I gave the shocked mamasan an envelope. It contained two sheets of paper. The mamasan looked at it. The first was the copied police report the other one a form. On the latter, below the address of the clinic, the doctor’s assistant had written down Som’s full name in Thai. Next to it Som’s date of birth. Below that were a list of several diseases for which a blood test was necessary. The square in front of the letters “HIV” was ticked and on a line next to it the assistant had written both English and Thai the word “positive”. I stood in front of the mamasan while she studied the form for a very long time.
“Kopkun ka,” she said. Thank you.
I mixed truth and lie. When the mamasan made a control call to the clinic she would have talked to the doctor’s assistant. And if she had called the police, she would have spoken with the investigating police man. He would have confirmed the police report. A perfect plan.
Som had as good as lost her job and wouldn’t get another. I would make sure of it. In the meantime a whole brigade of motorcycle taxi drivers was working for me. They handed out flyers in every massage parlour and bar. And they glued the papers to every wall and every lamp post. Even now I could already begin to admire the outcome of my operation. At every turn, I could see Som’s smile on the posters I had sketched. Above her photo stood: This girl has AIDS and below: And is still working in the area. Next to the photo was the form of the blood test with the “positive” result as well as a copy of her ID-card with her full name and date of birth. One half of the posters were in English, the other half were copied in Thai.
* * *
I had talked on the telephone with John several times but we hadn’t met. I was obsessed and all my thinking and actions were fixed upon only the planning and realization of my revenge. Nothing could distract me.
John still didn’t own a Thai SIM-card. I made a mental note to tell him when we meet the next time and buy one for him.
John was transformed when I called him. “Now I understand you,” he started our conversation.
“What’s up?” I asked surprised. John had always mentioned my possible return when we talked on the telephone and said, he could accept my behaviour but not understand. He always stressed the difference.
John let my question unanswered and just said, “I have to see you because I have to tell you something.”
“I am busy right now,” I said, although I am a person of very curious nature. “After I finished my job I won’t have any objections. But at the moment it is really impossible. There is no way.”
“Are you on a trip with your girlfriend?”
“You asked that already.”
“Yes or no? You can tell me, I won’t blame you.”
“Yes,” I lied, so John wouldn’t persist any more.
“Well, okay,” he said a little bit disappointed. “I understand it of course. So I have to be a little bit patient.”
“I’ll call you,” I promised. “Just give me a couple of days.”
* * *
On the next day I had a trip on my schedule. I went to Bangkok by bus. I got off before the Ekami bus station near the sky train station at On Nut. From there I travelled by sky train to Siam Center. Then I changed to a motorcycle taxi. I didn’t know exactly where the Wireless Road was located and I relied on my taxi driver. Some time we stopped in front of a very high white wall with iron peaks at the top. Several policemen stood in front of the entrance. I entered the property through a gate.
My little rucksack was examined in a little shack. People queued up in front of it. After that I crossed a metal detector, got rid of my watch and looked for my mobile phone in my pocket. After that I was allowed to enter. The actual building was some thirty metres behind the white wall. In the courtyard and in the building itself were a lot of chaps in uniforms, amongst them many Indians.
A security guard welcomed me and asked for my request. He listened to me and told me where I had to go. In the front with several bullet-proof glass windows, I lined up at a relatively long queue. When it was my turn and I could tell the reason for my visit, I was told to be patient. I sat down in a seat not so far away and waited until my name was called by a woman about forty years old. She was middle-sized, had dark blond hair and wore a white blouse and a long, dark blue skirt. She escorted me along the counters with the bullet proof windows to a small office with a desk and two chairs. She sat down behind the desk. I sat down in front of it. Behind her chair, hanging in a corner of the room was the flag of the United States.
The lady introduced herself as Mrs. Reileigh and asked how she could help me.
I rummaged around my backpack and produced some paperwork–copies of the police report including English translation, AIDS-test and a copy of Som’s ID-card as well as a couple of portrait photographs. The latter I had printed out on a colour printer in an internet café. I handed over the documents to Mrs. Reileigh. She studied the ID-card copy and the clinic’s statement, looked at the photos, skimmed through the police report and looked at me.
Then I explained to her, very briefly, the story about Som and me.
“And why do you contact me?” she asked. “Isn’t it a case for the Thai police?” Saying that, she held up the report of the police station in Pattaya.
“Sure. But Som, I mean, Miss Khampiar, has a serious relationship with an American national.”
Mrs. Reileigh nodded understandingly.
“He told me he had applied for a visa for his fiancée, Miss Khampiar. He will take her to the United States and marry there. Or he is going to marry here and will take her with him afterwards. Anyway, Miss Khampiar wants to go to America.”
“Do you have any idea of the time frame?” she asked, now very interested in the matter.
“No.”
“When was for the visa applied for?”
I didn’t know, either.
“I will search for it. Maybe the application was already registered.”
She tapped on her keyboard. It didn’t take her long to find something.
“The application of Miss Khampiar was registered, but was yet to be processed,” she said.
I didn’t know if I had expressed my request drastically enough, so I said, “Miss Khampiar has robbed me, works in a massage parlour and has at least two boyfriends. She has sex with foreigners for money. I am sorry to use this word, Madam, but Miss Khampiar is a whore.”
“I understand,” said the employee of the American embassy without any expression on her face.
I left it at that. Mrs. Reileigh rose and shook my hand.
She didn’t tell me of course, how she would use this information, but one thing was sure: Som would never in her life step on American soil.
After my visit to the American embassy I went to a 7-Eleven and bought some envelopes. In an internet café I looked for the Bangkok addresses of the major European embassies, and those of the Australian and New Zealand as well. I drafted a letter, in which I explained the same scenario of which I had informed with Mrs. Reileigh in our personal conversation. In these letters I included copies of the ID-card, the police report as well as AIDS-test and a colour photo of Som. I went to a post office and mailed the letters to the different embassies. Back in the internet café, with the help of a pleasant employee, I drafted a flyer and printed it out on A4 size paper. Immediately thereafter, I went to a copy shop and made one hundred copies. I also duplicated one hundred copies of the flyer which was distributed in Pattaya at the same time.
I talked to a bunch of motorcycle taxi drivers in the Soi Nana who agreed to hand out the Pattaya-flyer in bars and massage parlours. They wanted it to glue on walls and electric posts as well. A shot across the bows, and I hoped one of Som’s friends worked in Soi Nana, would recognize her and contact her. Later I bought two return tickets at a travel agency.
The daily routine was done. After a short walk I arranged an overnight stay in the Hotel Rajah.
In the early evening I left my hotel room for a little change. Directly next to the e
ntrance was a bar in which I got caught. The bargirls listened to songs by Siriporn and danced away. Their enthusiasm was limitless.
The songs by Siriporn in Thailand are much more than just hits. Songs like Bo rak see daam or Rak pua khao are hymns, every Thai can sing along, provided he is from one of the provinces in Isaan.
* * *
The next morning my path led me to a construction company where I got several brochures and architect’s plans, and then I went to the old airport of Don Mueang. There I met Pong, who came all the way from Pattaya. On my wish he had spruced himself up. He wore dark trousers, a white shirt with a plain neck tie and in one hand he held a big briefcase. Pong looked smart. Nobody would believe he was a taxi driver.
We got on a domestic flight with Thai Airways to Khon Kaen. The small provincial airport was far away from town. We found a taxi to the city centre of Khon Kaen and had breakfast at McDonald’s. Then we looked for a taxi to rent for the rest of the day. I figured I had to give the driver 1,000 baht. Pong supported me when bargaining with his Isaan colleagues.
We headed towards Chaiyaphum. While driving I gave Pong more instructions. About six kilometres behind Phu Khieo, at the height of Ban Boa, we turned left onto a small road. We turned left again and passed several temples, a market and the almost dried out reservoir. Finally we reached Som’s house. The taxi driver stopped behind the crossroad with the five roads and parked his car under the shade of a tree.
It was time for part two of the deal. For an extra 1,000 baht I asked him to distribute my flyers in the village. He should go from house to house and hand out the flyers to the owners if they stayed at home. If there was nobody home, he should lay it down in a visible location at the front gate. He shouldn’t get involved in any discussions.
After my instructions we all left the taxi. The driver went along the road with the flyers under his arm and gave the first one to an old woman who sold noodle soup. Curiously she studied the flyer. A beaming Som smiled at her. Below the photo was large writing in Thai letters: Jan bpen kamoi le gari–I am a thief and a hooker. Even if the villagers didn’t believe what was stated on the flyer, they would talk about Som for a hundred years. I cut off her way back home. Actually she couldn’t come to her home village anymore. She would become a laughing stock and the villagers would point fingers at her. But this was just the beginning.
I took off my shoes and stepped into the Som’s mother’s house. Pong was waiting on the terrace next to the rusty fridge for the time being. The mother sat on the floor and ate a snack while the television was running. I waied her, she returned the gesture.
“Som mai yoo,” she said. Som isn’t here. She didn’t say any more in the beginning.
I went to the backdoor and said, I needed some water and could serve myself. On the counter in the kitchen I spotted the mobile phone I had bought for Som that she had given to her mother. With a quick grip it disappeared into a pocket of my trousers, and I went into the garden. While I was counting the cattle in the stable–there wasn’t an additional cow–I called my lawyer in England with Som’s mobile phone. I didn’t want to talk to him but to his secretary, who already knew my strange game. She put the call onto a side phone and laid down the receiver next to it. I listened for a moment and hid the mobile phone in a haystack.
There was still a lot of construction going on next to the mother’s property. The work had progressed a lot. The non-existent-terrace from my last visit was already tiled; the roof was being covered with red roofing tiles.
I went back to see Som’s mother. She had pushed the plate away and was watching TV. I waved to Pong who entered the house and introduced himself as an architect. He sat next to the mother on the floor. I sat down as well. Pong opened his briefcase and produced a couple of brochures and an architect’s plan. Som’s mother took one of the brochures in curiosity and studied it. It showed a magnificent two storey villa in wonderful colours. The house should have seven bedrooms, several balconies, a blue saddleback roof and it consisted of a large garden with a terrace and even a swimming pool.
“I forgave Som,” I started. “And we have reconciled. I went to the police and withdrew my complaint. Everything’s forgiven and forgotten. Som only wanted to leave me…”
The mother nodded her agreement. “Because you didn’t want to marry her.”
“That’s only half of the truth.” I explained that I had planned to marry Som. But not head over heals because a marriage is something very special. I said, Som had pressed me and I didn’t like it. I had talked to Som and had it out with her. Everything was fine. Som had promised to marry me by the end of the year. I would pay the mother not only an unusually high dowry but also for the party and buy a lot of gold.
Her eyes sparkled when I told her details about the jewellery I wanted give Som as a marriage present. She took my hand and clasped it hard.
“That’s not all,” I said. “Som and I have decided to move to Chaiyaphum. She doesn’t like Pattaya and I think it is irresponsible for her to leave her mother and daughter alone all the time.” I pointed at the brochure in her hand. “I want to build this house as quickly as possible.”
Now Pong became involved in the conversation. He explained to the mother that Som and I already discussed the matter with him. The contracts were sewn up. I hadn’t made only a down payment but had paid for the whole project upfront. Pong could start with the construction on the villa within the week. As a dream of Som’s the villa should stand exactly where the “primitive shack”, as Pong put it, was constructed.
The mother looked again at the shining four colour prints in the brochure. Then she looked at Pong and finally at me.
“It would be nice, if the house would stand next to the pond,” Pong said. “Then you have a wonderful view, either from the terrace or from the swimming pool.” He let it sink for a while and continued, “Of course we have to have space for the new house. It's very big! It is impossible that the two houses stand next to the other.” He busied himself with rummaging through some papers and spread out an architect’s plan in front of the mother, to show her the grand scale of the project. A waste of time, she had no use for it. She couldn’t read maps or plans.
My hand disappeared in a trouser pocket and I produced a bundle of bank notes. “Here is 30,000 baht,” I said while fanned out the notes and explained the mother the purpose of the money.
Greedily she ripped the thirty rustling brand new notes from my hand and counted them a couple of times. “You are for me like a son,” she then said. She stood up and went to a cupboard. She returned with a white band and knotted it around my wrist. I thanked her with a wai.
After that she went to the terrace. Pong and I followed. We put on our shoes went along the side of the house and reached the neighbouring plot.
She shouted at the construction workers who surprised, stopped in their tracks. One of them, probably the foreman, came across and began a discussion with the mother. Pong and I stood next to her and smiled. Pong produced some more brochures from his briefcase and showed them around. The construction workers were amazed.
Then she started to negotiate with the workers her daughter had employed and who were with the utmost probability paid by her American boyfriend. Finally she put some bank notes which I had already given to her into the foreman’s hand. I couldn’t see how much she kept for herself because the foreman grabbed the money and put in his pant’s pocket without counting. Then he turned around and gave his workers some instructions.
Pong and I moved over to the pond where we looked for a shady place. Som’s mother followed, but passed us and went back to the house. I hoped she didn’t want to call. But soon she appeared again, all smiles. She was carrying a tray with three glasses and a bottle of cold water. While we were drinking we watched the efforts of the workers deconstructing the house.
Some of them went to the top and ripped off the roof tiles which they had just placed on the roof a short time before. They threw them down, most of them break
ing upon hitting the ground. Som’s mother had instructed them not to take any consideration for materials because it was already paid for. Some of the workers took sledgehammers and started with the walls of the house.
While we watched, I started a conversation with her. First I told her about Som’s occupation. Som had always avoided telling her mother that she was working in a massage parlour, because masseuses have a bad image, similar to bargirls. Masseuses do not count for much; they are hookers. Som always claimed to work in a clothing store. I didn’t know whether Som told me the truth, but I remembered one time her mother told me she had never seen the store where Som sold clothes. I also told her that the massage parlour in which Som worked was only an excuse behind curtains to meet farangs. She had had sex with farangs to make money. I avoided the word “prostitute” because I didn’t want to overdo things. She should figure it out herself if she didn’t suspect what her daughter did. The expression of her face was blank while I was giving her all of this new information.
“Som gets a good salary, she’s making a lot of money,” I said. “If Som has a customer, she gets 300 baht for a massage,” I lied. “And when she goes out with a farang, she gets 3,000 baht. Per night! Did she tell you?” I asked provocative. “Som makes at least 80,000 per month. In high season maybe more than 100,000 baht. Every month. Month after month. Did she tell you?”
The greedy mother bit her lip. Of course Som didn’t tell her this because I had just invented these sums. Som didn’t make much more than 20,000 baht with massages and even this was almost over the top. It was more than doubtful that her American boyfriend “donated” to her 80,000 baht a month. Even if she deceived him, was unfaithful and slept every night with a different chap she wouldn’t make much more than 35,000 baht per month.
A Farang Strikes Back Page 15