“Do you know Mr. Narong?” I asked, referring to the name Mr. PPKK, as I was coming to think of him, had mentioned. The girl who was helping out tittered.
“Of course,” the tailor said, also smiling. “Is my husband. He will make for you the clothes. Not here now. I think you need also silk pants. Black is very good. Also blouse for under jacket. Maybe two. One yellow like jacket, one black. With sleeves, I think. The arms you know,” she said lifting up her arm and pulling at the fleshy part of her upper arm. “For older women not so good to show. Very versatile for you.”
“I’m not sure I need all this,” I said. “Maybe just the jacket.”
“Thai silk best in the world,” she said, severely. “Why you not buy more? You will be most beautiful in your country. Now you stand here,” she said, pointing to a raised platform. “I measure for your pants and I tell you about Mr. William. You wear shoes like this always?”
I sighed and silently cursed Clive for about the thousandth time since he’d first mentioned Will Beauchamp’s disappearance.
“Very sad man, Mr. William,” she said. “Turn please.” I turned.
“I think he want to go home,” she said. “At first he find Bangkok very nice, but after he misses very much his home, I think. Why he not go home I don’t know.”
“What happened to the business?” I said. I was already in a mental debate about whether or not to tell Natalie about this most recent revelation. “Fairfield Antiques. Do you know why it’s closed?”
“Mr. William has very good antiques,” she said. “Not like some of the others,” she added, waving her arm in the general direction of the other shops: “Maybe not so many people know the difference between his antiques and the others. I don’t know. One evening I see him lock the door. He stops here to say good night as always. I never see again. Soon the others came. Turn again please.”
“What others?” I said.
“From Ayutthaya Trading. They own this plaza. They ask many questions, then they take away all Mr. William’s lovely antiques.
“What kind of questions did the people sent by Ayutthaya Trading ask?” I said. My, but dinner that evening was promising to be useful.
“Just like you,” she said. “When did you see him? Things like that.”
“How long after you last saw him did they come?”
“Maybe one month, maybe more.”
“Do you know a Mr. Prasit?” I asked.
“Many Mr. Prasit,” she said.
“The Mr. Prasit who is assistant manager of PPKK,” I said. I felt like an idiot saying that.
“What is this PPKK?” she said.
“I was hoping you would know,” I said.
“No,” she said. She spoke to her assistant in Thai, but the girl shook her head.
“My daughter not know also,” she said. The girl said something to her mother.
“My daughter tells me there was a young man came here asking for Mr. William. He spoke to my husband. My husband knows nothing of Mr. William also, so the young man left. Maybe he is Mr. Prasit.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Has anybody else asked about Mr. William?”
“No,” she said. “You like blouses, yes?”
“I guess so,” I said.
“I am mistaken. There was a woman like you.”
“You mean a farang?” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “Not so nice as you, though. She not buy Thai silk.”
“What did she look like?”
“A farang,” the woman replied.
“Hair color,” I said. “Like mine?”
“Maybe,” she said. “But more,” she added, indicating a spot just below my shoulder blades.
“Eyes?” I said.
“Like you,” she said. “Farang eyes.” I meant what color, but it seemed hopeless to pursue this.
“Was she taller than me?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think also slimmer. I didn’t measure, but I know. Twenty years in business.”
“Did she tell you her name?”
“No,” she said. “She came here only one time. She do the same as you—try to look into store.” She put her hands up to shield her eyes and pretended to be peering at something. “Nothing there to see.”
“Nobody else?”
“No,” she said. “What time you come back tomorrow for fitting? Same time?”
“Okay,” I said. Why argue? A rather tall man in a very fine dark suit entered the store, and the three of them began a heated discussion.
“Mr. Narong. My husband,” the woman said. “He says there was one other who asked for Mr. William. Thai girl. Very pretty. No name also. Now,” she said, whipping out a calculator and showing me the tally. “Very good price, yes?” I stared at it for a moment, thinking what a fool I was. It was awfully pretty though, I thought, fingering the bolt of fabric, the color so rich and the texture, with its hint of roughness, so pleasant against my hand. I could picture myself wearing it at the next CADA Gala, even if it was a year away. Maybe I would bring Jennifer in and get something made for her, too.
“Okay,” she said, taking my hesitation for reluctance.
“For you, special, as friend to Mr. William, another ten percent. You pay half now,” she said. I paid.
Having forked over about a hundred and fifty dollars, with the same amount to come, for a “versatile” outfit and very little information, I went on my way. Will’s house was my next stop. It was as easy to find as the shop, and for the same reason. I had the address from the lawyer’s letter in Natalie’s packet. My vision of Will hiding out at home, embellished over the thirty hours or so of traveling to reach Bangkok, was one of a house on a klong, or canal, complete with teak floors and walls, exquisite art—he was, after all, an antique dealer who specialized in Asia—and a terribly young and beautiful Thai woman, a sort of Madama Butterfly who catered to his every whim, at his side. At some point in my jet-lagged reverie, there had even been a baby gently rocking in a cradle nearby. Or maybe it was a grass hut on a beach in the south I was thinking of, open to the ocean breezes, a la Paul Gauguin in Tahiti. Or something like that.
What it wasn’t, was the six-story concrete apartment building I found myself standing in front of, checking the address several times to make sure I’d made no mistake. The building was supremely unattractive, sitting stolidly on its footings in a neighborhood that had lovely temples, markets, and gardens, and poor but at least interesting houses on stilts.
Next to it was a shell of a building, similar in design. It looked as if construction had halted in an instant, and the workers had dropped their tools and walked away, which is probably exactly what had happened a few years earlier when the white-hot Asian economy had abruptly hit the brakes. There were steel rods exposed in several places, including the top, and no glass in any windows. A couple of the units had some sheets hung up, some squatters presumably having taken up residence. It was a very depressing sight, a blight really. My shattered visions, totally without foundation and inappropriate as they had been, had been considerably more romantic than the reality.
The building did, however, boast a view of the river, which is not inconsequential. The Chao Phyra is a fascinating waterway. The heart of the city, it functions as a major roadway. On it, rice barges ply their trade alongside speeding longtail boats that serve as water taxis, and ferries that work much like buses, stopping every few hundred yards at jetties along the river’s banks. From the river one can see beautiful temples, spires of gold and tile, thousands of little businesses, and even tiny houses almost falling into the water. Will’s building towered over a group of these houses where children played in the water, while their mothers cooked and cleaned. If he lived on the river side of the building, Will would have a rather splendid view.