by John Burdett
"So what?"
"Yu is Mandarin for jade. Since the Chinese were the first to discover it, you could say it's the original name. Those three lines mean 'virtue, beauty and rarity,' in other words the three qualities of jade according to Confucius."
"See the piece on the shelf," I say, pointing behind the window display, into the interior of the shop.
"Well, I'll be…"
"It might not be the same one."
"Oh, it's the same one."
Horse and rider.
In a small cafe in the main complex, downstairs, while we're waiting for the shop to open, Jones says: "I did try love once. I really did. It still gets so much hype, you feel you've got to give it a chance, right? I think in the States we're way past that stage, though. It's like, in the first phase of industrialization there's still marriage as in an undeveloped agricultural economy, meaning it lasts for life. The next phase, people get married knowing they'll get divorced. One phase further on, and you find people marrying in order to get divorced. By the time you reach twenty-first century America, love is a blip on the career path, something that was capable of making you late for work for a week, before you got over it. The sad truth is it's incompatible with freedom, money and equality. Who the hell really wants to be stuck with their equal for life? Human beings are predators, we like to hunt and eat the weak so we can feel strong for a moment. How about you?"
The question has taken me by surprise, not least because Jones has her hand on my thigh again. This time there can be no doubt as to her meaning and I think the talk about predation must be a kind of foreplay. My inferiority in my badly tailored khaki shirt, awful pants and truly hideous black anvil-shaped shoes is evident. I should take her hand off my thigh to make it clear I don't want to be eaten, but instead cast around in my mind for an answer to her question. I think of Kat as I say: "Some people give their hearts only once. When love fails, they take up some occupation which reflects their bitterness."
Jones raises her eyebrows. "Is that what I did? Became a man-hunter because my true love betrayed me?" I expect some cynical coda. Instead she mutters, "Damned right," and takes her hand away. Jones is not a Buddhist, therefore I do not explain the endless cycle of life after life, each one a reaction against some imbalance from the one before, that reaction setting up yet another imbalance and so on and on and on… We are the pinballs of eternity.
At 11:20 a.m. we ride up the escalator again and I am surprised at the preindustrial feeling of anticipation in my stomach, a delicious foreboding of dangerous karma to come.
She is slightly inside the fine-art side of the shop, dusting a full-length standing Buddha from Ayutthaya with a feather duster. A gong sounds as we cross the threshold and she turns toward us, a polite smile on her face. She is wearing a simple white linen blouse from Versace with open neck projecting a delicious vulnerability, black skirt probably also by Versace to below her knees. Her string of pearls is much larger than the FBI's, but what causes my most intense suffering is her fragrance, the name of which escapes me but not the brand: it is indisputably from Van Cleef Arpels, no doubt flown in from their store on the Place Vendome, the very shop where Truffaut seduced my mother's nose even if the rest of her body remained beyond his failing powers. I pretend to sneeze slightly to have an excuse to inhale deeply. (Smell is the most animal of the senses, Truffaut advised, and like an animal a person will fall prey to a delicious intensity when he or she truly enters the universe of fragrance.)
The first words I ever hear her utter are Good morning, and I note with mounting joy how her voice-womanly, soft with Negroid timbre-so exactly matches and expresses her physical beauty.
Fatima's father was black American, mine was white American, there the difference ends. I know she is experiencing the moment in the same way while Jones, with great professionalism, conceals her surprise at seeing her in Warren's shop. I do not hear Jones' spiel about seeking out special pieces for her bijou gallery in Manhattan, and neither does the spectacular woman who was Bradley's lover. Jones' voice could be a mile away, all I hear is Fatima's polite reply: "Oh, how wonderful of you to think of us!"
I am pierced by her fragility, the sense of a recent loss of life-threatening proportions so similar to mine; pierced also by a perception which initially is mind-boggling, then blindingly obvious. Why did I not think of it before?
Clearly such mutual depth of emotion can only be the product of an intense relationship in a previous lifetime, and Jones' comment about people dying, then carrying on conversations after rebirth, echoes in my head. Jones stops in mid-sentence while I float effortlessly toward Fatima across the polished floor. I have the impression of waltzing between Buddhas while I jabber in Thai about Khmer art, of which I know nothing, and-it is obvious-neither does Fatima. She explains, with a laugh, that she does not actually work here, she is filling in for someone as a favor to the boss. Here should be my opening to insert the name of Sylvester Warren, instead I let it pass. I do not want to talk shop.
Jones tries to follow us around the salon and I am pleased to see she has no idea what is going on. We are continuing not one conversation, Fatima and I, but many, perhaps hundreds, from hundreds upon hundreds of lifetimes. She is my twin. The words we use have no correspondence to the present moment, they are merely vehicles of our excitement at meeting again at last. How long has it been? A hundred years? A thousand? Now Fatima is leading me into a remote corner, near a door. It is as if she wishes to tell me something. She has taken care to choose a moment when Jones has been left behind. I see him for a split second, a face at a doorway partially opened, before he withdraws and closes the door. It was one of the Khmer who befriended Elijah, the one with the knife. I make startled eyes at Fatima, but she shakes her head to reassure me. I nod as if I understand, even though I am now thoroughly confused.
After half an hour my poor nerves cannot take any more of this intensity and I am ready to leave the shop. Fatima's body wais to me at the threshold, my own body wais back. Thus do two dolls bow to each other while the puppet masters exchange knowing smiles from eternity. Jones follows me to the escalator. "What was that all about? You seemed to establish a rapport, anyway. Did you discover anything useful? What about Warren?"
"We didn't talk about Warren."
"Oh, but you got her number and address? Her ID? Her real name in Thai? You can get hold of her?"
"No."
"So how are you going to find her again if she doesn't really work there? Don't you want to interview her? Isn't she the last person to be seen with Bradley alive? Isn't she a suspect? Wasn't she the one in the car when you followed Bradley from the airport?" Exasperated. "Don't you want to know who did it?"
"I know who did it."
"Who?"
"Bradley did it. To himself. With help from Warren."
I am walking quickly toward Jones' hired car, in which the driver is waiting with the engine running for the air-conditioning. Jones is sweating in the heat with the effort to catch up. "Wait a minute, are you for real? Are you saying that Bradley committed suicide using-oh, I get it. We're back to the Buddha, right? It's a point about karma you're making here? You've just beamed yourself up to that point five miles above the earth where good Thai cops go when they die or get confused-or fall in love. Have you any idea how unsophisticated you looked just now? Like a teenage boy. I've never seen anything so unprofessional."
"If you didn't love crooks you would never have become a cop," I snap.
Her jaw hangs open. She is truly baffled and, for once, stumped for something to say.
We are in the back seat of the Mercedes after the FBI has slammed the door shut on her side. I am trying to find the key to our past lives, Fatima's and mine, the trigger, so to speak, that set us off on our centuries-old game of hide-and-seek.
"Shit." Jones fixes her eyes at some point out of her side window while we wait in traffic. "If I'd known I'd have gotten her number myself. This is like being a cop in ancient Egypt."
&nb
sp; Hiding a smirk: "You remember?"
She continues to grumble in my left ear while I try to disentangle great reams of karmic information that are flashing through my head. I have never experienced this before, not with such intensity. "You have to have forgiveness," I mutter. "It's the only way back."
"Damn it, I'm going to get her number myself. If I had the right I'd bring her in for questioning. She's the link for Christ's sake. You must see that? The link between Bradley, Warren, the jade and the meth. Under the right pressure she could solve the case in five minutes and I could get the hell out of this place. Maybe nail Warren at the same time."
She has the driver turn around. I wait in the car while she rushes up the escalator to Warren's shop, close my eyes and meditate. When she returns a few minutes later her clothes are soaked in sweat and a great fury is working her jaw muscles. "The bitch closed the shop and did a runner. We've lost her again."
"Really?"
She practices deep breathing for five minutes. In a controlled voice: "Don't you have anything new to report? What about your long talk with Elijah last night? Didn't anything useful come up?"
"Actually, yes, something crucial. William Bradley never mentioned Fatima to his brother. Elijah didn't know about her until he called William's mobile after the murder."
"That's crucial?" She rubs her jaw with that disbelieving look that Americans do so well when abroad. "Tell me where you want me to drop you off, because what I need right now is a big fix of crass Western culture. I'm gonna go back to the Hilton, order American food to be brought to my big, bland, air-conditioned room and watch CNN until I remember who I am. This is a magic-ravaged land, you know that? Coming here has made me appreciate whoever it was invented logic, because before logic I think the whole world was like this."
"That's true," I agree. "Magic is preindustrial."
I stand by the curbside and watch Jones' car drive off to join the jam on Rama IV. I feel a little sorry for the FBI and her belief that there is anything logical about human existence. I suppose it must be the delusion of the West, a cultural defilement caused by all those machines they keep inventing. It's like choosing the ringing tune on one's mobile: a logical labyrinth with no meaningful outcome. Logic as distraction. Frankly, I can't wait for that global power shift the abbot talked about. My mind returns to Fatima. That Khmer, though, he is a puzzle.
The truth about human life is that for most of the time there is nothing to do and therefore the wise man-or woman-cultivates the art of doing nothing. I return to my hovel to meditate. I have to confess to a certain amount of self-love arising from having solved the case (at least in outline), which I need to eradicate in order to progress further on the Path. There are still many loose ends, after all. The snakes and Warren continue to be enveloped in mystery. Likewise it is not apparent to me how I will find the opportunity to kill Warren. And what am I supposed to do about Fatima? I feel very near to understanding the snakes when the telephone bleeps. I have to control my irritation when I observe from the screen that it is the FBI.
"Ah, look, I want to apologize. I was way out of line. I did exactly what they tell us you should never do. I lost it and got arrogant. Guilty. I guess culture shock is more powerful than anyone realizes. I really felt like I was drowning. I've never felt like that before, like being in a place with no references. Where what you thought were references are illusions. Am I making sense here?"
"I think you're making progress. That is a spiritual experience you are describing." I do not add: Welcome to the world.
"You don't have to patronize me just because I patronized you. I thought we could have lunch, talk about the case."
I do not want to talk about the case. I feel a digression is called for. I say: "I have to go to Samutprakan crocodile farm tomorrow. If you like we can go in your car."
At Bang Kwan that afternoon they told me Fritz had been badly beaten the day before and was in the hospital. They refused to let me see him until I threatened them with a prosecution for obstructing justice. In a ward largely dedicated to the malnourished and terminally ill-AIDS is still a big killer here-he is propped up on a pillow with bandages around his head; his left leg and right arm are in splints. I think that this time he will not recover, that his body was too weak to take such punishment, but as I approach I'm surprised to see him smiling and apparently in good spirits.
"What happened?"
"My pardon came through."
"That's great but I meant about the beating."
"What do I care about that? Didn't you hear me? My pardon is through. The King's signed it already, it's only a matter of days now."
"I'm really pleased for you. What was it you wanted to see me about?"
He gestured as best he could to his leg and arm. "Can't tell you. Sorry."
"Don't worry, I understand."
He gestured to me to come closer. "Not because of the beating. The pardon. They said it could still be canceled. I hope you understand."
I nod vigorously. I wouldn't want to jeopardize his pardon, not for all the evidence in the world. I leave a pack of cannibalized Marlboro Reds on the table next to his bed.
35
I am lying on my futon waiting for Jones to arrive and listening to the radio on my Walkman. Pisit reports that all the newspapers are reporting that the Supreme Patriarch has approved and blessed two thousand new surnames created by senior monks. The names will be offered under a surname reservation service. Pisit's guest is a spokesman for Buddhism who clearly expects joy and delight at the news. Pisit is in a skeptical mood and asks if it is appropriate to be living in a medieval theocracy in the twenty-first century when men dressed in robes from the third century B.C., who spend their time chanting in a language which has been dead for over two thousand years, are responsible for people's names? The spokesman, a monk himself, asks-aghast-how anyone could possibly want a surname that has not been blessed? Pisit quickly gets rid of him and replaces him with a sociologist who explains that we are a superstitious people for whom anything as intimate as a name needs to possess magical powers. Pisit brightens and asks about Western names. "Usually they reflect the Western obsession with money, in that they are a statement about the work an ancestor did: Smith, Woodman, Baker, et cetera."
"So it's money with them, magic with us?"
Doubtfully: "You could say that, although it might be an oversimplification."
Pisit gets rid of him in favor of a psychiatrist who is happy to discuss Pisit's favorite topic. Why are Thai men risking their health and virility by having their penises enlarged with silicone and gel? The operation is extremely painful with side effects such as swelling and infection, and is illegal. The shrink explains that prior to the invasion of Western advertising it never occurred to Thai men to think much about size, quite rightly since the standard Thai male member is perfectly adapted to the standard Thai vagina, but with Western hard porn and cigarette adverts, there has been a serious loss of self-confidence. Ironically, the effect of this assault from the West has been to cause impotence, either because of the disastrous operation or through chronic self-doubt.
Pisit, laughing: "So on top of everything else, they're castrating us?"
Laughing: "You could say that."
On a whim, Pisit calls the monk back to ask what he thinks of all this, and Western culture in general. After his drubbing just now he is in a Zen-ish sort of mood, not to say downright sarcastic: "Actually, the West is a Culture of Emergency: twisters in Texas, earthquakes in California, windchill in Chicago, drought, flood, famine, epidemics, drugs, wars on everything-watch out for that meteor and how much longer does the sun really have? Of course, if you didn't believe you could control everything, there wouldn't be an emergency, would there?"
There is a knock on my door. The FBI has arrived.
In the back of the car again I try to explain why meditation can help in the art of detection. I'm not sure if I believe what I'm saying or not, I just happen to be in the mood to say it. I ma
y have fallen prey to the irresistible temptation to wind her up. "To understand why someone suffers a violent death, it can be helpful to investigate their past lives. These things do not happen by accident. There are no accidents, no coincidences."
"Uh-huh?"
"For example, in olden days in America, were there many brothels?"
"In the Old West? Sure."
I nod. "Bradley's obsession with sex was surely a consequence of having traded in it." I frown. "That doesn't explain the snakes, though."
"Okay, you want to play this game, it's not so difficult. Maybe he ran a brothel that was built on a rattlesnake nest? Maybe he punished anyone who didn't pay by putting rattlers in their beds?" She shakes her head. "Can't believe I'm doing this."
"You don't understand. It's not a question of plausible hypotheses. You have to follow a vibration back through time. Bradley had a very specific vibration, very strong. My problem is his karmic origins are not Asian."
"How about Central America? Aztec, Inca, Mayan? They all had snake fetishes. They were unbelievably cruel, too."
A vision immediately flashes before my mind: the snakes, the pit, the plumed priest, the rings on his fingers, the victim's terror, the ziggurat. I beam at Jones, who turns away with her usual Can't believe this guy expression of terminal exasperation. After a few minutes she turns back again, having mastered her frustration-not without effort, to judge from her expression. "Okay, give me an example unrelated to the case."
