“Jake’s Chili Bowl?”
“That’s black, not a good idea.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right.”
“Tell you what. Dress up for business, and I’ll take you to Hawk and Dove, up on the Hill. I’ll tell everyone you’re part of the Thai ecology delegation. They’re here for two weeks to try to stop Americans from buying up huge chunks of their nature reserves. Ad lib if anyone comes up to talk to us.”
Chanya has not had a chance to be a real human being since Thanee left. She doesn’t realize how much she’s missed playing the exotic Oriental trade delegate until Turner mentions Hawk and Dove, which Thanee took her to twice. The Thai diplomat bought her a black business suit of American cut (pants, not skirt), which she now wears for Mitch Turner, along with the big chunky gold necklace with Buddha pendant that she has never worn outside her apartment. With her hair pinned up and her mascara cunningly applied in the way taught in the beauty salons, black high heels and a serious expression on her face (Thanee once taught her how to do American Grim, advising that it was the best facial expression for getting things done in the United States), the combination of severe trouser suit with extravagant Oriental gold makes her look not so much part of a lobbying group as a member of the Thai aristocracy.
Context is the most magical of powers. In Hawk and Dove, sitting on a stool next to the very serious Mitch Turner, who never does anything but Grim while on duty, it is clear that staffers who serve the needs of members of Congress assume she is a foreign dignitary of enormous importance and treat her with a respect she didn’t know her soul craved. She decides she loves Hawk and Dove and will extract frequent visits there from Turner as a price he has to pay for the deepening of intimacy, even though at this very minute he is experiencing something of a crisis, not believing he’s had the reckless balls to take her there at all. Surely there are customers of hers among the clientele?
She looks around with a studious expression on her face. Nope, no man whose cock she’s serviced, as far as she can remember. Mitch Turner’s flesh turns gray, and he orders a bottle of wine.
In her diary Chanya tells us no more about this lunch, or by what process they wound up back at her apartment, where they proceeded with the usual ritual. The lunch has had an effect on him, though, that neither anticipated. In bed afterward Turner, still high from his medicine, reflects on the wisdom of introducing her to his parents. She does not ask which set of possibly fictional mothers and fathers he has in mind. Obviously, they are playing a variation of the usual game. The mood is light and careless, and Chanya is caught unawares.
“Not a good idea, Mitch. I’m Thai. Thai women have reputation, you know.”
Pensively: “But you did so well at lunch today. I could always tell them that you’re here on some kind of trade delegation. They won’t know the difference. You’ll have to meet them sooner or later.”
“No, I won’t.”
Watching that hole open up in his mind is more than a little scary. Surely only children experience such lightning mood swings? His face is contorted with fury, quite suddenly, without warning. But what world are they in, exactly? Which parents are they talking about? The senator and the sister disappeared from view weeks ago; in the most recent version he was brought up by an eccentric aunt.
“You’re saying you’re not going to marry me?”
The incredulity in his voice says it all: What, a third-world whore passing up the chance of a lifetime?
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I want to talk about it. Chanya, I’m sorry to have to say this, but I can’t go on any longer, I really can’t. I don’t think you realize how much I’m compromising here. You haven’t even read anything of that Bible I gave you.”
To shut him up: “Okay, I’ll read the Bible, then we’ll talk.”
She has no idea why her reading the Bible should be a precondition for discussing marriage-after all, he has not shown the slightest interest in Buddhism-but she wants at all costs to do something about his sudden black mood. This is the first time she really admits to herself that alcohol may not have a totally benign effect on this farang.
When he leaves, she makes an effort and reads the four gospels in the Thai translation, then goes to the beginning and reads Genesis before losing concentration. She can truthfully say she has never heard such infantile mumbo jumbo in her entire life. Christianity, it seems, is a miracle religion, with the blind being restored to sight, lame people suddenly walking, the dead raised, and to top it all that enigmatic fellow who talked in riddles managing to resurrect himself and walk around with the holes from the crucifixion still in his body. And what about the God himself, who happens to be male of course, who started it all? What a jerk to plant those two trees in paradise and then tell Adam and Eve not to eat their fruit. In her mind the whole book is a kind of extension of Mitch Turner’s fantasy world. The Simpsons is more compelling.
Fed up with being the recipient of condescension, she gives him her view of the Christian Bible straight, without pulling any punches, and waits for the reaction. Strange expressions pass across his face; his forehead is alive with furrows; then: “Actually, you’re probably right, Christianity is total bullshit. See, I’m going into politics one day, and in this country you need a church to get anywhere in public service. You’ve shown me I have a ways to go. I should thank you for that.”
Frowning, she asks a question that would never have occurred to her prior to exposure to Washington. “You’re going to run for president one day?”
Mitch’s face turns grave, as if she has hit a personal truth too deep for discussion. He makes a tolerant smile but does not reply.
Chanya is not amused this time. This man is simply a tangle of tricks, a lightning-fast but disembodied mind spitting out explanations that change from moment to moment. Maybe politics is the one profession where he really will excel?
Chanya’s diary shows that their relationship began to deteriorate from that moment on. She sees that alcohol is having a negative effect, indeed he begins to be an increasingly nasty drunk, and she stops giving him wine. He, on the other hand, has started drinking at home for the first time in his life (he claims). She seems wearied by the continual conflict and does not trouble to record their arguments except one in which Mitch Turner takes the side of feminism.
Chanya: “So here all the women are men. You have only men in this country. Half have pussies, the other half have dicks, but you are all men. Women walk like men, talk like men, call each other assholes and cunts just like men. In other words, two hundred and eighty million people are looking for something soft to fuck.” She flashes him her most brilliant smile. “No wonder I make so much money.”
He flinches, searching for a way to guide the conversation. (She thinks it is his future political personality he’s airing here.) Quietly and sincerely: “Women gained their independence. Maybe they exaggerate a bit, but the way they see it, they were dominated by men, almost to the point of being slaves.”
“So now they’re slaves of your system. The system doesn’t love them or treat them well, it only fucks them. They have to slave all day in offices, work work work to make somebody rich. After work they’re exhausted, but they go off looking for men. How is that an improvement?”
“But you prostitute yourself for men. So you’re a slave to money.”
“When you say money, you give it farang meaning. When I say it, I give it Thai meaning.”
“What’s the Thai meaning?”
“Freedom. I turn trick lasts maybe an hour, two hours, if I want I can live on the money for the rest of the week. I’m not dominated by man, and I’m not dominated by system. I’m free.”