“Well, the circumstances of my own birth were not ideal. I want the kid to have every chance.”
She nods wisely and watches my fingers while they rub her nipples as if they were money. “I know what you mean.” She beams. She had assumed I was a spoiled rich boy, like all the others. There is a subtle change in her use of Thai: more countrified, more idiomatic, lower class. Before long, we’re exchanging stories about growing up in poverty in Thailand and the problem with financing smallholdings. Her parents own more than twenty acres of not-bad farming land in Isaan, near Kong Kaen, but it is virtually impossible to make a profit because of the agricultural subsidies in the G8 nations, a topic on which she seems to be an expert. I decide to deepen the interview by decisively taking both her breasts in my hands and holding them for a moment in the way of irresistible objets d’art. She looks down at my hands and smiles. “Siaow,” she says: horny. “Are you sure you don’t want to do it?”
“Sure,” I say, but she has noticed a certain stirring. Vanity requires her to play the temptress, but I catch her chin gently and raise her face again to look into my eyes. “I know you don’t really enjoy this kind of work,” I say.
There is no better phrase to get a whore talking. Now I am receiving in great detail the saga of her fall, and how she might have enjoyed a wonderful loving marriage with a wonderful loving man and been able to live a good honest Buddhist life, were it not for her parents’ indebtedness and the need for her to send at least ten thousand baht per month home just to keep them and her siblings alive and well. People don’t realize that having enough to eat is not even half the story-what about medical bills, school fees, all the things that you need to be fully human in this world? I say I suppose all the girls working here come from similar backgrounds. She agrees, most are poor country girls who managed to get enough sophistication to be eligible to work here; otherwise they would be working in bars very much like my mother’s. Except for the Chinese prima donnas on the top floor, who have spent small fortunes modifying their bodies and often come from more affluent backgrounds. I say that a friend of mine also belongs to the Parthenon, which is what prompted me to join. He was particularly impressed, I say, by a girl called Damrong.
There is a momentary hesitation in her caress, before the hand resumes the mesmeric massage. “You’re his friend?” Her tone is more formal, tinged with fear.
I cough, taken by surprise. “You mean she only had one customer?”
She stops immediately and challenges me with her eyes. “You’ve come to check up on her for him, haven’t you? That’s really why you’re here. Your friend is the most possessive man I’ve ever known. Well, I’m afraid she hasn’t been seen here for more than a week. We all thought she’d gone to live with your friend.”
Now I’m in a fix because I can’t think of a way to get her to name him. “Hasn’t he been here for a week either?”
“No.”
“Maybe he went home.”
“To England? He hates England, he told me as much.”
“Ah.” I take a long shot. “He never told me that.”
“Really? Khun Smith told me his life didn’t start until he came east.”
“Actually, I don’t know him that well,” I explain, “an acquaintance more than a friend. A business associate, actually.”
She seems relieved that Khun Smith and I are not close.
After ten minutes I seem to have exhausted her stories about the possessive Khun Smith-on two occasions he became quite uncontrollable and had to be restrained-and ascertained that he is an English lawyer working in Bangkok for an international law firm. He uses the club to entertain certain kinds of clients, met Damrong here two months ago, and became obsessed with her. He is tall, dresses well, and speaks Thai with a thick English accent. I have one more question: “You know Khun Kosana, the advertising tycoon who’s always in the HiSo magazines? He’s a member here, isn’t he?”
She says nothing, exactly as if she didn’t hear what I said. I thank her for her caresses and tell her I have to go. I pay her exactly the exorbitant amount she would have charged if we had done it, and take my leave.
Outside on the gravel drive I stare up at the surreal fantasy that is the Parthenon and fish out my cell phone. I could certainly find out the details of Khun Smith’s law firm with a bit of legwork tomorrow, but something about the club irritates me. I call Vikorn to ask him to order a drug bust-I cannot believe that such an establishment could be entirely cocaine-free-the main purpose of which will be to get the Parthenon’s secret member list. I tell Vikorn to tell the troops to look for a single, isolated non-LAN computer.
17
“Come up,” Vikorn says. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Outside his office I experience a tiny frisson in my guts. I have a feeling that Vikorn has been up to something with the member list that our brave troops grabbed from the Parthenon last night. I’m told by his loyal and ferocious secretary, Manny, that an extraordinary number of phone calls from high-level movers and shakers have been received this morning, despite that no cocaine was found and no charges laid. All I want is the coordinates of Khun Smith, the English lawyer who obsessed about Damrong and is beginning to look like some kind of consigliere, but suddenly Vikorn has bigger fish to fry.
I’m quite taken aback, therefore, when I find a tall, pink farang with auburn hair and hazel eyes in a business suit sitting opposite the Colonel.
“Allow me to introduce Khun Tom Smith,” Vikorn says with unusual courtesy.
Smith has already stood up to wai me and shake my hand with overwhelming enthusiasm. “Very pleased to meet you. Saw you at Mr. Yamahato’s studio the other day,” he says.
Sonchai Jitpleecheep,“ I say. ”Yes, I saw you sitting in a corner watching.“
Vikorn grins. “He wasn’t there for a cheap thrill-he was protecting his clients’ interests. Is that not so, Mr. Smith?” Vikorn speaks only Thai; I am surprised that Smith speaks it well enough to reply, “That is correct, Colonel,” using exactly the right form of address.
“Really, really great to meet you,” Smith says, offering me his business card with both hands; he has been here awhile for sure.
“You’re going to be working together,” Vikorn says. I frown, but Vikorn waves a hand to shut me up.
“It’s going to be a pleasure,” Smith says in English. His is a synthesis of London accents: some BBC, a lot of Thames Estuary, and traces of authentic Cockney from way back; also just a touch of Los Angeles here and there. “A very, very great pleasure.”
On Vikorn’s unsubtle cue, I say, “I look forward to it,” which provokes a gigantic beam from Smith.
“Well, Colonel, sir,” Smith says, “I guess that’s as far as we can take it today. Great talking to you.”
When Smith has gone, Vikorn allows himself a smirk of undiluted triumphalism. I’ve not seen him like this since the last victory over his arch-enemy General Zinna.
Rubbing his hands together: “They love it, Sonchai.”
“Who love what?”
“The syndicate that supplies the international hotel chains. Smith is their lawyer over here. He used to work in California, and he’s very well connected. He’s very impressed with Yammy’s professionalism and says the work in progress is already the best-directed porn he’s seen after nearly ten years in the game. It was brilliant of us to use Yammy.”
“Right,” I say.
“There’s going to be some kind of contract, and they want to hook up a video conference with their big honcho. I said you would represent me at all times.”
“Meaning I’m the point man, not you, if anything goes wrong? Thanks.”
Vikorn gives a stern look to indicate that maybe I need to remind myself of my feudal responsibilities. Back-scratching is not merely built into the system, it is the system, and didn’t he order that raid on the Parthenon in response to a mere whim of mine? And now he has to deal with a dozen high-flying senators and members of parliament, senior bankers and industrialists, all very nervous about publicity. I do not say, And willing to pay whatever you ask to keep their names from the media.