Bangkok 8 Part 24

"No."

"Kipling-the poet of that other Anglo-Saxon empire. G.o.d save us from our blindness." Weeping. "G.o.d save us." He stretches out a hand to hold mine. "Look, look at my life." A sweeping gesture. I had not yet taken in the treasures which have been sensitively placed around the room. There is the horse and rider, on an alabaster plinth. There are some priceless pieces from the Warren Collection, including jade jewelry from the Forbidden City. Indeed, jade is everywhere in its incomparable luminescence. Warren-if I may still call him that-presses a switch by his right hand and an electric motor starts to hum. With majestic slowness the curtains open, revealing a stunning garden bursting with hibiscus and bougainvillea, rhododendron, a magnificent bodhi tree with aerial roots and a wooden seat around the bowl, flower beds exploding with color.

"See"-I jump, for it is Pichai again speaking in Thai, using Warren's vocal cords-"this is his soul: life is all on the outside, on the other side of the gla.s.s. Inside there is only stone. This is your farang farang for you." for you."

"He cut mine off, so I did the same to him." It is Fatima's voice now, hissing through his mouth. My blood runs cold and a horrible tingling pa.s.ses up and down my spine, but the figure on the bed seems oblivious to his other visitors.

"Know the very last lesson a farang farang learns who tries to trick the East?" he says in Warren's American voice. "That he's been f.u.c.ked from the start. From the start. The key is not to tell him until it's too late." Gripping my hand. "You have more patience, more history, more cunning, more sorcery-and you get the sun twelve hours before we do. How could we ever win?" learns who tries to trick the East?" he says in Warren's American voice. "That he's been f.u.c.ked from the start. From the start. The key is not to tell him until it's too late." Gripping my hand. "You have more patience, more history, more cunning, more sorcery-and you get the sun twelve hours before we do. How could we ever win?"

"He wanted to make people like jewelry," says Fatima. "Now who will buy him him?"

"Have compa.s.sion," urges Pichai.

"b.a.l.l.s," says Fatima.

"Go too deep into the West and you turn to stone yourself," says Warren. "It's almost as simple as that. Sooner or later you start trading people, one way or another. And if you're trading them, why not modify them? Ah, the demonic beauty of the human form! Who can resist working it like the finest jade, once you realize you have the power? You pa.s.s that threshold without even noticing. America is the continent of death. This has been known for thousands of years. I have been everything in the Great Cosmic Lottery, women and men, thieves, princes and slaves, and I've stayed too long on this earth. The body is a doll, but it corrupts the spirit. You think I'm the only one? This is a devil hard to beat, Detective. Enticing beyond words. I wanted a perfect form to dissolve into, but the forms kept dissolving first. That's the truth about me, take it or leave it." A quick check of my face-but who is behind those eyes? "Building designer humans out of throwaway people-d'you think we'll resist once the American empire has reached adolescence?"

When the door opens and Surichai enters the room I cannot prevent myself from throwing him a glance of utter helplessness. He nods in complete understanding.

"He's been speaking in Fatima's voice? Eerie, isn't it? I couldn't begin to explain-not in terms of Western science anyway. I'm sure a meditator like you has his own ideas. There's another voice he's been using, too, in impeccable Thai, very vernacular, much better than he speaks it himself. Who is that?"

"My dead brother," I whisper.

A shrug. "No farang farang would understand-but to us it's not so totally outlandish, is it? You better leave him now. As I say, he's very weak. You can come back tomorrow if you want." would understand-but to us it's not so totally outlandish, is it? You better leave him now. As I say, he's very weak. You can come back tomorrow if you want."

Tears are pouring down Warren's cheeks as we leave the room.

In the corridor I say: "Is there going to be a next stage, or are you going to leave him like that?"

"Rea.s.signment, you mean? That's entirely up to Fatima." To my startled glance: "That was part of the deal. She has the-ah-pieces under controlled conditions in her penthouse." A glance at his watch. "And she has about six hours left to make up her mind. So far she's been pretty d.a.m.n negative and without the material there's nothing I can do. I think you are closer to Fatima than I am. Does she have Buddhist compa.s.sion? Do you have any influence?"

52.

Two Months Later.

Told you she'd be back. Here I am waiting at Bangkok International Airport, wearing my best khaki sleeveless s.h.i.+rt, black pants and hideous black lace-up shoes.

The Thai Airways flight from San Francisco via Tokyo and Hong Kong has been delayed by one hour, but now I see from the monitors that it has landed. Twenty minutes later Kimberley Jones appears in the arrivals area wearing a beige business suit (trousers). Her hair is her natural blond, cut short but not ruthlessly so. There are three earrings in her left ear, only one in the other. Her lipstick is a modest pink. When she presses her cheek against mine by way of greeting I inhale a familiar scent which for me has Mother written all over it.

"Van Cleef and Arpels," I say with a smile.

"You got it."

I am uncertain whether to help her with her trolley piled high with purple Samsonite cases. What is the etiquette here? A Thai woman would be deeply offended if I didn't push it, but an American might be offended if I did? I decide to let Kimberley push it to the taxi rank.

In the back of the cab Kimberley says: "Surprised?"

"That you bought shares in my mother's company? Yes, at first, but when Nong told me she'd been exchanging e-mails with you, it sort of fell into place. Are you on vacation from the Bureau?"

"I took an unpaid sabbatical." A crisp glance at my face and away. "White men aren't the only ones who find this city irresistible, so it can't just be the s.e.x, can it?"

"What is it, do you think?" I ask.

"I don't know. The bottom line is it's so d.a.m.n human." A pause. "Still nothing on Fatima?"

I cover my face for a moment before replying: "Nothing. Vanished after-after she made her decision." I make a slightly exaggerated gesture intended to convey terminal vanis.h.i.+ng, so as not to spoil the surprise tonight.

"D'you ever wonder if there might be something in what she told you that time, that she's like your shadow, your dark side? That you need her in some way?"

I experience a need to change the subject. I pa.s.s Jones the front page of the Bangkok Post, Bangkok Post, which features a full-length picture of my mother in a black and white Chanel business suit which is not a fake. The subeditor has highlighted my mother's reply to a question from a reporter about the Old Man's Club, the official opening of which is tonight: which features a full-length picture of my mother in a black and white Chanel business suit which is not a fake. The subeditor has highlighted my mother's reply to a question from a reporter about the Old Man's Club, the official opening of which is tonight: This kind of Western hypocrisy disgusts me, quite frankly. Why doesn't the BBC make a doc.u.mentary on the rag trade, with all those women working twelve hours a day for less than a dollar an hour? What is that if it's not selling your body? The West doesn't care about exploitation of our women, it simply has a problem with s.e.x and at the same time they're using s.e.xual t.i.tillation to sell their shows. They love to embarra.s.s middle-aged white men who hire our girls. Western women can't handle it that their men get a better time over here. If they're too mean-spirited to give their men pleasure, that's their problem. The bottom line is that it's about money. Thailand makes very little income from industries like the clothing industry-Western companies take the lion's share. But in the s.e.x trade we see a true redistribution of global wealth from West to East. That's what's got them so hung up.

Kimberley hands me back the clipping with a grin. "That's a real feisty lady. What's she been reading? I've noticed how her English has changed over the past months."

"She keeps taking business courses over the Net. Her line is that if s.e.x is Thailand's biggest industry, we ought to set about modernizing and regularizing it, giving the girls a better deal, a new career after compulsory retirement at age twenty-eight, compulsory profit sharing. She's got all the business buzzwords. You know, profit centers, value-added, service industry, human resources. She claims the industry is still in the Stone Age and that the government should give a.s.sistance instead of being obstructive."

Thanks to the expressway we arrive at the Sheraton on Sukhumvit in under thirty minutes. A moment of mutual uncertainty, then: "See you tonight."

"Yes." Slightly fl.u.s.tered. "Tonight. You know, I've never been to a brothel before-even though I own shares in one."

I give her a rea.s.suring smile before I leave. I'm quite excited. We had our first distribution of shareholder profits a couple of days ago and I couldn't believe how much we've made in a few short months, even before the official opening. I'm off to all those famous names in the Emporium.

There are cables all over Soi Cowboy and the police have shut off the street to traffic. Trailers with the logos of the world's media networks are parked at all angles and lights flash as we approach in the back of the Colonel's Bentley, his usual driver at the wheel. I've heard about the Bentley, of course, everyone has, but this is the first I've seen of it. Vikorn gave it to himself as a present for his sixtieth birthday: Continental T-cla.s.s, with all the bells and whistles. From its formidable stereo system booms "The Ride of the Valkyries."

The Colonel, Kimberley and I merge into the crowd while my mother steps into the light of the halogens. The Colonel is wearing a double-breasted linen suit by Redaelli, a painted silk tie and crepe s.h.i.+rt both by Armani, loafers by Ralph Lauren, Wayfarer aviator sungla.s.ses even though it's dark. If he were not a genuine gangster he would look ridiculous. As it is, he looks terrific. For once I am not jealous, however.

As we watch from the sidelines I realize my mother's status as a former prost.i.tute has given her a moral authority which even the BBC finds intimidating (she is wearing a black silk trouser suit by Karl Lagerfeld, black cross-grained shoes with red satin bows by Yves Saint Laurent, a beige cotton blouse by Dolce & Gabbana with a floppy red satin bow to match her shoes-the effect is of a twenty-first-century person person in total mastery of both yin and yang). CNN has already switched its line from disapproval to ambivalence and the BBC has had to follow suit. The French and Italian media were never more than halfhearted about moral outrage founded on the act of s.e.x and are taking a predominantly humorous line. Even the Muslim networks from Malaysia and Indonesia are holding back on the heavy judgments, the j.a.panese are openly approving and the Chinese are intrigued. in total mastery of both yin and yang). CNN has already switched its line from disapproval to ambivalence and the BBC has had to follow suit. The French and Italian media were never more than halfhearted about moral outrage founded on the act of s.e.x and are taking a predominantly humorous line. Even the Muslim networks from Malaysia and Indonesia are holding back on the heavy judgments, the j.a.panese are openly approving and the Chinese are intrigued.

"Our societies need to grow up," my mother is saying. She has become more fluent by the day and her English is almost flawless, with a charming Thai accent which comes across as faintly childlike and softens her new aggression. "Globalization has caused the biggest increase in prost.i.tution in the history of the world. This is a big story the media neglects because it's so politically incorrect. Uncountable women are on the game not because they need to be but because they choose to be. University students from Moscow sell themselves in Macao to make some pocket money. Chinese from Singapore fly to Hong Kong for the Christmas vacation to sell their bodies. Shanghai is awash with girls chasing the fast buck. Women from all over South America trade s.e.x all over the world, especially in Asia and the West. You see British, Canadian, American and Scandinavian women in the escort business all over Bangkok. Why hasn't the media told the world just how popular a little private body-leasing has become even with well-off young women from G7 nations?" The female BBC interviewer nods sagely.

"She's good," the Colonel whispers to me. "She's even better than you used to be."

Now the CNN reporter, also a woman, is holding a large microphone in front of Nong's mouth. My mother hardly pauses as she switches networks. "You tell every young woman in the country that it is her right to dress up, look s.e.xy, have a mobile telephone, own a car, go on exotic holidays, and nine times out of ten there is only one profession that will bring her the money she needs to do these things. So who is the pimp, me or the West? I'm really about damage control, accepting the situation for what it is and giving the girls a better deal. Would I prefer a return to traditional Thai, Buddhist morality? Actually, yes, but it's too late for that, the corrosion has gone too far, we have to deal with reality. Even the Buddha believed that."

The CNN reporter turns away from Nong to interview a wiry old man in one of my mother's T-s.h.i.+rts and red and yellow striped shorts, perhaps in his early seventies, slightly stooped with sinewy arms and a grizzled face: he looks exactly like the caricature on the s.h.i.+rt. "Excuse me, sir, have you been a customer of the Old Man's Club while you've been in Thailand?"

"I sure have. Soon as I saw the web page I booked me a ticket to Bangkok, one-way. If I have to die out here, that's okay with me. I'm from Kansas and I've had three wives, and lemme tell you, I never knew till now what those women who lived off me for fifty years weren't doing for me."

"Were not not doing for you?" doing for you?"

"d.a.m.ned right. If I had the time I'd probably feel bitter, but I don't have the time 'cos I'm too busy bangin'-"

"Yes, thank you, sir. And you, sir, did you come to Bangkok expressly to visit the Old Man's Club?"

"Yep, and I'm too old to care if you and your viewers don't like it. I'm eighty-one years old and I played the game all my life, raised three ungrateful kids who never come visit me, lost me a wonderful wife to cancer, G.o.d bless her soul, then married a b.i.t.c.h, may she rot in h.e.l.l, and if I got ten minutes more left to live I want to spend those ten minutes right here in the Old Man's Club. Might not be love but it's the closest I'm gonna get this late in the day. Sure beats contract bridge. Have you any idea how boring contract bridge gets once you know there's something more exciting waiting on the other side of the world?"

"It doesn't bother you that many Americans might find what you are doing politically incorrect, even immoral?"

"Does political correctness give protection from Alzheimer's? One thing about being old, you learn to cut to the chase."

The CNN reporter turns to two young women waiting to be interviewed. They are Nit-nit and Noi, whom Nong poached from the Jade Palace on my recommendation. To the camera: "Well, the customers certainly seem satisfied, but what about the workers? These stunning young women, who in another society might well be movie stars or models, spend their nights catering to these clients. Let's hear what they have to say."

Nit-nit: "I wasn't sure what to expect, but the customers are so grateful, you know, it's kind of sad. I think in your country maybe you don't treat old people very well. In Thailand we would never leave our parents and grandparents to stay alone year after year. I think they would die sooner if not for us."

Noi: "Usually they are very funny, like it's all a joke, which is the way Thai people see things too, so it's not so hard to be with them. They're not demanding like younger men, they don't tell you do this, do that, they're just so happy to be able to touch you. It's like being a nurse, really. It's part of Thai culture to respect and help the old."

Meanwhile the CNN reporter directs the camera operator to focus on her for the wrap-up. "Well, as Walt Disney said in Lady and the Tramp: Lady and the Tramp: 'We are Siamese if you please, we are Siamese if you don't please.' So far the criticism of Madame Nong Jitpleecheep's new club is muted, and the praise high. Only time will tell if what we have here is a variation on a theme of exploitation as old as humanity, or a step toward emanc.i.p.ation. In the meantime, the thirty-year-old party which is Bangkok's nightlife continues, whatever the rest of the world may have to say about it. This is Celia Emerson, for CNN, Bangkok." 'We are Siamese if you please, we are Siamese if you don't please.' So far the criticism of Madame Nong Jitpleecheep's new club is muted, and the praise high. Only time will tell if what we have here is a variation on a theme of exploitation as old as humanity, or a step toward emanc.i.p.ation. In the meantime, the thirty-year-old party which is Bangkok's nightlife continues, whatever the rest of the world may have to say about it. This is Celia Emerson, for CNN, Bangkok."

One by one the lights start to die and men in shorts, sweating in the night heat, start to roll up the cables while Nong looks on a little wistfully. It is time for all of us to enter the club. The Colonel and Nong go first, followed by Kimberley, who a.s.sumes that I am following her. Instead I pause at the door to watch a black limo draw up behind one of the media trailers.

I am wearing a four-b.u.t.ton double-breasted blazer by Zegna, a spread-collar linen s.h.i.+rt by Givenchy, tropical wool flannel slacks and, best of all, patent leather slip-ons by Baker-Benjes. My cologne is a charming little number by Russell Simmons. Somehow I think my getup will be particularly appreciated by my personal and secret guest, who emerges with some difficulty from the limo, aided by two burly minders. She walks with the aid of a stick and her facial features will never be other than masculine. Her dress falls poorly, in my opinion, even though it is the very best from Giorgio Armani. On the other hand, the estradiol has done wonders for her hair, which falls in a heavy, luxurious curtain onto the collar of her dress. The minders leave her to approach me at the threshold.

"Nice threads," Pichai says to me, using Warren's vocal cords and scanning my new wardrobe with her gray eyes.

Inside, our live entertainment is singing "Bye Bye Blackbird."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

John Burdett is a nonpracticing lawyer who worked in Hong Kong for a British firm until he found his true vocation as a writer. Since then he has lived in France and Spain, and is now back in Hong Kong. He is the author of A Personal History of Thirst A Personal History of Thirst and and The Last Six Million Seconds The Last Six Million Seconds.

ALSO BY JOHN BURDETT.

The Last Six Million Seconds

A Personal History of Thirst