Charmayne demurred, as she always did, for she was powered by a substantial fuel called Catholic guilt. And though she no longer made confession or went to mass, it was impossible for her to become part of Zazi’s crowds and schemes. Or so she believed. Just at the moment when Charmayne was about to be thrown out of her tiny flat for non-payment of rent, and was looking for any kind of legitimate work to sustain her presence in Ibiza, she went to dinner chez Zazi and by midnight had become enamored of the charms of a new man who had appeared in her cousin’s entourage. His name was hard to remember, so much so that she surreptitiously wrote it down. Vitali Hakim. And he was less hippie than a full-blooded man with an enormous appetite for life. He spoke louder than anyone in the room; in a rich bass voice he sang the lyrics to every song that came on the record player, spoke in French and English and Spanish and cursed in Turkish. He delivered instant horoscopes to everyone in the room and warned Charmayne that Libras—her sign—were entering a period of dangerous passion. Later he made a live baby chick appear on the platter that had held a roasted chicken. Vitali Hakim was the most overwhelming, consuming—and entertaining—man that Charmayne Carrou had ever encountered. She was so smitten that she failed to recognize the traffic signals going on between the Turk and Zazi.
Within days they were living together. Charmayne sewed new shirts for Vitali which he wore while playing guitar at a joint on the beach that attracted young tourists and old fishermen. Each night Charmayne sat dream-like and listened to his songs, and those that were delivered in French, and dealt with love, seemed to be performed with only her in mind.
In deep autumn, 1975, when the sun eased, and the winds blew colder, and few tourists save hearty Germans were left on the beaches, Vitali quit his job and spent the daylight hours helping Charmayne. She had sold two blouses to an Italian woman who had expressed an interest in representing Charmayne’s creations, and now the French girl was hurriedly trying to finish a dozen more so that they could go to Milan. One afternoon Charmayne went to her workroom and was shocked to discover that her needles, fabrics, and works-in-progress were missing. She stared dumbfounded and started to search the room, when Vitali stepped up behind her laughing. “Enough of the sewing,” he said. “Let’s get married. And I intend to buy you a wedding gown.”
Charmayne was flustered. She had known the impetuous Turk for only a few weeks. He seemed as dependable as the wind. How could she possibly even introduce this wild but gentle man to her parents in Paris, so conservative that France in effect ceased to exist with the death of Charles de Gaulle?
Choosing the first weapon of argument she could summon—searching for a way to delay rather than to refuse—Charmayne sensibly pointed out that neither of them had any money. Quite true, agreed Vitali. But he knew how to remedy that. In a few days he would leave on a business trip for the Far East. A “connection” was waiting. His voice turned serious. It would be beneficial if Charmayne would fly to Bangkok a bit later on and rendezvous with him there.
The Far East! Bangkok! It was coming too fast for Charmayne to absorb. She sat down and tried to think. At base, she was a simple girl, unsophisticated in the ways of the world of Zazi and Vitali. Finally she asked, if she went to Bangkok, what was she supposed to do there?
Once in Bangkok, answered Vitali, the two of them would meet, have a wonderful holiday, see the sights, then fly back home separately—either to Ibiza, or Madrid, or Paris, or possibly Rome. That was to be determined. What that all? asked Charmayne. Vitali shook his head. The possibility existed that she might have to courier a small packet of gemstones that Vitali would be purchasing in Bangkok. He described the mission so glibly—refusing to fill in the holes—that it took a while for Charmayne to catch on that she was being asked to smuggle jewelry into Europe. And when the revelation dawned, she quickly refused.
Vitali turned on the salesmanship. The job was routine, he insisted. And it would be so lucrative that Charmayne could open her dress business and get married and never have to worry about money. This was a one-shot, he said. It was not to be repeated again.
When Charmayne, in her confusion and worry over losing her man, finally agreed, Vitali kissed her enthusiastically and bolted out of the apartment to make plans. But his first stop was at Zazi’s, where the Turk kissed her with considerably more passion, murmuring that the scheme was working, and that baby cousin Charmayne, with a face so innocent she could lead the celestial choir, was going to smuggle a few gemstones and several pounds of morphine powder in her luggage—if the connection from Burma were achieved.
Zazi, who was putting up seed money for this venture, smiled and assured Vitali that it would work. The planetary signs were in excellent order. Then she asked Vitali to lie beside her on the pillows while she played Nana Mouskouri melodies on her harp.
Jennie Bolliver landed safely in Bangkok and struggled through customs, explaining in sign language that the garden hose and other oddments in her baggage were meant for use at a monastery in Nepal. She crammed into a bus and at the central terminal bargained with a motor scooter taxi to take her to the Malaysia Hotel. In Hong Kong, an American girl had told her of the Bangkok hostelry that catered to the young and budget-minded. Once there, she paid six dollars for a single room and immediately found two new friends—a boy and girl from Atlanta who were studying Oriental poetry.
Quickly they set out to explore Bangkok, and quickly they became lost, trying to find the Wat Po, Bangkok’s greatest temple and monastery. Suddenly the sounds of music and laughter and celebration were heard nearby. It sounded like a parade, and the three Americans ran to see. A procession was in progress, a ceremonial pathway to the monastery, led by a crowd of people in the throes of a joyous party. A hundred Thais were snaking their way down the street, prancing as if at a pre-Lenten carnival. A makeshift band was tooting inexpertly but robustly on trumpets and flutes; others were banging riotously on drums. And in the center of the merriment, a strange contradiction. An enormous umbrella, composed of brilliant orange and red and lime silks, with golden fringe, was held aloft to shield the blazing sun from the newly bald and gleaming head of a young man, perhaps eighteen. He was dressed in white robes and was borne on the shoulders of his friends. Flowers and candies and fruits were being thrown gently at him. The spectacle was rich with color and happiness. But the young man’s face was frozen, expressionless, in a trance. Immediately Jennie figured out what was happening. “He’s going to become a monk, and he’s on his way to the temple to take his vows,” she told her Georgia friends. When the monk-to-be passed, Jennie bowed in respect and made the traditional Buddhist sign of greeting. “He doesn’t look too happy about it,” said the girl from Georgia.
Jennie disagreed. The young man was meditating and his spirit was flowing over the crowd. Impulsively, Jennie ran and joined the crowd, winding down the boulevard until at last the great spires of Wat Po came into view. Then Jennie dropped out, squeezing her way to a nearby patch of grass. She sat down under a tree, and when her friends found her, they thought she was ill. A curtain of gloom had descended over the vibrant young woman. Jennie declined an offer of aid, saying she was only tired and needed to catch her breath.
The group proceeded into the temple grounds and watched the novice monk disappear into a sea of saffron-robed monks who welcomed him. And, with awe, they gazed upon the Reclining Buddha, stretching one hundred fifty feet in length, forty feet high, covered with a crust of gold. Jennie remained somber for the rest of the afternoon. Her new friends from Georgia were disturbed; they could not have known that Jennie was measuring her intended commitment against that which the young Thai boy had just made. The enormity of her decision must have been weighing heavily at that moment.
The next day, the two Georgians left for Calcutta. They exchanged addresses and mentioned looking up Jennie in Katmandu should their journey take them to the Himalayas. Jennie was alone, in a confusing and exotic land. She spent another day inspecting the various shrines, Bangkok being a city where Budd
hism is more than a religion; it is an integral part of life. Each house, no matter how modest, has a miniature shrine in the front yard, some no bigger than a birdhouse, with tiny carved teak elephants attending Lord Buddha. Monks are everywhere, setting forth each morning with a begging bowl—although their religion forbids importuning. At one great temple, Jennie counted fifty-three images of Buddha in the courtyards, and at the Royal Grand Palace, she was stunned by the beauty of the Emerald Buddha, guarded by golden demons and monsters. And she wished that she could sell one of the bejeweled treasures to buy food and books for the youngsters at Kopan.
It was soon time to leave. On her last day, she packed and was sitting in her room when the air-conditioning sputtered and died. The October heat quickly turned her chamber into an oven. Since several hours remained before it would be time to board the airport bus, Jennie went downstairs to the lobby. There it was usually cool, with breezes drifting in, people lounging around, anxious to swap travel adventures. Jennie bought a lemonade from the coffee shop and sat down in a cracked plastic armchair. Presumably she did not notice the two men standing nearby and watching until they came up and took other chairs adjoining hers.
One of the men was East Indian, with a beautiful mustache and a sensuous air. The other, shorter, muscular, in horn-rimmed glasses, seemed Oriental or Eurasian. Both were sexy, the kind of dark-skinned men who had often tempted her. On the morrow, Jennie’s intent was to cloister herself in a monastery clinging to the foothills of the Himalayas and renounce forever baser thoughts. But at this moment, the two forces must have dueled within her—the spiritual and the carnal. Eternal foes.
One of the two men gave Jennie a business card. She read it and put it in her handbag. It said: “A. Gauthier, Gem Dealer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Alain and Monique’s apartment is like the Gare de Lyon,” observed Belle to her husband Raoul, hearing music pour down from the fifth floor. “So many people coming and going!” Rare was the night when a party did not take place in the penthouse abode of “A. Gauthier, Gem Dealer.” From experience, Marie-Andrée had learned to prepare casseroles and ragouts that could be stretched to feed whomever Charles brought home, as well as the permanent boarders who filled the adjoining flat.
On the night of October 15, 1975—as the events would one day be constructed—the unqualified hit of the party was an American girl whom Charles and Ajay, his shadow, had brought home. Her name was Jennie, from California, and she was young and tanned and vibrant. Her motor was racing on this night. She laughed louder than anyone in the room, drew from a repertoire of risqué jokes and wisecracks that even when translated into French made their impact, and turned the record player up to deafening volume. She dragged an unwilling Ajay onto the dance floor and taught him the “bump,” which was, she announced, America’s hottest new dance craze. Everyone laughed as Jennie aimed her hips at the slim Indian, then whopped her body against his. Later, Jennie tried in vain to get Charles or “Alain,” as she knew him, onto the floor, but he declined, preferring to sit Buddha-like and scrutinize his guests. Of course Marie-Andrée did her scrutinizing as well when the two men turned up with a lively and very young single American girl, but dismissed her soon thereafter as a serious rival for Charles’ affection. He did not like hippies, he had told her that many times, and this California newcomer in her ragged jeans and sweater did not appear to be Charles’ type at all. The main things Jennie had going for her, it seemed, were her youth—she could not have been much more than twenty—and a wild abandon.
By late evening, the party was drenched in wine and redolent of hashish smoke. The puppy, Frankie, yelped enthusiastically and nipped at dancing heels. Napoleon the monkey hung from a drapery rod, chattering. Dominique had risen from his eternal sickbed and was happily on the sofa, probably grateful for a diversion from throwing up. His innards were still bedeviled; each morning Charles appeared with a spoonful of pinkish medicine which he identified as Kaopectate. But the curious thing, which Dominique failed to notice, was that after taking the medicine he grew worse. And weaker. The other two French boys, ex-cops Yannick and Jacques, had fallen similarly ill for several days after they moved into the adjoining apartment. But one morning Charles pronounced that they were well, and he discontinued their pink medicine. Lo and behold, they felt better. Immediately Charles dispatched orders, and the new men’s duties ranged from helping Marie-Andrée clean up, to shopping for food, to going out in the city and looking for prospective gem customers. On this night, they were as young and as exuberant as Jennie, and they all danced as members of the same tribe.
Others drifted in during the memorable evening. May appeared and ignored the icy look on Marie-Andrée’s face. With her was a Thai nurse who had just been granted a visa for immigration to the United States, where she would go to work for a Southern hospital. That was cause for celebration. With all the new women about, Marie-Andrée sat on the arm of Charles’ chair and put her hand firmly on his shoulder, as if establishing territorial claim. “Don’t be silly, chérie,” someone overhead Charles whispering, picking up on the hostility Marie-Andrée felt for May, “she’s just working for me—like everybody else. Don’t be jealous. It’s all business.”
Loosening up, Charles quickly dominated his party like a floor show emcee. He read palms, taking a bit longer with Jennie and playing like he did not notice her hand was moist and trembling as he analyzed her lines. Turning to Ajay, he did a little macho strutting, instructing the Indian to hit him in the stomach—full force!—to demonstrate the strength of his flat, karate-honed musculature. Ajay obliged, but he did not hit hard enough. “Again!” commanded Charles. And again. Fourteen times Ajay slammed his fist into Charles’ stomach, and not once did the host show a flicker of pain or discontent. Everyone applauded and cheered—and perhaps feared, for that was the purpose. Refilling wineglasses and making sure everyone was having a good time, Charles was an attentive host, sipping only fruit juice himself, and always studying faces, reading them like maps to hidden treasure.
Toward midnight, Charles said—and several people heard him—“I like this American girl! She makes me laugh. It would be fun to take her to Pattaya.” And where was Pattaya? someone asked. The tropical paradise on which dreams are floated, with the most beautiful beaches in the world. Perhaps the notion tempted Jennie, but on the morn she was to leave for Katmandu, headed for a life that no one in this sensuous apartment could have imagined.
Patpong, the raw scar in Bangkok’s midsection that sells sex and danger, crams into a few blocks wall-to-wall strip bars whose barkers stand in the doorway exhorting passersby to glimpse into the smoky darkness and espy nude female bodies undulating under blue spotlights, massage parlors of remarkable cleanliness and Miami Beach gilt and plush crimson décor where beautiful young women wear crisp, starched nurses’ uniforms while sitting on tiers—like a church choir—behind one-way glass. These birds in a sterile coop watch television with bored expressions until a customer who has been peering at them through the glass makes a selection and a number is called.
The Thai military government periodically cracks down on Patpong and the strippers drape a little strategic gauze over the most merchandisable portions of their anatomies, but there always remain hidden places down dark alleys, or behind warehouses where the shows continue uncensored—not only sexy, but cast in evil. It was at one of these that Jennie was seen in attendance near midnight on the night of October 15 in the company of two Asian men.
At this club, a young Thai man with a perfectly sculptured body appeared and shucked his trousers to stand completely nude before the audience. Already he was sexually aroused, and when a young Thai girl of exquisite beauty floated toward him in a diaphanous wrap, he tore it from her body and began the act of love. The couple performed public sex on a makeshift stage for more than half an hour, the man disengaging from time to time to demonstrate that his erection was genuine—and enduring. And as a finale, he lifted the girl, facing him, her leg
s wrapped about his waist, and carried her down into the audience. There he stopped at each table and bent his partner backwards so that she reclined among the customers’ drink glasses. She invited each patron to stroke her breasts or examine, as close up as desired, the penile thrusts of the young man. In her mouth she carried bills of currency placed there by approving customers.
Then the lights went out, and the presumption was that the show had concluded. But there was to be more. Drums from offstage began to throb and a deep blue pinspot abruptly picked out a wicker basket that had been placed onstage in the darkness. The basket quivered slightly; life was within. Then the same girl returned, this time wearing flashy sequins pasted to her breasts—nothing else—and she removed the lid of the basket with the respect of a religious celebrant. Kneeling before the basket, she beseeched it with her entwined arms. A cobra rose obediently from the container as gasps swept over the room. The spotlight and the tempo changed to hot red. For a moment, the snake seemed bewildered, its eyes glistening like black opals in the theatrical lighting, its tongue forking out toward the girl. Then the serpent began to sway in time with the melody of a flute that floated from the darkness. The girl crept closer, still on her knees, thrusting her breasts out proudly so that they were but a few inches from the great snake. It made an occasional move toward the breasts, but always stopped short of a strike.
As if to dispel speculation that the snake was hypnotized by the sparkling sequins on her nipples, the girl cautiously stripped them away and offered her naked breasts—recently stroked by the customers—to the cobra. In that position she stayed for a time of paralyzing suspense, the audience not daring to breathe, then she slowly withdrew, pushing backwards cautiously on her knees until she was out of range. Without bowing, she disappeared into darkness.
Serpentine Page 39
