AHMM, October 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  His eyes bulged. “You do?"

  Feeling pleased with myself, I pushed an invoice across the desk. “Two days work, plus I've added ten liters of petrol money, mostly from driving out to Sawang's place."

  I explained what I'd found: Nop looked stunned. “I can't believe it. I ask you to find out if someone's cheating me, and guess what? They're cheating me.” His mouth dropped open. “Ha, ha,” he said with despair. He was staring rigidly ahead. He looked like something from the Tien Chan Gallery.

  "There we are then,” I said.

  Nop nodded.

  "All finished."

  "Mmm."

  "Nop, is there anything else?"

  "Who knows? Who knows what else is going on in my life?” He flung out his arms. “Maybe I'm being murdered by someone.” I couldn't think of any reply to this, so I waited. Finally, he said, “There's something else, Vijay. I think you should follow my wife."

  "Your wife, Nop?"

  "We've been having . . . problems. I always thought it's because of business, because we're losing money. But now I think maybe she's seeing somebody. I need to know."

  "I can do that. You'll have to give me an up-to-date picture of her. And I need to know what her habits are. Does she work?"

  "She has a few little deals she does. Just to keep busy. You know how it is, she's bored if she's at home all day. You have a pen?” He wrote down their address—it was an apartment in the center of the city, near the Chidlom BTS station. With a bit of luck I could give Tor his car back and use the monorail.

  Nop dug out his wallet, opened it, and looked sadly at the contents. “Vijay, you think it's okay if I pay you just three thousand right now? Have a problem about money coming in. But it's okay, I'm a businessman, I know what it's like. I'm going to let you keep Daeng."

  He went out, crumpling up the old newspapers. After the door closed, Doi hissed at me, “Vijay! The chicken's still here."

  I shrugged. “He's a businessman, he knows what it's like."

  "He knows what what's like?"

  I drummed my fingers on the desk and listened to the sound of Chinatown traffic drifting in through the wire mesh windows. “Doi, this isn't helping."

  * * * *

  Opposite Nop's condo there was a dinky little twenty-four-hour coffee shop—white tables, tomato red seats, chessboard floor tiles. At eight a.m. I bought a cappuccino and settled myself at a stool facing the window. Outside the traffic was inching through morning rush hour. It should have been a sight to wince from, but to me these glimpses of the city were always glamorous. After success finds me, my daily commute will look like this. I'll head very slowly to an office block on Sathorn Road. The kind of place that has a Starbucks on the ground floor and an information desk in the lobby. And no livestock anywhere in the building.

  As I was the only customer, I placed my heavy rucksack up on the stool next to me. The weight came from a photo album. When Nop returned with a picture of his wife, I told him one wasn't enough. People often looked different in real life, and so the more pictures I could see the better. I also explained that for this kind of work I liked to look through old albums, it gave me an idea of the subject's personality. As I said to Nop, it's all about personality.

  And so now I had one in the rucksack, and another at home on my bed. I leaned the album up against the window, to be able to see over it to the glass-walled lobby of Nop's building. Then I leafed through to the picture I'd been studying earlier. Nop and his wife, Suppaporn. She was roughly his age, fairer than him, and still goodlooking in a haughty sort of way. In the photo they were holding hands, under the shade of a mango tree that had borne fruit, looking proud but self-conscious. You felt the photographer had coaxed them into that pose. When I asked about the picture, Nop said it was from their farm in Ratchburi. Waving his hand, he said airily, “Just somewhere to go on the weekend. Get away from business. You know how it is.” In the picture he was in working-guy clothes—jeans and a denim shirt with his sleeves rolled up, while Suppaporn was dressed the way you'd expect for a middle-class Bangkok woman denied air-con: sun hat, dark glasses, and a long-sleeved blouse—every inch covered so that, pray to God, the sun wouldn't turn her moisturized skin brown. Looking at the two of them, I wondered why I'd spun Nop that whole needing-to-see-his-photos tale in the first place. And now that I had, what had I learnt?

  As I was pondering this, Suppaporn came out of her building and waved down a motorcycle taxi. Nop had told me this was how she got to the Chidlom BTS station. I left three twenty-baht notes under my coffee cup, hefted the rucksack, and went out to hail a motorbike for myself. I'd already bought a one-day pass for the Skytrain, so I could follow her wherever she went, and as the day dragged out, there was a lot of following to be done. First down to Tonglor Station, then all the way up to Phaya Thai, then back down to Asoke. Brisk and businesslike in a navy blue skirt and sensible blouse, she was taking young professional types around condominiums. She had one of those combined phone-PDA things, and was always either talking into it or tapping it with a stylo. All of which made her terrifically easy to follow.

  One result of the government finally extending the monorail system has been a mini property boom. Everyone wants the convenience of living near one of the stations. Clearly Suppaporn was doing well out of this. In fact, judging from the number of clients, she was doing a lot better than Nop. I couldn't see how anyone could describe her day as “a few little deals.” Perhaps it hurt to admit she'd ended up more successful than he?

  I also couldn't see where she was going to find the time for an affair. She barely had time for lunch. It was only around two p.m. that she finally decided on food. (Up to that point all I'd eaten was a sausage in a bun, ripped out of the packet and crammed into my mouth in the 7-11 next to Tonglor Station.) Unfortunately for me she chose Emporium, a high-class shopping complex connected to Phrom Phong BTS, and then decided to eat at the Greyhound Café—one of its priciest eateries. I decided I couldn't in all conscience stick lunch there on Nop, so I went off to Boots for some energy bars.

  She was at one of the café's outside tables, looking down on Emporium's marble-floored lobby two levels below. I was behind her, standing by the brass rail, looking down at the lobby also. With Suppaporn's table only set for one, I let my gaze wander away from her and onto the crowd drifting in from the BTS stop—expats needing air-con and the reassurance of all those global brands (Nokia, Jaspal, Guess), middle-class Thais dressed for work, eye candy in high heels and short skirts on the arms of older men, and a guy in a white T-shirt and polyester trousers who came in and grimaced. With an A4 manila envelope tucked under his arm, he made his way down the aisle, scowling at the shops. I found myself thinking of Nop for some reason (because he was dark like Nop? Because he was of a similar age?). Entering the Greyhound Café section of the aisle, he wound his way between the tables until he was in front of Suppaporn. He stopped and waiied. It was the wai you gave a superior—palms up high, level with your forehead, and Suppaporn's was the classic boss's wai—hands lower down, fingers barely touching. So no affair there, then. But just to be thorough I took the compact out of my pocket and zoomed in for a couple of snaps. One as he arrived and another after he'd sat down.

  He slid the manila envelope across to her and, while she looked over its contents, began talking. There was lots of shoulder shrugging from him, raising his hands with his palms up, smiling and trying to make eye contact as she examined his documents. If you'd paid me to make a guess, I'd say he was apologizing. Eventually Suppaporn must have said something sobering, as he stopped talking, looked serious, and nodded his head. She leaned into the table and probably, from the respectful look on his face, spoke again. Then she took a call on the PDA, waved over a waitress, and was back on the move.

  After she'd left, the man shuffled his documents back into the envelope. He noticed her half-drunk wine, shrugged, and finished it in one gulp. By now the waitress had returned to clear the table, and he raised the empty glass to h
er in a bitter, ironic toast. Watching it all, I felt as though a ghost had walked over my grave. And then I knew I had to follow the man, not the woman. Which I did, onto two different buses and, with a sinking feeling, back to his shabby office above a laundry. By then it was almost four o'clock. I debated going back to Chinatown to see if Doi wanted any translations proofread, but I decided what I really needed was some quality time with Nop's photographs.

  I carried a couple of bottles of Leo beer up the five floors to my one-room flat and (at last, at last, praise God!) got the damn rucksack off my shoulders. After a shower, I sat at my desk shirtless, pulled the fan up close, and with the beer on hand cracked open Nop's second album.

  This was from further back in time, and I had to admit, Nop had been goodlooking when he was younger. He was leaner then, and had his hair combed back into a quiff with a thin, David Niven-style mustache. It was the old-fashioned Thai film star look, and I thought he played up to it a bit, cigarette sticking out of the side of his mouth, squinting into the sun. These earlier pictures were from the farm in Ratchburi. In all of them Nop was hamming it up in full working-guy mode—dark blue Thai farmer's shirt, jeans, a pakowma wrapped around his waist. Mostly he'd had himself photographed in the act of planting: Look at me getting my hands dirty. Funnily enough, he and Suppaporn were less tactile in those early shots. They usually stood apart, separated by whatever Nop was putting into the ground. Going between the two albums, you could see how the farm had come on over the years—kapok trees drooping their long brown fingers, chili plants growing wild, towering banana palms, koon trees and their yellow April flowers. From the position of the wire fence and the blue mountains behind, I matched up the present-day photo of Nop and Suppaporn under the mango tree with a picture of its planting, decades before. Nop was kneeling by the sapling, giving the camera his film star squint. Suppaporn stood a few feet away and stared at Nop. There was a look of discovery on her face, as though she had, only now, spotted something that had been under her nose the whole time.

  I closed the album and drank some more beer. I thought I understood what the photos had shown me.

  * * * *

  "I need to sit down,” said Nop and fumbled for a chair. He plunked himself on the other side of my desk. It was nine in the morning, and the bird smell wasn't too bad yet. ("But just wait till midday,” Doi warned me. “See what happens when it gets hot and there's no wind.") Nop put his elbows on the scarred wooden table and placed his head in his hands. “I don't know what to do about you, Vijay. Every time I hire you to find things out—you find things out. I have to stop hiring you."

  I couldn't resist asking, “There isn't anything else you want me to investigate?"

  He shook his head. “You've investigated my life too much. She's really having an affair?"

  "That's my deduction, based on the assignation I observed. I have supporting photographic evidence.” I produced the photo I'd printed off—Suppaporn in the Greyhound Cafe opposite the man in the white shirt. I hoped Nop wouldn't notice there was no place setting in front of him.

  "This is the guy?” He gave a hot exhale of air, as though he'd been stabbed. “How can she have an affair with this? He looks just like me."

  "Like you how, Nop? You mean he looks like he works for her? Like you used to?"

  "I always thought she'd leave me for a businessman. One of those guys with his big deals and his BMW."

  "So you became a businessman yourself? Convinced her to put you in charge of the freight forwarding? Though according to my friend Rit, she's still the sole director."

  "And look how that turned out,” said Nop glumly. “I didn't think our sales manager was good enough, so I fired him and hired Sawang. And now she's having an affair with this."

  I didn't have the heart to keep it going. “Nop, it's not an affair. Jesus. He works for her. Like I just said. And do you know what he does?” Nop shook his head. “He's a private detective."

  "Aha,” said Nop, and looked away.

  "And why would Suppaporn hire a private detective, do you think?"

  He put on a deep frown and began stroking his chin. “Now there's a puzzle, Vijay. There's a real question."

  "And I think you know the answer to it. He was hired to investigate you."

  Nop held up a finger. “How do we know this guy is a detective? He could be anyone."

  "Nop, I know. I followed him back to his office. And don't change the subject. Why would Suppaporn want you investigated?"

  He spread out his hands. “Who knows? Who can tell how women think? No offense,” he added to Doi, who'd stopped work and was watching the two of us.

  "She suspected you were up to something she didn't approve of. What was it you said to me—it gets boring if you're at home all day? So you went back up to the farm in Ratchburi and found a hobby. Breeding fighting cocks."

  "And why not? There's nothing illegal about breeding gai chon. Okay, so betting on them's illegal, but there's nothing against breeding."

  "And yet Suppaporn didn't like the idea?"

  He waved his hand at me. “Bangkok women, you know what they're like. She was convinced the mafia was going to come round, or some bent cop was going to try and get involved."

  "So let me guess, you told her you'd quit and she didn't believe it?"

  "One day the farm manager told me there was a guy hanging around the morning market asking questions. At first I thought it was the local mafia, but then he said the car had Bangkok license plates."

  "And the fighting cocks?"

  "What can I do? If she finds out it's going to make her crazy. I have to get rid. But everyone knows I need to sell. I tell you, getting birds to fight is a cutthroat business. No one gives me a fair price. I'm almost giving them away."

  "All except for Daeng."

  "Vijay, I can't give away Daeng. He's a ten thousand-baht bird. He's going to be the Kao Sai* of cockfighting."

  "So you brought him here to the city, invented a whole story about needing someone investigated, and dumped him on us."

  He turned up his palms. “I was driving around Bangkok all day. I didn't know where to go and then I saw your sign. It's so strange, you know? Translations-Detective, I never hear of such a thing. And then I thought, a small place like this, maybe you just..."

  "Take the money and don't do anything?"

  He sighed. “I suppose I'm not a businessman."

  "Maybe Suppaporn doesn't want you to be. But look, can't you just leave him with friends?"

  "Bangkok's not like Ratchburi. I asked everyone I know, but they all refused. They complained about the smell. I don't know what the problem is. You don't think he smells bad, do you?"

  I waved my hand at Doi. “Not now, later.” Then I said to Nop. “I presume it was those two layabouts in your office who set you against your sales manager? I wouldn't be surprised if they were in with Sawang, though I don't suppose we'll ever prove it. The best thing you could do now is apologize to the previous guy and give him his job back. And, Nop, it's no good just calling yourself a businessman, you've got to, you know, be in the office sometimes."

  "But what about Daeng?"

  "You could do worse than take him to the apartment. Talk to Suppaporn, tell her he's going to be the next Kao Sai."

  He squinted at me. “You think so, Vijay?"

  "We're sure,” said Doi. “And don't forget to take the rice with you."

  After Nop had bustled off, she nodded at the Japanese teacup where I kept our petty cash. “I hope there's enough for some air freshener. Vijay—what?"

  "Oh . . . nothing."

  I found I was thinking of the private eye Suppaporn had hired and the shabby office I'd followed him back to. An office not unlike my own. I thought of what his job had done to him: spying on other people's snatched happiness, watching them live far beyond his own means. Give it ten, fifteen years and it wouldn't sum to much of a life.

  Good thing I'm really a translator.

  * Famous Thai boxer
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br />   Copyright © 2010 Mithran Somasundrum

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  Fiction: WINTER by Chris Muessig

  * * * *

  Art by Edward Kinsella III

  * * * *

  Creegan found a spot under one of the naked sycamores that lined the street. The knobby branches tossed and clashed against the waning light. Beneath them, a Neighborhood Watch sign sang like a saw on its post. He got out of the car anyway, and the wind hit his cheek like a handful of razors. It was not his favorite time of year.

  He walked head down into the wind chill along an uneven sidewalk to Number 46, a three-story house painted sunglow from the enclosed porch up to the glassed-in cupola. A big porch light already burned above the front walk, and nearly every window on the lower floor flung out radiance against the descending gloom.

  He rang the illuminated doorbell and hunched against the cold, studying the neighborhood. Two other adult homes were on this block, but in the dying day he could not say which ones they were. All the tall houses and diminutive front yards were equally well tended, as they had been for two generations since rising up behind the old hotels and bungalows that surrounded the Lake.

  The young man who crossed the porch to let him in was very clean cut and had the build of a middleweight power lifter. He wore khaki pants and a longsleeved denim shirt with goldhaven stitched in red over one pocket. A rich kitchen aroma flowed around the kid and hit Creegan's nostrils on its way to the outer cold. He could hear cranked-up champagne music from an inner room.

  "Frank Creegan to see Mrs. Mallory."

  "Come on in. She's in the kitchen with the cook, but she'll be out soon."

  "Food smells good.” Creegan's nose had taken too much trauma to be very discerning, but whatever was on the stove sent out billows of variety and plenty.

  "Yeah, the lady that does the meals used to work at the Bohemia House on the Lake.” The boy patted his washboard abs, and Creegan wished he could still keep up with calories that way.

  The porch was unheated, but the house was almost excessively warm. Creegan shed his hat, scarf, and gloves and unbuttoned his overcoat. The young man took the things as they came off and said, “I'll tell my mother you're here."