They do, actually, now — they do everything, everywhere — but I thought that sisters know best. And then I told them about my saving my money and coming away from the city, and away from my family, towards what I knew nothing about. I suppose they were bored — it was almost light now, and we could see the colors changing through the little window, which looked out onto a wall — but they looked as if they were interested, and when I was finished, the small one leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. The other one — Jin, she told me her name was (the smaller one was Nit) — asked me if I had a handkerchief. I gave her mine, and she brushed at her eyes a little. Something in the night had moved her.
We’d overstayed our deposit, of course, but I’m not sure that any of us wanted to go. It was cool in the room, and it was quiet; the lights made everything different. Finally the tall one said, “Go home now,” and we went down to where the street was empty, just overturned tables and rubbish in the thin grey light, and a sort of bulldozer machine that noisily went back and forth, back and forth, collecting all the relics of the night. It was like coming back to something real after a night in a very different country
The girls took me to a tuk-tuk, one of these four-wheeled rickshaws they have here, and bargained on my behalf with the boy in the front seat; they were going to go home on the backs of motorcycle taxis across the street. “You good man,” said Jin. “You want meet again, you call.” And, taking a flyer from a McDonald’s nearby, she scribbled down her number on the back of an advert for a Happy Meal.
“I see you tonight? Same place?” said Nit, and I said, “Who knows? Maybe you will.”
I got into the back of the rickshaw then and sat under the red light, as the boy banged his horn and reeled into the traffic. In daytime the magic of the city was gone, except this time it wasn’t gone at all — only postponed, perhaps. The djiinn was beside me on the seat — the djinn was inside me — and this evening, or tomorrow night, or the evening after that, anything, everything seemed possible. Just telling your story, I thought: could any crime be so secret?
Pico Iyer is the author of several books about globalism and travel, including Video Night in Kathmandu, The Lady and the Monk, The Global Soul and The Open Road. Based in Asia since 1987, he first visited Thailand in 1983, and has since been back to Bangkok more than 50 times. Since 1992, he’s been living in rural Japan.
Halfhead
Colin Cotterill
Samart Wichaiwong, a.k.a. Teacher Wong, awoke to find his legs off the mattress and flailing. It was as if his conscious self was fleeing his subconscious in panic. It wasn’t the first time Halfhead had chased him out of a dream. She was no man’s fantasy. She always reminded him of the he-’n-she act at the transvestite cabarets. The singer, tucked between the stage curtains, turns to the left and he’s a man, to the right and she’s a woman. Remarkable. Except Halfhead turns to the left and she’s a Gray’s Anatomy centerfold. One side of her skull is missing, sliced down the center like a severe homicidal parting. One red eye, half a nose, left-sided mouth with a sluggy-black tongue spilling out. But it was the drool that really repulsed him. The drool. Samart slapped away the memory of his nightmare and stumbled around his apartment in search of the remains of a bottle of Archa beer, a refugee from last night’s binge. He chugged it down. It didn’t taste any better than the scum in his mouth, but he needed nutrition. He changed out of his striped pajama bottom and into his white silks. His belly formed a third trimester mound inside the smock top. He swept back hair that hung like a hula skirt from his bald dome and tied it behind his neck with a rubber band. Finally, with all the artistry of a likay performer, he sat at the mirror and encircled his bulging eyes with a crimson bruise of lipstick. He checked the time, then took off his watch and placed it beside the DVD player. He walked untidily down to the ground floor, across the vacant lot, and unlocked the door to the humble bamboo hut in which he supposedly lived. He was early but he knew this could be a most significant day.
The two latte-brown uniformed officers were seated in front of the stage on an itchy grass mat staring at Samart, who sat cross-legged and apparently comatose on a flat cushion facing them. He was surrounded by porcelain animals, pickled reptiles gazing drowsily from glass containers, coloured vials and bottles and skulls of all sizes, animal and human. The hut’s curtain was drawn, and a small fish tank lamp illuminated Samart from below, casting a campfire shadow that bent all his features upward. His red, up-all-night eyes stared dully into space. It was an image that had impressed many but obviously wasn’t having a positive effect on today’s audience.
“How long are we supposed to sit here like mutton?” the Colonel asked. He was in his forties, sturdy, and his looks were as ugly as his manners.
“He’ll come out of it soon, sir,” his captain told him. Captain Pairot was a skinny version of the Colonel but with skin as loose as lettuce. Given the common Thai propensity to subscribe heavily to police corruption, he’d no doubt fill it out soon enough.
“His soul will become aware of our presence here on earth and leave the Otherworld to join us,” he said.
“Is that right? Take long, will it?”
“Could be half an hour.”
“Hmm, sorry, I can’t wait that long.”
The Colonel unholstered his pistol, aimed and shot the head off a plaster giraffe. The bullet passed through the bamboo wall and probably wounded one of the stray dogs that loitered in the lane outside. Teacher Wong didn’t appear to care, or flinch or blink. The Colonel leveled the weapon at Samart’s head and started counting down from five. The shaman was out of his trance at three-and-a-half.
“Ah, officers,” he said. “Have I kept you waiting long?”
“Yes,” grunted the Colonel, reholstering his gun.
“Teacher Wong,” said the Captain respectfully. “This is Colonel Thongfa, head of the Chiang Mai crime suppression division. I mentioned to you he’d be dropping by to see you today. He read about your successes: the missing girl, the drug stash. If he’s impressed, perhaps—”
“There’s no perhaps on the table here,” the Colonel cut in. “For some reason I can’t work out, we’ve been given a tub of money for mumbo jumbo psychic consultations. I want nothing to do with it, but I’m under orders. I’m not handing over a single baht unless I’m certain whoever we hire isn’t a crook. That could take some time, considering you’re all thieves and charlatans. Am I right?”
Samart nodded. “So I hear,” he said.
“So, it’s down to you to prove your worth.”
Samart smiled and adjusted the large yellow chrysanthemum tucked behind his ear.
“Then perhaps you’d be better looking elsewhere,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m not in need of money.”
“That’s not what I heard,” said the Colonel.
“And what have you heard, sir?”
“That you peck out a living selling lucky amulets. That you do the odd exorcism and purportedly put clients in touch with their departed loved ones in exchange for food. Doesn’t sound like much of a business to me. If you were any good, you’d be rolling in cash. Horse races. Casinos. You could take ’em all. Seems to me you’re small fry, Samart, and probably a fraud. You’ve managed to bamboozle Captain Pairot here and a couple of the other idiots at your local station, but I’m not that green. I’ll give you one shot. You’ve got five minutes to show me what you can do.”