"Bangkok Haunts" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burdett John)

7

Without any leads other than Baker, I decide to spend quality time with the ladies in my life. I take my mother, Nong; Chanya; and the FBI for a buffet supper at the Grand Britannia on Sukhumvit, just near the Asok Skytrain station. A gay waiter charms Chanya with his concern for her condition and makes her laugh when he admits he envies her. The FBI also is solicitous and insists on fetching her whatever food she wants, while Nong casts a shrewd eye over the clientele.

“See that whore from Nong Kai? Her name is Sonja-she works at Rawhide. I’ve been trying to persuade her to work for us, but she’s happy where she is. You know how they are.”

“Friends are everything. If she has plenty at Rawhide, she’ll never come work for us. How can you blame her? They’re as lost as farang in Bangkok -even more so, since they don’t have any money.”

“Well, she certainly seems to have her customer under control. She’s giving him the marry-me treatment. Look, she’s brought her family down from Isaan to meet him.”

“Must be serious,” I agree.

A big muscular Australian in walking shorts, long white socks, and sandals, in his fifties with a gigantic beer gut, is bringing his plate back to where the girl, her mother, and a few other relations, who are probably siblings or cousins, plus a boy about five years old, have occupied the table next to us.

“That’s her son by a Thai lover,” Nong explains in a whisper.

The Australian tries to make conversation with the family who are keen to adopt him, but his true love is enjoying speaking her native tongue, a dialect of Laotian, and cannot resist gossiping with her family. Every now and then she casts the Australian a warm, comforting smile, presses his thigh with one hand, and says a few words to him in English, then returns with renewed enthusiasm to the gossip. The Australian perhaps does not realize it, but his future in-laws are behaving exactly as if they were at home in their wood house on stilts and sitting barefoot on the floor nattering, probably with the TV on at full volume and a dozen kids beating one another up in the background. Nong understands Laotian better than I do and has started to grin. When the FBI comes back with a plate of oysters for Chanya, my mother enthusiastically explains in English for Kimberley ’s benefit:

“Her aunt just asked what color the farang’s dick is, and her mother wants to know how they do it when he has that huge gut. The girl’s explaining that his dick is white most of the time, but after sex it turns bright pink. She says she asks him to take her from behind except on special occasions, because when he gets on top his flab kind of splodges all over her stomach like a ton of Jell-O and she gets indigestion in the middle of boom-boom. Anyway, it’s not usually an issue because most nights he’s too drunk and falls asleep on the sofa while she watches TV in bed. It has the makings of a successful marriage.”

While Nong is talking, the family bursts into raucous laughter. The FBI looks down at her oysters. “Is this, like, normal suppertime conversation?”

Chanya, Nong, and I share grins. “We are mostly peasants, children of the earth,” I explain. We all keep our heads down when the Australian starts to speak.

“I wouldn’t mind knowing what you and your family are talking about, Sonja,” he says to his girlfriend with just a touch of chagrin. She has no idea about Western etiquette so decides to tell him straight, word for word, in good but somewhat wooden English. He turns pale for a moment, finishes his beer, and orders another. I admire his power of recuperation, though, when he says, “You’re gonna do just great in Queensland, Sonja, just great. Ever seen a dwarf-throwing competition?” He explains the sport to Sonja, who has a bright gleam in her eye when she translates into Laotian. The family listen with big eyes, then bombard her with a dozen questions about dwarf-throwing, which she translates into English. Do the dwarfs get paid? How much? How short do you have to be? My aunt’s older brother is only four feet ten, does that qualify? Can you gamble on it? Can throwing dwarfs get visas easily? Her family had been quite bored with him, but now they are warming. Delighted that he finally has a topic that interests them-he had tried income tax, the world economy, standard of living, his new Toyota four-by-four, his giant refrigerator, health care and life insurance, the Middle East, et cetera, without much response-he launches into plain tales of the outback, including ‘roo-baiting and yarns about man-eating crocs and the lurid wounds inflicted by blue-ringed octopus and box jellyfish. Suddenly he’s a hit, and they have decided to welcome him into their hearts. “You’re half Isaan already,” the girl tells him. Beaming, he downs his beer in one gulp and orders another. Thailand ’s not so different from Queensland after all.

I stand up to fetch more seafood. Oysters, prawns, and shrimp sit in trays under an ice sculpture of a seahorse. Elsewhere in the middle of the huge room Chinese, Thai, Italian, French, Middle Eastern, and Japanese cuisine is piled high around a vast circular island. Standing near me are delegates to some convention with large name tags clipped over their hearts and Best Behavior software controlling their facial expressions. In their hygienic anonymity they form a quite distinct tribe, prompting me to ponder that perhaps Bangkok is located on some cosmic intersection where visitors from different galaxies mingle but never communicate. As I reach our table with a plate piled high with sushi and prawns, the FBI returns with ice cream for Chanya. She is fascinated by her, almost like a lover. I cannot take my mind off the case for long, though, and by coincidence (of course it’s not really coincidence, it’s cosmic intervention), just as I’m thinking about Damrong, my cell phone rings.

“I can’t say for sure, but I might have something,” Lek says. “There might be more than one copy of the DVD.”

I have to disguise my relief that the case might be moving again. “I’m so sorry,” I say to the table at large, “I’m going to have to dash.”

When I take out my wallet to pay in advance, Nong makes me put it away, saying she’ll charge the bill to the Old Man’s Club as business entertainment. I check the FBI’s face to see how she likes benefiting from the profits of prostitution, but she’s enjoying the food too much to make the connection.

Out in the street I use the Skytrain bridge to walk across the road, then take the escalator down to the new subway at Asok. It’s been open only a couple of years and still has a brand-new feel about it. I get out at Klong Toey, where Lek is waiting.

“You’ll never believe this,” Lek says, excited and cautious at the same time, “and it may be a long shot, but there’s a rumor going around the clubs about a snuff movie with a masked man and a Thai whore. I tracked the story down to a katoey who’s famous all over Soi Four for having a HiSo lover.”

The shantytown at Klong Toey is our biggest and in many ways our tidiest. Most of the huts are of similar size and height and the narrow walkways are kept riap roy, or spic and span, in true Thai style. There’s plenty of extreme squalor, of course, if you want to look for it, but generally people are getting on with their lives in near rent-free accommodations, which can be handy if you want to do a course in higher education, are a professional girl nearing the end of her shelf life, prefer recreational drugs to reality, or just plain hate work. Lek has been here before and takes me down a path that follows the railway track, with the endless line of wooden huts on our right: scratching dogs, shy cats, naked kids getting bathed in oil drums, teens with orange and green hair, families eating together in the cool of evening. “He’s an artist,” Lek explains. “That’s why the HiSo master likes him. I came to a party here once. Actually, he’s totally ban-nok, worse than me, but he has this creative streak, so he gets these upmarket lovers.” Ban-nok translates roughly as “country bumpkin” but is a lot more insulting. We stop at a front door that bears a magnificent dragon in scarlet on black. “See what I mean?” There’s a playful element in the rampant posture, the feminized, elongated claws, the malicious grin.

“It’s very well done,” I say, which makes Lek beam with pride at katoey talent. He knocks on the door. “Pi-Oon, it’s me, Lek.” No answer, so Lek knocks harder. “He likes to smoke ganja, all artists do. Never touches anything else, not even alcohol most of the time, but he can go into a dope-trance for days.” Embarrassed in front of me, he knocks more aggressively, then, muttering Fucking katoey bitch, fishes out his cell phone. He speaks into it using his Isaan dialect based on Khmer, sounding much like a whore in a temper. “I told him I was bringing you,” he says, folding the phone and putting it away. “Now he’s all shit-faced from the ganja.” Then he offers me a pained smile. “He’ll open up in a minute. He has to get back from the moon.”

Finally we hear sounds of life from the other side of the door. A couple of bolts are drawn back, and he opens a crack. Then he reveals himself in his full glory, wearing only a pair of cycling shorts: a surprisingly bony, masculine face with purple eyeshadow and lipstick, long ink-black hair drawn back in a ponytail in the ancient way, and a magnificent tattoo of a chrysanthemum adorning his hairless chest, where two small new breasts are budding. His gestures are exaggerated in the tradition of his tribe, but there’s something else: it is not difficult to believe there is a real woman behind the prizefighter’s features. When he drops the katoey posturing, he can seem genuinely female.

“Darling,” he manages, and bends forward from the hips to allow Lek to peck him on the cheek.

“You’re stoned,” Lek chides.

“I’m in the middle of a major work, love. I need the meditation aid.”

“This is my boss, Detective Jitpleecheep,” Lek says with a slight pout.

“Ever so pleased to meet you,” Pi-Oon says, and beckons us inside.

Now I’m thinking: Gauguin. Pi-Oon has used those same tropical purples, morbid mauves, and old golds to adorn the walls and roof of his wooden hut with images of katoey nightlife. A cabaret star with similar features to his is holding a microphone in the centerpiece of a triptych. I realize that every human depicted in his work is a transsexual. I’m most fascinated, though, by the frisson of his big boney tough-guy face, which seems to beg for love and tenderness. He gestures at the floor, which is unencumbered by furniture save for a few cushions. We all sit in semilotus with our backs against the wall. “We’ve come about the snuff movie,” Lek says, still irritated.

The words cause a dreadful pain to corrupt our host’s features. He places a palm against one cheek, his eyes great bulbs of horror. “Oh my Buddha, oh my, I never thought it was real, you know.” Looking at me:

“It’s was only when Pi-Lek told me you were investigating that I thought, oh, oh, oh, Pi-Oon has got himself into hot water here. Pi-Oon, I said to myself, Pi-Oon honey, you’ve got the biggest mouth in Krung Thep. I wish I’d never got drunk and told everyone. I never drink, normally, so it went straight to my head, and I just spilled my guts.”

“Tell us what you saw,” I say.

“Well, at first it was just a big yawn, don’t you know, because the girl’s a real girl, and who wants to watch a tart do it nature’s way like a farm animal, you know, but my man’s bi, so I watched it with him to be polite, you know. And of course it made him horny as hell.” Glancing at Lek with a wink: “What a punishment he gave me afterward, you wouldn’t believe.” Turning back to me while Lek suppresses a smirk: “So it’s some silly whore doing a fairly elaborate boom-boom with a dishy stud in a black gimp mask, and at the end he snuffs her with a rope around her neck, but it never occurred to me that it was for real, you know, I thought it was virtual. Of course I did. I mean, why wouldn’t it be virtual in this day and age? Why go to the expense of snuffing the tart when you could fake it and use her again? Common sense says it’s virtual.”

“Who’s your man?” Lek demands, drawing a scowl from both Pi-Oon and me.

Pi-Oon casts me a helpless glance. “Isn’t our Pi-Lek direct? Doesn’t mince words, comes straight to the point.” Frowning: “You know I can’t tell you that. It’s against the rules.”

“You’ve told the whole of Krung Thep everything about him except for his name.” Turning to me, Lek says, “He’s very big in advertising, practically runs the industry here. He’s in his midforties and wears tons of gold. Keeps very fit, prefers katoeys to women but hates regular gays. Always uses a condom. Right?”

Pi-Oon seems genuinely put out. The palm presses the cheek again with the head on one side. “Oh my, did I really say all that?” Proudly: “It’s true he’s incredibly rich.” He giggles and makes Lek smile despite himself. “Very well endowed. On the first night I said, darling, there’s nothing for it, I’m going to have to charge you by the inch. Of course he loved that. Laugh? We have such a great time together, we’re even thinking about marriage, maybe in Canada where it’s legal. He’s a tiger in bed but gentle as a lamb the rest of the time. I’m sure he didn’t know it was a real snuff movie.”

“Course he did,” from Lek.

Stoned, Pi-Oon turns gray. “D’you think so? Oh my, I’m sure he didn’t have anything to do with it. Some rich buddy of his must have loaned it to him, someone straight, you know, because let’s face it, straight sex can be very very weird these days, what women will do with their bodies-well, I don’t need to tell you, you’re all cops.”

“Tell us his name, or we’ll whip you to within an inch of your life,” Lek says, looking firm.

“Promise?”

Now both katoeys have collapsed with laughter, and I’m scratching my jaw, feeling out of place. When Pi-Oon has recovered, he says, “Would you two honor my humble home by smoking some export-quality stuff with me? My man gave it to me, and you know what they say about money? It attracts the best.”

“I don’t smoke,” Lek says. “But he does.”

“Do you, darling?” Pi-Oon says, looking at me. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell the cops.” More giggles.

Naturally I refuse, but while Pi-Oon is getting his kit out from a box in the corner of the hut, Lek whispers to me that his friend is even more loose-tongued on grass than he is on alcohol. If someone doesn’t smoke with him, though, he’ll get self-conscious. I am also amazed to see Pi-Oon produce a homemade vaporizer, using a soldering iron stuck into the top of a large bell jar from which a long transparent tube emerges.

“I’m very health conscious,” Pi-Oon explains. “My father was a chain-smoker, and I had to watch him die, poor lamb. I said to myself, Pi-Oon, you’re never going to smoke anything in your life, ever again, but they say the vaporizer is totally safe. I got the instructions on how to make it from the Internet.”

He plugs the soldering iron into a socket, and within seconds a little wire basket of marijuana has started fuming inside the jar. Pi-Oon takes a couple of tokes, offers it to Lek, who refuses, and passes it to me. I have never used a vaporizer before and simply suck as if it were a joint, taking it all down as far as the esophagus and beyond. There is very little odor or taste, so I think it cannot be very strong and is maybe not exactly export quality as Pi-Oon insists, so I take a couple more tokes, which amazes Pi-Oon. “Wow! Well, you’re a real smoker, I can tell. Frankly, any one of those puffs would have been enough for me.” He takes a surprisingly modest toke himself, before passing it back. To be honest, I’m a little frustrated that the stuff doesn’t seem to have much effect, so I suck up a few more bottles of fumes, then sag against the wall. I know that I’ve misjudged the strength of the product when the guy in the mural starts to play the saxophone and I can hear one of the riffs from Blade Runner.

“Paul,” I hear myself saying in English, “I’m so impressed with your decision to reject the materialism of contemporary culture in favor of a more spiritual lifestyle.” Lek giggles while Gauguin seems to be giving me a perplexed look. “But tell me, how do you make them move?” It’s true, the saxophonist on the wall is swinging his instrument up and down while he belts out the meanest version of “Bye Bye Blackbird” I’ve ever heard. Now I realize it is the colors that are playing the tune, the complex structures of tropical russets, extravagant sunsets, overripe jackfruit, heavy brown men and women who seem to have only half emerged from the earth, the cries of the human spirit that has trapped itself in matter-all are transmuted into an intense, tangible aural landscape by the sax on the wall. Then Damrong appears. By an extraordinary shake of the kaleidoscope the whole wall swirls and twists until her form emerges. She is topless in a sarong of Tahitian design, and her brown skin fits the color range of the painting perfectly; but her slim body is lithe and Thai, and a superior energy gives her power over those around her. Her black hair is flying, and there is a mystic gleam in her eye. Hello, Sonchai. What are you doing here?

“I’ll call for a taxi,” Lek says, half amused, half ashamed.