That’s how she thought of him. Literally, in Thai: maewfawbaahn. (Maew is “cat”; faw is “watch over”; baahn is “house.”) Maewfawbaahn means “catwatchhouse,” or watchcat. Actually his name was Whiskey, because of his golden fur. But he seemed to appreciate the title and the prestige it conferred. He was a very honorable cat.
Her little home wasn’t much to brag about, but she loved it nonetheless. It was a townhouse built in the old Lanna style, with wide-board teak floors, exposed beams, and white plaster walls. There was a small living room and kitchen on the first floor, and a small bedroom, study, and bathroom on the second. That was all. It was to be a starter house for her and Somboon, but they never… started. So sixteen years later, twelve years since he died, here she was, still.
For some time, in the back of her mind, there had lurked the vague notion that she might perhaps… remarry someday. Nothing more than a general idea. Certainly nothing that had taken shape.
Nor would it ever take shape. Statistically speaking, Ladarat knew that she would never remarry. Most people marry once, do they not? And they call themselves fortunate to do so. Perhaps a select few are fortunate enough—and attractive enough—to find love twice. But surely they were in the minority.
And did she have attributes that would justify her place in that fortunate minority? She most certainly did not. She was neither pretty nor intelligent, nor was she a good cook. In short, she possessed none of those qualities that might lead her to think she could find love a second time.
So here she was, with her house and its garden out back. Ladarat was most proud of that garden. Ladarat had no aptitude for growing things, but somehow plants here seemed to thrive spontaneously. Some were native to Thailand, like the Siam tulips around the edges of the patio. Their pretty fluted stalks were just as nice this time of year, in the fall, when they weren’t crowned with a flower. There was silver-leafed ginger, too, with stripes down the middle of its leaves that seemed to her as if they were little ladders. There were impatiens by the score, flowering now in a pure white and a fluorescent yellow. And even though they never seemed to flower, the gordonia bushes with tough dark green waxy leaves hid the ugly concrete block wall at the back of the garden. And gold-leafed philodendron with delicate riffled edges popped up here and there according to a whim of their own.
Whenever she came out here—which was almost every day that it wasn’t raining—she thanked her good fortune that she was not in Bangkok. Indeed, she had been to that enormous city only twice, and that was more than enough. The first time was with Somboon, on their honeymoon. They’d taken a plane that landed in the enormous Suvarnabhumi Airport outside of the city. The flight was only forty-five minutes, but it took them at least that long again to make their way through the gleaming corridors of the airport, surrounded on every side by marble and stainless steel and glass. She felt as though she were walking through a very wealthy person’s endless bathroom. The second time was for a conference about palliative care, and she took the train—a much more pleasant and relaxed experience of travel altogether.
But when she was there… oh dear. So big, and so dirty. The air pollution alone was surely the same as smoking a pack of cigarettes every day. And not the major brand imported ones, or even the counterfeits like the gullible Mr. Fuller bought, but the rough filterless cigarettes that were imported illegally from Cambodia. After an hour outside, she felt as though she had a bronchial infection. How could people live in such a place? And why would they want to?
Perhaps it was just as well that there were people with such predispositions. What if every person in Bangkok decided he or she would much prefer the clear skies and cool nights of Chiang Mai? What if all eleven million inhabitants of that big, dirty city took the train north and descended on her little garden? That would not do. Much better that they like the crowded streets and the dirty air, so she could have her town just the way it had always been.
Here in Chiang Mai, she had her garden, and she could sit and hear nothing at all. Or perhaps only Maewfawbaahn mewing for attention, and the little red-breasted swallows creating a chorus of chirping from back among the dense gordonia leaves. And that’s what she was going to do right now.
Too tired to cook, she’d picked up some tom nam khon—spicy prawn soup with coconut milk—and glooai tawt—banana fritters—from Khun Duanphen, the Isaan lady who ran the stall at the corner. At least, tirednesss was her excuse. But honestly, Ladarat couldn’t cook. She never had been able to. Besides, Duanphen’s tom nam khon was about the best in Chiang Mai. And she didn’t make it very spicy like some of the other stalls did. Too much spice is as bad for you as not enough. So Ladarat put Maewfawbaahn’s canned food under the table and settled her slight frame onto one of the two delicate iron chairs that sat before the matching table.
Ladarat was always careful to alternate between the two chairs. There is nothing sadder, she always thought, for a person who lives alone, as when half a home becomes worn out while the other half stays fresh. It’s as if a person’s incomplete life were imprinted on the world. So everyone would know that she is just half a person.
She would not let that happen. Anyone looking at her small home would note that the chairs are evenly worn and the silverware is evenly tarnished, and even her bed is worn on both sides. That evenness was a comfort to her, although if pressed, she wouldn’t be able to explain why it should be so.
Right now, though, she didn’t have to explain anything to anyone. She was sitting on the patio in back of the house that she owned, watching the sky above her turn from a bright white to a deep blue with the rapidity and surety of a scene change in a play. There were things she needed to think about, and many things she needed to worry over. Such was life. But she put them all out of her mind for the moment.
It was at this time of day, though, that she missed Somboon most acutely. During the day there were distractions and work; now was the time that people should sit quietly with family and talk over their day. They should tell each other what had happened. And, she imagined, they should ask each other for advice. Sitting here with Maewfawbaahn was pleasant enough, and restful. Still, it was now more than ever that she felt as though she was missing something.
But perhaps that was one more thing to worry about. And so she put it out of her mind, setting it on a shelf for later. There would be plenty of time to think about her future. And, of course, to worry about the upcoming inspection. And, of course, the mystery man and the murderer and her own future as a detective. For now, she would sit here savoring the last bites of her glooai tawt, with Maewfawbaahn happily on her lap, listening to the swallows argue about whatever it is swallows argue about.
Wan ang kaan
TUESDAY
THE HEALTH BENEFITS OF BUTTERFLY PEAFLOWER TEA
Are you well, Khun?”
Ladarat asked out of politeness, as one must. But truth be told, the man facing her across the medical records counter did not look well at all. In fact, he looked harried. His face was pale—even paler than is normal for a man who works in the windowless basement of a large hospital. And his short hair was mussed in odd, swept-back whorls as if he’d been running his hands over his head in frustration, as he did reflexively when he greeted her.
Of course Panit Booniliang was harried. He knew, as she did, that the hospital inspectors were likely to focus very intently on their medical records. The inspectors usually asked for many charts, and when they did, they wanted them immediately. It was almost as if, despite the fact that they were supposed to be interested in how well a hospital cared for patients, they forgot that, all around them, conscientious staff were trying to do just that. When they wanted a chart, they had to have it. So Panit Booniliang was a very nervous man.
He smiled the yim yae yae smile, which could be loosely translated as: “Well, it’s awful, but really, what can you do?”
This smile, she knew, told the story of why Khun Panit was in charge of medical records. He would do whatever he could to
prepare. And still he would be nervous. That was most un-Thai. His worrying was almost American. But in the event, he would realize that he’d done everything he could do and would retreat into the Thai state of choie, or imperturbable calm.
Alas, he was not quite there yet, as his roving glances across the wide, neat countertop revealed. He was still looking around for files out of place, as if he might see something that would remind him of a task he had forgotten. She hated to bother him now, but it couldn’t be helped.
Ladarat offered her own version of the yim yae yae smile and said she needed his help.
“It is about a matter to do with the care that we gave to an unfortunate man in the emergency room last week.”
“Yes, Khun?” She had gained at least a sliver of his attention. That was good, but she needed his full concentration for the matter at hand.
“He died,” she said. “It seems he died before he came to our hospital, but his death was pronounced officially here.”
“I see. And how old was this unfortunate man?”
“I believe he was about fifty.”
“And what time did he die?”
That was when Ladarat knew these questions weren’t prompted by idle curiosity or by concern. Not that Khun Panit was a heartless man, but his questions were typical of Thais faced with news about the death of someone they didn’t know. In a culture that was wrapped in superstition and beliefs about numbers, the story of a man’s death—his age, birthday, time of death—provide the raw ingredients for speculation that led, all too often, to a selection of numbers for that day’s lottery.
Once she’d even witnessed, much to her dismay, a gaggle of nursing students speculating about the death of a young woman—a katoey. A woman’s spirit trapped in a man’s body. Unable to cope with that cruel joke of fortune, she’d thrown herself off the roof of the Empress Hotel, one of the highest buildings in Chiang Mai. Ladarat was deeply ashamed of her profession to hear these nurses discussing how many floors the poor creature fell, so they could play those numbers in the lottery.
Panit Booniliang wasn’t like that. No, this was just the force of habit. These were the questions one asked. It was a reflex. That was all.
Still, better to cut off further questions to which she wouldn’t know the answer—birthdate, occupation… So she was perhaps a little more direct than she would have been in other circumstances,
“We have a problem.”
This got Khun Panit’s attention.
“I see, Khun. That is bad. What sort of problem?”
He was too polite to ask the question that was no doubt on his mind: What sort of problem could one have with a patient who is dead? Surely this couldn’t be a very important problem. Surely it couldn’t be more important than, say, preparing for next week’s inspection?
She would need to choose her words carefully. She mustn’t cause alarm, of course. Yet she must convey the gravity of the situation to a man who was understandably preoccupied.
There was a saying in Thai to which she’d had recourse many times in her career: Kling wai korn, pho sorn wai. Roughly: Do whatever needs to be done, to get through the moment.
Odd that in the United States such an aphorism would denote a strong-willed determination and a fundamental belief that defeat is impossible. But the Thai version was an illustration of creative pragmatism. Especially the importance of maintaining grace and smoothness, and a willingness to bend the truth if that’s what was required. And in this case, it most certainly was.
“We have received word that the inspectors are very interested in the care of patients who have died,” she announced, with what she hoped was a perfectly neutral face.
“Ahhh. This is from… an inside source?”
“It is.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed. That is, they are interested in the care of patients who have died suddenly. They will want to see records of patients in particular like this man, Zhang Wei, who died suddenly two nights ago.”
“But why?” Khun Panit could not hide his confusion. “Why would they be so interested in such a patient, when there are hundreds of other patients in this hospital right now?”
Why indeed? That was an excellent question.
“Besides, which,” he added, “from what you’ve told me, it seems that this man died outside our hospital. What could we have done that was good or bad?”
“Ah, but you see, that is perhaps the most important part of the practice of medicine.”
“It is?”
Ladarat was as surprised as Khun Panit had been to hear this. But she needed to invent an explanation. Quickly.
“Yes, indeed. When a patient dies, our responsibilities don’t end.”
“They don’t?”
“No, of course not.” Ladarat shook her head, warming to her topic. And wondering what words were going to come out of her mouth next.
Words were like that, she thought. Sometimes they surprised you by appearing. Or by failing to appear. Hopefully that wouldn’t happen in this case.
And indeed it did not.
“No,” she heard herself saying. “We still have an obligation—a duty—to help support the family. That means offering emotional support, for instance, and the chance to pray with one of our monks. It also means making sure the family has enough information about the cause of the patient’s death.”
The medical records clerk was nodding now, listening attentively.
“Because if families leave with unanswered questions, and if they are worried that perhaps not everything was done that could have been done…”
“Then there are ghosts. Phi tai hong.” He shuddered.
Ghosts? Ah, indeed. Ghosts (phi) were commonplace in Thai culture, and phi tai hong were particularly feared. They were vengeful ghosts of people who died suddenly, without the necessary preparation or Buddhist rituals.
Were such ghosts real? That was not a question that Ladarat had ever felt comfortable with. It was a wrong question. Unanswerable and unproductive.
A better question, perhaps, was what these ghosts meant to Thai people. That meaning was certainly real. And Ladarat had always thought that these beliefs—and beliefs about tai hong ghosts in particular—were a way of putting a face to guilty feelings. Guilty feelings for the bad things you may have said or done to a person during life. Or things you should have said but did not. A ghost was a way of doing penance for those things—expunging them through the fear that one felt.
Ah, but she was not a psychologist. Already a nurse, and an ethicist. And now perhaps a detective. That was enough professions for one diminutive Thai woman to take on in her lifetime. She would leave those sorts of theories to those who were better prepared.
The medical records clerk was watching her expectantly, as if waiting for her to confirm or deny the existence of phi tai hong. Instead, she simply nodded. “That is one concern, to be sure,” she said.
“Then they bring a lawsuit.”
“Well, yes, that is another concern,” Ladarat admitted. And one that, presumably, Khun Panit knew more about than ghosts, because whenever there was a lawsuit, it was he who was responsible for gathering all of a patient’s records. “But there is also the distress and anger and guilt that the family may feel. This is also our responsibility, is it not?”
Faced with such unassailable logic, Panit Booniliang had to agree that this was, in fact, their responsibility.
“But you see,” she concluded, “we don’t always support families as we should.”
“We don’t?”
“No.” She shook her head sadly. “We do not. It is easy to simply walk away from a patient who has died. And easier, usually, to walk away from his family. They are distressed and sad, and sometimes angry.”
“Ah, I see, so these inspectors, they want to see that our staff comforted the family. And that we—”
“Determined the cause of death, and shared that with his wife. Yes. They will want to see this. So,” she concluded, “I
need to review this man’s records, and his laboratory tests, to see whether the inspectors are likely to be satisfied with what they see.”
Ladarat was quite proud of herself. And even prouder when Khun Panit nodded once—a quick bob of his head—and disappeared through the double swinging doors behind him. During the short time he was gone, she had the opportunity to think about what she’d said. It was, she decided, as neat an example of kling wai korn, pho sorn wai as she’d ever accomplished.
And even better, it was true. That is, as health-care providers they should continue to care for families just as they did the patient. And it was true, too, what she said about walking away. Doctors and nurses today, they didn’t want the stress of those conversations. It was easier, they realized, to simply hand the death certificate to the ward clerk and disappear into another patient’s room where they couldn’t be disturbed.
She was still thinking about that, and how Thai culture was uniquely ill suited for these sorts of difficult conversations, when the medical records clerk reappeared. His smile suggested that he was not bringing good news.
Without saying anything, he held the chart by one corner, letting it flap open. There were no lab results inside, she could see. Nor were there any notes. Nor, honestly, was there anything else. The folder was entirely empty.
“Is it possible,” she asked hopefully, “that notes or tests haven’t been added to the chart?”
Khun Panit shook his head with a finality that she found disheartening, “No, Khun. A chart cannot be filed if there are pending tests, or if there are notes that need to be written.” He paused. “I suppose this is bad for us?”
Ladarat nodded. “Yes, it is bad.” Although perhaps not for the reasons she had divulged. No, what it meant was nothing that would give them any clues about whether this poor man’s death really was suspicious.
But… there. Stapled to the back of the chart. There were two sheets of paper. She reached for the chart and Khun Panit released it reluctantly.
Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness Page 5
