by Morris West
It was the resentment, so casually admitted, which troubled me now. I could understand that he might choose to exclude me from his business counsels; I found it hard to accept that he would shut me out from any sharing in the solitude of his illness. Even the ancient rituals of seppuku demanded the presence of a friend to make the final swordcut which terminated the agony.
The archaic image was so vivid that it jolted me back to reality. What the hell was I making such a fuss about? A man had the right to die in his own fashion, wrapped in his own dignities. Why was I feeling rejected? Miko claimed that she, too, had been shut out, but she was following the tradition of all wise mistresses, making a blanket of banknotes to keep her warm in winter.
A shadow fell across me and I looked up to see Domenico Cubeddu standing between me and the light. He was as sleek as a male model in Ralph Lauren gear. He pointed to the vacant lounge beside me.
‘Mind if I sit down?’
‘Please. Be my guest.’
‘I’m staying at the Sheraton. I thought I’d wander over here and see how the other half lives.’
‘I thought it was agreed you wouldn’t show here.’
‘Last minute decision. Hoshino and I decided to pick up your idea of a trust to administer our joint interest in this project presuming, of course, it gets off the ground and the Soviets don’t turn up their noses at good money. From what I hear, that’s unlikely. They’re rattling their begging bowls very loudly, everywhere. Anyway, the instrument’s all ready, a traditional trust administered by German and Japanese bankers. Our funds go in the moment the Soviets commit to the project. You know, Langton, one way and another you’re a bright guy. We could work well together.’
I doubted that, but what was the point of telling him? I acknowledged the compliment with a shrug and a question. ‘Where’s Hoshino?’
‘He’s in town, too. He owns a house on the river not far from here. I haven’t been there, but he’s invited me to a party before I leave. Meantime, he’s showing me the town. The business he’s got going here is fantastic. The police and the army are very co-operative – not cheap, mind you, but co-operative.’
I wondered why he was telling me all this, then I realised that he was caught in a familiar syndrome which the Feather Man had once called ‘Oriental rapture, the East-of-Suez illusion’. He had explained it by saying that the rules of the game were so different that the foreigner believed that there were no rules at all. I could not believe that a money-man like Cubeddu, with the Colombian drug barons looking over his shoulder, could be so naive. In common humanity, I felt I owed him at least one warning, so I told him the story of my long-ago night with my father in Thonburi, kitty corner across the river from where we were sitting now.
In the old days of the Dutch traders and the French rivals, when Ayutthaya was still the capital of Siam, Thonburi was a Customs post where all shipmasters had to pay imposts on their cargoes. It soon became very rich. When my father and I first visited, with Siri and her husband, it was still a pleasant place to live, surrounded by orchards and palm plantations and rice paddies tilled by the folk who lived in the stilt houses along the klongs.
One night, Siri and her husband took us to a feast in the house of the village head man. It was, I believe, a betrothal between a young girl of good family and a khon suk, a youth who had served his three months as a monk and was therefore a most desirable son-in-law. It was a decorous little affair, which seemed to go on interminably. It was only at the end of it that I realised I must have consumed a large quantity of neat alcohol, because I had to be helped in and out of the longboat and put to bed by my father and Siri’s husband.
But that was not the point of the story. At the same party was another young man, apparently a disappointed suitor, who, after we had left, became ill-mannered and loud and made some gross remarks to his rival. He, too, was drunk. He, too, was assisted into a longboat. Everybody witnessed his exit. A week later his bloated body was found in a backwater near a sawmill three miles down stream. His tongue had been cut out and his genitals were stuffed in his mouth. Domenico Cubeddu thought about the story for a moment, then nodded approval. ‘Nothing changes, wherever you work. I tell my people: listen a lot, say little and if you think you’re being screwed, which you probably are, relax and enjoy it. The payoff comes later.’
‘Sound advice, especially in this part of the world.’
‘Have you seen Miko?’
‘Not this morning.’
‘I’ll call her from reception.’
‘Before you do that.’
‘Yes?’
‘A word of advice. Miko talked to me last night. She seemed rather depressed. The impression I got – right or wrong – was that you were leaning on her, or might be leaning on her, over a matter of performance fees.’
Cubeddu was instantly angry. ‘Even if I was, which I’m not, what business would that be of yours, Mr Langton?’
‘Just this. Until the conference is over in two weeks’ time, I’m paid to keep the peace, deal even-handedly with all parties and make sure there are no unnecessary frictions among the delegates. There’s another thing you should remember, Mr Cubeddu. You’re a long way from home. You’re in another culture pattern that you don’t understand at all. Miko is part of that pattern. The people inside it will protect her to protect themselves. I know you’re a very big shot in Medellin and Barranquilla and Miami, but here you’re a nobody with a lot of other people’s money to spend. You come from Sicily. You understand what la famiglia means. Just do some simple multiplication and think how many other families there are from Tokyo to Thailand. If you’re going into business, the last thing you want is a war over a woman. Take your own advice. If you think you’re being screwed, relax and enjoy it.’
By the time I had finished speaking his anger had gone. He sat staring at me with dark, brooding eyes. Finally, he nodded a reluctant assent. ‘First thing I do when I see the lady is tell her she’s reading me all wrong. I’m not leaning on her. What she’s got is hers, a non-returnable service fee. I should have made that clearer at the beginning. Now, do you mind if I ask you a question?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘You and Miko, have you ever…?’
‘No, we haven’t. And if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a swim.’
He sat watching me as I cruised up and down the long pool in a half-hour workout. After a while he got bored, waved to me and disappeared into the hotel. I could not help smiling at his uncertain exit. He controlled an astronomical amount of money. He had to be both smart and ruthless, otherwise the drug lords of Medellin would never have trusted him so far. Even so, there was a kind of engaging naivete about him, as if he had just stepped out of an old-fashioned gangster film, dressed to kill, with a fedora and spats and a knuckleduster ring.
It was, of course, the reverse effect of the Feather Man’s ‘Oriental rapture’. This time I was the victim of it. I knew the language. I knew the rules of the game. I even felt a certain kinship with the spirits of the place. Every morning while I was in Thailand I made my offering to them: an orchid bloom laid on the floor of the tiny gilded spirit house in the garden. From where I was, Domenico Cubeddu had the faintly ridiculous look of any stranger: off-key, out of mode, puzzled. It was a mistake, of course, a grievous misjudgment. The man was well versed in villainy. He was the appointed custodian of his proceeds. I was a fool to believe that he would bend to the advice of a middle-aged book man.
Hoshino’s presence in Bangkok was another enigma. On the one hand, he had every normal business reason to be here. Bangkok was a key city in his bailiwick, which ran down through Malaysia and Indonesia, up into the Philippines and across to Hawaii and the West Coast of the United States. He travelled freely, amenable to no one, certainly not to Tanaka. Each ran his own side of the street. On the other hand, in a venture like this one where a common interest was acknowledged, Hoshino would defer to Tanaka. That was as traditional as the relationship between any Yakuza group and
the agencies of law enforcement. A hit man would execute vengeance on a member of a rival gang. Rather than submit his comrades to police investigation and harassment, he would surrender himself into custody and the processes of the law would be mitigated in his favour. Conclusion, right or wrong: Cubeddu was here because he demanded to be here; Hoshino was present by agreement, minding the man who minded the Medellin money, until Tanaka made his call.
Now I had to make a decision: to demand explanations from Tanaka before the conference began, or to go in cold and play the script as it was improvised by the international cast. It was easier to do that than let Tanaka play his teasing game with me. The decision once made, I began to relax. I called the waiter and asked him to bring me a drink and a sandwich and surrendered once more to the languor of the tropic garden, the music of moving water and the high chirping of women’s voices around the pool.
By two-thirty I was drunk with the sun. I took another swim and retreated to the air conditioned comfort of my suite. I showered, put on a fresh silk dressing gown and stretched out on the divan to work through the newspapers which had been delivered just before noon. There were three items of immediate interest. The haggling had begun over an Iraqi withdrawal from the Gulf. The hostages would be released, but there was a whole other shopping list: the disputed islands, the Palestinian question, Israel, Islam itself and the American infidel who now were de facto protectors of the sacred city of Mecca.
The second item was that the United States was committing more than a billion dollars in immediate aid to the Soviet Union. That, effectively, meant the end of direct opposition to the Tanaka/Leibig plan for industrial investment. The final piece of news was more ominous: Gorbachev had charged the KGB with the job of keeping the republics in line and suppressing local movements for secession from the Union.
It was at best a stop-gap measure; at worst, it could mark the return to a repressive dictatorial regime. However, the longer some form of political unity could be preserved, the better chance our project had of getting off the ground. For the moment, at least, a central government was the only bond-issuing authority, the sole controller of land rights. So far, it seemed, all the omens were favouring Tanaka’s plans, which made another good reason for holding my peace and letting events take their natural course. I was still drowsing over that thought when the telephone rang. Carl Leibig was on the line. He was in a panic.
‘Gil! Thank God you were in. We’re at the airport, just through Customs. Marta is very sick.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Stomach pains, severe vomiting. Shall I call an ambulance?’
‘No! For Christ’s sake, don’t do that. It will take an hour at least to arrive and she’ll end up in a public hospital. Bring her here to the hotel. I’ll have a doctor waiting and we’ll get her into a private clinic’
Siri’s brother Kukrit had a small but immaculate private hospital in a quiet compound behind the old Portuguese Embassy. His clients were rich. They had to be. Kukrit had his nurses trained in Australia. His Thai interns were all graduates or Australian or US medical schools. His equipment was state of the art and his standards exacting. His profits financed three out-patient clinics for the klong people, where the nurses and interns provided daily service and ran a research programme on parasitic infestations.
I called Siri. She rang back to say that Kukrit would be with me in thirty minutes. He was waiting, with an ambulance and crew, when Leibig’s limousine drew up in the forecourt of the hotel. The moment Marta Boysen was helped out, she voided a bloody vomit in the gutter. Kukrit and the ambulance crew lifted her on to a gurney, wheeled her into the ambulance and sped off through the back alleys towards the clinic.
I lingered for a hurried dialogue with Leibig. He told me Marta had become ill about an hour and a half out of Bangkok – nausea, belly cramps and some bloody vomit. It was enough for me to report to Kukrit. The transport desk gave me a car and a driver to take me to the clinic and wait for me. I scribbled a note to be pinned to the door of my suite in case any new arrivals came looking for me at drinks time.
At the clinic, the receptionist handed me into the care of a brisk young Australian nurse who nodded understanding of my report and gave me the first bulletin on Marta.
‘It looks like a fulminating haemorrhage. The first job is to wash out the stomach and stop the bleeding. It’s called lavage. The doctor’s doing that now. She’s lost a fair amount of blood, but she’s lucid and her blood pressure is low but holding steady. What’s your blood type, by the way?’
‘Type A. RH positive.’
‘Full marks. Most people have no idea.’
‘I’m a registered donor with Red Cross.’
‘Better and better. You’re the perfect match for your friend in there. I’d like you to make a donation now’
‘If it helps, sure’
‘It helps. The problem in Bangkok isn’t finding donors; it’s getting healthy blood. Hang on a minute, I’ll find out how doctor wants to do this.’
Five minutes later, I was flat on my back with a catheter in my arm, draining blood into a plastic container. The nurse urged me to relax and think happy thoughts. I thought of Petronius Arbiter, bleeding quietly to death in his bath, to the sound of harps and pipes. Unlike Petronius, I felt faintly ridiculous. Here was I, the rejected suitor, pouring out his life’s blood to save milady from the horrors of public hospital treatment. Public health in Thailand was not of the highest order and certainly it was not good for the tourist trade to publicise the pandemic incidence of AIDS among the thousands of prostitutes who served the visitors and locals.
The donation once made, I was ordered to rest for a while. The receptionist served me sweet tea and biscuits. Then Kukrit came in and gave me a report on his patient.
‘She’s stable now. She’s out of shock. We’ve controlled the bleeding. She’s responding lucidly enough to questions. I’ll take you in to see her in a moment and watch how she responds to you. There’s always the possibility of minor ischaemic damage.’
‘How long will you keep her here?’
‘Three days should do it. Then she can move into the hotel. She’ll be on a strict diet, of course, and she’ll need to take things easily for a week or two. But no doubt you’ll be keeping an eye on her.’
I doubted it very much; but this was neither the time nor the place for explanations. I followed him into the small intensive care ward where Marta lay, pale and cyanosed, hooked up to drips and a cardiac monitor, while a little Thai nurse sat vigil in front of the screens. I bent down and touched my lips to her forehead and spoke in German.
‘Marta, it’s Gil. Can you here me?’
‘I can hear you.’ Her voice was weak, but the answer was clear. ‘I’m sorry to be such a trouble.’
‘No trouble. You’ll be out of here in a few days. Doctor Kukrit is an old friend. This is a good place.’
‘I know. I feel it.’ She reached up and touched my cheek. ‘Will you do something for me?’
‘Anything.’
‘Tell Miko to look in my handbag. She’ll find the keys to my luggage. Ask her to bring me some clean night clothes and toilet things. She’ll know what I need.’
‘I’ll do that. You sleep now.’
‘Thank you, schatzi. Thank you …’
She was already on the borders of sleep.
Kukrit said: ‘I don’t understand German. Would you judge her responses were normal?’
‘Very normal, I’d say. She asked for clean clothes and toilet gear.’
‘Then we’re out of the woods,’ said Kukrit with a big grin. ‘You go back to the hotel and have a good dinner. Take those iron tablets also, one a day for a week. You need a little restoration, too.’
‘You’re a prince, Kukrit!’
He laughed and made a gesture that embraced the world. ‘Of course. This is the polygamous society. Everybody who is anybody is a prince at some remove or other. I’ve lost track of my noble cousins – but most of
them show up here, sooner or later. On your way now. The lady’s going to sleep the night away.’
It was nearly six by the time I got back to the hotel. I called Carl Leibig and told him about Marta. His relief was comically effusive: ‘Thank God you were here, Gil. I don’t know what we’d have done without you. I’m hopeless with female crises, utterly hopeless. Do you want to talk later?’
‘I don’t think it’s necessary, Carl. We’re all fully briefed. Let’s give it a rest until tomorrow.’
“I agree. One should never be over-rehearsed. A nightcap in the bar maybe …’
‘Maybe. Let’s leave it open.’
After that I called Miko. I told her what had happened and asked her to put together some night clothes and toilet articles for Marta. I suggested she take them round to the clinic before dinner. Her abrupt answer shocked me.
‘I’m sorry, Gil. No.’
‘Why not, for Christ’s sake! She’s asked for you. It’s a simple service, one woman to another. The hotel will send a driver with you.’
‘No!’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘I hate sickness. I hate hospitals. I can’t bear to go inside them. I have enough problems without this.’
She cut the connection. I stood there like an idiot, still holding the receiver to my ear. The violence of her reaction shocked me, but the syndrome itself was all too familiar. One of my most distinguished editors, a man my own age, urbane and accomplished, had this same morbid affliction. Any hint of illness, frailty or death terrified him. When his wife fell sick or pregnant he would always invent a business excuse to flee the house. When his favourite daughter was hospitalised with peritonitis, he refused absolutely to visit her. Nothing in the world would induce him to attend the funeral of a colleague with whom he had worked for twenty years.
My own training had been exactly the reverse. My father’s constant admonition was that on the gypsy road you had to care for yourself and your fellow travellers. You bound up cuts, you dispensed what he called ‘salves and simples’. You cleaned up messes and kept yourself spruce and tidy. The mere fact of marrying and bringing up children had given me – as it does most parents – an extended internship in paediatric medicine. So, on the principle that it was simpler to do the thing myself than argue about it or deputise a hotel servant, I went down to reception, got the key to Marta’s room and set about unpacking her clothes and making up her kit for her hospital sojourn.