He was interrupted by a loud knock at the front door. He heard his wife’s footsteps, and then Bloomfield’s loud voice in the hall. Stealthily he returned the plant to the conservatory and stood with his back to the fireplace, hands clasped behind him, waiting for his visitor to appear.
After a few minutes Bloomfield knocked lightly on the door and entered. His first words concerned Trexler’s uncanny resemblance to the figure on the wall above him.
At the beginning, it seemed that providence must have had a hand in it: that it had fallen to Trexler, after desperately craving a new species – any new species – to be handed the very one he had sought both in his dreams and in reality. The years of tramping the forests of the orient with this his primary – if unadmitted – objective had come to an abrupt and delicious end. And all in the privacy and convenience of his own greenhouse.
The consignment had come from one of his newer shippers – Anova Orchids in Bangkok. At first he had not been sure. There had been just a single plant. It had no flower as such – that had withered in transit – but the tessellated leaves were as familiar to him as the backs of this own hands. This sole example in a batch of otherwise mundane specimens was surely the most bizarre of accidents. He spent the afternoon in the Herbarium at Kew, just to make sure, and on the following morning booked his flight to Bangkok.
Trexler was widely known and regarded in orchid circles, so his first decision – whether to arrive incognito – was agonising. But, as far as he was aware, to Anova Orchids he was still just a name. As the time to leave approached he shaved his beard, trimmed the residual moustache, practised speaking with a Welsh accent and referred to himself as Jones, the name that appeared in his second – and nefariously obtained – passport that had lain in his drawer in readiness for such an eventuality for a number of years.
At Don Muang International Airport he hired a car and made for the small hotel on Rachadapisek Road that on previous journeys had passed the test of obscurity. Later, having installed himself on the veranda with a glass of beer, he was content to let himself melt into the lengthening shadows and subject himself to the noises of the night. It fell to a selenid moth, alighting on his grandfather’s journal on the table beside his nodding head, to bless his endeavours.
The next morning he searched the orchid stalls at the flower markets of Pak Klong Talat, Bangrak and Phahonyothin, as he had done many times before. But where previously the exercise would have been a cause for delight, now it was a mechanical race against time. In his haste he handled the plants roughly, and was chided for it. Then, empty-handed, he drove to Sukhumvit Road to put in his first appearance at Anova Orchids.
He was flattered by the attention given to him by the pretty Thai girl in the office. He noted particularly the smile with which she received his visiting card, carefully improvised at the airport.
‘My name is Maia. You will follow me please?’
She led him down a corridor lined with specimen plants in full flower. He held back a little, pretending to scrutinise them, the better to observe Maia’s slender and perfect figure. She stopped at a closed door and called out, then opened it, standing aside to let him enter.
‘Mr Rama is manager here, Mr Jones,’ she whispered as he passed. ‘He is also my father.’
The office was more grand than Trexler considered appropriate for a plant nursery. Mr Rama rose and extended a hand bearing several rings, at least one of which, in gold, bore an orchid motif. Maia did not leave them, but withdrew to a nearby desk and sat upon it cross-legged while her father presented Trexler with his card.
‘You are new to this business, Mr Jones? Your name is not familiar to me.’
‘Not at all. I’ve grown orchids for many years. But only as a hobby, you understand. The commercial side is a recent interest.’
‘May I ask what led to that interest?’
‘I own a small supermarket chain. Orchids are back in fashion. But the Germans and the Dutch have got too expensive and the English – well, frankly, they aren’t very good at it.’
‘Then I hope we can do business together. First my daughter will show you around, then we will have some tea and talk.’
Within the polythene dome the diffuse sunlight passing through the high cooling fans fell like yellow petals onto the carpet of colour below. Here were species familiar to him from his early days as a collector and hybrids in profusion. The same shifting light turned Maia’s long black hair momentarily red and caused the gentle contours of her white blouse to glow. She extended her arms above her head to capture a raceme for him to examine, then released it with a smile.
‘You mentioned slipper orchids in your letter, Mr Jones. But as you see, they are not well represented here.’
‘My friends tell me that you supply them regularly.’
‘They are from our nursery at Attuthya, about two hours from here.’
‘Could I see them?’
‘It would be my pleasure to take you.’
They continued to walk amongst the profusion of flowers. There opened up a vista leading to an area of intense human activity. As they walked towards it the air became heavy with the dank smell of the composts that about a dozen young women were scooping frantically into black pots. Seeing the visitor, one of them put down her implements and came up to them. Trexler noticed that she did not approach him directly but held her face away. Only when he deliberately shifted his position did he see that her left eye was sightless.
‘This is my sister Sirita,’ Maia said. ‘She is responsible for all the production here, while I am merely… a secretary.’
Trexler looked for a response to Maia’s self-abasement – a smile, a grimace, perhaps. But none came. Something akin to pity – for she was otherwise as beautiful as her sister – made him fall behind the departing Maia. Then for twenty minutes he and Sirita talked seriously about orchids.
Compared with those of the previous night, the moths around the naked light bulb above Trexler’s bed seemed to dance in tune with his quickening expectation. Sleep was beyond his grasp. He read – as he had on many occasions in this very room – the paper by his grandfather, Gerhardt. There was no need. The features of the orchid were imprinted indelibly in his memory. It was now a matter of riding out the night while waiting for dawn to break. Only once did he think of Maia, asking himself in genuine puzzlement why he had not paid her more attention.
Trexler’s offer to drive her to Attuthaya had been rejected politely but firmly. By eight she was waiting for him in reception, black hair shining against her fresh white blouse. By ten they were walking up a winding track between clumps of oleander towards a clearing in the scrub.
‘This is not a… well… a conventional nursery, Mr Jones, as you will see’, she said. ‘I know we can count on your discretion.’
‘Of course.’
They followed a barbed wire fence clothed in creeper, broken at one point by a rusting metal gate opening just sufficiently to let them squeeze through. Going ahead of her he tried to open it further, but managed only a few centimetres against the reluctant grass at its foot. He felt the warmth of her body against his straining arm as she passed. His embarrassment was stilled by the innocence of her smile.
Trexler found himself at a dimly remembered threshold experienced years before in this same country when anticipation of finding the treasures he sought sent waves of pleasure surging through his body with an intensity that was almost sexual. Maia, apparently sensing this now, seemed to be searching his face, as if trying to separate the truth from the deceit, although that could not possibly be. ‘I hope we can find something to interest you,’ she said. ‘I suggest we go on a bit, down this path.’