By the time she reached the foot of the hill, her legs were wobbling so badly she had to slump against the slender trunk of a betel-nut palm and rest until the attack had passed. Ranji waited patiently, studying her with his dark eyes.
“Should I go and get help?” he asked, and Celeste wearily shook her head.
“No,” she said, more to herself than the boy, “no one would come here anyway.” She wished she had her broom now, to lean on as she walked. She saw Ranji look over his shoulder, at the tumbledown monuments and broken stones through which they would have to forge a path. “Do you remember the way to the gate and the bridge?” Celeste asked.
“I think so . . .” he said, sounding uncertain.
“Do you remember an archway, an opening that looked like a huge elephant with big tusks and a trunk?”
“Yes,” he said, “I do.”
“Do you know how to get there?”
“Yes,” he said, with more confidence this time, “it’s that way.” He pointed to the northwest.
“Then take us there.” She pushed herself away from the palm tree, and with Ranji holding her limp right hand again, they threaded their way through the empty colonnades and abandoned courts. Unless it was simply the darkness deceiving her eyes, Celeste thought she saw, more than once, a furtive movement under an overturned stone, or just inside a temple doorway. She was reminded of the bulging eyes she had seen, nestled at the bottom of the pit on the hill. It was as if, with the cool of evening, and the reassuring cover of night, the rightful owners of the place were all bestirring themselves . . . as if the temple were indeed, as the legends would have it, the sacred home to serpents.
And she had killed what might well have been their king.
“This is the elephant,” Ranji proudly announced.
Celeste said, “Good. Now the big courtyard—the place you see when you first come over the bridge.”
“I told you I could find my way anywhere.”
“Yes, you can, Ranji. But we have to hurry.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “The snakes are coming out.”
So he had seen those furtive movements too.
“That’s right,” Celeste said. “The snakes are coming.”
Only now they were becoming more bold. One, its body covered with red and yellow bands, dropped from a stone beam as they passed; another squirmed out from under a pile of brush, and raised its head, tongue flicking. Ranji, curiously, seemed cautious, but unafraid.
Celeste said a silent prayer, and stumbled forward on legs that felt like stilts now—stiff and wooden.
When she saw the main courtyard stretching out before her, she could almost have wept. Whether or not she herself made it across, Ranji at least would be able to escape; the bridge was just beyond it. The paving stones, in the early dark, had a kind of silver sheen to them . . . but a sheen on which little scribbles had been written. There were black marks wriggling everywhere, like words and letters gone mad on a page. At first Celeste thought it was just her eyes, failing to adjust to the moonlight on the stones. Or possibly an hallucination, brought on by the venom. Then she realized, with horror, that the scribbles were alive, and the whole, vast courtyard was crawling with snakes—and that from every crack and crevice, more were emerging. Some were thick, and long, and black; others were short and vividly marked. The ground beneath the stones, the stones on which they were standing, must be nothing more than a monstrous burrow, a network of caves and tunnels in which the serpents lived, and bred, and died. In the soles of her feet, Celeste sensed the powerful reservoir of life—and evil—coursing beneath her.
Now, even Ranji was unable to go on. “How can we get across?” he said, awed by the sight of the teeming courtyard, and Celeste knew she would once again have to lead the way.
“Ranji,” she said, “do you know the Lord’s Prayer?”
“What?”
“Are you a Christian?”
“No. My family prays to the Buddha.”
“Then you must pray to him now. Remember—it was a cobra that once sheltered the Buddha in the desert.”
“I remember that story.”
“Good. Think of that story, Ranji. And don’t let go of my hand.”
She had to look down to see that he was holding it; she had no feeling whatever in the arm anymore.
“Think of the Buddha, Ranji.”
Celeste herself thought of the words of the Twenty-Third Psalm, and with Ranji hugging close to her side, set out across the moonlit court. They walked slowly, purposefully, in as straight a line as was possible. The snakes that lay in their path raised their heads, hissed, but slithered to one side, leaving them just enough room to pass. At any moment Celeste expected to feel one of them sink its fangs into her leg, or rear up, spitting, in front of Ranji. But, as if by a miracle, the serpents allowed them to pass, unharmed.
“ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,’ ” Celeste recited, under her breath, “ ‘for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’ ”
All around them, the cold hard eyes of the snakes glittered in the moonlight, like pebbles shining in a shallow pool.
“ ‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.’ ” The numbness in her arm had spread to her chest and neck. She had to think to swallow.
The three massive heads that surmounted the gateway loomed up, not far ahead. Celeste tried to focus on them, to will her lifeless legs in that direction. The heads had a kind of fiery glow about them. It had to be yet another hallucination.
“ ‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.’ ” She could no longer move her lips to form the words. She could only think them. “ ‘And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’ “
Ranji skipped ahead, nearly pulling her off her feet. He turned to see that she was all right, then ran to the gateway. She tried to call to him, but nothing came out of her mouth.
She passed under the shadow of the great stone faces, and saw before her the long, narrow causeway. At the far end, so far it seemed to Celeste a world away, there were fires burning bright, and rows of lighted torches stuck in the ground. Ranji was running toward them, into the orange glow that bathed both the jungle and the ancient archway from which she had just emerged. There were voices, jubilant, calling from the darkness . . . and then, for Celeste, sinking to the stones, releasing the chain wound around her arm, there was only darkness, which she greeted as if it were salvation.
CHAPTER
10
For Hallie, the past few days had been filled with just about everything, except Lucien Calais. She had gone to jewelry shops and silk factories, public parks and zoos and museums, royal palaces and gilded pagodas. She had careened around the clogged streets of Bangkok, hanging on to Janet, and dear life, in the back of a three-wheeled samlor; she had walked, barefoot, through the Chapel of the Emerald Buddha; she had bought fruit and assorted trinkets at the famous “floating market,” made up of hundreds of boats bobbing lazily in the klongs—or canals—that had once made Bangkok the Venice of the East. And she had brought her booty—bronze bells, silk blouses, ripe rambutans, nielloware earrings with colored inlays—back to the suite at the Oriental Hotel . . . where she had waited for Lucien to return from business.
She wasn’t accustomed to so much enforced leisure time; usually, when she was off in some exotic locale, she was there for a shoot, and it was all she could do to find time to wash her hair, or read the paper. It was hectic, but it was work—and at the end of each exhausting day, she at least felt productive. Here, she felt a little lost, and a little frustrated. Even when Lucien did reappear—from Pattaya, or the Thai maritime ministry, or the new oil refinery he wanted to inspect—he was strangely removed and preoccupied. More than once, Hallie had caught herself wondering whether coming along on this trip had been such a good idea after all. Relationships, she’d be the fi
rst to admit, were damned funny animals; you never knew what would move them along quite nicely . . . and what would knock them completely off track.
Now, they had only one more night together, and she was determined to make it count. The moment Lucien returned to the hotel—today, he’d told her, he’d be meeting with some shipping brokers to discuss a possible tanker purchase—she ordered up a pitcher of very dry martinis, and had them served out on their private terrace. “Once in a while,” she said, touching the rim of her glass to his, “you’re allowed to chill out.”
He looked puzzled.
“Relax. Kick back. Vegetate.”
He nodded, smiled slightly, and sipped from his glass. The river, as always, was busy with ferries and fishing boats. The evening sky was a pale, copper color.
She asked him about his dealings that day—he answered as noncommittally as ever—then told him about her own. Janet, their flight attendant, had bought a kite in Pramane Ground, but not knowing how to control it, she’d managed to snag several other people’s lines. “I thought she was going to start a riot,” Hallie said. “Flying a kite around here is serious business.” She told him about the royal white elephants at the Dusit Zoo—“they’re kind of a pinky-gray, if you ask me”—and some successful haggling she’d done at the Thieves Market in Chinatown. Lucien gradually appeared to be coming around, to be focusing again on her, and on this moment, rather than the troubling affairs of the day.
“Now that I’ve got your attention,” Hallie said, with a laugh, and leaning forward to refresh his drink, “how about just you and me going out on the town for a last romantic dinner? I’d kind of like to remember that it was you who took me to Bangkok.”
Lucien put his glass down on the bamboo table, and said, “I’ve already made plans for it . . . at a place on the river. Very authentic, Thai food. If you’re ready to go, I’ll tell Hun.”
It was now or never, Hallie thought. “No offense to Hun,” she said, “but couldn’t we, just this once, go by ourselves? I always feel kind of like we’ve got a chaperon along.”
“But I need to go on to the harbor, later tonight,” Lucien said with a trace of apology.
“Tonight?” she said, unable to conceal her disappointment. “You’ve still got to work tonight?”
“I have a ship in port,” he said, as if the statement were self-explanatory. Then, seeing the look on her face, he said, “We’ll go alone. Just let me change my clothes.”
She’d won the point, but she didn’t feel as happy about it as she’d expected. Once she’d wangled her way onto this trip, she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t in any way interfere with his business. And now, here she was, pulling a long face and doing just that. She finished her drink, and looked out over the river, with a half-smile on her lips. Hallie Patton, she had to admit, just wasn’t used to having to cajole a man into paying attention to her. And maybe that, she thought, was part of the reason she was so attracted to Lucien Calais. The guy seemed to be the most solitary and self-sufficient creature she’d ever met; with the possible exception of Hun, he didn’t seem to need anybody.
But could he, she wondered, ever really want somebody?
He reappeared on the balcony, in a fresh white shirt and dark trousers. His hair looked wet and sleek, pulled back into his short ponytail. Bowing slightly at the waist, he put his hands together in front of his face. “May I invite the lady to dinner?” he asked, with politely downcast eyes.
“Yes, you may,” Hallie replied. “And the lady would be delighted. She’s starving.”
Together, they went downstairs, but instead of heading for the front lobby, Lucien directed Hallie out toward the back of the hotel.
“We’re eating here?” she asked.
“No. But the best way to get where we’re going is by boat.”
There was a private landing appended to the hotel grounds, and a small motor launch idling in the water. As soon as Hallie and Lucien had taken their seats, it pulled away and chugged upriver. The sky above the city glowed with the thousand lights of the nightclubs and bowling alleys, movie theaters and massage parlors, hotels and all-night markets, that clustered by the banks of the river. The five spires, or prang, of the Wat Arun glittered darkly on the western shore.
Hallie leaned back, and felt Lucien’s arm come up and around her shoulders. There was a light, but refreshing, breeze on the water. She was about to ask where they were going, when she realized that she didn’t care; as far as she was concerned, they could chug away on this river all night. The air carried a curious blend of scents—flowers and salt, spices and gasoline. Cooking odors, of hot oil and fresh fish, red peppers and fried rice, wafted from the decks of sampans, moored for the night. The smell alone was enough to satisfy her hunger now. That, and the feel of Lucien’s arm around her.
Tomorrow, they were leaving Bangkok—she for Milan, Lucien for London. He was going to drop her off on the way. But just setting foot on that plane again was enough to give her the willies. Best, she knew, not to think about it. She closed her eyes. Best not to think of anything but the comforting chug of the engine, the languid currents of the Chao Phya River, the soft, beautiful evening that seemed to be holding them in its own fragrant embrace.
She was positively drowsy when she felt the boat bump up against a dock, and heard the plaintive strains of a Thai song.
“We’re here,” Lucien said, gently withdrawing his arm.
A waiter in a white jacket was standing on the dock, and offered Hallie his hand.
The restaurant, which Lucien said was called Sala Rim Naam, was like a little wonderland—an outdoor terrace, garlanded with colored lights and flowers, with a polished stage on which a small band of Thai musicians was playing. The table they were shown to was covered with a pale golden cloth, and set with sparkling crystal and gleaming silverware . . . all, Hallie discovered, but a knife.
“How come?” Hallie asked. “Don’t they think I can be trusted?”
“Haven’t you noticed this elsewhere?” Lucien replied. “In Thailand, food is prepared in small pieces—”
“Bite-sized.”
“Exactly, so that the knife is not needed. A fork and a spoon will do.”
“Right now, I could resort to my fingers.”
“Be my guest.”
But the first course would not allow for it. Known locally as Tom Yam Gung, it was a rich soup, served in a charcoal brazier. As they ate, Lucien explained the various ingredients—the special leaves called makroot, the herb known as lemon grass, the soy sauce, the prawns, and most important of all, the scorchingly hot small chilis called pri-kee-noo. “They’re green and red,” Lucien pointed out, “and you should be careful not to swallow them.”
Hallie looked up, concerned. “Why?” she said. “ ‘Cause I think I just did.”
“You swallowed one?”
Now she knew that she had. It was like a match had been struck inside her upper chest. She grabbed for her water glass and drained it, while Lucien looked on with barely concealed amusement.
“Try the rice,” he suggested. “It’s the best way to lower the heat.”
She lifted her rice bowl, and used her spoon to get every last grain. She leaned back in her chair, and took several deep breaths.
“Any better?”
“A little.” But then she took his water glass and finished that too. Lucien signaled for the waiter, who refilled the glasses.
Her eyes were tearing, and she dabbed at the corners with her napkin. “There goes my eyeliner.”
She borrowed a few more spoonfuls of rice from Lucien’s bowl, sipped some more of the ice water, and eventually seemed to have put out the fire. She gave Lucien a long, level look. “You didn’t tell me ‘authentic’ Thai food meant lethal.”
“I didn’t know Janet had been keeping you so well protected. Where have you been eating—the Hilton?”
“All over,” Hallie countered. “But I guess God has been watching over me until now.”
; Lucien laughed, and said, “I’ll watch over you from now on. And I promise to start doing a better job.”
Hallie crooked a finger in the neckline of her blouse, and held it away from her skin. For the rest of the meal, she inspected each bite beforehand, and asked Lucien about anything that seemed questionable. They had Gai Yang—barbecued chicken, cooked with a stuffing of grated coconut—and Haw Mok—steamed banana leaves, filled with slices of raw fish. Dessert was Songkaya, a kind of pudding made from coconut milk, eggs, and palm sugar; it was served cold, in a hollowed-out coconut shell. There was also, as was customary, a basket of fresh and exotic fruits—mangoes, papayas, bananas, durians, oranges, grapes, mangosteens. “You could live on fruit alone in this country,” Hallie observed, “and never get bored.” She plucked another grape from the bunch. “Of course, you’d still need the occasional peanut butter cup, or Moon Pie, just to stay human.”
“I’m sure it could be arranged,” Lucien said, “whatever a Moon Pie is.”
Hallie smiled. “Just as soon as we’re back in New York, I’ll show you.”
Lucien started to say something in reply, when a master of ceremonies stepped up on the small stage and announced that the dancing would begin. For a second, Hallie thought he meant dancing for the restaurant guests. Then she turned in her seat to see three women, in brilliant silk sampots and shining gold headgear, assuming the stage. The musicians, sitting cross-legged in the rear, waited patiently until the women had taken their positions, then, on cue, began to bang their finger drums and tiny cymbals, and play their flutes and oboe-like hautbois; the music made a kind of tinny jangle, hard for a Western ear to decipher, but pleasant in its light and rhythmic beat.
The dancers, slender and dark-eyed, moved to the music with elaborate precision, weaving their limbs in sinuous patterns, pivoting in unison on bare feet. It was as if every part of their body—each arm and leg, each finger, each toe—was acting independently, curving or turning or bending in the air, making of each dancer a kind of living, breathing sculpture. Nothing was done quickly, or awkwardly; even the most difficult postures—balancing on one leg, the other bent backwards and caught in one hand, the neck arched—were achieved, and held, with slow grace and seeming ease. Their faces betrayed no effort, or emotion—only a sort of cool solemnity. Without knowing what the gestures and poses signified, Hallie still could tell each moment of the dance was invested with meaning and importance, that every step and movement carried some literal, but mysterious, weight. When the dance ended, she said to Lucien, “That was beautiful— I wish I knew what it was all about.”
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