“See”-I jump, for it is Pichai again speaking in Thai, using Warren’s vocal cords-“this is his souclass="underline" life is all on the outside, on the other side of the glass. Inside there is only stone. This is your farang for you.”
“He cut mine off, so I did the same to him.” It is Fatima’s voice now, hissing through his mouth. My blood runs cold and a horrible tingling passes up and down my spine, but the figure on the bed seems oblivious to his other visitors.
“Know the very last lesson a farang learns who tries to trick the East?” he says in Warren’s American voice. “That he’s been fucked from the start. From the start. The key is not to tell him until it’s too late.” Gripping my hand. “You have more patience, more history, more cunning, more sorcery-and you get the sun twelve hours before we do. How could we ever win?”
“He wanted to make people like jewelry,” says Fatima. “Now who will buy him?”
“Have compassion,” urges Pichai.
“Balls,” says Fatima.
“Go too deep into the West and you turn to stone yourself,” says Warren. “It’s almost as simple as that. Sooner or later you start trading people, one way or another. And if you’re trading them, why not modify them? Ah, the demonic beauty of the human form! Who can resist working it like the finest jade, once you realize you have the power? You pass that threshold without even noticing. America is the continent of death. This has been known for thousands of years. I have been everything in the Great Cosmic Lottery, women and men, thieves, princes and slaves, and I’ve stayed too long on this earth. The body is a doll, but it corrupts the spirit. You think I’m the only one? This is a devil hard to beat, Detective. Enticing beyond words. I wanted a perfect form to dissolve into, but the forms kept dissolving first. That’s the truth about me, take it or leave it.” A quick check of my face-but who is behind those eyes? “Building designer humans out of throwaway people-d’you think we’ll resist once the American empire has reached adolescence?”
When the door opens and Surichai enters the room I cannot prevent myself from throwing him a glance of utter helplessness. He nods in complete understanding.
“He’s been speaking in Fatima’s voice? Eerie, isn’t it? I couldn’t begin to explain-not in terms of Western science anyway. I’m sure a meditator like you has his own ideas. There’s another voice he’s been using, too, in impeccable Thai, very vernacular, much better than he speaks it himself. Who is that?”
“My dead brother,” I whisper.
A shrug. “No farang would understand-but to us it’s not so totally outlandish, is it? You better leave him now. As I say, he’s very weak. You can come back tomorrow if you want.”
Tears are pouring down Warren’s cheeks as we leave the room.
In the corridor I say: “Is there going to be a next stage, or are you going to leave him like that?”
“Reassignment, you mean? That’s entirely up to Fatima.” To my startled glance: “That was part of the deal. She has the-ah-pieces under controlled conditions in her penthouse.” A glance at his watch. “And she has about six hours left to make up her mind. So far she’s been pretty damn negative and without the material there’s nothing I can do. I think you are closer to Fatima than I am. Does she have Buddhist compassion? Do you have any influence?”
52
Two Months Later
Told you she’d be back. Here I am waiting at Bangkok International Airport, wearing my best khaki sleeveless shirt, black pants and hideous black lace-up shoes.
The Thai Airways flight from San Francisco via Tokyo and Hong Kong has been delayed by one hour, but now I see from the monitors that it has landed. Twenty minutes later Kimberley Jones appears in the arrivals area wearing a beige business suit (trousers). Her hair is her natural blond, cut short but not ruthlessly so. There are three earrings in her left ear, only one in the other. Her lipstick is a modest pink. When she presses her cheek against mine by way of greeting I inhale a familiar scent which for me has Mother written all over it.
“Van Cleef and Arpels,” I say with a smile.
“You got it.”
I am uncertain whether to help her with her trolley piled high with purple Samsonite cases. What is the etiquette here? A Thai woman would be deeply offended if I didn’t push it, but an American might be offended if I did? I decide to let Kimberley push it to the taxi rank.
In the back of the cab Kimberley says: “Surprised?”
“That you bought shares in my mother’s company? Yes, at first, but when Nong told me she’d been exchanging e-mails with you, it sort of fell into place. Are you on vacation from the Bureau?”
“I took an unpaid sabbatical.” A crisp glance at my face and away. “White men aren’t the only ones who find this city irresistible, so it can’t just be the sex, can it?”
“What is it, do you think?” I ask.
“I don’t know. The bottom line is it’s so damn human.” A pause. “Still nothing on Fatima?”
I cover my face for a moment before replying: “Nothing. Vanished after-after she made her decision.” I make a slightly exaggerated gesture intended to convey terminal vanishing, so as not to spoil the surprise tonight.
“D’you ever wonder if there might be something in what she told you that time, that she’s like your shadow, your dark side? That you need her in some way?”
I experience a need to change the subject. I pass Jones the front page of the Bangkok Post, which features a full-length picture of my mother in a black and white Chanel business suit which is not a fake. The subeditor has highlighted my mother’s reply to a question from a reporter about the Old Man’s Club, the official opening of which is tonight:
This kind of Western hypocrisy disgusts me, quite frankly. Why doesn’t the BBC make a documentary on the rag trade, with all those women working twelve hours a day for less than a dollar an hour? What is that if it’s not selling your body? The West doesn’t care about exploitation of our women, it simply has a problem with sex and at the same time they’re using sexual titillation to sell their shows. They love to embarrass middle-aged white men who hire our girls. Western women can’t handle it that their men get a better time over here. If they’re too mean-spirited to give their men pleasure, that’s their problem. The bottom line is that it’s about money. Thailand makes very little income from industries like the clothing industry-Western companies take the lion’s share. But in the sex trade we see a true redistribution of global wealth from West to East. That’s what’s got them so hung up.
Kimberley hands me back the clipping with a grin. “That’s a real feisty lady. What’s she been reading? I’ve noticed how her English has changed over the past months.”
“She keeps taking business courses over the Net. Her line is that if sex is Thailand’s biggest industry, we ought to set about modernizing and regularizing it, giving the girls a better deal, a new career after compulsory retirement at age twenty-eight, compulsory profit sharing. She’s got all the business buzzwords. You know, profit centers, value-added, service industry, human resources. She claims the industry is still in the Stone Age and that the government should give assistance instead of being obstructive.”