“Fine.”
“Oh, I forgot to ask. Have you been down to the river to see Yammy yet?”
“Not yet. I’m still looking for Baker, remember?”
Vikorn grunts. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. We found him.”
“We did? That was quick.”
My Colonel taps his forehead. “Some of us are still cops, Sonchai. I told Immigration to identify all those crossings to Cambodia that don’t yet have isometric software to check mug shots. There are only five, and only one of those is commonly known to farcing crooks. So I told the boys over there it was worth a hundred thousand baht.” His smile is the embodiment of wisdom and compassion. “Motivation is everything in human resources. I had to let them soften him up a bit, as part of the bribe. He should be pretty compliant by the time you reach him.” A couple of beats pass while he wrestles with irritation caused by the upholstery. “No hurry-he isn’t going anywhere. I want you to check up on Yammy before you go.”
12
When Superman morphs into Godot, you can be sure you have reached a deeper, more nuanced level of the American initiation: ask the Iraqis. It’s been one excuse after another from my biological father, aka Superman. I contacted him more than a year ago, in the teeth of outraged objections from Nong (“If he wanted to know us, he would have got in touch decades ago”), and to my astonishment he replied with true Yankee enthusiasm and promised to visit as soon as his legal practice gave him a break. Since then it’s been one excuse after another. Nong has begun to doubt that he really intends to come see us at all, and now we’ve just received an e-mail to say he’s had to postpone again on the advice of his doctor. We’re in the Old Man’s Club at about six-thirty in the evening, and Nong is ranting about farang men in general and him in particular: “Why do they make these stupid promises they don’t intend to keep, as if we’re children who can’t take reality straight? This is the problem with their whole culture-they think the rest of the world is as childish as they are. A Thai man would have told us to get lost, and we would have forgotten about him by now.”
We are sitting at a table near the bar that is empty except for Marly, who is taking a break from her new porn career with Yammy, and Henri the Frenchman, who has sneaked in early because he’s heard that Marly is here. Henri is one of those who decided tragically early in life that they wanted to be an author and didn’t notice the passage of time until it was too late. Now he is short, bald, and forty-three. As is often the case with literary genius, especially the unpublished sort, Henri has no disposable income at all and just about makes ends meet through a little English-to-French translation work over the Net, which he considers a serious threat to his psychic health and intolerable for more than an hour a day (“another fucking microwave manual, mon Dieu, I don’t have to translate the fuckeur. I know by heart a fucking large fucking potato takes cinq minutes, and if you wrap it in aluminum, you can expect a wonderful little firework display with lots of fine crackles and pops-there are days when I would give my membre virile for a little ambiguity, double entendre, obscure literary reference, even a well-placed adjective, nom de Dieu”), and lives in a tiny room on the notorious Soi 26, a stone’s throw from the still more notorious Klong Toey area (they almost pay you to live there). He is, for reasons of impecuniosity, therefore not the most popular customer among the girls, which might explain the pining quality of his prose. He does, though, to give him his due, own not a little of the elegance of the nineteenth-century Paris he so much wanted to inhabit and when sauced can charm them with his silver tongue:
Henri to Marly (I suspect the secret heroine of his perpetual work in progress): “When they told me you were going to be here tonight, I abandoned my work and rushed over.”
“Lork?”
“Yes, and what is more, this anguish seems to have sharpened my perception, because when I saw you, I experienced all over again that joy, that leap of recognition which I experienced the very first moment I set eyes on you.”
“Lork?”
“And I even love the way you say lork. On the lips of another Thai woman it is just as dreary as that pathetic English word really, but from you it possesses the intangible quality of nirvana.”
“Do you want me tonight? I have time for a quick one, before I start filming down by the river.”
Henri forces his features into an exaggerated beam. “I’m saving up.
Three more microwave manuals and five DVD players, and you will be mine, cherie. On the other hand, why don’t you extend to me a little credit? The orders are in, I just have to do the work.“
Marly, who thanks to Yammy’s irresponsible encouragement has set her sights on Hollywood, raises her eyes to the ceiling in disgust and turns away. I smile at her and invite her to join us, in the hope it will put an end to Nong’s moaning. “How’s the filming going?”
“Fine, I think. Yammy’s ting-tong-l mean, the guy is totally nuts-but he really knows what he’s doing.” She checks her watch.
“Give me a ting-tong Jap any day against a two-faced farang,” Nong growls. I feel sad because I know where her anger comes from. She didn’t expect much from renewed contact with the young American soldier she fell in love with more than thirty years ago, only a certain belated sharing, a pride in the son they made together-I haven’t turned out that bad after all, compared to most leuk kreung from the Vietnam War-a chat about old times. It’s his meanness of spirit she resents with its racist implication: would he have been so neglectful of a white American girl? Marly looks at me, and I raise my hands to convey helplessness. Luckily, at that moment Greg the Australian walks in. Nong has the same soft spot for him as I have for Henri, and she gives him a big welcoming smile. He responds with an inept wai that makes Nong grin and shake her head. Without waiting for his order, she goes behind the bar to open a cold bottle of Foster’s and hands it to him without adding it to his slate; she is using this gesture to change her mood. “Love the way you look after me,” Greg says. “You’re better than twelve mums.” The idea of someone having twelve mothers tickles Nong’s funny bone, and she cackles at him.
A word about Greg. Endowed by nature with a metabolism that keeps him slim no matter how much Foster’s he drinks, he looks quite a bit younger than his thirty-eight years. A product of what I believe his countrymen call “the tall poppy syndrome,” he manifests normality to a morbid degree. He drinks beer with men, has sex with women, loves rugby, football, cricket, and gambling on what he calls the jee-jees, and is always bright and friendly with a ready “G’day” in all stages of inebriation except the last.
It is Lek, usually, who rescues dear Greg from his fits of uncontrollable sobbing at the end of a Foster’s-intensive evening, usually in the lavatory, when he feels no embarrassment at being hoisted from the pit of suicidal despair by an exceptionally effeminate transsexuaclass="underline"
Greg says to Lek, “I’m all in fragments, mate, atomized. Me mum drove me dad away when I was a kid. Then she worked on me mind, mate. She hates men, see. All Australian women do-there’s something in the food down there. Must be the mushy peas.”