A couple of months before the economic collapse, Calvino had sold twenty-seven oil paintings by the Italian artist Galileo Chini to Montri, a billionaire real-estate investor. It had been love at first sight—Montri and the Chini nudes. And Montri was a man who easily fell in love and just as easily fell out of love—a cycle that sometimes completed itself in the space of the same evening. With the Chini paintings, Montri couldn’t help himself from falling madly in love twenty-seven times over. It was as if the nudes had been painted according to his personal instructions and sexual tastes. As Montri gave an explanation of each painting, his guests stared at the nubile bodies of Siamese dancers, peasants, workers, and prostitutes, a few giggles and sighs rising whenever Montri paused.
The artist had completed the paintings during a Vincent Van Gogh—like feverish period of near madness between 1911 and 1912, and he employed the same wild splashes of movement, color, and texture. Chini left viewers of his paintings a choice: Images of prostitutes weary or dreamy, sad or contemplative, drifting out of time or thinking about their next meals—which side one came down on matched one’s experience of the world. The women with big eyes, painted mouths, awkwardly standing or sitting, seemed to have sprung from an agitated mind infected by a torrent of feelings—attraction and repulsion, want and desire, hope and despair.
Chini painted canvases populated by prostitutes because he had needed the money. Calvino understood the impulse; he, too, needed the money. Were the paintings pornography or works of art? The buzz saw of doubt never made a clean, final-cut answer and never would. For Montri—and he was the one who had paid for them in cash—the Chini nudes were an expression of high art.
“Which is your favorite?” asked a guest.
That was expected.
“I love them all,” he said as the guests shook with laughter, refilling their champagne glasses.
Montri had cultivated a reputation for collecting women for a season, cutting them loose, taking on replacements with the dedication of a World War I Allied general. What Montri neglected to mention was that the one he coveted the most was a painting that Calvino had refused to include in the sale.
Montri was the perfect owner. The sale to him had been Pratt’s idea. Montri was rich. The paintings would stay in Thailand. That had sealed the deal. Chini’s paintings would be in the possession of a collector who valued them and had no incentive to sell them off. Montri hinted, in a subtle, indirect way, that the Chini paintings might be haunted by a family curse. He had consulted his spiritual adviser, Ajarn Veera, who had raised the possibility. The last owner had died a violent death. The artist might have been an opium addict. The bad karma had built up over nearly a century and needed cleansing. The black-magic ritual had been held two days before the exhibition opened. The sadoh kroh ceremony was performed to appease the ghosts of the dead artist, his opium-laced friends, and all the accumulated bad karma that had included the death of the previous owner. The past lives had to be taken into account.
The dead had their influence and their role to play. To ignore them was something Montri would never have considered.
The auspicious time and day had been selected by Ajarn Veera. Montri waited until precisely 9:19 p.m. before he announced that the exhibition was open. Calvino had met Ajarn Veera, the medium or maw doo as they were called in Thai, a birdlike man with a shaved head and bushy eyebrows, a long thin face, and full lips. It hadn’t been easy to book Ajarn Veera, since he was in great demand as the voodoo wars had escalated between the political factions, each side using black magic to cast a spell of bad luck on its enemy. Curses loomed in the thick, rain-filled air. Each side had rolled out their favorite maw doo, instructing him on the next cosmic counterpunch—kickboxing at clouds, some said, but that insult never stopped any of them from dismissing the power of the maw doo.
“You could always sell them to a museum in Italy,” said one of the guests, who had been a minister in a previous government.
“Never,” said Montri, finding Calvino in the second row.
“If we lose our heritage, we lose everything,” said another guest, nodding over to the group huddled around a Chinese man. “That’s why we need great patriots like General Suchart. And Khun Wei is the general’s man.”
The mention of the general’s name caused Pratt to stop his conversation and look over his shoulder at Zhang, who was standing a few meters away. He had attracted a small, appreciative audience.
“That’s Wei Zhang,” whispered Colonel Pratt.
In a sea of black ties, he stood out. People noticed him, were drawing into a semicircle around where he stood.
People were drawn to Wei Zhang. Several features marked him: Zhang was uncommonly tall for a Chinese. Calvino made him for six-three. The other thing was his attitude, which projected calm, supreme confidence—in himself, his abilities, and his vision of the future. To look at him was to see a man who believed in himself—his diamond-crusted Rolex, designer gold-framed glasses, manicured nails, groomed eyebrows, narrow eyes that gave away nothing.
Calvino guessed that Zhang was mid-forties; his waist was no longer small, a hint of flesh gathering around the beltline. It was his height and attitude that cloaked Zhang with a mandarin-like detachment.
Colonel Pratt leaned over to Calvino and said, “Chinese. Wealthy. Connected.” He had one of Wei Zhang’s business cards. Expensive paper and gold lettering that said he was “Special Adviser to General Suchart, the founder of the True Sons of The Soil Party.”
Colonel Pratt had already nailed these essential qualities about the Chinese businessman.
“Art and the sacred go together,” said Montri with a grin. “Like a woman and a bed.” He drew more laughter from the assembled guests. He gestured toward Ajarn Veera, who was deep in conversation with Wei Zhang. “That is Ajarn Veera, and he is the best maw doo in Asia. To have him here tonight wasn’t easy. He’s very busy.” Ajarn Veera glanced over, and Montri gave him a deep wai.
Pratt had been right about Montri—once he’d seen the collection, he had to possess the paintings. It was only a matter of price. It seemed natural, so Pratt had told Calvino that on the evening of the special exhibition, Montri would want Calvino, given his family connection to the artist, to attend the private party. Calvino understood that it was a face thing. Montri wanted to parade before his guests the farang whose lineage provided a direct connection to the dead farang artist. The man who’d sold his heritage. Close to Zhang, Brandon’s business partner, Achara, was looking at one of the paintings, captioned “Siamese Dancer.”
Calvino looked up in time to catch Achara’s eye. “Hey, Khun Achara, you like the dancer?” asked Calvino. His face, thought Calvino, looked as if the bandages had just been removed and the healing process had some time to go before it was complete. A small scar here and there, a red ridge along the cheek, and a smile that exposed both lower and upper gums.
“She’s very beautiful,” said Achara. He turned to Wei Zhang. “Wei, Vincent Calvino. He’s an American friend of Brandon’s.”
Calvino found that to be an interesting characterization of his relationship with Brandon Sawyer. Wei offered his hand, and Calvino shook. Before they could talk, Montri called for everyone’s attention.
Montri pinged the rim of his champagne glass with his overlong pinkie nail—the sound echoed off the vast walls and ceiling, and the conversation came to a halt. “Gentlemen, welcome to the exhibition of Galileo Chini’s collection of exotic Siam.”
He paused until the last scattering of applause faded. It was 9:19 p.m., precisely. Montri smiled and continued, “And as I told each of you, I have a special surprise this evening. Tonight I’d like to introduce the grandson of Galileo Chini. Khun Vincent will tell us about his famous grandfather. I have promised Khun Vincent that he can come out and visit this gallery and the Chini paintings every three months. It can be his visa run. I will even stamp his passport. Or get Khun Prinya to do it.”
Prinya was a cabinet minister in the curre
nt government, and he laughed along with the others.
As the laughter died away, Montri said, “Khun Vincent, everyone wants to know the story about these works of art. Later I’ll tell the story of how Vincent installed the security system.”
Pratt and Calvino exchanged a look. They knew the story of how Calvino came to possess the paintings—he’d killed the man who’d owned them, because the man had tried to shoot him first on the eve of the coup in 2006. Even in Thailand there were large parts of a story that no one told, but that hardly mattered, because no one had the slightest hesitation to fill in the gaping holes with self-aggrandizing stories.
A roomful of penguin impersonators turned their attention to Calvino. He hadn’t expected to speak; Montri hadn’t warned him to prepare a speech. A bead of sweat formed on Calvino’s forehead and slid down his nose, splashing on the floor. Montri, to be fair, hadn’t expected that Calvino would speak either. The invitation had been one of those spontaneous acts, and once Montri had made the announcement, it seemed perfect and natural that Calvino, as the only farang in the room, should be called upon to explain what he was doing at the party. Montri got their attention by drawing on the family connection between the artist and Calvino. Family, connection, and influence were like an abacus in Thailand, and in their minds the guests waited to hear how this farang could weave his tale of privilege, power, fame, and wealth. That was the only kind of family that mattered.
Calvino cleared his throat, deciding whether to speak in Thai or English. Calvino’s law: In case of doubt, when called upon to speak in public, always choose English. Once in a while, slip into Thai; that makes them grateful forever. “One small correction: Galileo Chini was my great-grandfather. He died before I was born. What I know comes from my grandfather, who was Galileo’s son. What my grandfather taught was the importance of family to Galileo. Without our sense of our ancestors, we would be lost. As this gentlemen said, it’s about heritage. I’ll share a secret with you.”
They nodded their heads, just like penguins. Secrets always caught their attention, and they waited as Calvino drew in a long breath.
“My grandfather taught me when I saw Chini’s paintings to remember he wasn’t asking anyone to look at him. Galileo was an ordinary-looking guy. My grandfather said, ‘You look at the paintings and you see Siam through his eyes.’ A great artist reveals a sensibility that is timeless. He asks the audience to experience his subject as if each viewer were the artist. Audiences come and go over time, as do the owners, but my great-grandfather’s sensibility is alive in this room tonight and will stay alive so long as there are rooms for paintings to hang in. Galileo also loved Siam. These paintings are what he left behind, along with that affection for its people. His art opens a window into what Siam looked like almost a hundred years ago. He painted much more than nude women. But a collector like Khun Montri favors these paintings. They touch the inner old Siam in his heart.”
Laughter and applause interrupted Calvino. Looking around the room, no one would ever guess from the attitude of the guests that revolution was gathering outside in the street.
“Khun Montri fell in love with them. If you know what I mean.”
“They know exactly what you mean,” said Montri, smiling, a proud, preening smile that spoke of being in total possession of a larger-than-life identity.
“But the feeling of family isn’t just about a bloodline. Colonel Prachai is as close as any brother could ever be. He brought me into his family and made me feel that I belong. Without Colonel Prachai—I call him Colonel Pratt—these paintings wouldn’t be hanging in this gallery. I wouldn’t be standing here talking about my great-grandfather. Khun Montri is the custodian of Galileo’s vision of old Siam. Wherever he is, Galileo is smiling down on all of you tonight and is grateful to Khun Montri for seeing to it that his dream of Siam can never be extinguished so long as his paintings continue to hang in this room.”
Calvino raised his glass. “To Khun Montri, Colonel Prachai, and distinguished guests, on behalf of my greatgrandfather—thank you.”
Applause rose like heavy thunder from the penguins in the gallery. Champagne flowed. Montri slapped Calvino on the back. “Good speech.” At Montri’s elbow was Achara, who pushed his way into the circle around Calvino and Pratt. “You know my good friend Khun Achara?” asked Montri.
Calvino nodded. “Good to see you again, Khun Achara.”
Brandon’s Thai partner seemed more subdued than last time they’d met, as if he were preoccupied, lost in his thoughts.
“And this is Wei Zhang. He’s my very good friend from China. He’s a special adviser to General Suchart.”
“I liked your speech, Mr. Calvino,” Zhang said in excellent English.
Montri raised his glass. “I forgot that you and Khun Achara already know each other. Khun Vincent seems to know everyone.”
“Tomorrow we meet at my house,” Achara said to Calvino. He was about to say something else before he was distracted by a look from Zhang and immediately changed the subject.
Up close, Achara’s face showed signs of being banged up, as if he’d been in an accident. Achara saw Calvino staring. “I had a bad spill skiing at Whistler,” he said, assuming that anyone at such a gathering would automatically be able to place Whistler, two hours north of Vancouver.
“I witnessed his fall. It was a nasty one,” said Zhang.
“I was his guest at Whistler,” said Achara.
“I didn’t know you skied.” Montri arched his right eyebrow into a question mark.
“There are things you don’t know, Khun Montri.”
Achara turned to Calvino. “Do you ski?”
Calvino shook his head, trying to figure out what kind of business Zhang had with Achara. “I’m from New York. Skiing wasn’t gonna help anyone with anything. I was taught to run in a zigzag pattern. Between school and home, so I wouldn’t get mugged.”
“It’s different now. New York is safe,” said Wei Zhang.
“I was there last month. Skated in Rockefeller Center.”
“Thinking of buying Rockefeller Center?” asked Calvino.
“Didn’t know it was for sale. I thought the Japanese already owned it. Besides, the Flatiron Building is more interesting.”
“That’s kind of a big place for a Chinese takeout,” said Calvino.
“But just the right size for a Chinese take-in,” said Zhang. He flashed an insincere smile. The kind you see on insurance salesmen when they finally get that you don’t want to buy the policy and nothing’s going to change your mind. That kind of fixed, default grin that masked whatever true reaction lay beneath. He was a man who patiently waited for the right moment before he made his next move.
“You two sound like a couple of New Yorkers. Vincent, did your great-grandfather have this humor?” asked Montri.
He squeezed Calvino’s shoulder, lips pursed. “You’re my family, too. If you ever need anything, you let me know.”
He removed his hand from Calvino’s shoulder as a waiter brought another round of champagne. Zhang helped himself to a chilled glass.
“Come, I want to show you something,” said Montri, who led them like penguins over an ice bridge to where a large, ornate grandfather clock stood, gold and silver inlaid in teakwood. The clock face had an animal representing each of the Chinese zodiac signs, and each of the twelve had a single diamond fitted into its eye. Dog, pig, dragon, chicken, and monkey along with the rest of the animals—all shared the same diamond eye.
“This is a gift from Wei Zhang. It is an object worthy of a gallery of Chini’s masterpieces. Every hour, it strikes a tone from another world.”
The clock was beyond any reasonable definition of friendship, and that gave Montri all the more face in the crowd. He might have paid hard cash for the Chini artwork, but the magnificent clock had been a gift. Not free, but a gift nonetheless. The other penguins nodded in awe and wonder at the dazzling timepiece. The financial system had melted fast, like the spring thaw revealing a
n outcrop of rugged edges where survivors clung, and the strongest of them raised a fist. The gallery featured the clock, a double helix sculpture constructed of chrome, mirrors, and glass, and the Chini paintings, and those gathered in the gallery were outside of time, in a space waiting for Zhang’s clock to sound the hour.
“You have someone who designed security for the room?” asked Colonel Pratt.
“Colonel, I have installed state-of-the-art electronic surveillance, bugging equipment,” said Montri. “The art is safe. And so is the clock.”
It was a smug reply delivered in a joking way.
“Relatively safe,” said Calvino.
Montri raised an eyebrow.
“You wouldn’t want to challenge a professional thief,” said Calvino. “Or a worked-up mob who’ve decided to turn on the rich.”
“That’s why Khun Vincent works for my partner, Brandon Sawyer,” said Achara. “He has an ability to slip inside the black house and read the minds of professional criminals. To know what they are planning, how they will do the job, and how to stop them before they get the chance.”
Zhang smiled, looking at the clock, until a new group formed around him and his time masterpiece. But Montri, who looked slightly disappointed, then slipped away to another small group. This left Calvino and Pratt shifting their feet in silence as Achara made polite conversation about the stock market, skiing on fresh powder, and the virtues of shark-fin soup.
“I will see you tomorrow, Khun Vincent,” said Achara.
He locked eyes with Calvino as if he wanted to say something more but thought it better to remain brief. Achara didn’t fit the profile of a murderer. But Calvino had been an investigator long enough to know that a killer had no special look. They came in a variety of ages, shapes, backgrounds; men and women, and, like everyone else, they bought and sold shares, skied, ate soup—even shark-fin soup. It was a lost cause trying to read anything in Achara’s battered face. Calvino had found it of interest that Achara and Zhang had been skiing together in Canada. Also, Achara had managed an invitation to the opening. Calvino hadn’t thought of Achara running on the inner ring of the track at the highest elevations of Thai society. Pratt glanced at his watch.
The Corruptionist Page 7