Serpentine

by Thomas Thompson

  How remarkable! exclaimed Belmont. He and his wife were considering the very same trip, but they were apprehensive about going there alone. How would it be if all four journeyed together? Oh, five really, if one included Monique’s white puppy. Its name was Frankie, and Monique rarely let the yapping creature out of her embrace. The Lapthornes noted right away that Madame Belmont was fanatically devoted to the dog.

  The two couples returned to Bangkok separately and rendezvoused at the train station for a half-day ride to Hua Hin. There they took adjoining rooms at the ramshackle Railway Hotel, with a common veranda overlooking the Gulf of Thailand. The beach was spectacular, empty for miles and lined with bending palms, like a boulevard void of traffic. Monique and Belmont went for a stroll alone, until the skies turned dark. They returned drenched in a summer rain. They had been quarreling. Monique seemed nervous. She hated Hua Hin. The hotel displeased her. Belmont shot her several fierce shushing looks. All of this would be one day remembered.

  The four young people sat on the common veranda of their rooms and watched the storm pester the sea. Belmont was playing the role of host, making sure everyone was comfortable, promising that the rain would end soon. He called room service and ordered four chocolate milk shakes. The drinks did not come for some time, not until the two couples had gone to their separate rooms to take a nap. The Lapthornes were aroused by Monique knocking at their door, bringing two glasses of chocolate milk shake. She watched while the Australian and his wife emptied the glasses, then mumbled a broken English invitation to dinner at a restaurant in town.

  During the night, the Lapthomes were both racked by nausea and diarrhea. They put the blame on the restaurant meal or snacks they had on the train from Bangkok. Belmont was tender in his sympathies. “I heard you getting up and down all night, and the toilet flushing,” he said the next morning, being as he was on the other side of a thin partition. “I will buy some canned milk. It’s the only thing to take for the Asian stomach.”

  The Lapthomes groaned. Their stomachs could not tolerate even the thought of nourishment. But at least the sun had appeared and they could lie on the sands and try to ignore their bellies.

  For most of the morning, the Lapthomes drowsed under the intense tropical sun and listened dimly while Belmont rattled on. He was remarkably adept at squeezing information from the couple. Before noon, Lapthorne had revealed how much he earned at the university where he taught, how much money he had received in travel grants from a foundation that endowed him to write a textbook on the politics of Southeast Asia, and, most fundamentally, how much he carried in traveler’s checks.

  That afternoon, while the Lapthomes sought an uninterrupted nap, Monique appeared without being asked, carrying two more glasses of chocolate milk. The Lapthomes both noted she looked nervous, standing there and waiting for the treats to be drunk—as if ordered to do so. Vera sipped part of her glass, but Lapthome was absorbed in a book called Oil Politics and promised to drink his later. Within ten minutes, Vera Lapthome felt a new surge of nausea, this time accompanied by dizziness. Her husband advised her to rest while he continued reading. Russell drank his chocolate milk and it tasted good. “I think I’m getting better,” he told himself, even as a profound dizziness swept across him. As he tried to stagger to the bedroom, stumbling like a fly caught in aspic, he would remember casting one final glance back at the common veranda. Jean Belmont and Monique were standing there, curious, like dream figures, blurred around the edges. They made no attempt to help, even as he crashed to the floor and blackness enveloped him. It was early afternoon, September 4, 1975.

  Not until almost forty hours later did Russell Lapthorne regain consciousness in a hospital room. Vera smiled feebly at him, her face ghastly pale. She knew little more than he. Both had been found unconscious on the floor of their hotel room and had been rushed to this hospital, where their stomachs were pumped.

  Where were Jean Belmont and Monique? wondered Lapthorne. Vera raised her shoulders. She did not know. When the couple was strong enough later in the day to return to the Railway Hotel, they found the door to the adjoining room locked. Angrily Russell Lapthorne tried to force it. Then he ran to the reception desk and demanded to know what had happened to the Frenchman and his nervous wife. The Belmonts checked out shortly before the Lapthornes were found ill, said the desk clerk. No forwarding address.

  Not only were the Belmonts gone, so were the Lapthornes’ passports, marriage license, driving permit, wedding ring, gold chain, movie camera, wristwatch, and moneys and checks totaling $1,100. Plus their unused air tickets for Australia.

  The Australian couple tried to make a complaint against the Belmonts, but the language barrier was impossible. “No one was interested in what had happened to us,” Lapthorne would say. “I told the police that I wanted to press charges—but the statement they took from me in no way resembled what I said.”

  Six months later, an Interpol detective would fly to Melbourne and obtain complete statements of the incident. The detective would also show photographs of a couple suspected in this drugging-robbery. No doubt about it, said Lapthome, whose opinion was immediately endorsed by his wife. “I would recognize them anywhere.” The photographs were of Charles Sobhraj and Marie-Andrée Leclerc.

  Worth emphasizing here is the fact that Marie-Andrée had been in Thailand for only a month when the Lapthornes were robbed. Yet already she was using a fictitious name—Monique—a fictitious address—Paris—a fictitious identity—wife of Jean Belmont, and—the accusation was made—she was serving poisoned chocolate milk as efficiently as she had once served coffee at Marie-Antoinette’s restaurant in a small town in Canada. The charms and powers of Charles Sobhraj worked quickly on the woman whose life had almost smothered from boredom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A surprise awaited Marie-Andrée when she returned to Bangkok wilted from an eight-hour train journey up the Gulf of Siam. She needed one. From the moment they had left the Lapthornes at the Railway Hotel, the Canadian girl had been jumpy and nervous. Her stomach danced and pitched, her body trembled.

  On the train she held her dog tightly to her bosom, clutching Frankie like a dowager’s toy, and once, during a brief stop at a remote station, the puppy squirmed out of her arms and into a crowd of peasants carrying bags of yams. Screaming, Marie-Andrée leaped off the train and retrieved the animal, sobbing for the next hundred miles while Charles soothed her. There was no need for anguish, he insisted. He loved her. He needed her. He wanted to marry her. Soon they would have their own baby. He made eloquent apologies for the strain of Marie-Andrée’s first few weeks in Bangkok, the continual moving around from hotel to hotel, his attention paid to May. All of this was part of his master plan. And now, it was coming together.

  “Do you really love me?” asked Marie-Andrée, for that was her principal consideration.

  “Of course, chérie,” answered Charles cheerfully. “You will see.”

  In Bangkok, a taxi bore the young couple into the heart of the city, to a district near a major canal where embassies nest discreetly behind forests of banana trees and lavishly groomed gardens of lemon and bougainvillaea, with parrots screaming and monkeys scampering about the branches like landlords. It was a very good part of town, near major hotels and only a short stroll from Patpong, the tenderloin of Bangkok, a strip of massage parlors and clip joints redolent of sex and known to the tens of thousands of American soldiers who retreated there for R & R during Vietnam.

  The taxi stopped in front of Kanit House, a five-story stucco, mock-modern apartment building that could have been set down on any side street of Hollywood. Built around a kidney-shaped pool, the structure had an open-air elevator connecting each floor, with breezy corridors open to the weather. The tenants, very transient, were mostly young—lower level embassy personnel, airline flight crews, students. The garage was crowded with dusty MG’s and Renaults.

  With the pride of a knight showing his lady the new castle, Charles led Marie-Andrée into
the lift which wheezed and groaned its way to the fifth floor. There the surprise was waiting. Charles had rented the penthouse, especially for Marie-Andrée! He opened the door to Apartment 503, a cheerless and dark two bedroom flat with linoleum floors long bereft of gloss, and plaster walls caked with dirt, bits and pieces of ancient food swept into corners. But there were sliding glass doors opening onto a breezeway where one could look down at the pool, or across the city to see a Buddhist temple spire flashing on the horizon. The furniture was wretched—motel chrome, impersonal and uncomfortable.

  For Charles it was a summit to which he had somehow climbed—a tangible statement of his position on earth—and he wanted Marie-Andrée to share his excitement. She summoned modest enthusiasm; anything would be better than nomadic prowls through the cheap hotels of Bangkok where the towels were as thin as cheesecloth. Charles fairly glowed as he dramatized the possibilities of the “penthouse.” A little paint here, some imagination there, and presto!—they would not only have a splendid place in which to live, but one to which he could bring customers and friends. The second bedroom, need it be pointed out, would be perfect for a nursery. Already Charles had commissioned new business cards bearing his pseudonym: “A. Gauthier, Gem Dealer, Kanit House, Suite 503, Bangkok, Thailand.” He tossed a handful at Marie-Andrée and they rained about her shoulders like rice falling on a bride.

  By nightfall they were in residence, in each other’s embrace on an old iron bed, and for the moment Marie-Andrée was content. She would write in her diary: “I am very happy … At last we have found a new home. I think this is the real beginning for us. I am filled with hope.”

  She set about attacking the flat, washing the walls with lye, painting cool greens and blue trim, tacking up cheap but vivid fabrics over chairs and pillows, crowding corners with temple rubbings and teak elephants and dragons painted on parchment papers. Candles and incense sweetened the air. When she was almost done, Charles brought home a punching bag and affixed it to the living room ceiling, a shockingly ugly center of attention. It was for his karate, he told her, ignoring her pleas that it disgraced the aesthetics she had so labored to achieve.

  From the Thieves’ Market, Marie-Andrée purchased pots and pans to establish a kitchen, and within a few weeks the dreary flat was colorful and bustling. She had made a home! From the stove rose the temptations of boeuf bourguignonne and tartes. Frankie slept contentedly on a pillow when he was not yapping at an occasional mouse. And to complete the little family, Charles brought home a baby monkey who grew so quickly and who refused toilet training so absolutely that Marie-Andrée sewed diapers to dress the creature. He was christened Napoleon and spent much of his time clinging to the chain that suspended the punching bag, glowering at all, particularly the little dog, for whom he held unconcealed hostility.

  The weeks of happiness did not last long.

  One morning Marie-Andrée went to the market to purchase fresh food for lunch in the tradition of French housewives who buy provisions for each meal, and when she returned, Charles was sitting in the living room with May. Both were awkward and embarrassed. Charles leaped up like a man caught with his fingers in the cashbox and rushed out, mumbling something about an appointment. But May stayed behind, insolently, making hypocritical conversation about how “charmingly” Marie-Andrée had decorated the apartment. Marie-Andrée had not seen the beautiful Thai girl for weeks, Charles having promised that he was no longer interested in her. But at this moment, the cream on her whiskers showed that May was clearly back in favor.

  How was Marie-Andrée enjoying the new apartment? wondered May. The Canadian girl nodded cautiously, indicating her pleasure. How nice, purred May. She knew the flat would be perfect; that was why she had chosen it and put down the deposit.

  “You found this apartment?” gasped Marie-Andrée. May nodded a little perversely. Charles had given her the assignment and she had looked at dozens before finding this one, in such a good location. He had even paid May a “finder’s fee.” There was no need to elaborate on that—Marie-Andrée got the point immediately—but May was anxious to sing hymns to Charles’ sexual capacities and proportions, hoping that he had demonstrated his full talents to the Canadian visitor.

  The next entry in Marie-Andrée’s diary was etched in bitter pain.

  “Charles is seeing May again. My heart breaks at the news … I feel frustrated, nervous, aggressive. Everybody can read the sadness in my eyes … I am not understood, not loved, not wanted, not satisfied. I have no more personal money, my visa has expired, my passport cannot be used. I have the feeling of being a prisoner … But I still love him. Oh God, I want him …”

  Dominique Veylau sat in a cafe on a warm late September night and drowsed in the intoxication of Chiang Mai, Thailand’s “Rose of the North,” a city of such pale gold beauty that both the eye and the soul are ravished. He was almost done with the East, and here was an appropriate place to say au revoir and return to France. For two years, Dominique had roamed about this corner of the world, working for a time in Australia as a clerk, then taking his carefully hoarded money and splurging on a glorious spin about Asia. Now he was almost twenty-five, and he had only $1,500 left, and it was time for a dutiful French son to quell his appetite for the exotic and accept the dictates of his heritage—work and wife and child and church.

  He had allotted himself only one day for Chiang Mai, but that was an error. The city of wild orchids and of women celebrated for shyness and beauty, of districts where thousands of paper umbrellas sat drying in the sun like butterflies at rest, where the ear seldom failed to hear the tinkling of ivory chimes in the soft winds—here was a place that needed a week if not a lifetime. On this afternoon, Dominique had paused at the foot of the Dragon Staircase, carved long ago in dark centuries, and as his eyes traveled in wonder up the twin serpents whose rippling humped backs framed the gigantic steps leading to the Doi Suthep Temple, he realized how unfortunate it was to behold such awesome spectacle without a companion. He was lonely, and each time he wandered into a temple courtyard and felt the serenity and peace contained therein, he wished for someone to share his feelings.

  Someone was.

  “I think you must be French,” intruded the stranger, breaking into Dominique’s solitude on the veranda of the restaurant.

  “Oui, monsieur,” answered Dominique, looking up to encounter an Oriental-looking young man wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Beside him was a thin and sunburned woman about thirty whose nose was as red as a cherry. Introductions came quickly. The man said he was “Alain Gauthier.” The woman was his wife, “Monique,” probably Canadian, for Dominique heard the accent in her voice. They were pleasant, smiling, and charming.

  Immediately, Alain Gauthier seized command of the evening. As he lived in Bangkok, he knew the most succulent dishes on a Thai menu. A dozen small bowls of fiery food appeared on the table-bites of beef and pork and chicken cooked in mint and peppers, with quarts of heavy dark beer to cool abused throats. And within an hour, Dominique, normally a reticent man, had spun his life story for the friendly couple. Of particular interest to Alain was Dominique’s casual revelation that he had recently worked in Australia as private secretary to a large firm’s managing director. Moreover, he spoke good English and seemed capable of handling complex business matters with panache. He had some experience with banking and knew a fair amount about international currency transactions.

  But what of Alain? inquired Dominique. What was his occupation?

  The gem business, answered his new friend—like everybody else in Bangkok.

  Did he do well?

  Alain shrugged ambivalently. The problem was in finding competent people to work as his associates. But enough of business! Alain clapped his hands for the bill. The evening was young, with the scent of blossoms in the air and music floating on the breeze. He knew a place where beautiful women danced in swirling silks and masks, to the music of gongs and drums written a thousand years ago. If that did not catch Dominique’s fancy, t
hen Alain knew another place where Thai girls boxed one another. It was a memorable experience, he rattled on, seeing a pair of slim and petite young women walk into the ring, bow ceremonially, then procede to kick the devil out of one another, their flying feet drawing blood.

  But as Alain spoke, leading Monique and the new friend out of the restaurant and toward his rented automobile, Dominique felt his head swim. He staggered. He tried to keep walking, but a profound weakness had taken over his steps. All he would remember was trying to keep from fainting, and Alain and Monique murmuring tender solicitudes as they drove him to his hotel.

  The next morning, Dominique awoke and was startled to see the new faces from the night before standing over his bed. “Bonjour,” said Alain Gauthier. “How do you feel?” Dominique moaned and tried to remember the evening. But the agonies gnawing at his belly were not sired by alcohol. This was not a hangover. He felt deathly ill.

  “You have dysentery,” diagnosed Alain Gauthier. This damn country! It had surely been picked up somewhere on his journey. As he spoke, Monique knelt beside the bed and wiped the French youth’s brow with a handkerchief that smelled of French perfume. It was cool and her touch was gentle. Alain talked on and on. He was an expert at tropical disease, having lived so long in the East. He feared that Dominique was so ill that it was dangerous to stay alone in a remote city like Chiang Mai, where medicine was not far removed from the jungle. Better that Dominique accept a free car ride to Bangkok, where he could recuperate in Alain and Monique’s apartment.

  “You must trust me,” said Alain. “You must give yourself completely over to me.”

  Dominique was too sick for anything but a feeble nod. At that moment he was enormously grateful for the attention and care being offered him. It would be a while before questions begin to haunt him. Why had he fallen ill so abruptly? Why did he awake with two strangers inside his locked hotel room?