* fate
Not surprisingly, the police didn't see it like that. “They just laughed at me and said, ‘He's gone to Pattaya to look for girls.’ They think I'm some Thai woman who's lost her farang+ boyfriend.” She crossed her arms under her chest. “I have a good job, I have my own car. I don't need a farang to look after me."
+ Western foreigner
I looked across to Doi's desk, caught her eye, and shrugged. “I'll be honest, it's not a lot to go on. But if you're really willing to pay for this, then it's two thousand baht a day, two days in advance. Okay, look . . . make it one thousand five hundred, one day in advance.” After Atiya went out I said, “As it's for a good cause."
Doi made a face. “A good cause with good legs."
* * * *
Atiya didn't have Anthony's phone number or the address of his guesthouse, which left me only the Calculator Championship itself. They were holding it in Pantip Plaza, the computer geek Mecca of Thailand. Six floors of motherboards and CPUs, memory sticks and hard drives, LAN cables and webcams, and basically anything else guaranteed to make a geek drool, not to mention pirate CDs of all the most up-to-date software, newest films, and the latest porn.
The floors of Pantip rise around an internal courtyard, the first half of which was devoted to Pantip's particular brand of miscellaneous tat: alarm clocks, binoculars, hair curlers, laser pointers, megaphones. The space beyond this had been cleared out to make way for a small stage covered in red velvet, set in front of four rows of chairs. Up on the stage were two tables, each with two chairs facing each other. A large whiteboard, currently blank, loomed behind the tables. Nothing was happening on the stage, while of the chairs below, about half (thirty-odd) were taken. I would like to report that the audience for the World Human Calculator Championship represented a true cross-section of Thai society: dark-skinned manual laborers, middle-aged professorial types, hi-so women dripping jewelry, young girls in low-rise jeans . . . I'd like to report that, but I can't.
Yup, they were all guys under thirty. Everyone had left his girlfriend at home, possibly on his hard drive. Well, they do say clichés exist for a reason.
I spent some time scanning the audience, looking for—I don't know—the Least Geek Geek. Or the Most Geek Geek. Then two white guys came up onto the stage and took seats facing each other. The one on the left was in his late twenties, had a shock of unruly red hair and a flinty, unhappy face. He stared down at the table, as though forced onto the stage against his will. The guy on the right was about ten years older, slightly podgy, wore a Hawaiian shirt, a black goatee, and an air of quiet toleration, like a film star who was used to being noticed. He looked at his opponent, looked out at the crowd. Then a Thai woman in a tight black bodysuit joined them, tossed her hair a couple of times, and told the crowd via a microphone how excited she was to begin the last match of round one. She placed a sheet of paper and a pencil in front of each competitor, paused, and said, “Go,” into the microphone. Each man snapped over his paper and sat staring. Redhead looked angry, Goatee looked blank. On the whiteboard the woman wrote 4 (square root) 9648573. For a beat nothing happened. Then Goatee snatched up his pencil, stabbed an answer onto the paper and dropped the pencil as though it had burned him. Redhead made a despairing noise, pushed his chair back and stared up at the ceiling. The woman took Goatee's paper and wrote 55.733 on the board. Below that she wrote the true answer, demonstrating what the crowd, with its calculators out, could already tell. The man had been right to the first five figures. There was a scatter of applause and the two men shook hands. As the audience drifted off I reflected that while it wasn't the most compelling spectator sport in the world, the more you thought about what you'd seen, the more special it became.
Redhead jammed his hands into his trouser pockets and slouched off to the escalator. I wondered what he was thinking. Unlike a physical competition, he couldn't blame luck or the bad bounce of a ball. The loser was stuck in his own mind. As I watched, he went up to the second floor and, once there, ambled over to the booth selling coupons for the food court. Meanwhile, Goatee had gone, disappeared into the crowd.
Off to one side of the stage there was an organizers’ table. The emcee in the black bodysuit was there, chatting with the woman behind it. I went over. “Excuse me, a friend of mine is competing here. His name's Anthony."
"Mr. Ann-tony.” The woman behind the table nodded as though she'd been expecting me. She wore a businesslike white blouse and dark blazer, the effect offset somewhat by a pair of shocking pink spectacles. Turning an A4 list towards me, she pointed, “Care-wen-dish?” I scanned the list of names. Anthony Cavendish was the only Anthony there, so presumably it had to be him. “You have a number?” the woman asked.
"No, sorry. Actually, I came here trying to find him."
She took on the frowning, reluctant look of someone about to be drawn into an argument. “We can't give a refund. I'm sorry. It said in the rules."
"Right, and that's because . . . ?"
She waved a hand at the stage. “Round One already finish. It's too late."
"You mean he never turned up?” She shook her head. “Oh well, don't worry. I mean, I'd explain that to him if only I could find him."
"You try his friend?"
"That's a Thai woman, right?"
"No, a Thai man.” She craned her neck to look over my shoulder. “He was here asking as well, but I can't see him now."
I thanked her and left, thinking: This is what I should be doing.
I decided on lunch for myself, bought a plate of grapao moo at the food court, then went looking for Redhead. He was sitting by the railing overlooking the courtyard, toying with a bowl of noodles. He glanced up, saw me by his table, and said in one of those Birmingham accents that always sounds querulous, “Eh, mate, d'you know what this is?” He was holding a wobbling brownish red cube between his chopsticks.
"It's coagulated chicken blood."
"Oh well, that's all right then,” he said taking a bite. “Can't be too careful in the tropics, can you?"
"Hey, by the way, sorry about losing down there. It's amazing you can even try something like that."
He shrugged. “Blown out before I got started.” He took in the fact that I was still standing in front of him. “Have a seat, if you want."
We shook hands and introduced ourselves. He was Colin Krasinsky ("Me dad's Polish but I don't speak it"), worked for the DHSS, and was going to use his remaining time here as a holiday. “I'm owed some leave."
"And you seemed close to getting it."
"Mate, you're always close to getting it. It's brutal, this game.” He sighed. “Heinrich's a piece of work."
"Guy you were playing?"
"He's a motivational speaker, y'know. That's where the money is. It's not in the calculations, it's in being the person who can do them."
"Why not try it yourself?"
"I would . . . but I'm not very motivational.” He looked out across the food court. “Can't believe they had it here. Computers everywhere you look. It's like they want to tell us we're obsolete.” He raised his head and intoned, “You are the discarded fag ash of the electronic world.” I decided he was probably right about the motivational speaking. “There's a contestant here I'm trying to find. Bloke called Anthony Cavendish."
"Yeah, I was wondering why he didn't show. Lucky ol’ Enrico got a bye."
"You know him then?"
"We all know each other. There aren't many people in the world who can do this. In fact, I was talking about it to Anthony one time.” He leaned over the table. “Take your footballer. Top zero point one percentile in the country will probably be enough to get you a flash house, a Porsche, and a lingerie model girlfriend.” He sat back and pointed to his chest. “Me, on the other hand. I am in the top zero point zero zero one percentile of human calculators. Not to be coming it, but I am. We all are. And I'm on peanuts from the DHSS, Anthony was in a sub-post office last I heard—"
"I think he's unemploye
d now."
Colin shook his head. “Never lasts long. Calculating on work time. I've told the lad."
"The reason I'm looking for him is there's someone who thinks he might be in trouble."
"Someone who?"
"A Thai woman."
Colin grinned. “The sly old dog."
"But why would he come all the way here and then not show?"
"Beats me.” He frowned. “I wonder if Heinrich knows? He'll be pissed."
"Because?"
"He was going to help Anthony pay for his plane ticket, that's what I heard. Always a bit on the brassic side is our Anthony."
"That was nice of him. Heinrich, I mean."
"We're brothers. I know that sounds wet, but . . . it's only other calculators who understand you. Say you get the seventh root of a nine-digit number in under thirty seconds, who are you going to tell?"
"You could tell me, I'd be impressed."
"Yeah, but can you see how it's so much harder than the fifth root?"
"Fair point."
"Poor ol’ Anthony. And he could have been the Man here."
"You mean he could have won it?"
Colin nodded. “If you're talking brain power, yeah. I've seen the lad do ninth roots for fun. But it's never just that. People like me and Heinrich, we're not the greats but we know how to compete.” He pointed his chopsticks at me. “You've got to bring your game to the table. Whereas Anthony . . . he's a dreamer. I can be talking to him about football and he's looking out the window multiplying license plates. Then he comes to a championship like this and while everyone's getting their head together he's thinking about football."
"So what are your plans now?"
"Ko Samet, I reckon. I'll have a word with Heinrich probably. Get the gen."
"Heinrich knows Thailand then?"
"Comes every year. That's motivational speaking for you, that is.” He sat back and put his hands behind his head. “Have you noticed how some people sort of do, and some people sort of don't?"
"Do?"
"Life, you know. They sort of get it."
I gave Colin my card, copied down his mobile number, and asked him to call me if he heard from Anthony. Then I wised up and asked if he'd given his Bangkok address to the organizers. He had.
Back at the organizers’ table I had a chat with Pink Spectacles and learnt her name was Malinee. She told me Anthony had done the same.
"So you must have talked to him?"
"No, it's by the Internet. Have a Web site.” She clicked at her mouse while staring at the flat screen monitor. He pay for an entry fee by the Internet as well."
"Can you tell me when?"
"It's the twenty-third,” she said, the white screen reflecting off her glasses. Today was the thirtieth, so he'd paid from England. Then she said, “It's the same as Bausch-man. Mr. Heinrich. Same card."
"You mean Heinrich paid Anthony's entry fee? The guy on the stage just now?” She nodded. “You know, I could really do with finding out where Anthony's staying."
"I'm sorry, we can't give the addresses."
"It's just that a friend of his thinks he might not be well. She wants me to check on him."
Malinee tilted her head to one side, considered me in a friendly, interested way, and relented. It was the Orchid Guesthouse in Banglampoo, a low-budget area where all the backpackers go. I borrowed a pen and scribbled the address on the palm of my hand. Then I checked on the Championship schedule. Heinrich would be appearing in the quarterfinals in two days’ time.
* * * *
"He left,” shrugged Mr. Wen, owner of the Orchid Guesthouse. He was a large Chinese-Thai man, sitting in his office bare chested below a ceiling fan. A small portable TV balanced on a filing cabinet was showing a Thai boxing match, the reception from the indoor aerial waxing and waning. Mr. Wen was behind his glass-topped desk, bills and receipts visible under the glass. On the wall behind him was a commercial calendar and above that a picture of the king. The tiny office had no windows and the ceiling fan really did very little in the way of breeze.
"So we're talking two days ago?” I asked. Mr. Wen nodded. Before his chat with Atiya then. “And he didn't say where he was going?"
"Yes, he didn't say."
"How did he seem?"
"Seem?"
"Happy? Sad? Worried?"
Mr. Wen shrugged. “He seem like he want to leave. Why don't you ask his friend?"
I thought, not again. “Is this a man or a woman?"
"It's both."
"What did they look like?"
"The woman.” He put up his thumb. "Suey." Beautiful. “The man . . . he's a man. They want to know where he go.” He added in Thai, “And don't ask me if they're happy or sad, I'm not a fortune-teller."
I left Mr. Wen a business card for good measure and went off to get a bus back to Chinatown, reflecting that Atiya's sense for things gone wrong was turning out to be pretty good.
* * * *
It was about half past two by the time I got back to our office. The fiery March sun was slanting in between the slats of the venetian blinds, throwing bars of shadow onto the wall behind my desk. A standing fan was rattling through a half circle. It wasn't much cooler than Mr. Wen's office. Doi was busy translating the documents of a farang who was applying for a resident's permit. It was the only work we had. So I resorted to my usual strategies when there was nothing to do: drummed my fingers on my desk, set about clearing out the drawers of said desk, considered rereading today's Khao Sod, drummed my fingers some more. Doi looked up and said, “Vijay, why don't you go if there's nothing for you?"
"You never know, we might get a client."
She pouted. “Whenever you say that no one come."
And sure enough no one did. But at close to five my phone rang. “Vijay, now what are you up to?” It was my police captain friend, Mana. “At the moment, drumming my fingers on the desk to help Doi concentrate."
"Don't joke about, I'm serious. Who you annoy?"
"No one as far as I know."
"Your work was supposed to be helping farangs with gem scams. You're not supposed to trouble big people."
"I didn't think I was."
"Someone phone my boss and make him nervous. Now he wants to know all about you. I'm supposed to check you have a work permit. You have one, right?"
"Not a totally up-to-date one."
A heavy sigh came down the line. “Please tell me you at least have a visa."
"Yup, that bit's okay. But look, the only case I've got is finding a farang who's gone missing. He's no one special. Just some unemployed guy from London."
"Who wants to find him?"
"A Thai woman."
"The girlfriend?"
"No, it's not like that. Just . . . someone who thinks he needs finding."
"Vijay, look, I'm going to tell my boss everything's okay. You're lucky you live in my precinct, you know that? Remember, this is Thailand. You don't make trouble for people at the top."
I told Mana I wouldn't, which was easier said than done considering I didn't even know who this person was. All I did know was that I'd only given out two business cards, and it was for damn sure Colin Krasinsky did not have a hotline to the rich and famous. Which meant the man and woman who'd visited Mr. Wen had come back, and he'd told them about me. Or possibly, they'd told him to get in touch if anyone came asking. Either way, it had only taken a few hours for Mana's boss, a chief inspector, to be at someone's beck and call. The secret life of Anthony The Calculator was getting stranger and stranger.
* * * *
The next morning I made it to Pantip Plaza before ten o'clock and hung around outside the tinted glass doors, waiting for them to open. When I got inside I found Malinee already there setting up her computer. Again she was in a serious business outfit—navy blue trouser suit—topped off by her dippy pink specs. I wondered if that particular look was supposed to say something about her, and if so, what.
She saw me and smiled. I decided to play the
farang-in-trouble card, which among ordinary working people succeeds surprisingly often. It's a part of Thai national pride and a part of Thai kindness to want that foreigners come here, enjoy themselves, then go home and speak well of the country. So I told her how Anthony was still missing and how people in England were worried. Perhaps if I could speak to Mr. Heinrich, that might help. I knew she wasn't supposed to give away addresses, but this was an emergency. And he was Mr. Anthony's friend, had paid for his registration, remember?
Eventually she agreed and searched it out. No backpacker hangouts for Heinrich, he was in the Amari Watergate, a short walk from Pantip. Very convenient and very expensive.
At the Amari reception desk I asked for Mr. Baushman's room and phoned up. When I told him it was about Anthony, Heinrich said he'd come down immediately. I sank into a deep lobby armchair and enjoyed my surroundings—polished marble floor, high, chandeliered ceiling, bus-boys and waiters padding through the calm, air-conditioned hush. When Heinrich arrived he was in Bermuda shorts and a bright yellow silk shirt of Indonesian design.
I waved him over and introduced myself. Taking a seat opposite, he said, “This is strange. To my knowledge Anthony has never been in Thailand before. Who is this woman who takes an interest in him?"
"Just someone he met, someone who thinks he's in trouble. What do you think?"
He sighed. “With Anthony, how can we know? But it is a pity."
"And a waste of money, I'd have thought. Colin said you were going to help him with the plane ticket?"
"I paid half, two hundred and thirty-seven euros."
"And what about the competition? Is there an entry fee?"
"I paid with my credit card. But if you have taken my address from the organizers, then perhaps you already know this fact.” I opened my hands and grinned. “Anthony did not have a card. In some ways he is not wholly of the modern world. But he promised to return something to me."
AHMM, May 2011 Page 5
