by John Burdett
I switch Pisit and his guest off when the cab arrives but find myself haunted for a moment by the rice grower from Isaan. I can see her, uncomfortable without her sarong in the short skirt or black leggings and black tank top which are almost a uniform of the trade. Perhaps her legs are short and muscular, her ass a little on the wide side, her expectations wildly out of whack with reality as she stares at passing white men, wondering which of them will be her savior. She owns the broad open face and smudge nose of the northern tribes. I experience her astonishment when her first customer tries to initiate her into the black art of fellatio, her disbelief that he could be serious, that people really did that sort of thing. In my mind's eye I follow her all the way to the terminus, share her disgust with the city while she waits for the bus home. I find I love her, though I've never met her. If we are to be saved it will be by the likes of her.
On the way to my own hovel I meditate on my penis. Not only mine, my thoughts encompass every owner. Sooner or later one comes to a forked path: make it the centerpiece of your life, or put it away to be used in tumescent mode only on special occasions. Those who take the first option must surely reach a point where the sole function of one's lovers is to serve the organ in all its glory? You might put it anywhere, share it with anyone, so long as it's running the show. I find I'm not thinking about my cock at all, I'm thinking of Bradley's: the man who sported a perfect phallus on his web page. And what of his strange bedfellow Sylvester Warren, the man who played so rough only Siberians would partner him?
28
I was twenty-one and already a cop when I visited Fritz for the second time. I went alone and never told Nong of what was to be an ongoing mission of mercy. By then he had been in the jail for more than eleven years and the transformation from suave young European to wizened sewer survivor was complete. He was entirely bald apart from a couple of tufts, with wrinkles which crossed his white shiny dome. A hypersensitivity to nuances of body language gave the impression of extreme cunning bordering on insanity. If I touched my ear, rubbed my nose, coughed or looked at the ceiling I triggered responses vital to his survival. I had come on a whim, no doubt in my usual pathetic search for a father; he emerged in chains from behind the endless warren of bars into his side of the visitors' room in the hope of finding a savior who might somehow get him out of there. No two men have ever disappointed each other more; after five minutes we were laughing like drains. His family had disowned him, his close friends had been rounded up in Germany after his bust and prosecuted for trafficking in heroin. Their incarcerations had passed more quickly than his-he was in for life-but none of them wanted to visit him. I came away with the clear certainty that I was the only person in the world who could save his mind.
Eleven years later I am making my sixty-first visit. Just before we reach the watchtower I have the cabdriver stop for me to buy six packs of two hundred cigarettes. Fritz smokes local brands himself, but 555s are the more valuable currency in the prison economy. In addition I buy a packet of Marlboro Reds and have the driver stop again near the prison while I work in the back of the cab. Fritz has money-by Thai standards he's quite wealthy-but translating this into prison power is not so easy as all that. Every prisoner can open a prison account if he likes, but the amount he can take out of that account from day to day is strictly limited. At first I brought Fritz some of his own money in the form of thousand-baht notes folded and compressed so small I was able to simply flick a couple through the bars in the visiting area whenever I came to see him. The problem here was that in the jail he needed small denominations. A thousand-baht note was unmanageable and made the temptation to murder him and steal it irresistible to some of the inmates. Now I clean out the insides of ten Marlboros, slide a few tightly rolled hundred-baht notes inside each one, pack the end with tobacco and play the rest by ear. We've never failed yet. At the prison my police ID lets me get away with a light frisk. Other visitors, especially farangs, are body-searched.
There is always a moment of suspense while I wait in the visitors' room for the duty guard to look for him. Is he still alive, or did the last beating finish him off? Is he sick in the hospital building, perhaps with HIV from sharing a needle, or from one or other of the fatal maladies that affect the inmates? Has the King agreed to pardon him this year? Here he comes, holding up the heavy chain of his leg irons with a piece of string in his left hand, as if he were taking a dog for a walk. Officially there are no leg irons in Bang Kwan anymore, but the message never seems to have reached the guards on Fritz's block. He sits in a chair on the other side of the bars and drops the chain with a dull clank on the floor.
Amazingly, he has heard about Pichai and tells me how sorry he is. The aging process which accelerated so dramatically in the first years of his imprisonment came to an abrupt halt some time ago, as if it were aiming for a specific state of reptilian cunning. Now he is a wrinkled tortoise, anywhere between fifty and two hundred years old. He thanks me for the 555s, which the guard has already inspected and handed over, and scans my face. I know that he is not an ordinary man, will never be an ordinary man again, much as he would love to be one of the millions of middle-aged mediocrities living nondescript lives whom he once despised. I feel him probing me with that hyperalertness and know that he has read my mind, not through any supernatural power but simply through having developed the ability to read faces to a monstrous degree.
"I knew you were coming today. I saw a white bird through a crack in the ceiling and I knew it was you. I've become totally Thai, haven't I?"
"How have you been?"
He pulls the string to rattle the chain a little. "Fantastic. I've been promoted-how about that!"
"A blue boy? A trusty?"
He snorts. "Do I look like a snitcher? No, they finally realized they had a use for Germanic efficiency and attention to detail-I'm in charge of our little red-light district."
"They're bringing girls in now?"
A shudder. He speaks with incredible rapidity in a loud whisper, like some kind of eccentric genius-or a madman. "There are still things about your country you don't know. Of course they're not letting girls in-they'd be torn apart. I'm talking about the pig farm. Your people are genuinely homophobic, did you know that? A female pig rents for twenty-five times what a male will rent for-short time, by the half hour. They've given me the books to keep and of course I'm scrupulous about the time and the money both. I've even rigged up a little electric buzzer so the john knows when it's five minutes before withdrawal time." He holds up his hands. "What can I say? It's an honor-last year they let me run the cockroach project, and I increased production by a thousand percent-the improvement in the standard of nutrition and general health of the prison population was immeasurable, and of course I've always been the upwardly mobile type."
I give him the nod-something so slight that in the beginning I could not believe anyone could notice such an infinitesimal movement-and he rubs the back of his ear. This means the guard sitting in the chair in the corner will turn a blind eye. Perhaps Fritz has bribed him with a few 555s. I take out the pack of Marlboro, select one of the cigarettes I worked on, light it, then make a questioning gesture to the guard, who nods. I hand the lighted cigarette to Fritz through the bars, he takes a couple of drags, then pinches it out. With a faint smile: "I'll save it for later."
I tell him that this time there is something he can do for me and he listens with his usual paranoid alertness while I tell him about Bradley and Dao Phrya Bridge. It is a matter of choice whether to speak in English or Thai, since he is now fluent in both and knows more prison slang than I do. When I've finished I light up another cigarette and pass it to him. This time the guard seems not to notice. Fritz takes a couple of tokes and pinches the end, as before.
He knows nothing about Bradley or the squatters under the bridge but he agrees there must certainly be someone in Bang Kwan with the information I need. He is full of his usual twitches and restless hand movements and his eyes pierce me, asking for more i
nformation. I find myself describing the woman in Bradley's oil painting, which does not seem to trigger any response until I add a reference to the Khmer. His eyes light up for such a tiny fraction of time I would never have noticed if I had not been trained in prison semaphore. I stop in mid-sentence. I have been speaking in Thai, but now he switches to English.
"I've heard of her. Everyone in here has, she's a legend because of those Khmer. Even the Thai thugs are scared of them. She runs some kind of yaa baa operation and uses the Khmer as protection-that's the story anyway. The reason she's so respected is she's managed to turn herself into a religious figure for them. You know how jungle Khmer are at the best of times, but apparently they would literally die for her. That's the legend, anyway. I haven't paid any attention to it until now. I'll see what I can do."
He asks politely after my mother and we discuss his chances of a pardon this year. By the time I leave I have passed him all the cigarettes stuffed with banknotes. This is the cash flow which has kept him alive all these years. Someone in Germany wires the money into my account once a month.
The road from the grim prison buildings to the outside world is very long and very straight and ends in a public garden overflowing with hibiscus, bougainvillea, orchids and the luscious green leaves of the Tropics. How could a meditator not see it as a proxy for the axis of the mind?
Back in my cave I find my spirit has exhausted its capacity to deal with the world and I'm in agony from the wound. A meditation aid is called for, as always after a visit to Fritz.
Ganja is, of course, much frowned upon by mainline Buddhist tradition and indeed the Greatest of Men expressly forbade intoxication in any form. On the other hand, Buddhism (I explain to myself) was never intended to consist of a static set of rules boilerplated for all time. It is an organic Way, which automatically adapts itself to the present moment. I keep it under the futon.
I roll a fat spliff, light up, inhale heartily. Now all of a sudden I'm distilling grief. I'm ripping off every Band-Aid, I'm daring to bleed, and I'm concentrating the pain (sweet Buddha, how I loved that boy!). I don't want relief, I want him. With my agony carefully located right between the eyes, I take another toke, hold it as long as I can, repeat the process. I don't want enlightenment, I want him. Sorry, Buddha, I loved him more than you.
29
Anyone in the business will tell you: detection is a mundane task of putting two and two together. Very often the mind will do this automatically, like a software program running offscreen, and the answer will pop into your head as if by magic, when there is really no magic about it, merely the organization of a hundred subliminal clues, hints, words dropped inadvertently or perhaps deliberately by someone who has not the moral fiber to tell the truth to your face. The suspicions had been forming long before my week in hospital, but when she told me she had business in town I experienced that sinking feeling deep down, similar to a lover who expects the worst.
She had been complaining about the boredom of country life for quite some time, and her harebrained moneymaking schemes encompassed everything except narcotics, of which she disapproves, although she has developed a taste for ganja in middle life. I've discouraged her from illegal immigrants, endangered species, a country brothel, a casino and trying to join a syndicate dedicated to fixing the national lottery.
Over the telephone recently the hints have multiplied without blossoming into a confession, although the sinister word "premises" has begun to recur with alarming frequency. Now she has had to confess the address because she needs help. Still in pain from the stitches, I take a taxi to Soi Cowboy. The "premises" consist of a small parcel of land between the Wetlips Club and Ride 'Em Bronco, two enormous fun houses employing several hundred go-go dancers in high season. The squashed little pub in between belonged to an Englishman who had inexplicably refused to allow prostitutes on the premises and-my mother explains without looking me in the eye-therefore lost his license because he could not pay the police protection.
She is wearing black leggings which hug her crotch and bum, a white short-sleeved shirt and a crimson neckerchief. Her hair is in a glistening black plait with a flowery decoration at the tail. Gold hangs from her ears and matches the Buddha who swings from her neck as she yanks at a crate of Singha beer out on the street. She looks fantastic when she smiles at me and smells just like that shop Truffaut used to take us to in the Place Vendome.
"But why would he need police protection if he wasn't running prostitutes?"
My mother tuts disapprovingly. "You have to maximize profits in this street. Run your money hard, make it work for you. You can't pursue a romantic dream, that's the surest way to bankruptcy."
I puff out my cheeks and scratch my head. The vocabulary is familiar, but not in her mouth. "You've been up to something?"
"I did a short course in business management. I didn't tell you because I didn't need you to mock me and because you don't have a head for business so you wouldn't understand."
"A course? How?"
"On the Net, darling. Didn't I tell you we have broadband now in Phetchabun? A woman doesn't need to feel in prison at home anymore, she can reach the world with a couple of clicks."
I push open the door and see that the building is deeper than it looks from outside. There is a long bar to the right and that atmosphere of dank melancholy which the British like to get drunk in. There is Guinness and a range of English ales on tap behind the bar, nowhere to dance and a romantically old-fashioned jukebox, small tables where balding Anglo-Saxons can have their one-to-ones over their mugs of dark beer and the inevitable dartboard at the end of the room. I know there are such pubs all over Krung Thep and they usually do very well. Not only the British but Dutch and Germans also like to retreat from the flesh trade from time to time into exactly these kinds of oases. On the other hand, it's true that the rents in Soi Cowboy are amongst the highest in the city, because the street is so successful. My suspicions are mounting all the time.
"How long did the Englishman run this place, Mother?"
"Ages. About thirty years. He was ready for retirement."
"Just when you were looking for premises?"
"I've been praying to the Buddha for luck for ages. I went to the wat ten times last month and I've been burning incense every day." She looks up at me. "We were gentle with him. Compassionate."
"Who's backing you and what did you do for it?"
"Sonchai, please, I'm a respectable retired woman. What I did in the past to make ends meet and give you an education is way behind me, you know that."
"So how can you afford the rent?"
A brisk smile and avoidance of eye contact. "I have a partner. A business partner."
"Who?"
"I'd rather not say just at the moment. Can't you see I'm busy?"
"Well, I can't help, can I? I've got stitches."
She stands up straight after dragging the case of Singha into the bar. Now I see this was a symbolic gesture designed to provoke feelings of tenderness in a loyal son's heart. A young man in shorts, his bare chest glistening with sweat, emerges from the back of the pub and commences dragging in the rest of the crates which are lined up in the street. "I don't want you to help with the beer, I want you to help with the plans. They have to be approved by the local police colonel after being endorsed by someone responsible who knows me and can vouch for me. So I thought: Who better than Krung Thep's most brilliant detective to sign them for me? You know, maybe with a nice stamp or something from District 8."
"What's the use of a stamp from District 8 when this is District 6-" I stop in mid-sentence because I've understood. "Why can't Vikorn sign the plans if someone from District 8 is what you want?"
She is backing away down the bar as I advance toward her. "He doesn't want his name appearing directly-everyone will understand when they see-you know-that you're my son and that you're in District 8."
"Which happens to be where your new business partner is the colonel in charge. Muscle, in other word
s. Did this all get negotiated in the corridor of the hospital by any chance?"
Touching her hair. "Of course not. We were both so worried about you, and he would call me up when he couldn't get to the hospital himself."
"Which was every day except one."
"Well, you see how precious you are to both of us." Tossing her head. "I told him I was looking for a business opportunity in town and he told me he had some money to invest, venture capital is what they call it, you know. It was symbiotic." She uses the English word a little tentatively.
"What course were you on, exactly?"
"It was some special thing run by the Wall Street Journal. You can enroll over the Net."
I might not have a head for business but I know the street well enough to doubt there really is room for another girlie bar. I also know Vikorn well enough to doubt he would invest in anything that wasn't guaranteed to succeed. I decide to proceed artfully. "So what d'you want me to do?"
Enthusiastically: "Well, darling, you know the trade as well as I do. I thought we'd rip out all this nonsense, go for some color, interesting lighting, a nostalgia theme, we could have a little stage right at the end…"
She trails off, at the same time giving me an adoring beam. I'm understanding a little better minute by minute. "You're going to have an upstairs, aren't you?"
Touching her hair again. "Well, it would be silly not to, don't you think? With this kind of protection, who's going to bust me?"
"The police colonel in charge of District 6, that's who."
"My partner advises that that is unlikely, but thank you for worrying about me."
"Unlikely? Why? Oh, I know why." I have remembered that Colonel Predee, who runs the very lucrative District 6, owns a piece of a casino in District 8 and is therefore dependent on Vikorn's grace. No wonder Vikorn was able to muscle the Englishman out of his license.