Bangkok Haunts

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 stories 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