Bangkok Haunts

father killed five men during his life, mostly in brawls or simply because they got on his nerves—generally with the upward thrust of a knife under the ribs. The courting of Damrong’s mother consisted of abducting her and keeping her in his house for three days. Whether he raped her or not during that time is irrelevant; at the end of the three-day period, she was ruined as far as any other man was concerned, so she had to marry the country gangster. She didn’t much mind, so the story goes, for she had that extra tough—some would say criminal—streak herself, which is why the gangster chose her in the first place. Nobody liked doing business with them. A darkness hung over that family. Damrong’s violent death was seen hereabouts as simply one more chapter in a black family history.
    My hostess pauses in her compulsive nattering and looks at me. “You know the tradition of making children run under elephants during the festival? Well, I happened to be there when her mother made Damrong do it. Personally I think it’s very cruel—some kids are so terrified they’re mentally scarred for life. Think of what it must mean to a six-year-old, seeing those enormous legs, those terrifying feet, and being told by your own mother you have to risk your life by running underneath them. Elephants are not gentle giants—they’re vicious and unpredictable.”
    “How did Damrong take it?”
    “That’s the thing, I never saw a child so terrified. But her mother beat her. I mean, she just kept on hitting her until she was more terrified of another smack than she was of the elephant. She ran under it, but I’ll never forget the hatred in her eyes—not of the elephant, of her mother. She didn’t run to her for comfort, she just stood there on the other side of the street totally traumatized. Such a pretty girl too. You could see what she was going to become even at that age. What choice did she have?”
    We’re interrupted by a shout from below. One of the neighbors has heard that a stranger is staying here and wants to take a look at him. “We’re talking about Damrong!” my hostess yells down. “I’m coming up!” yells the other.
    She is a very short country woman, perhaps no more than four feet nine—a diastrophic dwarf, the smartest kind of little person—in a worn sarong carrying a plastic bag containing a large spiky green durian that she no doubt hopes to sell somewhere today. To see her as poor, though, might be missing the point. I recognize her as belonging to a specific type which is fast disappearing. Even today, all over rural Thailand, especially here in Isaan, there are still people like her who live off the land in a literal way, people who are sufficiently familiar with the woods and jungles to survive there without much external support. Her face is deeply lined with a great forehead and young bright eyes under the sagging lids. This woman has never experienced depression in her life; she lives on some elemental level and shares her mind with spirits.
    “The gentleman was asking about Damrong,” my hostess explains.
    “Oh, of course,” says the dwarf, not at all surprised that someone should appear out of nowhere and demand to know all the gossip. “So sad.”
    “I said she comes from a hard family.”
    “Hard?” The dwarf also uses the Isaan word. “You’re not kidding.” Looking up at me and, I think, quickly identifying me as some kind of authority figure: “They say her brother, Gamon, is heartbroken.”
    “Oh, yes,” says my hostess, distressed at having left out a dramatic detail. “They were so close. But of course, he is a monk, so he will know how to take it.”
    “We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t kill himself,” says the dwarf in a contemplative kind of way, “monk or not. She was the only backbone he had.”
    When we hear yet another voice downstairs, a curious neighbor wanting to see the mysterious visitor, I know it’s time to go. I dig out my police ID to flash it. No one is particularly surprised. The dwarf undertakes to lead me to Damrong’s mother’s house.
    The house—actually a large shack—is the only one without a flower garden; garbage is heaped up in a corner in front. Unlike the other houses, the stilts supporting this one are entirely of timber, with no concrete support; they are rotting along with the stairs that lead up to the front door. I have to knock a few times. When she opens the door, I see one large, almost-empty space populated by