Authors: Jennifer Kewley Draskau
Sya grinned. ‘You’re right. That particular allegory was of European origin. We have something not dissimilar in the Thai. “Sooner will the hungry tiger starve than beg.” That wasn’t translated by Prince Premsakul—just by me. You must excuse a rough man’s rough translation.’
‘I imagine it’s very difficult to reproduce Thai poetry in a non-tonal language. I think I know that poem.’ I felt rather pleased with myself. ‘A
loganit
, isn’t it? Taken from the Laws of Life. Based on Buddhist principles. “Truly, there’s a dearth of the wise among men…” It’s inscribed on the cloister walls at Wat Po.’
Sya regarded me coolly. ‘You want to watch that erudition of yours, Raven. Many folks sorely despise a smartass.’ He grinned again. ‘But you’re right. His Majesty King Rama III had all those poems collected and inscribed there in 1831.’
‘So, if we return to your allegory, you would compare yourself to a chained dog, Colonel? I had you cast as the wolf.’
Sya spat expertly into the flowerbed. ‘I am yet to metamorphose into either dog or wolf. I am in a state of transition between forms, merely a pet fox. A bagged fox. Trapped, caged, taken to some place to be released, to be hunted by gentlemen with dogs. For their sport.’ He looked at me. ‘We are all of us bagged foxes.’
‘In what respect?’
‘From the moment the cage is sprung to the moment the pack catches up, we live our lives on the run. How long we last is just a question of luck.’ He raised a hand as if to forestall possible objections, though I would have made none, reluctant to interrupt the flow of Sya’s thoughts.
Still, I found myself saying, ‘What about the Buddhist concept of rebirth?’
Sya looked scornful. ‘Do not talk to me about rebirth and the cycle of lives. I believe only in my life, this life, and only in myself.’ He thumped his chest brutally enough to stop a weaker heart. ‘You get one chance at it, that’s all.’
‘One chance at what?’
‘One chance to make your run for it. Try to escape—by cunning, by speed, by sheer guts, but there’s only one end, and only one hope: that the end will be quick. That the lead hound will snap your backbone before the pack start ripping off your balls.’
‘Hardly a cheering prospect.’ I shrugged.
‘Realistic. In this world of ours, Raven, nobody ever makes it back to base.’
Despite myself, I had felt intrigued, not by the mundane nihilistic sentiments, which resembled the run-of-the-mill amateur cynicism spouted by students in drinking places late at night, but by the force of the conviction behind them, the disillusioned power of the man himself.
‘Supposing we accept this allegory of yours,’ I said, ‘who are these hounds you speak of?’
Sya glowered. ‘You think the hunted fox demands ID? Some have names, others are nameless. Cancer, TB, syph. Some get caught by these. The lucky ones meet another fate—a bullet, a bludgeon, a blade.’ He looked piercingly at me. ‘Perhaps we’re the hounds in each other’s stories, you and I,’ he said. ‘We might even hound each other to death.’ He grinned again.
He shifted in place. We were spruced up for the occasion, groomed, shaven, showered and perfumed, yet I caught the strong scent of musky sweat and starched cloth, a burnt, sharp smell that plucked at my nostrils. Sya gulped down the contents of the glass he had been neglecting and tugged his tunic straight. His eyes moved to the high table and grew speculative. ‘Perhaps my cousin was wise to refuse to remain in Bangkok. And he is more use to me this way.’ He was throwing out a challenge, toying with me, because he knew I still didn’t know what his game was. But I was more determined than ever to find out—and stop it, if I could.
I remember noting that the uncouth bridegroom was now pulling the floral decorations apart and bombarding the court ladies with petals.
‘Nobody likes a smartass, Raven,’ Sya repeated softly. ‘Take a friendly warning.’
Nodding chummily, he strolled away to rejoin the wedding party.
My recollection of the celebration retreating, I returned to my perusal of the
Bangkok Herald
. According to the report, immediately after the wedding, Salikaa and Vasit had left town to take up residence in the far north, in the bridegroom’s home village. The gossip columnist noted with regret that His Majesty the young king had been unable to attend the glittering occasion. He had recently become an army cadet, as part of the royal initiative to sample many facets of the people’s lives, the better to lead and guide them. At the very time of Miss Thailand’s nuptials, His Majesty was upcountry with his unit on manoeuvres.
He had, however, been gracious enough to send his good wishes, which were received by the young couple with respectful rapture, as was the magnificent bride gift of one million baht, presented by the Princess Regent on her royal ward’s behalf.
‘So they paid Salikaa off.’ I pointed to the newspaper.
‘No.’ Chee Laan shook her head. ‘They paid
him
. They could never have bought off Salikaa.’
‘So why did she go through with this whole charade? You’re not going to tell me she was in love with that man?’
She looked at me scornfully. ‘You saw her face, Raven. She was drugged out of her skull.’ Scorn gave way to anxiety. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen when she comes to her senses and realises what Sya’s done,’ she said, frowning.
I reached for her hand. ‘Chee Laan, we have so little time, you and I. Must we always waste it discussing Salikaa and Sya?’
She looked at me quizzically, tilting her head to one side in the way I loved. ‘You had something more important in mind?’ she asked.
‘Perhaps.’
She looked up at me, laughing. I took her hands and pulled her close, more roughly than I intended. Sometimes a beautiful thing creates suspense that’s unendurable; you’re poised on a knife edge between the longing to preserve it, frozen in time forever, and the urge to destroy it because perfection is a kind of agony. No pain I’ve ever known ambushes you like love.
‘So the good pastor neglects his flock, and comes to frolic in the fleshpots!’ Siegfried announced with malicious glee, waving Waddle’s letter around Laila Drinkwater’s terrace.
Chee Laan had left. He and I were seated at a glass-and-rattan table, drinking iced coffee. Laila, wearing a tentlike brown caftan, her hair skewered on top of her head with a pair of chopsticks, was kneeling at Siegfried’s feet, tracing intricate designs on his bare brown legs with phosphorescent paint. This was the initial, experimental stage of a happening they were planning to celebrate the opening of a new nightclub.
Siegfried sighed dramatically. ‘I suppose I shall be obliged to escort him hither and thither until he meets somebody who can put up with him.
Dieu! Que c’est ennuyeux
!’
‘Why do it, then?’ I asked innocently.
‘Oh,
noblesse
, you know,
oblige
!’ Siegfried lay back and closed his eyes. ‘The touch of that paintbrush is
delicieux
, Laila! Immensely relaxing!’
‘Siegfried does it,’ Laila murmured, intent on her work, ‘because he is a vain, wicked little thing who loves pretty rubies. Keep still,
mon chéri
, my line’s going all over the place!’
Siegfried sighed. ‘Alas! It is true!’ He pouted in mock penitence. ‘I am a sadly venal individual. I will take Waddle to the Smart Cat Key Club. He will make some lovely new friends.’
‘A gay dive on the edge of Chinatown,’ Laila explained over her shoulder. ‘Siegfried, you astonish me! The Smart Cat is extremely
declassé
!’
‘
Tant pis
!’ Siegfried replied coquettishly. ‘It is my
nostalgie de la boue
. You would not care to join us, Raven, I suppose?’
‘Maybe another time, thanks all the same.’
Nevertheless, I thought it might be interesting to see just what Pastor Waddle was up to, so I subsequently extracted directions to the Key Club from Laila Drinkwater. She betrayed no surprise at the enquiry. I guessed her mind was on higher things.
‘I’m not sure gold phosphorescence will strike the right note, you know,’ she mused. ‘Perhaps silver? What do you think, Raven?’ She scratched her head with the end of her paintbrush.
I dined with the Drinkwaters and excused myself later that evening, saying I might meet up with friends for a nightcap at the Oriental Hotel. I hailed a passing samlor and went through the motions of bargaining before a price was reached that left both parties feeling pleased. I found the Smart Cat Key Club’s flashing blue sign, featuring a louche-looking cat clutching a key in its paw, without difficulty in Chinatown’s colourful neon jungle. Although it was a Western-style club, I assumed it would be Chinese-owned. The government had been trying to clamp down on the entertainment industry, but financial interests usually triumphed in the end. After I finally persuaded the doorman to admit me, and my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I saw Siegfried at once, centre stage, entrancing the audience with a virtuoso performance. I glanced around, but there was no sign of Pastor Waddle. With a premonition of disaster, I pushed my way back to the door, deciding to check the outside of the premises.
Pastor Waddle had enjoyed a convivial evening. Siegfried drew on his joint thoughtfully and contemplated his companion’s excited face. Waddle had tugged from his pocket a crumpled white canvas hat, which he now donned. The action made Siegfried frown.
Siegfried had introduced him here, at the seedily plush Smart Cat Key Club, past the vigilant bouncers, and had also introduced him to the exquisite Prachin, with whom Siegfried had once whiled away an evening. At first Prachin, sought-after and selective, flounced away. Later, however, he returned, docile, bearing the special under-the-counter whisky usually reserved for members of the police force, who were responsible for ensuring its supply. Prachin was now clearly disposed to be adorable to Waddle, at the same time flirting outrageously with Siegfried. But Siegfried continued to sip his iced tea, his eyes half-closed. Never repeat a success, Siegfried often said.
The national ban on foreign musicians did not apply to the Smart Cat. After a while, the Filipino band’s insistent rhythm became too much for Siegfried. He rose, sauntered over to a flamboyant group by the bar, handed his cane to one, his jacket to another, and took the floor. Other patrons stepped back to watch as Siegfried, a frown of rapt concentration on his magnificent face, danced in controlled frenzy.
Prachin handed Waddle a glass. ‘You drink,’ he encouraged. ‘Nice. You like.’
The pastor had drunk a considerable amount of whisky already, to which he was unaccustomed. He glanced up from his glass, struggling to focus his gaze. Prachin’s skin was as fine as a dark apricot, and his false eyelashes were real mink. His dress of beaded pink chiffon came from the best tailor in Chinatown.
Prachin was able to afford nice things because he did favours. Most of the people he obliged paid him well—but this favour was for Sya Dam, who not only wouldn’t pay one cent, but who would, moreover, ensure that, should Prachin fail to oblige, unpleasant things would happen to him. Acid, razors, ground glass; Prachin knew of people who had experienced such episodes, and, although it was never proven, everyone suspected who was behind it all. So Prachin was resentful, but he did not dare refuse. Prachin was no hero. He was also too young and gorgeous to die.
This
farang
was disgustingly ugly, with his big nose, and perhaps he was mad, too, for when Prachin leaned toward him and laid his hand softly on the cotton, the colour of chickenshit, that clothed his bony knee, the Westerner jumped as if burnt, and shouted out strange, wild words.
‘Comest thou to tempt me, demon? Begone! I spew thee forth!’
Prachin sighed. The deformed and demented were beloved of the Buddha. Prachin was devout. Before every sexual encounter, he insisted not only upon the ritual bath, but also upon a floral offering and hasty prayer to the Lord Buddha. Most of his friends found this piety rather endearing, and indulged him.
‘Come on, darlin’, nice dwink,’ Prachin cajoled. He rubbed his smooth cheek against Waddle’s own. ‘Then we go, you like? I think you like very much!’
Taking courage, Waddle tossed down the drink in one gulp. The dimly lit room blurred; objects detached themselves ponderously and appeared to float in the air. Waddle was vaguely conscious that Prachin was fumbling with his clothing, but he was paralysed, unable to protest. As Prachin’s tinkling laughter rang in his ears, the wooden floor rushed up at him and clubbed him hard on the skull.
He remained unconscious when Prachin’s hulking associate threw him over his shoulder like a sack of rice and disappeared through the private back door of the Key Club. Prachin peered round the door and regarded with distaste the figure in the dun-coloured suit sprawled in the alley’s filth. The alley was unlit, but the garish neon signs from the street lent it a nightmarish lividity. The big man who had carried the pastor out wiped his knife carefully on a bit of rag, which he then stuffed in his pocket. He grinned at Prachin—an unpleasant sight. Prachin shuddered.
The twenty years that had passed since Archin had been sentenced to life imprisonment for the murder of Salikaa’s parents had not been kind to him. He had lost several teeth and half his left ear, and his face was seamed and pockmarked like earth ravaged by the elements. The pits and deeply etched wrinkles stood out boldly under years of dirt that had engrained deep into his skin.
But he had found his niche. Happy fortune had brought him to the attention of Colonel Sya Dam, whose habit it was to scan the prison records for information on incarcerated lifers in case any of them appeared potentially useful. After an interview with Archin, Sya had persuaded old King Rama to include Archin in the fifty prisoners released to mark the king’s birthday—the last birthday the old king lived to see. Sya made sure Archin knew who was responsible for his release. Now, Archin was Sya’s man, body and soul. He was employed to do the work he liked best—killing—and there was, mysteriously, never the shadow of a policeman when he was sent on a job.