‘But you’ve been driving all day—’
‘And I’m going to drive all night.’
‘Look, Reggie, you can’t do this. Samjohn will be mad like hell—’
‘I’ll phone him tomorrow, when I reach Bangkok. Tell him I’m taking leave—’
‘You can’t do it.’ Windmill had never before spoken to me so emphatically and I looked at him in surprise. ‘Now listen,’ he went on, ‘Two, three month ago Mr. Samjohn tell me he very browned up with you. He say you like naughty little boy, and I must look after you like amah. He tell me he rely on me to keep you out of—what the word he use?—miss-chife, that’s it. He tell me I responsible for you. You do something wrong, I must get in hot water too—hot like boiling, he said. Most important thing, he said, I must see you not get in hot water with woman. Especially White Leopard—’
‘What? He knows about her?’
‘Everybody know about her. Frost—he see you with her, isn’t that right? Somboon see her at your hotel. Mrs. Samjohn see her in your room—’
I felt myself flushing with shame and fury. ‘Don’t tell me a respectable female like Mrs. S. is familiar with Bolero girls.’
‘Why not? Sometimes Mrs. S. go to nightclub with her husband—and who go to nightclub in Bangkok and not know White Leopard? That beech go everwhere after dark—everyone must know—’
‘So Mrs. S. recognized her!’ There was something maddening about that; the subject of my passion was not anonymous; the Samjohns could prattle about her over their toast and marmalade.
And they’d kept their knowledge to themselves; I’d never guessed how much they knew, how deep they were …
‘To hell with Samjohn and his old woman too! I’ve got urgent business in Bangkok and it’s nothing to do with Leopards. I finished with them two months ago. A friend of mine is in a jam—a man.’
‘And you go Bangkok you in jam too. And I in hot water. But never mind. Now I’ve told you what Mr. Samjohn say. If you still want to go Bangkok, that your business. I wash my hands of it.’
‘And that’s all right with me. Wash your hands in the hot water … I’m going to the hotel now for the jeep and my duds. You coming?’
‘No, I wait Prosit.’
‘Right-ho, then. So long.’
I marched out—out through the stinking corridor and the outer dungeon where a couple of samlor-men in straw hats and shorts were experimentally pinching a couple of squealing girls—out into the street, going at the double, though Ratom came running after me to the door crying ‘Letchee, Letchee, wait a minute, why don’t you say goodbye’—beginning to sprint, even, when I got out of Chakri Road, because Vilai had not forgotten she could rely on me, Vilai in some sort of trouble had called to me for help … and suddenly life had point again, suddenly there was something important and urgent for me to do …
The first hour of the run was almost pleasant. I like driving at night, especially along deserted roads. I like the splotches of ink that are shadows on your path of gold; the way the silver trees slowly catch light and approach and then vanish at the corner of your eyes; the veils of grey-blue smoke, never noticed by day, that lie in perfumed swathes across the road; and the way the road itself, unmade beyond the end of the headlights’ beam, rapidly lengthens and develops, like a ray of light from the sun unreeling across black space.
But after a while I discovered something which I hadn’t anticipated. Either because of my hard driving that day or my hard drinking that night or both, I was all in. It seemed that every scrap of energy I had was required to keep my eyelids from dropping. I repeatedly missed the ramps of bridges and got into some bad slides in the loose gravel on the crown of the road. I craved sleep. I considered returning to Korat, but it would have looked too damn’ silly, dashing off like that for a few miles and then succumbing to exhaustion. I also considered curling up in the back seat for a couple of hours but the thought of Vilai spurred me on. Disaster can happen in a split second; one moment’s delay on my part might seal her doom …
So I kept my right foot down … Since nightfall the lightning had been continuous, though distant. Out here in the night it was quite plain that the storm was ahead of me and that sooner or later I’d be in it. That knowledge filled my dulled brain with further anxieties, for a tropical storm can destroy a dirt road in a few minutes; doped as I was, I might easily run into a wash-out and break my neck …
And then there was all the muddle and uneasiness in my mind. All my life these sensations had accompanied me, and tonight a new climax had been reached. For ever since I’d flung out of the House of Joy I’d realized what a crack-brained expedition this was. Who but an utter idiot would rush through the tropic night to rescue such a tart as Vilai? If she was in trouble it was entirely her own fault. Long ago I’d offered her the means of escape from all dangers; whatever nameless horror threatened her she’d now have been safe from. And meanwhile I was rushing to my own ruin. Samjohn had warned me plainly enough—Windmill had underlined that warning. In Galahading off to avert Vilai’s doom I was only sealing my own; I would be sent home in disgrace, and after that Vilai would be denied my help forever …
And how could I be sure that this cry for help was genuine? Possibly she just needed a few tics to square a policeman or buy herself a new necklace. If only she hadn’t said, ‘Don’t forget your promise.’ Those were the words that had sent me headlong into the night. For I was proud that, out of the hundreds of men she knew, I, Reggie Joyce, this weakling, was the one she relied on. No matter if it was because I was the most easily fooled of them all. Whatever the grounds of her faith, she did have faith in me. I would never betray that trust. Never confirm her in her cynicism—‘all men are false; Wretch, even Wretch, let me down in the end—’
Suddenly the world turned to chalk in the brightest flash of lightning yet. It was so bright it jerked my thoughts outward from myself.
Every other second the night was annihilating itself in these violent blazes of white light. The rumble of thunder was almost continuous above the high whine of the transmission and the roar of the tyres on the rough gravel. Branches around and above threshed madly in the wind which sometimes smote the jeep like an almighty fist, almost knocking it off the road. Torn-off palm leaves sprawled in front of the wheels, bleached by the headlights to look like the fossil ribs of giant mastodons …
I realized that I’d reached the mountains, so-called. They hardly deserve the name. They are about like the South Downs, say, but instead of being grassy are smothered with forest. A good road snakes over them, easily graded, with not more than a dozen hairpin bends …
I looked at my instruments. The temperature was a bit lower than usual—running by night, I supposed. The generator was charging and the oil pressure was normal. Only the fuel gauge gave me a bit of a shock. Although I’d filled up at Korat, the tank was already more than half empty. A leak? No, the engine was running fine. I realized I’d been driving full speed—wasting fuel.
And then the storm really hit. For a few moments there’d been an ominous under-rumble that was neither the thunder nor the wheels. I’d heard it before once or twice and I knew what it was—a solid wall of rain smashing its way towards me over the cowering trees. Suddenly the windscreen was blinded out and the shirt on my left shoulder was soused and icy. I lifted my foot from the accelerator pedal—that was a reflex action—leaned forwards to set the windscreen wipers going, sideways to shut the open air-vent. But the wipers were useless—not only because of the deluge cascading down the glass but in a moment the glass had misted over inside and I could see nothing. I jerked my foot towards the brake pedal but in the same moment I knew I was heading off the road and still going fast. I wrenched at the steering wheel but the offside road-wheels were already over the edge; the wrench only increased the jeep’s tendency to topple and over it went with a horrifying lurch. Somebody screamed—and I know it can only have been me. A flash showed me I was upside down and still rolling. There was a shattering cras
h in the pitch darkness, then another brilliant flash that seemed more inside my head than outside of it, then a second heavy jarring crash. Then silence, or something very like it …
I lay half-stunned for a few seconds—I don’t think it was longer than that. I was upside down, with the twisted wheel jammed against my ribs and that horrible singing in the head with which a lot of speedway crashes had made me familiar. Yet my first reaction was one of elation: ‘I’ve done it again—and again I haven’t killed myself—quite. I’m the luckiest son of a bitch …’
Then I remembered Vilai, and panic seized me.
As soon as I tried to move I found out I was hurt. Seemingly the same ribs that had been stove in that last time when I piled up on the speedway had taken another heavy blow. Every movement made me sweat with agony as I wriggled out from under the wheel and got myself right way up; and the rain, coming down in suffocating force and bitingly cold, added to my misery. And I couldn’t see the road. The lightning fit up the slope of soil and mashed bushes down which I had rolled—already it was like a waterfall, and my hands sunk inches deep into the treacherous, slithering mud—but squatting there I couldn’t see how far I’d fallen …
‘Vilai, Vilai!’ I croaked, grabbing at her name to prevent myself from spinning off into a faint.
Somehow, hanging on to the upturned front wheels, I pulled myself onto my feet and clung there, reeling, waiting for a flash to show me just how bad things were.
As if to mock my anxiety, the lightning held off for a whole minute. Then a single flash revealed everything.
The jeep had been stopped from rolling any further by the upright trunk of a tree. It was lying about twenty feet below the road on a slope which went down, covered with scrub out of which more straight trunks soared, for apparently quite a distance. There were no trees between the jeep and the road and the first person who came along by daylight would be bound to sight the wreck.
But even as I put my situation into this optimistic light I realized that I was over-simplifying it. There were two very important considerations which immediately occurred to me. The first was, how soon would help arrive? I might have to hang on here till the middle of tomorrow afternoon. And the second was, supposing help arrived, and we got the jeep back on the road again, would it be possible to put it back in running order? Supposing something disastrous had happened to the steering or one of the axles—or even that the battery was wrecked beyond repair? There were a hundred things that could happen to a jeep in a crash like this—things that would immobilize it. I might struggle for hours to get it back on the road, and then still find it unserviceable … and myself as far away from Vilai as ever …
Thus I rationalized my position. But I only did any thinking while I was hanging onto that front wheel, convincing myself I could stand. As soon as I was sure of that, my usual emotionalism swept all my thoughts away. If I could stand I could walk—and I just hadn’t the patience to sit and wait, hoping for help to come. I’d got to act for myself. I’d got to do something violent. Maybe I’d only injure myself more—put myself further from Vilai instead of nearer—make a bad mess worse. But I’d got to do something. Only if I was on the move, struggling towards her, could I feel quite sure that I was doing my best for Vilai.
‘Get going, get going,’ I muttered to myself.
And all at once I let go of the wheel and began to struggle from bush to bush up the wall of sliding mud to the road. Though the climb was short it was terribly hard and I barely managed it. The rain had eased off quite a bit, but it was still falling torrentially by English standards; and ice-cold rain, if you’ve nothing to protect you from it but a shirt, seems to flog your body with steel rods; you can’t believe that mere falling drops of water can tire and demoralize a man so fast. And besides the rain there were those ribs; I didn’t know whether they were broken or not—most probably not—but all one side of my chest was aching cruelly. Once when I was about halfway up to the road, I slipped and all my weight came on my right arm and the jolt of pain was so bad—as if someone had swung at me with a crowbar—that I let go of my hold and slithered down smack into the jeep again. I had to lie there for a minute, and during that minute I wept like a child who’s been spanked. But then I started crawling upwards again, this time with more care.
And so finally I dragged myself over the edge of the road. I lay there for a short while, almost swooning with pain and retching to get my breath, but I guessed that the worst was over, and just lying there, inert, with that comforting thought in my head, did wonders for me. I told myself, ‘What you’re suffering from mainly is shock. If you just hold on to yourself you’ll soon be all right. There’s nothing wrong with your legs, and if you’re careful what you do with your arms you can avoid hurting your chest too badly. As for this bloody rain—it can’t go on like this for ever. Soon—in another minute or so—you’ll be able to get up and start walking towards Bangkok …’
And so I did. I dragged myself to my feet and started to stagger along the road through that cold hard rain and the inky darkness which was only relieved now at lengthy intervals by fading, distant flares. Soon the sky began to lighten and there was less danger of my stumbling over the edge of the road or twisting my ankle in one of the deep gulleys the deluge had carved in the gravel. Twice I was able to cut off considerable stretches of road by scrambling and glissading down the sodden hillsides between hairpins.
And at the foot of the last pitch I had a real stroke of luck; I came to a lumber camp where a timber-trailer was just being readied to go to the nearest railway station. That was a hundred kilometres further on my way, just this side of Lopburi. The crew easily believed my tale of a crash in the storm, accepted as my reason for wanting to go immediately to Lopburi that I had friends there who would help me to recover the jeep, offered me a lift, and then, with typical Siamese courtesy, found me a check waist-cloth and a tin dipper so that I could have a bath first. When I’d got most of the mud off myself and some of the dried blood out of my hair (for I found I’d cut my head open too) they had a glass of hot water ready for me to drink. Hot water is not a favourite beverage of mine but at that juncture it seemed as stimulating as rum. In the cab I slept fiftully.
My luck held when we reached the railway. Only ten minutes after I’d said goodbye to the timber-trailer crew a slow train snuffled in from Pitsanaluke. It dawdled along to Banphagi junction, where I caught the express from Korat—the very train I could have caught that morning in Korat if I hadn’t dashed off on my mad nocturnal drive. At four o’clock in the afternoon I jumped down on to the platform at Hualalomphong Station—only twenty minutes by samlor from Vilai’s house.
Going there in the samlor I was so worried and anxious I couldn’t sit still. I hadn’t been to Vilai’s house since that night when I’d first made her acquaintance. She’d always been very insistent that there was no need for me to do so—‘you want see me I come your hotel, darling’—nor had I ever felt any desire to argue, being fearful of what I might be confronted with if I did. But these were exceptional circumstances. She was in trouble; I couldn’t afford the time to go to the hotel and send her a note and wait for her to come; I knew I just wouldn’t have the courage or patience to stay in a hotel room until she showed up. I was racked with suspense and this once I must disobey orders and go and brave her in her den …
Because I had been in such a preoccupied state that first night I now had only the vaguest idea where her place was and what it looked like. I could recall a deserted alley and a corrugated iron door. When the samlor-boy turned into a narrow passage choked with stalls and pedestrians and the overwhelming cacophony of competing radios I thought he must have misunderstood me and brought me to the wrong place. I shouted the address to him again and he pulled up, nodding his straw-hatted head. I thought he was nodding acknowledgment of my words, but then I realized he was actually indicating a direction. On my left, behind a travelling dried-squid stall complete with charcoal fire and mangle for making the hard f
lesh harder still, was a twisted, rusted, groggy door with a lewd drawing chalked on it. I looked at it in amazement. I had a recollection of metal glistening like silver in the reflection of distant lights that night. Could this really be Vilai’s home? I glanced incredulously at the samlor-boy, but he only laughed and nodded again and made a disgusting sign with his fingers.
For a second I was tempted to do what I knew I ought to have done in the first place—go to my hotel and direct operations from there. But only for one cowardly moment. Then I got out of the samlor on shaky legs.
As soon as I knocked on the rust a sort of hush came over the street. Half a dozen ragged little boys appeared from nowhere and stood around me in a semi-circle, gaping. The samlor-boy, folding my bill into the top of his shorts, said something to the remarkably ugly old Chinese who was squatting behind the dried-squid stall. The old man cackled. The open shop-fronts behind me seemed suddenly banked with staring eyes. I felt a flush come up from my shoulders in a wave to the top of my head and I knocked again, loudly, conscious of making myself ridiculous yet once more.
Nobody answered the knock and I turned half despairingly. At that one of the small boys squirmed in front of me, rattled the door violently and bawled. From somewhere within came a grumpy female response and all the boys laughed at me—it was really so simple.
The grumpy voice sounded again, from just inside the door. Not catching a word I didn’t reply, but the half-dozen boys said almost with one voice, ‘Farang maliao.’ There was the sound of a latch made from a piece of wire and the door opened inwards about one inch. I got a long narrow view of black hair, a very brown face, a dirty slip; was held by a surly eye. ‘What do you want?’ the half-mouth asked in Siamese.
‘I want to see Miss Vilai.’
‘She’s not in.’
‘Tell her it’s Reggie Joyce.’
A Woman of Bangkok Page 33