Bangkok Haunts

dress.
     
    Smith is in a bad way. It is a shame to see that big, attractive
farang
body in a corner of its cell, curled up in a fetal position. His depression may be terminal, and I wonder if it would not be more humane for me to leave him alone. I press my head against the bars, watching. I see movement in his eyelids and the occasional twitch of a hand or leg. “Khun Smith,” I say, “it’s me, Detective Jitpleecheep.” He blinks and looks up at what must be a single intense shaft of light.
    My face disorients him still further. He cannot be sure it is really me, and if it is me, have I come to save or to gloat? We remain like that for perhaps ten minutes, neither of us sure of what kind of communication may be possible. Eventually he shifts his body, like an animal coming out of hibernation, and manages to stand. Like me, he is reduced to wearing an old sarong, which gives him the aspect of White Man Gone Native: an image from tales of the Raj. The bars impose a grid of vertical black shadows, like a giant bar code. “You,” he says, as if I am the source of his misfortune. He approaches the window with the curiosity of a man toward the devil that is tormenting him. “You.”
    “I didn’t do this,” I say. A jerk of his chin points out that I am free and he is not. “Damrong,” I explain. The name triggers a shudder. “It is hard for a
farang
to understand, perhaps impossible.” I scratch my head exactly because it has struck me just how difficult it must be for a Westerner to comprehend, even a man who has spent time in the East. “She left instructions.” He shakes his head. “She was not afraid of death, in a way had been looking forward to it all her life. Then came the money, you see, Smith, the money.”
    He glares in a vulnerable kind of way: defiance that expects defeat. What is it about Asians that makes us feel apologetic toward the West, as if we always knew in our heart of hearts the catastrophe toward which it was headed? Perhaps we should have done more to prevent it? I, at least, feel compelled to try to explain. “Death,” I say. “Tom, have you ever thought what it might mean? Never mind religion—I’m talking basic observation. Tom, what she knew is what nine-tenths of humanity also knows:
Death trumps money.
I’m not talking machines for killing people—that’s just Neolithic butchery. I’m talking about Death as an idea, Death as a weapon of the mind, Death as a reality only adults can confront. You were never going to win, Tom. You lost the war the moment you gave her that first lustful stare. While you were thinking about hiring her body, she had a much bigger plan, more holistic.” I pause, trying to find the words. I’m not sure if I really mean what I say next, but it seems inevitable that I say it: “Tom, are there any adults at all where you come from?”
    I have failed to get through to him, of course. Now he’s certain I’m just an unhinged half-caste, a kind of Oriental gargoyle sent by some barbaric power to torment him. I give up, feeling bad.
    Khun Tanakan has heard our conversation and come to his window in the cell next door.
    “How much?” he hisses. “Just tell me how much you want.” Even in such a short sentence, his exalted level in our culture, his familiarity with the highest echelons, his sophistication, and his innate toughness are implied in every syllable. His Thai is so much more elegant than mine I am almost tempted to speak English.
    “It is not up to me,” I say.
    “Vikorn? Is Vikorn behind this?”
    “No,” I say. “It’s the girl herself.”
    “What are you talking about? The girl’s dead.”
    “Only in a manner of speaking. You might say her will is very much alive.” He glares. “It was mostly your money, wasn’t it, that financed the project? You handed over the million-plus for her services, less whatever minor investment Smith made. Of course, you knew you needed an aide-de-camp, a fall guy, a consigliere, for you could not afford to get too close to the scam itself. And of course, there was always going to be a need for enforcement: Khun Kosana, your fatally indiscreet slave-buddy, with his lover Pi-Oon. If not for that, I think you would have had Smith killed just because she used him to make you jealous. He is after all taller, younger, stronger, and Caucasian. Yes, certainly, you would have killed him as a casual reflex of power, so to speak: Nok. How Damrong must have insulted you, how she must have