just by pressing one button. There won’t be a reply, but I’ll bring some of the boys to find you, so make sure you’re either in your apartment or in the club. Nothing’s going to happen before I get back from Indonesia.”
“Zinna?”
“What you’re calling Plan C—I’m afraid he may not take it too well.” Vikorn has to concentrate to wipe the grin from his face. He catches his driver’s eye in the rearview mirror. The driver is stifling a guffaw.
25
Thus have I heard: the faithful Ananda one day asked the Finest of Men: Lord, how is it that in the animals we see all the gods represented—the ferocity of Kali in the tiger, the strength and endurance of Ganesh in the elephant, the cunning and strategy of Hanuman in the monkey—but nowhere do we see an animal that reflects the Buddha? With a nod the Tathagata gazed over the world with an omniscient eye, then described to Ananda an animal living on another continent that was the size of a monkey, owned only three toes on each foot, and was capable of hanging upside down from the treetops for weeks on end; that ate only the leaves rejected by other mammals; that had a metabolism so slow, it took a week to digest each meal; that put up with pain and indignity without complaint; and that was constitutionally incapable of haste.
Tell me, farang, can there be greater proof of enlightenment than that the man with the universe at his feet chose the three-toed sloth as role model? If he so completely extinguished ego, why cannot I?
In other words, all of a sudden I find myself quite cured of the defilement of ambition. I worked on it over the weekend, meditated my way into tranquillity, swam for as long as I could in the ocean without a shore—and smoked a couple of joints. It was a struggle, but I got there. No, I don’t want promotion anymore, I don’t want the hundred thousand dollars, let her have it (the bitch). If she wants to defile her soul by serving Vikorn’s sordid (and largely irrational) vengeance, so be it, but let her watch out for karma. Next time around Lieutenant Manhatsirikit will be my pet goldfish. (It still hurts that she’s closer to him—and smarter—than me: what could the Plan C consist of?)
Back at the club, with nothing better to do, I make that call to Fatima.
She drawls into the phone: “Darling, it’s been so long.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was beginning to think you were ashamed of me.”
“Never. You’re way out of my league these days. I’m intimidated.”
“Don’t lie, darling. Nothing intimidates you. But you must want something, no?”
I explain to her what I have in mind for Lek. I’m quite pleased with her momentary hesitation. “An Elder Sister? Me? You know, I’ve never done that for anyone. I’ve never wanted to. It’s a tough path.” A giggle: “I’ll do it if you beg me to. I want you on your knees in drag.”
“I can’t beg. I don’t know if it’s the right thing or not.”
“Darling, don’t start talking like a farang. There’s no right or wrong—either young Lek is a natural or he’s not. If he is, and he certainly sounds like it, then a whole army could not stop him. Bring him to me. I’ll know what to do the minute I set eyes on him.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“But it’s past midnight.”
“Can there be a better time?”
I call Lek, who gasps with awe, excitement, and fear. We take a cab to Soi 39, where Fatima owns a three-story penthouse apartment in one of the city’s most prestigious developments. On the way I’m seeing Lek the way Fatima will see him; he’s just too damn beautiful for his own good.
Bastard son of a Karen bar girl and a black American GI she’s never met, Fatima is tall and chocolate brown. Of course she is ravishing in her favorite kimono (crimson with a great white sash), her long tragic face, scrubbing-board stomach, long finely manicured hands, exaggerated mascara, and eyes that have seen the very depths of desolation. She stands at the door holding Lek at arm’s length. I’m already an irrelevant spectator. How to explain to the spiritually sightless the extraordinary event that takes place when Lek’s guardian spirit recognizes this ancient soul? Fatima leans against her doorjamb; behind her: a vista of rare art objects, mostly priceless jade items on pedestals, leading to a floor-to-ceiling panoramic window filled with city lights and a yellow moon.
“Oh Buddha,” she says, still holding Lek’s hand. I cough. “You can leave us now,” she whispers hoarsely, without taking her eyes off Lek.
When I get back to my hovel, I can’t sleep. I have lived and worked in the heterosexual division of the sex trade all my life, I have seen all the things that men and women do to each other—and none of it approaches the intensity of katoeys. I don’t want to worry about Lek anymore, or what Fatima might do to him. He’ll have to follow the complex rules of his new world. By contrast, the assassination of Mitch Turner seems a more penetrable mystery—almost mundane, but no less compelling for that. I take out the fat wad of A4 paper I collected in Songai Kolok and start to read Chanya’s diary all over again.
FOUR
Chanya’s Diary
26
Chanya begins her diary thus: There are two Chanyas. Chanya One is
noble, pure, and shines like gold. Chanya Two fucks for money. This is why whores go mad.
She refers to herself in the third person, a permissible device in spoken and written Thai and very common in the humbler classes: Chanya has always wanted to go to Saharat Amerika.
I seriously thought about translating the whole thing word for word for you, farang, but the style didn’t fit with the rest of the narrative, and I know how you love congruity (I also got frustrated because I couldn’t stick in any comments of my own), so I’ve opted for an impressionistic rendering of the kind deplored by all true scholars, if that’s okay?
America was a dream that infected her soul via a television screen while she was still a child. Starting with the Empire State Building and the Grand Canyon, her mind had collected a million brilliant images of a nation with a genius for self-promotion. One fine day, when she had saved enough money to keep her parents for a few months, and had paid for her sister’s college fees for that semester, and had bought a piece of land in her village near Surin where she would build her trophy house on her return, and had bought a laptop with Thai word processor, she contacted a gang who had a reputation for honesty and reliability. Their fees were high—nearly fifteen thousand dollars—but they provided the full service, including a genuine Thai passport with a genuine entry visa to the United States, a return air ticket good for one year, a minder who accompanied her as far as Immigration in New York to make sure she did not freak out at the crucial moment and blow the whole operation, and a room and a job in a massage parlor in Texas.
In return for her working in the massage parlor for six months, the gang reduced the fees by five thousand dollars. Of course, she would pay this back by swelling the profits of the massage parlor, which would contribute to the gang’s overheads. She would have to make her own money those first months through tips and by turning tricks on the side, but she knew how to do that and had no illusions. She would use that time to perfect her English, get to know more about American men, and work out which was the best city in which to practice her profession for maximum profit.