FIVE
RATANA’S MOTHER WAS nearby. Both women wore white masks. Except Ratana had taken hers off to allow for a thermometer to be slipped under her tongue. The mother moved around her daughter like someone who was half picador and half mad scientist.
Answering the phone, Ratana removed the thermometer from her mouth and handed it to her mother. Her mother slipped on her reading glasses and examined the thermometer closely.
“Normal?” asked Ratana.
Her mother said nothing, wiping the thermometer with a piece of cotton dipped in alcohol. Calvino waited as the voice muffled into a sound track of non-words. In the background, he heard Ratana’s mother whispering, but he couldn’t make out the words.
“My temperature’s normal,” said Ratana.
“It’s not about the flu or SARS,” said Calvino. “It’s irrational.”
“I know that. You know that.”
“But your mother doesn’t know that. Let me talk to her.” He heard Ratana arguing with her mother.
“She’s gone.”
Elvis has left the building, thought Calvino.
“My mother’s been listening to a talk radio show. People are calling in and saying it is the foreigners who are responsible for SARS and bird flu. Foreign birds. Foreign people. They are the carriers. These people are screaming into the phone that farangs must be avoided, and my mother is listening and nodding.”
“She believes them?” asked Calvino.
“Who knows what to believe? She spoke with her fortuneteller today. He predicts something terrible is about to happen,” said Ratana.
“Such as?”
“A terrorist attack in the BTS.”
Ratana came to work on the sky train. The possibility of such an attack would have the desired effect; it would help keep her away from Calvino’s office.
“He also said that Muslims would hit those working for Jews.”
Calvino didn’t like where this was going.
“My mother was Jewish,” he said.
He knew that Ratana’s mother also had this knowledge. For years the family had been working to separate Ratana from the employment of the farang private investigator. The new viruses and terrorism had given the mother a new arsenal to launch a new attack.
“I can’t change who I am, Ratana,” he said. “No one said that you should.”
What she meant was everyone, including her mother, knew that was impossible. Since he couldn’t change mothers, and his Jewish blood put her at risk in her mother’s eyes—or those of her fortuneteller—what hope did he have of persuading her that her mother was wrong? She could become collateral damage. Anti-Semitism was the long nightmare that had no exit. He had had his final reason to leave Bangkok for a week or so.
“I am going to Pattaya. I phoned Valentine. His gardener died and some of the staff believes he was murdered. I told him I’d take the case.”
“Pattaya is a dangerous place.”
“I am trying to think of a place that isn’t.”
“You know what I mean.”
“His house is outside of Pattaya. I don’t anticipate a problem.”
“In five more days I’ll be back to work,” she said. “My mother agrees. If I am not sick in five days, then that makes fourteen days inside and I must be okay.”
“What about the prediction of attacks against Jews?”
She cleared her throat. “Khun Vinee, I am not afraid.”
He wasn’t certain what he wanted to hear. Five more days of fortuneteller predictions of violence imported from the south might cause her to change her mind. He decided to leave it open. To give Ratana an easy way out if she needed one.
“You think about it. After five days, you tell me how you feel about coming back to work.”
“How did the gardener die?”
“The police say he hanged himself.”
“If he had a disease, he could have lost heart and killed himself.”
“Or someone could have killed him.”
There was a long pause.
“Take care of yourself, Khun Vinee. And thanks for being so understanding about everything. My mother really means well. I hope you believe that.”
“Yeah.”
SIX
VALENTINE’S ESTATE WAS a two-and-a-half hour drive east from Calvino’s apartment on Sukhumvit Road. The rain had eased once he hit the outskirts of the city. Half way to Pattaya the sky turned blue, the road surface dried by the heat of the sun, and the high temperature had the highway drivers boiling as they gunned along the shoulder at 140 kilometers an hour to pass slow-moving trucks. He’d seen Valentine in Bangkok over the years every few months. He tried to remember the last time he had driven to Valentine’s estate. Six, seven years ago, he guessed. Valentine had personally designed a grand estate some eight kilometers outside of Pattaya and then acted as his own contractor for its construction. Before the expressway and the eastern seaboard opened, the terrain between Pattaya had been fields and a series of sleepy villages. Calvino had been invited to Valentine’s house-warming; the surrounding landscape was a rich, upcountry place dotted with green rice and sugar cane fields and water buffalo, pigs, and chickens. Since that time, the city of Pattaya had burst out of its borders and rapidly expanded, swallowing up great parcels of farmland. Converting paddy into an ugly sprawl of shops and houses. Within a few kilometers of Valentine’s estate, Calvino saw how much the land had changed. That feeling he had had years ago of an isolated pastoral enclave had been lost. Most of what had been traditionally rural was now dotted with newly constructed suburban styled houses with blue tiled roofs and freshly painted walls.
Turning off the main highway, he pulled in front of a shophouse—the metal gates were rolled up to the ceiling. Inside on the concrete floor were fifty-kilo bags of animal feed stacked to the ceiling. The Chinese owner, his shirt unbuttoned to display a half-dozen amulets on a thick gold chain, squatted on a stool behind a large desk where he kept a watchful eye on the road and his employees. Valentine had phoned Calvino and asked if he could stop and pick up three bags of feed for the goats.
“For goats?”
“My dear, fellow, I raise goats. Don’t worry; it’s not for our dinner tonight. The feed is paid for. All you need do is use my name and one of the men who works for the owner will load the bags for you. There’s not much to it. It shouldn’t take five minutes. It would help me a great deal.”
Calvino understood that whenever someone said there wasn’t much to doing something, this meant to expect trouble, delays and anxiety. Otherwise, they would have done the chore themselves.
“Normally I don’t run errands such as picking up goat feed for clients,” said Calvino.
“Now I’ve hurt your feelings. Of course I have. And you have every right to feel aggrieved. In your place, I would likely feel quite the same. All I am saying in defense of my indefensible request is that the shop is on your way. And if you weren’t a friend, I wouldn’t have asked. If it is too much trouble, then I’ll find another way.”
Guilt usually worked wonders on Calvino.
“Three bags?”
“And no heavy lifting. The men will do the heavy lifting. There is no smell. The bags won’t leak. And my staff will take over when you arrive. But if this offends you...”
“Valentine, I’ll pick up the bags.”
“Good man, Vincent Calvino. You are a very good man.” Tell that to Ratana’s mother who assumes her boss will spread rare and lethal viruses to her daughter, and that Muslim terrorist who had targeted him in Bangkok.
SEVEN
AS THE ROAD curved to the left, it narrowed to a dirt track. Calvino turned onto the path and drove another thirty meters. He passed an empty lot; a water buffalo tethered to a stake grazed on tall grass. At the end of the road was a gate and on either side a high wall with rows of medieval-looking spikes on the top. The wall snaked around the perimeter and finally disappeared, like the Great Wall of China, out of sight. The blue steel gate mar
ked the entry point to Valentine’s estate. There was no name; the number 88/9 was etched into the side of the wall. Calvino shifted his car into park and honked his horn. He waited for one of Valentine’s servants to appear and open the gate. He left his car engine running. Looking through the windshield, he saw that the huge gate was locked. The sound of several barking dogs rose from the edge of the gate. After a couple of minutes he honked again, waited, and finally opened the car door, climbed out, and walked to the gate to peer through a peephole halfway up the right hand side. He saw no one. A large dog and two much smaller mutts snapped and growled from behind the gate. Calvino returned to the car and dialed Valentine’s number. He had just been talking to him. Obviously he’d been expected. So why hadn’t Valentine sent someone down to open the gate?
Meanwhile, Valentine had switched off his cellphone. There were clients who had the habit of using their cellphones only to make calls and then immediately switched them off. Calvino sat in his car and waited, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He saw a couple of chickens pecking the dirt not far from the water buffalo. He thought about the air-borne diseases and the scare they had caused across Asia, and how this had provided an excuse for Ratana to be held hostage by her mother, and he thought of the hard, driving rain he’d left behind in Bangkok; in other words, he cheered himself up by thinking about all the factors that had driven him out of the city.
Five minutes later the dogs stopped yapping; he heard a human voice. “Coming.”
A moment later she pushed open one half of the gate, and then the otherside.
“I am Vincent Calvino,” he said.
She nodded, her eyes darting from side to side, looking him over. “Yes, I know. We are so busy. It is my fault. Nai will be angry. He told me to wait for you at the gate. He will punish me. It will be terrible. Please, please, understand that I am sorry to keep you waiting.”
Her English was good. Her tone was anxious and despairing. She used the Thai word for boss—nai. In most places of domestic employment that was all the Thai an illegal immigrant needed to know to keep her job.
“Maybe I am early? But I thought Valentine was expecting me. Then I thought I was wrong. He changed his mind,” said Calvino.
“No, no. He not change his mind. That’s impossible. Everyone who lives here has been waiting for you. We wait for many days. Ever since. . .”
“Everyone?”
Calvino’s question startled her, reminding her that she had said more than was intended. Her job was to greet him. And before she could stop herself, she was gushing about him like he was a visiting star on tour.
“Nai said to ask if you picked up the goat feed. He worries too much about his goats. Like a father worries about his children.”
“Where are the others to help?”
She looked at him, then away, patting one of the dogs. “They are on strike.”
“Strike?”
“They stop work.”
“I know what a strike is,” he said. She looked down and said nothing.
“The bags are in the trunk,” said Calvino. “All 150 kilos. One more bag and the front wheel of the Honda wouldn’t have touched the road. I am joking; I’ll help. I am not on strike. Not yet.”
She laughed. “You joke very good. My name is Som. I will help you. Follow me.”
“What’s your job here?” “I am a maid.”
“And you do farm work as well?”
She nodded.
“Everyone helps with the goats. It’s a rule. Follow me.”
“I am glad I didn’t break the rule,” said Calvino.
She ran ahead with three dogs sniffing at her heels and pointing as she ran, leading him to a parking shelter. Parked inside were an old Toyota station wagon and a pickup truck. Calvino pulled alongside the battered, rusty pickup, stopped and got out of the car. He walked around the pickup as Som returned from the front gate. Dented and weather-beaten, the pickup looked like it had been hit on one side, rolled over a cliff, pulled back onto the road, and driven back and parked in this spot.
So much for no heavy lifting, Calvino thought. He leaned into the trunk, picked up a bag and slung it over his shoulder.
He tried to place the maid’s accent. “You don’t sound like a Thai.”
“Shan,” she said, smiling.
“My Thai name is Som. I was born in the Shan state. The Burmese army killed my brother and two uncles. Please give the bag to me. Nai will punish me if he sees you carrying the bag. That is my job. Shan people can carry a heavy load. We don’t complain.”
A sense of pure pride came from her lips. It had to be cut with a large element of hurt and sorrow. Some women were damaged beyond repair when their fathers and uncles were killed. Others found an inner strength. Som was a survivor. She’d found a way around the killings. Father killed. Pass the rice. Uncles slaughtered. Time to go into the fields to plant, weed, or harvest more rice. He wanted to ask about her mother and aunts but thought better of it. Sometimes it was better not to ask too many personal questions too soon. He would have the chance to interview her later.
Som couldn’t have weighed more than forty-three kilos. The name “Som” translated as orange. The color orange or the fruit, depending on the context. Or a name used by a Burmese woman on the run from a violent past.
“The bag has seven kilos on you. Let me give you some help. We won’t tell nai, will we?”
She stared at him for a moment, wondering if he was playing a mind-game, and when it appeared he was genuine, she smiled. “You a very good man,” she said, her head inside the trunk of the Honda. She rose up with a bag of feed on her back.
“We put them here for now.”
They stacked the bags on the concrete floor behind the pickup truck. The dogs sniffed around the bags. As the Great Dane hiked its leg, Som shouted in Thai for him to stop. Its head turned, the brown eyes sad and defeated, and dropping its leg, the Great Dane, head lowered, approached her. She patted its head.
“Tomorrow, the strike is over, and I can get someone help me move the bags.”
She walked ahead. Calvino stood beside the bags, the Great Dane sniffing his pant legs. “Dober doesn’t bite,” said Som.
He looked back at the dog, wondering what kind of name “Dober” was.
“I am not worried.”
“Nai is expecting you. We must go.”
Som led the way, crossing the arched bridge over a wide moat. She looked down at the water as she waited for Calvino to catch up. He looked down. In the muddy water below, the large head of a catfish broke the surface, its whiskers beaded with water, only to submerge itself, the tail flicking the water as it closed over the large fish. Calvino had drawn alongside and watched the fish. Insects glided over the surface. Fish jumped, snagging dinner off the surface of the water, then disappearing as fins and tails lashed the water. There was something medieval about a moat and something totally in place at the same time.
A splash carried over the bridge. “They feed this time of day,” said Som.
“It is very terrible and very beautiful.”
The Great Dane and the other two dogs came to a dead stop at the foot of the bridge. The dogs sensed where the line had been drawn, and beyond that point they couldn’t go.
On the opposite side of the stone bridge, through a narrow passageway, the path opened into a small Bali-style courtyard. Wild orchids and banana trees grew along the verge running beside a whitewashed wall. Shoes had been carefully lined up in pairs near the threshold to the main living quarters. Som slipped off her sandals, squared them so that the toes and heels were even, and waited until Calvino finished removing his shoes. She lined them up as well next to her sandals. He followed her inside.
There was a series of single-story buildings with gabled roofs arched together. They had been built so the windows overlooked a central swimming pool. On the night of the house-warming years before, Calvino remembered, the pool had been dotted with white lotus petals. Incense burnt in pots alon
g the edge of the pool and Valentine’s guests sat in deck chairs watching as one of Valentine’s women languidly swam laps in a tiny bikini. This time the pool looked different, less exotic and more functional—like a health-club pool. No white lotus petals floated on the surface nor were there incense sticks burning in clay pots nor were nubile women swimming to the sound of Mozart piped from Bose speakers hidden among the banana trees around the perimeter. On that evening seven years ago, a Mozart recording was playing; it was a recording from a Royal Albert Hall recital with Valentine on the grand concert piano. That was before he had as the Thais said, gone lud lok. Before he had fallen off the world.
As Calvino entered the world Valentine had fallen into, the feeling was that it was the same but changed in subtle ways. Oil lanterns with large upside-down cones lined the perimeter of the large pool. The surface of the pool was placid and smooth, and the grounds empty of people. He wondered about the strike. There were leaves floating in the pool. It hadn’t been cleaned for a couple of days from the look of it. He expected Valentine to pop out at any moment, but he wasn’t anywhere to be found. Having done her primary duty, Som disappeared. Without a word, she had gone back over the bridge to the outbuildings where the kitchen was located. Left alone, he wandered around the dining area enclosed by a wall on two sides and above by a heavily beamed roof with a rotating fan. In the center of this room was a long teak dining table. Dinner service was set for three people. Calvino wondered who the third guest would be. If he were a betting man, he would have put money that the third chair would be used by one of Valentine’s harem. He liked the company of beautiful women. That much Calvino remembered. In the kitchen area, he walked past cupboards and a long wooden counter. He continued to the far end of the kitchen and examined a number of jars lining one shelf. Each jar contained snakes. Some with stripes and others with dull green skin, dull lidless eyes. Calvino picked up one jar and examined it. Valentine silently crept up from behind.
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