He relaxes, his disquiet stilled. He is probably of the opinion that people who listen out for birdsong, whatever their inner difficulties, or however shattered, must be lovely, or harmless at worst.
‘You were listening rather than watching,’ he adds.
‘Yes, yes. Exactly that. The starlings were Mozart’s muse. Ein Musikalischer Spass.’
He smiles, pleased. It is now obvious to both of us that there could be something not quite right with me, but that I am definitely not mad.
‘Birdsong is organized chaos,’ he says.
I whip my head around. Ah, Ordo ab chaos. Order out of chaos. So: he is one of us. My father has seen to it. Excellent. Eventually it will be useful. I used to be too impatient to be a good chess player, but now I have the time. To think. To plan. To make my moves.
‘Will you permit me to examine you?’ he asks so graciously, it is as if I had a say in the matter.
I smile my acquiescence. It seems Dr. McBride and I will get on just fine.
The routine of a neurological exam is soothing: reflexes, muscle strength, coordination, tone, visual acuity, hearing, senses, and solving puzzles. Some are repeats I have already performed with the nurses, but I accept the intrusion demurely. When he scratches a pen on the soles of my feet I giggle and he looks at me with an expression that is almost one of fatherly concern.
‘Tickles,’ I explain, with a smile. He smiles back.
‘That ought to do it,’ he declares finally.
‘I was wondering,’ I begin casually, ‘what are your thoughts on the subject of hallucinations?’
It is immediately obvious that it was a mistake to ask. A thin veil comes over his eyes.
‘In the West there is cruel misunderstanding of the condition, often thought to portent madness so many people are unwilling to share their experiences. But in other cultures hallucinations are regarded as a privileged state of consciousness that is actively sought using hallucinogens, solitude, spiritual practices and meditation. Do you…have hallucinations?’ His words are deeply enlightened but his eyes are a trap for the unwary. They watch me suspiciously.
‘Just once, as a teenager, when I dropped an acid tablet,’ I say softly.
‘Ah,’ his voice clears. ‘Do you ever hear voices or see things?’
I look at him calmly. ‘No.’
The veil lifts. How easily I made that small doubt go away. ‘At some stage we’ll have to talk about what you did at the wedding, if that’s all right?’
I smile tightly. ‘Of course.’
‘We’ll need to examine that particularly heightened state of anxiety that you found yourself in.’
‘I’m afraid I lost touch with reality. I was awfully depressed and angry. I didn’t think. I’ve never done anything like that before. Besides, I wasn’t really planning to hurt her. I just wanted to frighten her.’
He gazes at me, harmless as an old goat, as he tries to figure out if I am being honest.
I bend my head. ‘Honest, I didn’t mean to hurt her. And I am terribly sorry for what I did.’
And, surprisingly, he pats my hand reassuringly.
Eight
Lana Barrington
In the morning we go downstairs to an amazing buffet breakfast spread. The profusion of food is quite frankly a shock to me. A vast selection of local dishes, omelets made to order, rice porridge, toasts, cakes, pastries, cut fruit, different kinds of cereal. Blake has bacon and eggs and I have pancakes with maple syrup and fruit. Sorab nibbles on fruit.
Blake offers to keep Sorab for the day while I do some shopping with Billie. ‘I want you to buy a very short, white dress. One of those stretchy materials if possible.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll find out tonight.’
‘OK,’ I agree with a grin. ‘What will you guys do?’
‘We haven’t decided. It’s between going to see the tigers or Kidzania.’
‘Don’t go see the tigers without me,’ I wail.
‘That’s decided that, then. It will be Kidzania for us.’
‘Thank you,’ I say and plant a very noisy kiss on Sorab’s nose, which he immediately wipes.
We leave the breakfast lounge together and separate in the lift. Sorab blows flying kisses as the lift doors close on us. I walk along the corridor and knock on Billie’s door. She opens it with half-closed eyes, and walking away from me tumbles back into her bed.
‘Good morning,’ I say brightly.
‘What time is it?’ she croaks from under the pillow.
‘After ten.’
She rolls off the bed and drags herself into the bathroom. I open the curtains to let the sunlight through the ceiling to floor windows. I am standing at the window looking out at Bangkok when she comes out in the hotel-provided robe, her face washed, and her wet hair wrapped in a towel.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ she asks.
‘Yup. They have a beautiful spread downstairs. Want to go?’
‘Are you kidding? I’m not eating that shite.’
She picks up the phone and orders breakfast: a bowl of jam and a glass of pineapple juice. I shake my head, and she raises one weary, don’t-say-it eyebrow. She puts down the phone and goes to sit on the bed.
‘So tell me about last night, then,’ I urge impatiently.
Billie lights a fag, takes a huge lungful, and exhales slowly. ‘Brian took me to Bangla Street. I was doing cartwheels with the excitement of seeing a live pussy show, and boy was that street crammed with touts selling ping-pong shows. They were so aggressive as well. One would grab your arm, you’d shake him off, and literally two feet later your arm would be grabbed again. They all carried like a large laminated menu of things the girls in their clubs could do with their pussies. Most of them acted too vague and shady when Brian asked about prices, saying that would be decided at the club. Anyway, one guy was willing to give Brian definite prices so we followed him.’
There is a knock on the door and Billie goes to open it. A hotel staff comes in with a tray of Billie’s bowl of jam, a teaspoon and a glass of juice. She signs his receipt, tips him, and he goes out, closing the door after himself. Billie has a sip of her juice and lifts the dome to expose her bowl of jam.
‘God, I’m starving,’ she says. She grinds out her cigarette and, yanking the towel over her head, drops it on a chair. Lifting the spoon she starts spooning jam into her mouth as she walks to the bed. It never ceases to amaze me, no matter how many times I see it—Billie polishing off a bowl of jam for breakfast. I never thought a human being could exist on jam, chocolates, and pizza.
‘There were about twenty-five different things the girls at his club could do. They could shoot ping-pong balls out of their fannies, sew with them, work their muscles so violently that they turned water into soda, open the tops of beer bottles.'
‘Open a beer bottle?’ I interject, shocked, despite myself.
She nods sagely. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. The guy took us to this place—small and smoky, and lit up like a comedy club, but somehow very seedy. There were tables around a stage. We were given one that was so close I could rest my feet at the wooden edge of the stage. The only other people were an elderly European couple, a lone man with a huge beer belly—German probably—and a Chinese or Japanese couple huddled together looking bewildered.
‘Anyway, we ordered our drinks. Apparently, what was unfolding on the stage was the last segment of another show. This girl was filling her vagina with ping-pong balls. She then shot them out with mind-zapping force at the audience. The funny thing was the elderly couple took a few in the chest and head and did not even flinch or duck as the balls hit them. No one clapped when it was over. It was all very odd.’