Authors: Jennifer Kewley Draskau
‘I’m going to give you thirty seconds,’ he hissed through his teeth without looking at me, ‘and then I will break your fingers.’
I snatched my hand back. I was seething, but I smiled.
Then, in that gritty voice of his that ground out the words, he warned us what to expect. We’d be hurt and humiliated, we’d crawl on our bellies, kill our own food, eat rats and slugs, jump off cliffs, and pee into a pit in front of fifteen men. He warned us, and it all came true, just as he said, even the rats and the pissing. And when he was done warning us, and Pim was white and gasping, and Chee Laan’s eyes had narrowed to two slits above her waxy pale cheekbones, he turned to me at last and said: ‘Meantime, you will address me as Lieutenant Fleischer, sir, and you will never touch me again. Not until I put my hand on your ass.’
I leaned back and closed my eyes. ‘Oh, happy day!’ I murmured dreamily. He did not reply but I sensed his irritation, and I grinned into the darkness.
We all suffered under Fleischer, Chee Laan the most. That girl was lucky not to end up crippled for life or dead from blood poisoning or lockjaw, according to Pim. The nails in her boot pierced the sole and she marched on like that, saying nothing, biting her lip. When she pulled her boot off in the evening, squatting on the floor of our tent, groaning with agony, we crowded round her. Her foot looked like chopped liver. Pim examined Chee Laan’s foot and offered to bathe it. Pim is a nice girl, but she certainly is eccentric. Who ever heard of a Princess bathing a Jek girl’s foot? As for me, I turned away, nauseated. It was a disgusting sight. When Fleischer looked in, Chee Laan asked him for a hammer. With it she beat the nails down, and the next day she marched on. Say what you like about the Jeks, they don’t give up easy.
That night it rained. Not warm rain, like at home, but icy needles of rain than stung your eyes and chilled you to the marrow. It was still raining buckets when Fleischer followed me out into the night. I’d nipped out for a quick joint. I was leaning against a gnarled old apple tree, trying to relax, but just feeling drained and filthy, and longing for fresh linen and my own bed. Then Fleischer came up and just stood there in the rain, staring at me. I looked back, and I saw he knew what I was, and wanted me anyway, and I laughed in his face. He moved quickly. Most of my nails were broken by then, but the ends were jagged. I raked his cheek. He lunged at me.
I still have the mark on my neck where he bit me. His teeth almost met through my flesh. I wanted to kill him. One day I will.
Raven
I awoke when the engine note changed to the higher pitch of reverse thrust and peered down at the city. Such beautiful sights: the jumble of houses interlaced by waterways, the brilliant, artificial-looking emerald green of tropical vegetation, the massive golden chedi of a temple gleaming in the distance.
When I stepped onto the baking tarmac at Bangkok’s Don Muang airport, the air rippled and wrapped itself about me like a hot perfumed bath. From the airport roof, massed brown and golden faces watched with interest as we passengers stumbled through the heat haze like people wading ashore through a boiling sea. I felt my sweat glands explode, soaking my clothes; my breath became laboured, as if the air were burning. It was the climax of the hot season. The whole dusty central Southeast Asian plain lay gasping like a landed flounder.
Ahead of me, the three young Thai girls walked, together and yet each keeping her distance. Salikaa, the arrogant beauty, carelessly dragged her wolfskin coat through the dust by its designer label. The little princess, smiling, returned the wave of an excited urchin in a pink jockey cap, hopping excitedly among the sea of faces. Chee Laan in her flame-coloured coat acknowledged no urchins, but strode briskly, eyes front, high heels clacking a tattoo. I wondered how she could stand the weight of the cashmere coat. I felt oddly regretful that I should certainly never see any of them again.
Inside the airport building, an official, sere and brown as an ant, extended a languid hand without looking up. ‘You come Bangkok Lecture tour?’ It sounded like ‘lecher tour’, and, judging by the lively demeanour of the group of Hawaiian-shirted Economy-class travellers crowding into the terminal building, the inadvertent malapropism seemed curiously apt.
‘Lecturing, that’s right,’ I said. ‘Conservation.’
‘Politics, ne’er min’ talk too much,’ the official reproved gently; his air of weariness deepened. On the desk beside him lay a huge, used syringe, resembling a veterinary instrument rather than one intended for human ministrations. ‘Vassination?’ the official invited.
I had no intention of submitting to an on-the-spot immunization. I was relieved when my papers were handed back with a curt nod; no chirpy formulaic ‘There you go, sir!’ or ‘Have a nice day now!’ Preferring this restraint, I returned the tired little man’s nod and made for the arrivals lounge. The scene was familiar, unpleasantly reminiscent of overcrowded transit refugee camps, the air soured with enforced inactivity and thick with resentment. Exhausted people sacrificed dignity for comfort, sprawling listlessly amongst their baggage.
About the exit jostled a noisy throng of touts, porters, tour operators and company chauffeurs. A handsome hawk-nosed woman, towering above most of the Asians, pushed her way forward, impervious to the curious glances excited by her naked shoulders and unfeminine determination. Her copper mane was tied back with a pink band that closer examination revealed to be the missing belt of her skimpy gingham sundress. A streak of oil paint barred her high cheekbone and another smeared her hair, giving her the appearance of an Apache warrior. ‘Raven!’ she bellowed in a husky contralto. I elbowed my way toward her, grinning. I’d met Laila Drinkwater, Iranian-born wife of the British Council Representative, only once, but she was not a woman easily forgotten.
Laila grabbed at my bag, and I resisted, and nearly compromised by handing it to a third party who suddenly appeared at her elbow, a diminutive dark man whom I at first took for a garden boy or very youthful chauffeur.
‘No, no!’ cried Laila in horrified protest. ‘This is Siegfried!’
I realised my mistake. Siegfried was clearly not a man who carried burdens for others. He was lithe and graceful, but the initial impression of youthfulness was subsequently revealed as a careful illusion. I’d been deceived by a certain quickness of gesture, the neatness of the exquisite ebony skull, shaven clean as a novice priest’s. A second glance showed that this spectacular black man was certainly older than either Laila Drinkwater or myself, but marvellously well preserved. And what a peacock he was. His pink shirt split to the navel across the sculpted, slightly glistening pectorals and glinted with golden chains. As my hand was grasped in a double-handed shake, my eye was drawn to the impressive Pathek Philippe watch half-covered by his gold bracelets. No speck of Bangkok dirt marred the dazzling white trousers moulded onto Siegfried’s body. His shirt bore a small, exclusive monogram that even I, self-confessed fashion illiterate, recognised. As he turned his head, a single massive pearl glinted in the curve of his neat-pointed ear, like a raindrop on a copper beech leaf. Siegfried returned my appraisal, nodded, and murmured softly, as though satisfied by what he saw, ‘Oh, yes! Yes, indeed!’ He bared a row of perfect teeth, startlingly white against his chocolate skin.
‘Laila will tell you,’ he purred, ‘that Siegfried does not carry things. But I have other talents.
N’est-ce pas
, Laila,
cherie
?’ His purr was sweetened by a slight lisp and a strong French accent.
‘Siegfried is artist.’ Laila waved an arm vaguely above her head, leading the way to her car. ‘Oh, and, of course, also baron! I hope you screw your courage, as Poet says, to sticking place, Dr Nathaniel Raven. Siegfried is wickedest girl in Bangkok, and I am worst driver!’
I chortled dutifully. Siegfried rolled his eyes affectedly and said, ‘Whatever makes you think she jokes?’
Ah Lee’s dislike of airports was overwhelming, as she watched the departure of the heavy-shouldered dark foreigner and his colourful companions. Scowling at their loudness and louche eccentricity, she shuddered. Unsatisfactory, open-ended places, where people disappeared out of sight to a destiny beyond comprehension. At a certain time, on a certain day, according to the meaningless marks in the foreigners’ almanacs, people dropped out of the sky and back into real life again.
The years had eroded the old lady’s features. Eyes and nose had gotten mislaid somewhere among the wrinkles. Yet for one brief moment, catching sight of the girl in her bright tangerine coat, the battered old face exploded in a sunburst of delight. The next moment the girl caught sight of her. The beam was smartly extinguished, the mask fell back into place. The girl stood before her, tall on her fashionable Western shoes.
‘Ah Lee!’ Chee Laan felt her own eyes brimming. The old woman, scowling now, gave a perfunctory Chinese salutation, hands folded to one side, and launched into a vehement diatribe. All her grievances surfaced: her hatred of crowds, of foreigners, of wearing shoes, of being stared at by rude strangers. These people had no idea of her dignity, and did not recognize that she was not a worthless old woman, a small person, but the trusted servant of a noble house.
‘Unsuitable shoes!’ spluttered Ah Lee, the harsh Hakka coming in short bursts like machine-gun fire. ‘How does Little Miss hope to bow before Honourable Old Lady on stilts like clown? Perhaps…’ For a second her true fear revealed itself, the terror of finding herself, the old nursemaid, outgrown and discarded. ‘Little Miss has forgotten the Way? For doubtless, in France-country, England-country, elders are nothing, ancestors, nothing! Face paints, lewd scents, self-indulgences, shoes like heron’s legs, these are for French persons and modern young misses. Ah Lee’s teaching, blown away, wind on the water’s face. Honourable Old Lady, shamed in the flower of her age! Ah, indeed it is a bitter thing to be an old woman tossed aside!’
Chee Laan laughed delightedly. ‘Your tongue has not grown blunter with the years, Ah Lee! It’s good to see you! Now, I must just say goodbye to my friends.’ She looked round and spotted Pim at once. The crowd had parted instinctively to allow the Premsakul party space, and now watched respectfully as Prince Toom Premsakul, the Prime Minister’s son, greeted his sister. Handsome, slightly built and delicate of feature, Chee Laan thought yet again that he seemed Pim’s mirror image, except for the large round glasses that enhanced his mild and studious air. Secretaries and servants surrounded them, but Prince Toom himself reached out for his sister’s case. Pim’s hand was still on the handle. Their hands touched and they stood looking into each other’s eyes, and then at the same moment smiled identical secret, intimate smiles. Their eyes embraced, though their bodies did not.
‘Welcome home, sister,’ Toom said quietly, still holding her eyes with his own. ‘How was France?’
‘France was still there. How was Cambridge?’
She sensed the fever of excitement in him. He dropped the case and made a large, gauche gesture with both hands, as though trying to catch two watermelons in the air. ‘Amazing!’ he said. ‘Just amazing—you can’t imagine! Oh, Pim! I’ve got so much to tell you; it’s a miracle, we’re on the brink of a major breakthrough!’
‘You are tipped for the Nobel Prize, I suppose?’ she teased mildly, touched by his enthusiasm.
‘More important than that—much more! We could save the world!’ He seemed to shimmer and twitch like a buzzing hive. His father cut in, commanding gruffly,
‘We cannot stand here chattering, Toom! Give the servant your sister’s hand luggage, make yourself useful!’ Those about them drew back respectfully. Toom flinched as though he had been whipped across the face at his father’s brutal public rebuke.
Elsewhere, the crowd had also withdrawn from the reception party surrounding Salikaa, but the respect here was of a different quality. ‘Goodbye, Comrade Highness! Goodbye, China Doll!’ Salikaa ran back to bump cheeks with each of them, her fall of straight black hair whirling lashlike, stinging their faces.
She could not resist a taunt, even in farewell
, thought Chee Laan. Closet socialist princess, poor little Jek rich girl. Trust Salikaa!
Young Prince Toom’s eyes left his sister and fastened on Salikaa. The hurt in them was replaced by wonder. Pim followed his gaze, frowning slightly. Salikaa flicked her dark mane again, gripping Chee Laan and Pim and swinging their hands, ignoring the stony faces of the three reception committees.
‘I thought at first you two were a pair of stuck-up bitches. I admit I was wrong. We had some good times, eh! Remember that sexy Lieutenant Fleischer?’ The small knot of men tightened around Salikaa in a manner both protective and oddly threatening. Chee Laan saw that they were the same sinister-looking crew that had accompanied Salikaa’s departure months ago: swarthy faces, opaque sunglasses with the sheen of insect wings, their identical dark suits straining over hard-pumped muscles, their arrogance edgy. Now they rammed a pathway through the crowds, keeping the tall girl in their midst, like a military escort. Salikaa grinned back over her shoulder. ‘Next time we meet, I’ll be a star! Watch out!’ she called, flirting a kiss along her fingers toward Prince Toom, who stood like a statue, wide-eyed, blinking through his glasses. As the group reached the exit, a late-model Cadillac squealed round the corner and bucked to a halt. Doors were flung open. Salikaa’s companions bundled her inside. She was only a blurred shadow behind bulletproof glass hazy with cigar smoke.
All the while Chee Laan, Pim, and Toom Premsakul watched. At Chee Laan’s elbow Ah Lee cleared her throat. ‘Bandits, camoys, no-good people. And Little Miss, staring like coolie. Like foreign devil. Pah!’
‘High-born Thais stare too, Ah Lee.’
Ah Lee squinted disapprovingly at the royal Premsakul siblings. ‘Lose too much face.’
Chee Laan smiled and looked at the floor. ‘You are right, Ah Lee. Minding one’s own business is a virtue. I’ve been away too long. I must just say goodbye.’ She stepped over to Pim. ‘I hope we’ll meet again. I’m glad you were at school. That terrible bland foreign food—you saved our lives, all that
nam pla
and
nam prik
you got sent up from the Paris Embassy for us!’