by Ben Ezzell
“Well, okay,” Nolan agreed, smiling sideways at his friend who was trying – with a singular lack of success – to blend into the scenery. “What was it?” he asked rhetorically. “Six years ago? About that anyway. I’d been over here on vacation and Terry and Mam had gotten into this big argument. This was before they were married, understand? Anyway, Mam had gotten mad at Terry and gone back home. To Burma, that is.”
Mam, smiling, nodded confirmation.
“I mentioned that Terry and I were having a drink – at Jack’s Number 5 as a matter of fact – before I caught a flight back to the States? Of course, Terry was telling me all about the fight and the fact that she’d been gone for a week and how he couldn’t stand losing her and … Well, the usual sort of thing.”
“You were the one who said I should go after her,” Terry accused, still facing out across the river, away from the listeners.
“You didn’t tell me she’d gone back to Burma,” Nolan reminded him. “The Thai-Burmese border was closed then. No visas, no tourists, no trade – not that it stopped Thais and Burmese from going back and forth. Anyway, I caught my plane and went back to Vancouver. Then, a couple of weeks later, I got this frantic call from Mam right in the middle of the evening rush.”
“It morning here,” Mam insisted. “Then I not understand time difference.”
“In any case,” Nolan continued, “Mam was speaking Thai – I think – since she didn’t speak much English then and I was having a devil of a time understanding her. My Thai wasn’t the greatest, you understand.”
“You speak good Thai,” Mam corrected. “No have accent.”
“Still, one way or the other, Mam got it across to me what had happened. That Terry had followed her into Burma and had been arrested for illegal entry and that she’d tracked me down through Hidden Treasures – they had a couple of people over here at the time doing a feature and, of course, Terry had been writing articles for them for years. Oh, and I had also – on food, naturally.
“In any case, the first thing I did was call the American Embassy in Bangkok. And they promised to look into it but, a couple of days later – Mam was calling me every day during this period …”
“From Moulmein,” Mam explained, nodding. “Phone not good there. Not good like Thai phone, ka.”
“No, the phone connections were terrible,” Nolan agreed. “And the embassy couldn’t do much either. Any way, after a couple of days, all I could get out of them was that Terry was indeed in prison – in Moulmein – but, since he’d entered Burma illegally, there wasn’t anything they could do about besides insist that he be treated fairly and ask Amnesty International to keep an eye on him.”
“And I tell Kun Nolan Burmese prison not good, ka. I tell him get Terry out, ka!” She was standing now, her arms around her husband, resting her head against his back.
“So?” Bob asked, a gleam showing in his eye. “What did you do? Break him out?”
“Not exactly,” Nolan admitted. “Nothing you could make a film about, really. I have a Canadian passport – and Canada was on better terms with Burma than the US – so I was able to get a tourist visa to visit Rangoon. Supposedly, I was interested in Burmese cuisine. And I had a few connections – friends – in the spice trade as it were. Once I was in Rangoon – I’ll keep this short since most of it was just dull – I talked to people, passed around a little cash and most of a case of good brandy – strictly legal, I’d declared it as samples, paid the duty and everything – and, eventually, I found out who the right palms were and greased them. In short, I bought him out.
“Of course, once he was released – he’d been there nearly six weeks – I hardly recognized him, he’d lost so much weight.”
“That okay,” Mam laughed. “I fatten him up again.” She patted her husband’s waistline happily.
“However,” Nolan smiled, “if you’ll look in the back issues of Hidden Treasures, you’ll find an article titled: …”
“Just a moment,” Joan interrupted excitedly. “Wasn’t that the one titled: The Prison Rice Diet? It was hilarious – ‘thirty pounds in thirty days or your sentence refunded,’” she quoted. “You’re the Remittance Man,” she turned toward Terry. “Wanderings of a Remittance Man. I’ve been reading your columns for years. You’re marvelous!”
“Guilty as charged,” Terry admitted, still facing away from his audience. Not that his reticence helped since the back of his neck was demonstrating interesting color changes. “And, thank you … I guess.” He turned around finally. “At least Mam hasn’t run away again. Not since I married her.”
“Not run home,” Mam agreed. “This home now. You not behave, I kick you out.” She was smiling as she said it though.
“But,” Joan wrinkled her forehead, “if Terry’s American and you’re Burmese … Aren’t you both in the country illegally?”
“Oh no,” Mam smiled, looking around. Khun was out of sight and only her farahng guests were present. “I Thai now. Have best paper, buy from police. They say I born Chiang Rai Province. Hill Tribe.”
“You bought papers from the police?” Joan asked for confirmation, sounding more amused than disturbed. “Of course,” she continued, “quite natural. That would be the best source, wouldn’t it? How very sensible.”
“Ka! Very good paper. Have passport too,” Mam admitted. “Good Thai citizen. Own house, pay tax,” she waved at the buildings.
“But,” Nolan addressed Terry, “this still doesn’t tell us where Greg’s gotten off to. Should we call TAT and ask if they’ve picked him up?”
“I think,” Terry was looking toward the front of the property, “the answer may be arriving right now.”
With Tahm leading the way across the lawn, Inspector Taskin was making an appearance.
“Maybe,” Terry suggested, “you’d like to use the office?”
DragonTree.com Contents
Chapter Nine:
Chapter Nine:
Baan Orchid, Chiang Mai, Tuesday, February 6th, 10:14 AM
Nolan leaned forward, his elbows on the desk as he examined the polaroid, a wry expression on his face. “That’s Greg Pocolos,” he confirmed, smiling. “Where did you find him?”
“Near Praadu Tha Phae – Tha Phae Gate,” the Inspector reported. “Outside moat, asleep on grass. Mao mak, krahp!”
“Drunk? And sleeping like a baby, I suppose?” Nolan shook his head, then shrugged. “He’s young. Is he in trouble? Took jhap goom, kahp?” he repeated in Thai.
“Mai krahp. Not problem,” the Inspector assured Nolan, then leaned forward to touch the photograph with his fingertips. “No arrest. But you caution him?”
“I’ll do that,” Nolan nodded. “When he wakes up. Assuming he wakes up anytime soon. But you said he didn’t have any identification?”
“No have money, no have credit card, no have passport,” Inspector Taskin nodded, then added. “And no have shoe.”
“Which implies he’s been robbed,” Nolan considered, doodling on a notepad. “Unless he left his passport here. I’ll ask Terry if it’s in the safe.” He glanced at the small vault, half hidden in the corner under a stack of magazines. “So, how did you connect him with Baan Orchid?”
The Inspector looked hurt at the question. “See him yesterday when I talk with Kun Maguire,” he shrugged, spreading his hands. “Then when picture appear on desk this morning, I remember. Come here.”
“Right, sorry I asked.”
“Mai pen rhy, krahp.”
“So, I can send Tahm down to pick him up,” Nolan stood, leaving the photo and the card on the desk. “But,” he continued, “I do thank you. Khob kun mak, kahp!” Nolan wai’d, bending deeper than usual. “You are most kind.”
The wai was acknowledged with an absent-minded nod as the officer remained seated. “Some police,” the Inspector spoke thoughtfully, “not good always. Have palm out, take tea money.”
“Happens everywhere,” Nolan agreed. “Unfortunately.”
“Krahp! Not good.
When your friend awake?” The Inspector stiffened in his chair, looking at Nolan with a very un-Thai intensity.
“Yes?”
“If he say not robbed? You will call?”
“Are you suggesting that he might not have been robbed?”
“Drink too much, party too much, fall asleep by water bank,” the Inspector paused for a moment, considering his words. “Sometime maybe I think thief person who find victim?” He shook his head. “Mai dee! Mai dee mak, krahp!”
“He might not remember,” Nolan considered.
“Jing!” the inspector agreed, finally standing. “But you tell what he say, mai krahp?”
10:35 AM
Khun found a basket to gather the leaves he’d swept together, then carried them down by the river, heaping them where ash marks showed other debris has been burned. He had worried when the policeman had appeared and, when the tall farahng had taken the policeman to the office; Khun had decided the carport – outside the office – needed sweeping badly.
Once he had started, even after he had heard enough to lose interest, there was, of course, no good excuse for him to stop.
Thus, by the time the job was completed, Khun was feeling the strain in muscles he had not exercised recently. Moreover, the sandals – even though they were not new – were raising a blister on one foot.
Now that Baan Orchid was empty – only Kun Mam remained; Plah had also gone to the market, riding with the guests – Khun took the opportunity both to rest his legs and to make other preparations.
In the kitchen behind the guesthouse – the presently unused kitchen – Khun carefully chopped the dried mushrooms he’d hidden the night before. Very fine, he decided. Make powder. There was no way to know what kind tall farahng would choose at the market. Better to make dust – could mix without notice.
Farmer’s Market, 11:10 AM
“I’ll have Tahm pick you up in about an hour,” Terry offered, speaking through the window from the driver’s seat. “In the mean time, we’ll collect young Greg and take him back to Baan Orchid where he can sleep it off.”
“Khob khun mak, kahp!” Nolan smiled, then added, grinning, “Easier than getting you out was.”
“Maybe we should leave him,” Terry suggested. “Well, just a thought. But, when he’s awake, I’ll arrange for him to visit the consulate and see about a new passport. Think we should use the mug shot the Inspector provided for it?”
“We could wait and see if he’s going to make a habit of this …” Nolan left the sentence incomplete, grinning as he wai’d to his friend before turning back to the group waiting for him. “Well, shall we go shopping?”
11:15 AM
The market was a huge, bustling place; partially open air, partially covered by a wide, corrugated metal roof. At ten in the morning, traffic at the market was at its peak as hundreds – perhaps thousands – of Thais were shopping for provisions for the day’s meals.
Despite modern technology and reliable electricity – and the presence of cell phones everywhere, even on tuk-tuks and samlors – the Thais had yet to place any heavy reliance on refrigeration. Most houses, even the poorest, were likely to have a refrigerator but they were equally unlikely to use it to store any large quantity of perishable food. Instead, the common practice was to buy perishables one day at a time, insuring that the meals served were always fresh.
For the restaurateurs, such a practice was nothing unusual since successful establishments – especially successful, upscale establishments – followed essentially the same practice; visiting the market to buy fresh for the day’s menu. And changing the menu according to what was available – that much was simply commonplace.
Except, of course, that to American eyes, the Chiang Mai market was anything except commonplace.
Nolan began by steering his group toward the vegetable and fruit sellers, initially minimizing the impact for the visitors. Many of the vegetables and fruits displayed were familiar, others were regional and unique but the sight of heaped eggplants or cabbages and entire stems of hanging bananas were almost commonplace – almost but not quite.
“I recognize some of these,” Jeremy started. “Those are plantain, right? But … half of these …”
“Sorry,” Nolan admitted. “But I’m afraid I don’t know all of them either. If it’s important, I’m sure we can find someone. Of course, you could sample them.”
“Forget the bananas,” Tanya interrupted. “I want to know who dreamed these up? Steven Spielberg?” Tanya was examining a large, shallow basket heaped with fruits about the size of small plums, holding one of them aloft in her fingers. Each of the fruits was a deep red in color but was studded with soft, green, tapering tentacles. The truth was, they did look like something Jaba the Hut might serve at a banquet – if, that is, the boys at Industrial Light and Magic had spent an evening on hallucinogenics.
“Rambutan,” Nolan identified them. “Very good when they’re ripe.” He switched to Thai to address the vendor for a moment, then back to English after a brief conversation. “You’re invited to try some. Just peel the rind away.”
Behind the counter, the vendor was already demonstrating how the thin rind peeled away to reveal an oblong globe of semi-translucent, milky-white meat.
“Kind of like a peeled grape,” Tanya considered, biting into one of the fruits. “But something of a kiwi flavor as well.”
“Like longan, yes?” Joan commented.
“Very similar,” Nolan nodded. “And also very out of season. Both rambutan and longan aren’t usually available until late summer.” He turned to the vendor again.
This time, after a longer discussion, Nolan turned back again to explain. “Hot house rambutan. He and his sons are raising out-of-season fruits using hot houses and mist irrigation. He adds that it is very expensive because they must shade and cool the trees during the summer as well and he must ask very high prices for the fruit. However,” Nolan smiled, “that may be partly a haggling point.” He dropped back into Thai for an animated discussion which ended with an exchange of bills for a bag of the small fruits.
“Well,” Jeremy asked as the group moved to examine another vendor’s wares. “How expensive were they?”
“Not too bad,” Nolan admitted. “Maybe twice what the fruit would be in-season. Fair enough considering.”
“Very reasonable,” Tanya agreed. “But strictly tropical, right? Like tamarind?” She picked up a pod which, except for the tan color, resembled a fat, oversized green bean.
“Haven’t seen them in the States,” Nolan agreed. “Except canned in syrup. Might have novelty appeal, of course, but importing them would be a nuisance. As for the tamarinds, I prefer to buy a block of tamarind paste.”
Tanya nodded, dropping the bean back in the basket.
“Might be worth considering,” Bren suggested. “For the right occasion. Mind if I try some of those? For a dessert dish?”
“Feel free,” Nolan handed over the bag. “Now, I need to find mushrooms, lemon grass, mint …”
Baan Orchid, 11:25 AM
In the covered shed at the rear, Khun used a twig to brush away the cobwebs. Inside the box, there were four of the round fuses but no labels to suggest which connected where. Unscrewing one of the four, Khun left the box ajar.
In the kitchen, the lights came on as he flicked the switch.
Back at the rear shed, Khun restored the first fuse and unscrewed a second.
This time, the kitchen lights remained dark. This much was good but Khun searched further.
In the main part of the house, the lights still worked. Upstairs also.
The unused room behind the kitchen, however, remained dark when Khun threw the switch. Yes, this would be satisfactory, he decided. No, more than satisfactory – these rooms were unoccupied. He, Tahm and Plah had rooms behind the other house. Nobody would be here at the wrong time – the thin film of dust on the floor showed that.
Satisfied, Khun went back to the rear shed to restore the fuse. The
cobwebs, he considered, were not something he could replace. But there was no reason for anyone to notice them either.
Now all he needed was to find a short piece of wire.
11:35 AM
“I find Khun,” Tahm assured Terry. “Then we take Kun Greg up to room. Mai kahp?”
“Kahp!” Terry agreed, looking around at their passenger, still asleep in the rear. For convenience, Terry had opened the north gate, parking the van by the steps of the second house.
Young Greg was not the first guest they had carried home, Terry reminded himself.
Then, remembering a few of his own indulgences in younger days, he smiled. Being brought home drunk was not the worst that could happen to a young man.
At least young Greg would not have to contend with an angry father. Not that Terry regretted his new life abroad and, however estranged their relations were, his father was generous with his monthly allowance – generous enough that Terry hadn’t needed a loan to purchase Baan Orchid.
11:50 AM
Tahm found Khun down by the river, watching a heaped pile of leaves smolder. Not that the young man had been difficult to find; the fire was producing a generous amount of smoke which the weak breeze was doing little to carry off.
From the vantage of the bank overlooking the river, Tahm could see Khun stirring the pile with a stick, an activity which was doing little to improve the conflagration. There was something about the new gardener – something vaguely familiar.
Tahm looked down at him for a moment, trying to remember. Perhaps he had seen the man around Chiang Mai? Maybe that was it. Not that it mattered much, he decided. Khun was quiet-spoken with a northeastern accent but he seemed a willing worker even if not a very experienced one. Even Tahm knew that green leaves should be allowed to dry for a day or more before burning and Saanpa had never produced smoke like this. At the moment, though, it was more important to get Kun Greg to his room.
“Khun kahp!” Tahm called from the bank. “You will come and help please?”