by Peter May
Back in her room, she asked the hotel exchange to get her a number for Tuk Than. She rang several times over the next hour, but there was no reply. Her spirits, which had lifted a little with the morning, sank once again, and she began to think this whole trip was nothing more than a wild goose chase. She lay back on the bed and wondered what to do. She could always phone later, or even call round to the house. In the afternoon, perhaps. But what would she do till then? The city scared her. A place like Bangkok, a girl on her own.
Oh, to hell, she thought. I’ve come all this way, I’m damned if I’m going to spend the entire time sitting in a hotel room. And, anyway, if I’m ever to be a reporter . . . She remembered reading in a magazine on the plane an article about the Grand Palace. So she showered, and changed, put on her make-up, then went boldly down to the lobby and left her key at reception.
The city beckoned through the glass doors, a bustling street thick with traffic and people. She summoned all her courage and went out, and the heat wrapped around her like a hot, wet blanket. The heat. She had forgotten about the heat, and her courage wilted in it.
‘Taxi?’ One of several men loitering in a group outside approached her, touts trying to scrape a living from the tourists. He leered at her suggestively.
She hesitated, for a moment about to turn back to the safety of the hotel, then looked him straight in the eye and said with a confidence she did not feel, ‘Yes, please.’
He seemed surprised. ‘You wait.’ And he went down on to the pavement and waved an arm at the passing stream of cars. Almost immediately a white car with a taxi sign on the roof pulled in at the kerbside and a good-looking young man, with short, dark hair and a disarming smile, leaned across from the driver’s side and rolled down the window. The two men had a brief exchange, then the driver nodded and got out the car. ‘This man will take you,’ the tout said.
Lisa felt quite pleased with herself. Perhaps she would manage better than she had hoped. She passed the tout a few coins and he grinned and nodded his thanks. The young driver opened the rear passenger door for her. And now she was surprised. Things were looking up after the unpleasant experience of the night before. She smiled and got in, grateful for the cool of the air-conditioned interior. ‘Thank you.’
The driver spoke a polite, stilted English and, she thought, he really was very good-looking. ‘Where would you like to go?’
‘I have some time to kill. I thought I’d see the Grand Palace.’
‘You are tourist, then?’
‘Sort of.’ And she supposed that’s what she was, although it was not what she had come for.
‘If you want, I take you on tour of Bangkok.’
She hesitated. That might come quite expensive. But she had money, hadn’t she? She could afford it. ‘Why not? Starting at the Grand Palace.’
‘Okay.’ He smiled at her and leaned on the back of the seat, waiting, as though expecting her to say something more. Then, ‘How much?’ he asked.
She frowned. ‘Well – just set the meter.’
His smile widened and he shook his head at her naivety. ‘In Bangkok,’ he said, ‘all taxis have meters. But they never work. You must agree price before or else driver will rip you off.’
‘Oh.’ She was not at all used to this. ‘Well – how much do you want?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You want me rip you off?’
She laughed at his directness. ‘I’d rather you didn’t. But I’ve really no idea how much.’
He began to laugh. ‘You are too innocent, lady.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Two hundred baht, and I take you anywhere you want for the day.’
She made a quick mental calculation and was pleasantly surprised. ‘Alright. But you decide where we go. I really wouldn’t have a clue. Do you want the money now?’
‘No, you pay after.’ He put the car in gear, slipped out into the traffic and glanced at her in the mirror. ‘You know anything about Bangkok?’
‘Well, no, not really,’ Lisa admitted. ‘Except it’s the capital of Thailand and Thailand used to be called Siam.’
He shrugged. ‘Is a start.’ He talked as he drove. ‘You know that Bangkok is only what foreigners call our city?’ She shook her head. ‘In Thai it means place of olives , but it is only small part of the city. You want to know real name?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose I should.’
Grinning, he took a deep breath . . .
‘Krungthepmahanakhornbowornrattanakosinmahintarayuthaya-mahadilokpopnparatratchathaniburiromudomratchaniwetmahasathan.’
She giggled. ‘You’re kidding!’
‘No,’ he said solemnly. ‘That is official name. But many Thai people smoke cigarettes and have no breath left to say this name, so we call it Krung Thep for short – the city of angels.’ Lisa was not at all sure that he wasn’t pulling her leg. There was such mischief in those smiling eyes in the mirror. ‘My name is Sivara,’ he said. ‘If you tell me your name I don’t keep calling you lady.’
‘I’m Lisa.’
‘Lisa. This is good name.’
Sivara parked the car off Maharaj Road and walked her through the Grand Palace. Wide, elegant squares flanked by grand buildings and temples – built in the Ratanakosin style, he told her – inlaid with glittering mosaics of glass and ceramic and gold and precious stones. Giant statues of colourful Thai warriors guarded every flight of steps, every entrance. A long and elaborate fresco mural lined the inside walls of the compound in the shade of arched colonnades – the Thai version of the Indian epic Ramayana. He took her to the adjoining Wat Phra Keo. ‘The Temple of the Emerald Buddha,’ he said.
An armed guard stood in the doorway. A sign warned that visitors must not take photographs of the Buddha, and rolls of film ripped from the cameras of tourists who had ignored the warning hung from a wooden rack just inside. ‘Can we go in?’ Lisa asked.
‘Of course. But you must take off shoes first and never point feet directly at Buddha. It is great insult.’ They left their shoes at the door, walked into the cool of the wat and knelt on the cold stone tiles. The Buddha sat high up in a glass case draped with a fine shawl. ‘To keep Buddha warm,’ Sivara said.
Lisa stifled a laugh. ‘Warm! In this heat?’
‘It is our cool season,’ he said gravely. ‘The King himself changes the robe on the Buddha at start of each season.’
‘God, if this is cool, I’d hate to be here when it’s hot.’ She looked up at the pale green carved Buddha and wondered if offering it a prayer might help her find her father. ‘Is it really solid emerald?’
Sivara smiled knowingly. ‘It says so in the guidebooks.’ He paused then added, ‘Actually, is made of jasper, like jade. Come, I take you to Wat Traimit, the temple of the Golden Buddha.’
He parked opposite the temple in Charoen Krung Road, in front of a row of dark shops that disappeared into the crumbling interiors of dilapidated buildings. Incurious Asian faces peered out from the gloom. The temple itself was an undistinguished building set in a small, scrubby garden. Inside, it was dark and smelled of burning incense, and against one wall sat the Golden Buddha. It stood a massive three metres high and shone brightly as though burning. Lisa looked at it in awe. ‘It’s never solid gold!’
She did not notice how Sivara ran appraising eyes over her body as she stared at the Buddha. ‘Five and half tons,’ he said. ‘Solid gold. It was discovered only thirty years ago. It had skin of plaster and when it was being moved it fell and broke and they found gold underneath.’
‘It must be worth a fortune.’
‘Buddha does not measure life by wealth,’ Sivara said. ‘Is not important.’
She watched Thai worshippers buying small flakes of gold leaf which they stuck to images of the Buddha, and she turned to Sivara. ‘If he places so little value on wealth, why is it all his images are made of gold or precious stone, or stuck with gold leaf?’
>
His smile faded. ‘You have seen enough now? I take you back.’ He turned away, out of the temple and across the road towards the car. She chased after him.
‘Sivara, Sivara, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to give offence.’
‘If I come to your country I do not say such things of your God,’ he said.
Lisa said, ‘I’m not sure I have a God.’
In the taxi she said, ‘It must be about lunchtime. Can you take me somewhere to eat? You must know the best places.’
‘Of course.’ But he did not smile, and the mischief had gone from his eyes.
He pulled in on Siam Square, near the station, and pointed out a large noodle shop called Co-Co at the corner of one of the many alleyways leading off the square. ‘Very good Chinese food,’ he said.
‘That sounds great.’ She started to get out of the car, but he made no move. ‘What about you?’
‘I wait in car.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, you must come and eat with me.’
‘Is too expensive for me.’
‘Not when I’m paying, it’s not. Oh, come on.’ She gave him a playful push on the shoulder. ‘I don’t want to eat on my own, and I wouldn’t know what to order anyway.’
For a moment she thought he was going to refuse, then he turned and smiled, the mischief back in his eyes. ‘How can I refuse beautiful lady like you?’
Sivara ordered, and endless bowls of rice and noodles and chicken and beef and fish in various sauces arrived at their table. They drank sake and laughed a lot at the way she was frightened to try things, and all the questions she asked before she would even take a taste. ‘It’s not like the Chinese restaurants at home,’ she said.
She felt herself getting quite light-headed with the sake. She was relaxed and felt good for the first time in weeks. He told her about himself and his family, eyes sparkling at her the whole time. Fine, dark, laughing eyes. She laughed when he told her about his young brother who would arrange himself on the pavement, outside one of the big tourists hotels, early in the morning, so that he appeared to have no legs. He easily filled the bowl he placed in front of him, appealing to the fragile conscience of affluent Westerners. And at the end of the day he would get up and walk away with his takings on stiff legs. Sivara got up and did a stiff-legged walk around their table to impersonate his brother.
When he sat down again and her laughter had subsided, he looked at her very seriously and said, ‘You really are very beautiful, Lisa.’ And he slipped a hand over hers. She withdrew her hand slowly, not unflattered by his interest. And it occurred to her, through a warm haze of alcohol, that she had been picked up and was paying for the privilege.
Sivara ordered more sake and Lisa drank and felt giddy. But she didn’t care. She was having a good time and Sivara was lovely. She suddenly remembered that she had not phoned David as he had asked. To hell with David, she thought. Sivara talked and talked. How he would like to visit England and America. He had seen so much of these countries on television and would really like to go. But he was only a taxi driver. He could not afford such a trip. Travel was for the wealthy. And Lisa told him how this was the first time she had ever been out of England. When the bill came she paid and asked, ‘What shall we do now?’
‘We could go to floating market at Thonburi,’ he said. ‘You like that?’
‘Oh, yes, let’s. Is it far?’
‘We go by boat, on the klongs. But you must pay.’
‘Oh.’ She looked at the dwindling number of notes in her purse. ‘I need to change some more money.’
‘Is not problem. I will take you to money changer.’
In a small, airless room at the back of a shop in a nearby sidestreet, an obsequious little man with no hair and one tooth changed a traveller’s cheque for her. Sivara sat waiting impassively in a chair at the back of the room, looking cool in his neatly pressed white shirt. ‘Is this the proper rate of exchange?’ she asked him.
He nodded gravely. ‘It is very good rate, Lisa. This man is friend of mine.’
Lisa didn’t much like the look of Sivara’s friend, but he passed her a bundle of notes in exchange for her cheque and didn’t even ask to see her passport. It was certainly simpler than going to the bank and, she thought, he had a funny face. When he closed his mouth his single yellow peg of a tooth protruded over his lower lip. But she was glad to get back to the taxi, sitting in the front now beside Sivara, as they drove down to the landing stage at the Oriental Hotel.
Sivara got them a hang yao and told her she would have to pay the driver, but that he had got her a very good price. She paid and sat behind Sivara, holding on to his shoulders as the long sleek boat powered its way down the Chao Phraya river and into the Klong Dao Kanong. Children, standing waist-deep in the klong water, waved as they passed. A boatload of saffron-robed monks smiled serenely. Lisa was exhilarated by the wind in her face, the spray from the water, the sights and sounds of an alien culture; teak houses on stilts, rickety bridges, and the dozens of boats, sampans, water-buses and rice barges that trafficked up and down the klongs. Old ladies, wearing reed-woven sunhats like upturned lampshades, sold hot meals from floating kitchens.
The floating market at Thonburi was thick with tourists and boats selling all manner of goods, from vegetables and live chickens to opium pipes and herbal remedies. Dozens of boats bobbed gently together on the water, owners engaged in lively conversations with competitors, or bargaining with potential buyers.
Sivara got their driver to cruise slowly among the boats so that Lisa could look at everything. She bought them some fruit, a straw hat for herself and, despite his protests, a couple of shirts for Sivara. ‘That’s for being so good to a stranger in Bangkok,’ she said and kissed him lightly on the cheek. She did not see the look in his eyes, only the smile.
They bought drinks from one boat. A concoction of various fruit juices and Thai whisky. Lisa was a little dubious. But Sivara encouraged her. ‘Is very good. Very refreshing,’ he said. ‘You like it.’ And she did. It was cold and sweet, and she felt a glow across her cheeks. ‘Another?’
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘I think I’ve had quite enough. I feel as though I’m getting very drunk.’ But more than the drink, she was intoxicated by the seductive allure of the Orient, by her new undreamed-of freedom, by the good-looking young Asian man who so clearly found her attractive.
On the way back she put her arms around his waist and rested her head on his back. ‘I’m so tired,’ she whispered. ‘So tired.’ He turned his head to look back and smile at her, and he squeezed one of her hands. She barely noticed.
It was almost dark when they got back to the Oriental landing stage, and Lisa put her arm through his as they walked to the taxi. ‘I have to go back to the hotel,’ she said, suddenly remembering. ‘I have to make a phone call.’ She turned to him as he opened the car door for her. ‘Thank you, Sivara. I’ve had a really lovely day.’
He smiled, his hand brushing her arm. ‘I enjoy it, too, Lisa.’
She got in beside him and they drove through the dark streets in silence. She felt pleased with herself. For a novice in these matters she had managed very well on her first day in the mysterious East. She was even beginning to get used to the heat.
They seemed to be driving for a long time through dark, narrow streets, away from the main thoroughfares. The buildings on either side were very old and shrouded in night. ‘Are we nearly there?’ she asked.
‘I must collect parcel from friend first,’ Sivara said. ‘Will not be long.’ And for the first time she had a dark sense of foreboding.
‘Couldn’t you drop me off first?’
‘Quicker this way.’
‘Please, Sivara. I must make that phone call.’
‘Shut up!’ His voice was sharp and ugly and hit her like a slap in the face. Her heart was thumping.
‘Sivara, stop the car, I want
to get out.’ She grabbed the wheel, and he turned and struck her viciously across the mouth with the back of his hand. The blow knocked her sideways and she struck her head hard against the side window. She felt dizzy and sick and her mind was fogged with fear and confusion. Why was he doing this? He had been so lovely, so kind.
The car turned into a blind alley and jerked to a halt. She heard the driver’s door open, and then he was round at the passenger side, opening the door and dragging her out. She tried to pull away, but felt weak and sick and he was much too strong, hands holding her wrists with a grip like a vice.
‘Sivara, please . . .’ He threw her back against the wall and she struck her head hard and slid to the ground. She was aware of him grabbing her bag and taking out her passport and purse. He dropped the passport and pushed the purse into a back pocket and threw the bag away. Then he was standing over her, undoing the buckle of his belt. The mischief in his eyes had been replaced by lust and malice.
‘English slut!’ he hissed.
She tried to get to her feet, but he grabbed the neck of her T-shirt, ripping it away and exposing her breasts. Then he punched her in the face and her world went black.
*
The doctor looked cool in his white suit. He had cropped, silver hair and a wrinkled, brown face. He was carrying a small black bag in his right hand. Tuk was waiting for him in the hall at the foot of the stairs. He led him through to the study and poured them both a drink. He could smell the spice of the doctor’s aftershave. ‘Well?’ he asked, and handed him his drink.
The doctor took a sip. ‘She is concussed, of course. Has several nasty contusions about her face and wrists. But nothing serious, nothing broken. She is also in a state of shock. She should rest for several days.’
