“Our societies need to grow up,” my mother is saying. She has become more fluent by the day and her English is almost flawless, with a charming Thai accent which comes across as faintly childlike and softens her new aggression. “Globalization has caused the biggest increase in prostitution in the history of the world. This is a big story the media neglects because it’s so politically incorrect. Uncountable women are on the game not because they need to be but because they choose to be. University students from Moscow sell themselves in Macao to make some pocket money. Chinese from Singapore fly to Hong Kong for the Christmas vacation to sell their bodies. Shanghai is awash with girls chasing the fast buck. Women from all over South America trade sex all over the world, especially in Asia and the West. You see British, Canadian, American and Scandinavian women in the escort business all over Bangkok. Why hasn’t the media told the world just how popular a little private body-leasing has become even with well-off young women from G7 nations?” The female BBC interviewer nods sagely.
“She’s good,” the Colonel whispers to me. “She’s even better than you used to be.”
Now the CNN reporter, also a woman, is holding a large microphone in front of Nong’s mouth. My mother hardly pauses as she switches networks. “You tell every young woman in the country that it is her right to dress up, look sexy, have a mobile telephone, own a car, go on exotic holidays, and nine times out of ten there is only one profession that will bring her the money she needs to do these things. So who is the pimp, me or the West? I’m really about damage control, accepting the situation for what it is and giving the girls a better deal. Would I prefer a return to traditional Thai, Buddhist morality? Actually, yes, but it’s too late for that, the corrosion has gone too far, we have to deal with reality. Even the Buddha believed that.”
The CNN reporter turns away from Nong to interview a wiry old man in one of my mother’s T-shirts and red and yellow striped shorts, perhaps in his early seventies, slightly stooped with sinewy arms and a grizzled face: he looks exactly like the caricature on the shirt. “Excuse me, sir, have you been a customer of the Old Man’s Club while you’ve been in Thailand?”
“I sure have. Soon as I saw the web page I booked me a ticket to Bangkok, one-way. If I have to die out here, that’s okay with me. I’m from Kansas and I’ve had three wives, and lemme tell you, I never knew till now what those women who lived off me for fifty years weren’t doing for me.”
“Were not doing for you?”
“Damned right. If I had the time I’d probably feel bitter, but I don’t have the time ’cos I’m too busy bangin’-”
“Yes, thank you, sir. And you, sir, did you come to Bangkok expressly to visit the Old Man’s Club?”
“Yep, and I’m too old to care if you and your viewers don’t like it. I’m eighty-one years old and I played the game all my life, raised three ungrateful kids who never come visit me, lost me a wonderful wife to cancer, God bless her soul, then married a bitch, may she rot in hell, and if I got ten minutes more left to live I want to spend those ten minutes right here in the Old Man’s Club. Might not be love but it’s the closest I’m gonna get this late in the day. Sure beats contract bridge. Have you any idea how boring contract bridge gets once you know there’s something more exciting waiting on the other side of the world?”
“It doesn’t bother you that many Americans might find what you are doing politically incorrect, even immoral?”
“Does political correctness give protection from Alzheimer’s? One thing about being old, you learn to cut to the chase.”
The CNN reporter turns to two young women waiting to be interviewed. They are Nit-nit and Noi, whom Nong poached from the Jade Palace on my recommendation. To the camera: “Well, the customers certainly seem satisfied, but what about the workers? These stunning young women, who in another society might well be movie stars or models, spend their nights catering to these clients. Let’s hear what they have to say.”
Nit-nit: “I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the customers are so grateful, you know, it’s kind of sad. I think in your country maybe you don’t treat old people very well. In Thailand we would never leave our parents and grandparents to stay alone year after year. I think they would die sooner if not for us.”
Noi: “Usually they are very funny, like it’s all a joke, which is the way Thai people see things too, so it’s not so hard to be with them. They’re not demanding like younger men, they don’t tell you do this, do that, they’re just so happy to be able to touch you. It’s like being a nurse, really. It’s part of Thai culture to respect and help the old.”
Meanwhile the CNN reporter directs the camera operator to focus on her for the wrap-up. “Well, as Walt Disney said in Lady and the Tramp: ‘We are Siamese if you please, we are Siamese if you don’t please.’ So far the criticism of Madame Nong Jitpleecheep’s new club is muted, and the praise high. Only time will tell if what we have here is a variation on a theme of exploitation as old as humanity, or a step toward emancipation. In the meantime, the thirty-year-old party which is Bangkok’s nightlife continues, whatever the rest of the world may have to say about it. This is Celia Emerson, for CNN, Bangkok.”
One by one the lights start to die and men in shorts, sweating in the night heat, start to roll up the cables while Nong looks on a little wistfully. It is time for all of us to enter the club. The Colonel and Nong go first, followed by Kimberley, who assumes that I am following her. Instead I pause at the door to watch a black limo draw up behind one of the media trailers.
I am wearing a four-button double-breasted blazer by Zegna, a spread-collar linen shirt by Givenchy, tropical wool flannel slacks and, best of all, patent leather slip-ons by Baker-Benjes. My cologne is a charming little number by Russell Simmons. Somehow I think my getup will be particularly appreciated by my personal and secret guest, who emerges with some difficulty from the limo, aided by two burly minders. She walks with the aid of a stick and her facial features will never be other than masculine. Her dress falls poorly, in my opinion, even though it is the very best from Giorgio Armani. On the other hand, the estradiol has done wonders for her hair, which falls in a heavy, luxurious curtain onto the collar of her dress. The minders leave her to approach me at the threshold.
“Nice threads,” Pichai says to me, using Warren ’s vocal cords and scanning my new wardrobe with her gray eyes.
Inside, our live entertainment is singing “Bye Bye Blackbird.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Burdett is a nonpracticing lawyer who worked in Hong Kong for a British firm until he found his true vocation as a writer. Since then he has lived in France and Spain, and is now back in Hong Kong. He is the author of A Personal History of Thirst and The Last Six Million Seconds.
