The boy with the bangs says, “Yes, sir?”
“Some sort of pastry with chocolate in it. And fill this.” The boy takes the cup and fades. “And the generals hold an election, and guess what-the peasants vote Thaksin’s friends back in.”
Rafferty says, “What a surprise.”
“It was to the power elite. The second prime minister in a row, voted in by poor people. The old guard is flabbergasted. They feel like they went to a party and while they were out, the furniture took a vote to change the locks. Suddenly they see themselves standing on the doorstep, trying to get their keys to work.”
A chocolate eclair appears in front of Arthit, followed by a napkin, a fork and a knife, a full cup, and a discreet retreat.
“And okay, the new prime minister, the one the poor elected, breaks some obscure rule and appears on a cooking show because he likes to cook, and the powers behind the scenes are shocked, do you hear, shocked that he’d accept a couple thousand dollars U.S. to make an omelet on TV. So they kick him out. Only in Thailand could a prime minister be overthrown for the way he handles a spatula. But of course that’s not what it’s about, is it?”
“No,” Rafferty says. “It’s about poor people having political power.”
“That’s it exactly. Something fundamental has changed. Poor people have learned that their votes count. This is new in Thai politics, and it terrifies some very powerful people, all of them pale-skinned, most of them Thai-Chinese. Some of the old-power families have been in charge for generations, since Bangkok was built more than two hundred years ago. And they’ve gotten amazingly rich. Billions of dollars, Poke. Year after year, billions of dollars. They dip their scoops everywhere: the national budget, the banks, the corporations, the army, the police-you name it. All of it based on the assumption that they’ll hold power forever, which always looked like a good bet. But now the foundation is suddenly shaky. The ground they built on could be turning to water.”
“And this has what to do with me?”
Arthit empties the cream container into his coffee. “To bring you up-to-date, since you don’t read the papers. The elected party put up yet another prime minister, and the elite went on a rampage. Formed a group with Democracy in the name, which is kind of amusing since they want a mostly appointed government. So they demonstrated, took over the airports, and finally got some people in the Assembly to change sides so they could put one of their own in.”
“I actually do remember that.”
“So nothing is resolved. Nobody thinks the current situation is stable. Here’s the point, Poke. Shinawatra mobilized the poor, but he was never one of them. He was never Isaan. He’s Thai-Chinese. But Pan was poor. Pan is Isaan. Look at the way he’s lived, Poke. He never stops reminding people where he came from. He gives constantly. He’s dark-skinned. The poor liked the former prime minister, but-what did Rose say about Pan?”
“She worships him.”
“Then let me ask you a question. Given everything that’s happened in the past few years, if Pan suddenly decided he wanted political power, how much do you think he could get?”
“If he lived through the election,” Rafferty says, “as much as he wants.”
“And how much power would be lined up against him?”
Rafferty turns to look out through the window at the darkening street. “Pretty much all of it.”
On the sidewalk outside the coffeehouse, Rafferty forces himself to bring it up. “Listen, I know you don’t want to discuss this-”
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Arthit says. His voice is remote, toneless. “But it won’t do any good. There’s nothing I can do.”
“What does that mean? You’re her husband. You can talk to her. Get it on the table.”
“It doesn’t belong on the table. She’ll lie to me. She’ll tell me she doesn’t like the pills, that they nauseate her or something. What am I going to do? Contradict her? I’d sit there nodding, hating myself for making her tell me a lie.” He passes the back of his hand over his forehead, erasing a sheen of sweat. “Because when you get right down to it, it’s actually none of my business, is it? What could be more personal than the decision to stop living? Is there any action that belongs more completely to the person who commits it? It’s Noi’s life. She shared it with me, but I’m not the one to tell her she has to continue to live it when it’s just one wave of pain after another.”
“I’m so sorry,” Rafferty says. “It feels like I should be able to do something.”
“And I’m grateful for the thought,” Arthit says. “But you’ve already got more than you can handle.”
19
Rose starts to laugh when she smells the pigpen.
Her reaction startles Rafferty, and he’s further surprised to see a grin put dimples in Dr. Ravi’s face. The swan cart has carried them in grim silence across the grounds thus far, even when they drove past a dramatically lit Garden of Eden. Rose is in agony over what she’s wearing, a white, flowing, two-piece outfit she bought to meet Rafferty’s father in. He thinks she looks beautiful, but she behaves as though she’s wrapped in a rice bag.
But the pigpen makes her laugh out loud.
“How long?” she asks, wiping her eyes. “How long since he had it cleaned out?”
“Weeks,” says Dr. Ravi. “Imagine their faces,” and the pair of them go off again. Dr. Ravi has a falsetto laugh that flutes along half an octave above Rose’s alto. Together they sound like a pair of mice on the keyboard of an organ.
“Oh,” she says, half gasping for breath, her fingers splayed over her heart. “This is enough, Poke. You can take me home and my evening will be complete.”
“No you can’t,” Dr. Ravi says. “There’s something you’ll want to see.”
“What?”
“A surprise. You’ll love it. I promise you, it’s going to be worth it.”
Rose says, “I doubt it.” She looks down at herself and tugs at the sleeve of her blouse with an intensity of loathing that Rafferty can hardly comprehend. They are obviously deep in female territory.
“Besides,” Dr. Ravi says with the secure air of someone who knows he’s got a first-class closer, “Khun Pan would kill me if I allowed someone as beautiful as you to leave without at least an introduction.”
Rafferty says, “What do you mean, ‘at least’?”
“He’s jealous?” Dr. Ravi asks.
Rose drops her sleeve like a rag that’s been dipped into something disgusting and says, “He can’t believe his good fortune.”
“I can’t either,” Dr. Ravi says.
“Hey,” Rafferty says.
“And here we are.” Dr. Ravi pulls the swan to the bottom of the broad marble steps leading up to the front porch. The double doors have been thrown wide, and even at this distance Rafferty can feel the cool air pouring out. A small orchestra is cricketing away inside, and he hears the usual party montage of conversation, laughter, and ice cubes hitting glass. Two women wearing, as even Rafferty can tell, several thousand dollars’ worth of clothing apiece float across the doorway on a cloud of privilege.
“Absolutely not,” Rose says. “I can’t go in there.”
“Oh, come on,” Rafferty says. “You look beautiful. And, Jesus, look at me.”
“He’s right,” Dr. Ravi says. “You’ll be the most beautiful woman in the house.”
“What I’ll be,” Rose says, “is a dark-skinned, big-footed peasant girl wearing a dust rag.” She puts a hand on Rafferty’s arm. “Poke. I want to go home.”
“Well, well,” someone says from the top step. Rose turns at the sound of the voice, and her jaw very discreetly drops.
“You are surprising,” Pan says to Rafferty. “You must have strengths you haven’t shown me. Goodness,” he says, turning to Rose. “What jeweled box does he keep you in?”