Authors: Jennifer Kewley Draskau
Pim threw back her head and began to laugh. ‘They must be mad! Surely everybody in Bangkok knows I’m Red Pim, the black sheep of the Premsakuls. If they dared, my family would throw me into the gutter! They already despair of finding a decent husband willing to take me on.’
Chee Laan stared at Pim in surprise, and with new respect. She had never heard her speak so forcefully, hadn’t thought her capable of it. Despite her obvious, and somewhat tedious, overactive social conscience, she had always seemed to Chee Laan to represent the ideal of Buddhist womanhood: mild, modest, just a touch mealy-mouthed. Pim was the very antithesis of Salikaa, whatever Salikaa was.
Chee Laan had encountered women of Salikaa’s type before, of course, tangentially—loud-mouthed fishwives bargaining raucously in the market at Pratumwan, or brawling with noodle sellers outside bars—but none of them had possessed Salikaa’s electrifying beauty, and Chee Laan had certainly never known their names or met any such person in the proper circles.
Salikaa, unable to bear someone else stealing centre stage for more than two minutes, now dragged the attention back to herself. She yawned like a lazy cat, closing her eyes and showing the inside of her wide red mouth, even the little vibrating tongue at the back of her throat, shameless as a young animal.
‘At least you two have families,’ she said with a provoking casualness.
‘Why, haven’t you?’ Chee Laan obligingly took the bait.
‘Me? I was brought up by a bandit chief after he and his gang murdered my parents,’ she said, watching their faces for the effect of her announcement. After years of experience with her brother Pao, Chee Laan had learned not to react when people sought to shock her. Pim, on the other hand, did nothing to conceal her horror.
‘How terrible!’ she murmured sympathetically. ‘Kidnapped by bandits! Why didn’t you run away?’
‘Why on earth should I do that?’ Salikaa laughed scornfully. ‘My own folks were pathetic losers. I’m better off without them. Besides, when I return, I’m going to be the next Miss Thailand. I’m going to follow in Lady Asra’s footsteps.’
Chee Laan, like everyone in Thailand, knew all about Lady Asra, the Siamese Cinderella. A very beautiful girl of undistinguished origins, who had become Miss Thailand and later Miss Universe, and went on to marry a Prince of the Blood. Every bargirl and waitress in Bangkok dreamed of becoming the next Lady Asra. Chee Laan cocked a sceptical eyebrow at this ludicrous ambition.
‘Salikaa, surely you wouldn’t want to become part of the beauty circus? It is demeaning to women. It reinforces stereotypes!’ Pim frowned in her solemn way.
Salikaa laughed. ‘Demeaning? When I win, princes will beg to drink champagne out of my shoes! Perhaps even the Crown Prince himself.’
‘The Crown Prince is fourteen years old, Salikaa.’ Chee Laan rolled on her back and kicked her foot in the air, wearying of this conversation. ‘He is a baby. A child.’
‘You could never get near the Crown Prince, anyway,’ Pim pointed out reasonably, shaking her head. ‘You’ve no idea what court security is like. The old king’s favourite, the Black Tiger himself, is in charge of it.’
Salikaa delicately lifted the hem of her white nightgown. The nightlight glanced off her thighs, toned and sinewy, glossy as polished cherrywood. Buckled round her inner thigh was a long skinning knife in a leather sheath. Before her companions could recover from their surprise, she had pulled it out and itched herself luxuriously between the shoulder blades, arching her back like a cat. ‘I know about Sya Dam, but I also know what bandit security is like,’ she said. ‘And, if one were to be received at court, gain an entrée through a dear school friend, so many possibilities would open up!’ She looked at Pim and her smile seemed to harden. ‘Thanks to you, Pim dear, I’ve already met my first prince—your handsome, intellectual brother.’
Pim stiffened. She looked down at her hands. Chee Laan suddenly noticed that her eyelashes were like dark fur, spiky and glossy, owing nothing to art and all to nature—unlike Salikaa’s, which lived in a sequined case concealed beneath her mattress and were glued on every morning. Chee Laan had caught her in the act of applying them once. There had almost been another flare-up.
Now, for the first time since they had known her, it was Pim who was offended. Silently she rose and went back to her own bed, without so much as a murmured goodnight. Salikaa laughed again, tossed her black mane, and was gone, throwing the curtain closed behind her. Chee Laan lay for some time staring into the dark. She did not sleep for many hours—and when at last sleep did come to her, it was dreamless and deep.
In the cool, watery moonlight, Sister Marie-Hélène paced the creaking boards, her rosary beads sliding softly through her fingers. She peeked in on the three sleeping foreign students, their heads dark against the snowy starched linen. The young princess lay still and straight as a medieval martyr in a vault, her hair spreading out in a dark cloud. The Chinese girl lay curled knees to chin, clutching a pillow, muttering occasionally. The wild girl, who so alarmed gentle Sister Marie-Hélène, tossed and turned restlessly in the tangled bedclothes, making little clicking noises and sometimes grinding her teeth. The nun watched for moment, then crossed herself.
‘A restless spirit,’ she murmured.
‘Une âme inquiète!’
The thought crossed her mind that these three dark-haired girls had the air of beautiful lost children, stolen away by some creature in a fairy tale. Far from home, outside the faith, they seemed to her creatures of legend. She clacked her tongue at herself for a fanciful old woman. The sound was loud in the silent dormitory, but the girls did not stir. Sister Marie-Hélène seized another bead and embarked upon another Ave. Tomorrow she would speak to them of St Theresa. Surely that would touch their hearts.
From the diary of General Blaze van Hooten, United States Army, Director General, South East Asia Treaty Organization [SEATO]
March 14, 1968
I knew it was more than a social visit when King Rama’s uncle, General Worawong, said he wished to see me. He gave no notion of his agenda, but I had my suspicions, which turned out to be correct. There was no question of refusing or postponing the meeting, even though I needed this royal visit like a hole in the head.
I had a lot on my mind at the time. The unfortunate My Lai ‘massacre’ episode was a fresh wound that continued to fester. It had caused acute embarrassment to the United States, and the issue was still sensitive. Public consciousness is never even-handed, especially when manipulated by the left-wing propaganda of the prejudiced media. They seemed intent on promulgating the concept that our involvement in Vietnam was foolhardy and doomed to disaster. The media did their best to ensure that My Lai was remembered, while the atrocities of Hue, where Viet Cong terrorists massacred several thousand Vietnamese, were forgotten.
If I had my way, I would line those pinko hacks against a wall and blast them to kingdom come.
This is not happy time. The U.S. military engagement in Vietnam has developed unforeseen complexities. Every objective achieved, every substantive gain, is followed by setbacks. Like the mythological hydra, it seems that, where we succeed in chopping off one head, ten more spring up in its place.
In the course of my posting to Thailand, I have met with many members of the Thai royal family, including this old rascal General Worawong. They tend to wheel the old guy out on official occasions with a military flavour. He is a frail older gentleman with wispy grey hair and beard, exquisite manners, and the wise, mild face of an ancient saint. My sources informed me that in his time he had been one of the most bloodthirsty butchers in the history of the country. Still, I knew that there was a man capable of surpassing the blood-stained general’s colourful record. I was fairly sure that this new figure was the subject of my meeting with General Worawong.
After we had exchanged the usual courtesies, the general accepted the chair I offered. He looked so fragile that I fancied the icy blast from the air conditioner might have lifted him like a leaf and sent him whirling about the room. A Marine brought our tea. The general went on about the key to Thailand’s future success being education, not the presence of military bases belonging to foreign powers. I nodded eagerly, as though in complete agreement, adding that the United States maintains military bases in Thailand for the protection of our allies, the Thai people, against the communist threat. After a pause he continued about the importance of non-fragmentation. He tried to convince me of the need to ensure the loyalty of hill tribes. I sensed a wave of disapproval and disgust. His eyes met mine with a veiled accusation; we both knew that was a bumpy road, which I was not prepared to go down at this time. I said that I was aware of the concern that the hill tribes’ lifestyle might constitute a threat to national security, though inwardly I was wondering how much further we had to go. I’ve always found such delicate circumlocutions tedious.
He nodded again, and I nodded too, and we sat there nodding silently, like two Chinese mandarin dolls.
Then his face lit up as though he’d had a sudden inspiration, and I knew we had reached the point in our discussion where he was going to reveal his intentions, or at least twitch the veil aside and allow me a glimpse.
‘A Western-educated tribesman!’ he exclaimed. ‘Imagine what a weapon against ignorance and depravity that would be. What a potential power for good!’ He fell silent. The ball was in my court.
I decided to put him out of his misery. It wasn’t a bad idea: a king’s favourite, a tame tribesman, sympathetic to American aims and aspirations, familiar with the American way of life. I asked if it was Sya Dam he spoke of. He nodded almost imperceptibly in agreement. Then I reminded the general that the aims of the South East Asia Treaty Organization are not military. He was nodding again, this time with a gleam in his beady slanting eye.
‘As an indication of the good relations that exist between our two great nations, it is intended that scholarships to American institutes of learning will form a major part of our new programme,’ I said. ‘Any candidate put forward for such an award would come, I take it, with the best credentials, highly recommended?’
‘Oh, yes, recommendations from the very highest source. You may rest absolutely assured of it.’ He paused, making sure of me. ‘May I ask, General van Hooten, when SEATO’s new educational programme was proposed?’
‘It is of comparatively recent date—a week or so,’ I lied. ‘I have been intending to announce it. Somehow it slipped my mind…’
General Worawong nodded graciously, and his lips parted in a real smile, revealing the ochre-coloured tips of rodential teeth.
April 7, 1968
Even before this meeting with the general, I already had a passing acquaintance with Colonel Sya. I found him to be an impressive man, both in respect of his superb physique and obvious mental powers. But he never assumed in my mind the mythical, almost cult-like status that many people accorded him. Still, he was a force to be reckoned with: Sya Dam, the Black Tiger.
It always struck me as strangely incongruous that such a man should have assumed this absurdly romantic nickname. It had to be an exercise in irony—certainly a nom de guerre. Ordinarily, I’d have said nom de plume like any other poor ignorant soldier. But I had the inestimable privilege of being married to Mrs Taylor van Hooten, nee van der Lies, of the Cape Cod van der Lies, whose continuous presence in this stinking, teeming, pulsating city had severely curtailed my personal acquaintance with the more lurid aspects of Bangkok life. I knew more about the Royal Family than about Patpong song-and-dance dives. I rigorously repressed any notion that this ignorance was regrettable.
Despite my own democratic convictions, I had a soft spot for dear old King Rama. Nor did I for one moment give credence to the scurrilous rumour that either he or his mother had gained the throne for him by having his feeble-witted teenage half-brother drowned in his bathtub. This affectionate response of mine had very little to do with the fact that my wife Taylor was employed by the king to teach English and French to his son, the young Crown Prince, a post of inestimable value to me and the U.S.
This princeling was the darling of the nation, born to Their Majesties in his father’s late middle life, after a decade and a half of disappointments. The devoted king broke with tradition and remained monogamous throughout his marriage despite his wife’s failure to provide an heir. When she finally did have a son, Queen Benjawan did not survive the birth. Since his queen’s death the king remained celibate, spending several months wearing the robes of a monk. Perhaps he sublimated more earthly urges through meditation, or maybe his zest for life died with the queen.
My wife Taylor takes her tutoring of His Royal Highness extremely seriously, and is not flattered when the ignorant refer to her as a ‘latter-day Anna,’ recalling some Victorian English lady called Mrs Leonowens who worked as a royal governess and claimed to have romanced King Chulalongkhorn’s papa.
You don’t mention ‘Anna and the King of Siam’ in Thai society. The marine band once struck up ‘March of the Siamese Children’ in the royal presence and it went down like a lead balloon. Taylor herself dismissed the entire Anna thing as ‘the epitome of vulgarity and gross lèse-majesté.’ Taylor also pointed out that, in any event, a mere governess, a glorified nursemaid, such as Anna, was not to be compared with a tutor such as herself. Asperity is very much part of who Taylor is. Needless to say, her own academic credentials are unimpeachable, pure Ivy League gold.
No, King Rama was no assassin in my book, just a mild gentleman. If he hadn’t had a throne more or less shoved under his ass when he was too young to protest, he’d have been much happier as a musician. Not solo artist calibre, but a decent cocktail lounge ensemble player, toting a nifty clarinet. Easy-listening stuff, forties and fifties swing. Within the confines of his position, the king was modest, full of good intentions, and, I believe, genuinely concerned for his people.