“Yes. She said he came back from a trip somewhere overseas a couple weeks ago and was real quiet, then disappeared altogether. Usually he’s always ready with the latest friendly sound bite, normally a very personable guy in a Lycra kind of way. This time, though, he seemed depressed. She was surprised he had the depth to get depressed. I don’t think I need any more snails or somtan salad.”
“I think they’ll cook you a steak, if I ask them nicely.”
“I’m suddenly on a diet. How about I watch you eat, and I’ll munch on some nice bland sticky rice if I get hungry?”
“Okay. Did he seem to have money the last time she met him?”
“Yes, she said he made a point of paying off some back rent on his apartment in Inglewood, cleared the slate with a grocery store, and gave her a silk shirt and skirt. They asked her if it was Thai silk, and she said she didn’t know.”
Finally the braised duck has arrived in a pot. The FBI eyes it suspiciously, but when I assure her there are no spices in this dish, she takes a tentative bite, then digs in.
Her cell phone rings, except nothing rings anymore. The gadget explodes with an old Thai number she grew fond of when she was here a few years ago: “Sexy, Naughty, Bitchy.” She says, “Kimberley,” and listens. Then she says, “Shit,” and closes the phone.
“He committed suicide in Phnom Penh yesterday. Apparently he used an AK-47 and a piece of rope tied around the trigger, which is not easy to do, but I guess if you’re really determined to go that way…” She casts an eye over the remains of the meal, then looks at me. Hard to say what is causing my sudden loss of appetite: death; the manner thereof; the fact that the Masked Man will never be brought to justice; the memory of what he did to Damrong; the thought, only now surfacing in my mind, that I might have to make a visit to Phnom Penh. All of a sudden the energy has gone out of the day, and it’s not because Mercury is retrograde (though it is, and our prime minister is on record as observing what a corrosive effect it is having on political life; for me, Mercury can come or go, but Jupiter conjunct the Moon in Scorpio- now that’s a curl-up-in-bed-with-a-spliff day for yours truly).
This case has a trick of remaining perpetually out of reach, like a mirage. And no, I do not want to go to Cambodia; they hate us over there. Both sides have made so many land grabs over the centuries that no one really knows who started the feud, which shows no sign of diminishing no matter how many Thais cross the border to gamble. I guess they’ve never really forgiven us for defeating them at Angkor Wat that time: even in those days about seven hundred years ago, the Khmer were so reliant on magic they stopped bothering with combat training; the Thai invasion could be likened to a motorcycle gang smashing its way into an undefended sweet shop. We took everything they had: women, boys, girls, slaves, gold, their astrology and their temple designs, music, dance -it was an early example of identity theft. Not their cuisine, though, which was way behind ours and still is. If we’d known how long they were going to hold the grudge, we might have shown more mercy.
Suddenly the FBI and I don’t want our eyes to meet. Without the illusion of work, or at least a case to discuss, we are left to wonder what to do about each other. We sneak glances when we think the other is not looking, bestowing wonder and pity at each other’s karma. Finally Kimberley plays with a spare spoon on the table prior to getting something off her chest.
“Maybe it’s something about your country. I’m starting to feel like those middle-aged Western men you see walking up and down Sukhumvit with a girl on their arms half their age and looking like the cat that found the cream. I know I’m kidding myself.” Looking me in the eye at last: “I know that, or at least the left lobe does. But I can’t stop myself. Suddenly it’s spring again, the kind of spring I never had – there were always too many goals to aim for. When he’s around, I experience a deep sense of love, of affection, of compassion. What can I say? It’s what I was always supposed to experience as a human being, right? That’s what we’re here for, even though it’s totally impossible, isn’t it? Don’t tell me you didn’t go through this with Damrong.”
I inhale deeply. “Of course I did. When you notice light seeping into your coffin, it’s hard to go on pretending you’re dead. You know the promise of life is not entirely hollow. Ecstasy is not just the name of a drug-there is something behind stones of paradise.” I try to look at her with compassionate eyes. “If even a tiny part of you is still alive, you can’t refuse the challenge.”
She looks up with humble eyes. “So you forgive me?”
I slide my small hand over her big one. “Just be careful.”
“You think I’ll destroy him?”
“The other way around.”
She looks up into the trees that surround the open-air restaurant. “He hardly even notices me, right? He’s not aware of me at all in that way.”
“How do you think the girls feel, when they walk down Sukhumvit with those farang men who grin like Cheshire cats? Do they feel like they found the cream too or merely a dirty job that pays better than factory work?”
She nods. “But the surgery, Sonchai. That’s just plain wrong.”
I shrug. No point getting back into that. We let a good ten minutes pass, during which the restaurant has started to play some old rock music on the sound system. At other tables a young Thai couple are looking as if they intend to spend the afternoon in a hotel nearby; five male middle managers in their twenties are having a lunchtime boozeup on rice whiskey; some farang tourists are poring over a map; and cats roam under tables looking for scraps. The FBI says, “I’ll come with you. You need to go to Phnom Penh-a detective like you has to see for himself. I want to go too-I’m here for the case, after all. Anyway, I need a reality check. Maybe if I’m in a different country, I won’t think about him so much.”
The FBI leaves me at Sala Daeng Skytrain station to go pack. I call Lek and tell him to meet me early this evening at his favorite katoey bar, called Don Juan’s. I go back to the station to deal with a pile of paperwork, then go home to change and to tell Chanya I’m going to Cambodia for a day or so with the FBI. She toys with jealousy for a moment, but it’s not enough to distract her from the soap she’s watching. Her egg-shaped center of gravity provides an imperturbable complacency these days. “I’m also going to see Lek’s moordu,” I admit.
She looks at me for a moment to make sure I’m serious, then smiles. “About time. Tell me if he’s any good.”
“It’s a katoey,” I explain.
She makes big eyes. “Even better.” Katoeys are known to make excellent moordus.
There are plenty of different expressions to denote transsexuals: second women, third sex, the different ones. I like Angels in Disguise best. Don Juan’s is crammed with them. Smooth brown feminized flesh, padded bras and silicon-enhanced buttocks, plenty of jewelry-especially silver necklaces-shapely legs, lascivious laughter, cheap perfume, and sophisticated camp combine to lift desperate spirits for a night. You have to admire their guts. I hardly recognize Lek in his lipstick, rouge, and mascara; a tight T-shirt emphasizes his budding breasts. I think he is wearing jeans rather than a skirt for my sake. He squeezes between sisters to reach me, beaming. I don’t think he’s given the FBI a single thought since her last lovelorn call to him.
“This is my boss, my master,” he tells his friends with unrestrained pride. “We’re working on the most terrifying case you can imagine.” He clamps a hand over his mouth. “But I can’t tell you anything about it, it’s so secret.”
“Pi-Lek is such a tease!” a katoey in long imitation-pearl earrings exclaims. “It’s such a privilege to meet you. Pi-Lek has told us all about you-we know you’re the most compassionate cop in Bangkok, in the whole world probably. Pi-Lek says you’re already a private Buddha and stay on earth only to spread enlightenment. It’s such an honor.”