Tropical Connections

by Vereker, Susie

  She went over and over the situation in her mind. One major plus about Howard was that he didn’t mind her various imperfections. He accepted her just as she was. He never asked any jealous questions about her past, never mentioned her long-ago marriage, never mentioned her recent affair with Leo. Another huge advantage about Howard was that he didn’t have an ex-wife. Leo’s ex was trouble. She was the main cause of the bust-up, always phoning him, always emailing, always needing his advice about this and that. Could Leo come round and fix the outside light? The ex couldn’t possibly manage it herself and he was soooh good at that sort of thing. Too darn good. Main problem was that Leo still loved his wife and what was worse, it had turned out that they still slept together. Claire had caught them in flagrante.

  ‘Only now and then,’ confessed Leo.

  ‘Now and then?’ screamed Claire, and that was the end of Leo.

  But she had loved him passionately all the same, or thought she did – trouble is, she didn’t feel the same way about Howard. Maybe that was a good thing. Too much passion was too much danger, and her fondness for Howard might grow into sensible mature love, with time. And it was sensible and mature love that lasted and weathered all the storms. But then . . .

  Howard, ever faithful, didn’t know about her doubts. Ignoring her plea to take things gently, he would tell her every day how much he loved her. He even mentioned marriage occasionally, not in a demanding ‘you must marry me’ sort of way, but in a warm, loving ‘you’d make a wonderful wife’ sort of way.

  ‘I told you – I don’t want to get married to anyone again,’ Claire would say lightly. ‘Too battle-scarred for all that.’

  ‘Nonsense, you’re young and lovely,’ Howard would say soppily.

  At the same time, he had begun to refurbish his house, making her choose some new curtain material for the sitting room on the grounds that that sort of thing was a woman’s job.

  He did not nag. He just seemed to assume that one day they would marry and everything he did was based on that assumption. He was drawing such a kind and gentle web of security around her that Claire knew it would be difficult to break away from him, even if she wanted to.

  As for Drew she had put him to the back of her mind. She had not seen him since the Embassy party, the night when he had disappeared with – or allowed himself to be appropriated by – the bright and sexy Maising colleague who was all too clearly his mistress, the night when, in consequence, in a fit of pique and hurt pride, she had taken Howard to bed.

  A day or two after that evening, Drew had telephoned and asked her, quite casually, to join him on a business trip to Bangkok.

  She’d often thought about their conversation – OK, more accurately, she went over and over it in her mind in an obsessive manner.

  She had adopted a cool matter-of-fact tone, but couldn’t help smiling to herself. ‘We’ve had precisely one date together and you’re asking me to go away for the weekend?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Drew said. ‘You complain I don’t call in advance. Well, now I have. We could stay at the Oriental or somewhere else luxurious. My treat. I can just about afford separate hotel rooms, if that’s what’s worrying you. But maybe not at the Oriental, on second thoughts.’

  ‘What about your friend, Liana Son? Is she coming too?’

  ‘Why should she? I invited you, not her.’

  ‘But won’t she mind?’ asked Claire.

  ‘Look, Claire, there’s plenty you don’t understand. If we spend the weekend together, we can talk. I won’t lay a finger on you. But, there again, if you drag me into your room and insist on having your wicked way with me, then I might not be too strong willed.’

  She was trying not to laugh.

  ‘How about it?’ he asked.

  ‘How about what?’

  ‘Will you come? I’ve booked two tickets.’

  Claire smiled to herself again. ‘You have, have you? What if I can’t make it?’

  ‘Then I’ll have to cancel. But, give me a break, please come.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said, and put the phone down.

  After much heart-searching about loyalty to Howard, and several hours telling herself that she’d never, ever two-timed, and besides Drew was hopelessly casual and unreliable, and absolutely not her type, she decided to accept his invitation. In her entire proper, well more or less proper life she had never behaved this badly. Must be something to do with the heat.

  She dialled Drew’s number early one morning before she went to work. A Maising female voice speaking good English with a strong American accent answered the phone.

  Claire hesitated. ‘Liana?’ she ventured.

  ‘Yes, this is she. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?’ purred the voice.

  Claire had quickly replaced the receiver. In a rage, she sent off an instant email: ‘Thank you, but no. Never. C.’

  She had not heard from him again. Not that she wanted to.

  Naturally Drew was another subject she chose not to discuss with Howard. Anyway, there was nothing to discuss, for whatever it was she had had with Drew, it was clearly all over before it had started. She would put him out of her mind, concentrating on Howard and on her job. It was better not to have much time to brood.

  *

  Fortunately she had plenty to occupy her, for she needed to finish Jean-Louis’ catalogue and prepare it for printing. It was now developing into a lengthy publication, more of a book than a catalogue. She was gratified that he allowed her to continue her work without much supervision. Indeed their relationship seemed to be excellent these days. She remained on good terms with Pel too. He said nothing further about the stolen Buddha heads and so Claire thought it wiser not to bring up the whole dubious and scary subject.

  As they talked one day, she told him she was envious of his command of French. He confided that his mother’s father had been a French colonial officer and that he had been brought up a Christian. His English improved still more as he chatted with her regularly. He told her he wanted to practise the language so that he could help Jean-Louis with his English work, as she did.

  ‘But you do help him. For instance, you make all the arrangements for the import of the works of art he buys from Cambodia. You know a great deal about Khmer art.’

  ‘Yes. Naturally.’

  ‘By the way, Pel, why do so many Thai antiquities come to us via Cambodia, rather than direct?’

  He smiled as if he did not understand. Then he said, ‘Pose your questions to Jean-Louis.’

  But she knew Jean-Louis did not care to elaborate on the methods by which he acquired his treasures. Besides, she had already guessed the answer. He was probably smuggling goods out via Cambodia to avoid the numerous Thai export restrictions against works of art leaving the country. She had no proof of this theory, and as respectable galleries in England and elsewhere bought the items, she sometimes felt her suspicions must be unfounded.

  She certainly would not dare to confront Jean-Louis on the subject. She thought it wise to confine herself to general questions about Buddhism and south-east Asian art. For instance, she was attracted by the teachings of Buddha on the suppression of earthly desires. How much easier her life would be without them.

  Jean-Louis professed to have adopted the Buddhist faith. Christianity, he said, was too aggressive. He seemed to find it amusing that Pel held to the religion.

  ‘Do you believe in reincarnation, then?’ Claire asked Jean-Louis one day.

  ‘Why not? I have no trouble in accepting the idea that life is continuous, like a wheel going round and round. Then one does not fear death.’

  ‘But if you don’t make sufficient merit in this life, then you could be reincarnated as a dog or even a mosquito, I believe.’

  ‘The Lord Buddha taught that all life forms are important. That is why one must not kill the lowliest of creatures.’

  Claire raised her eyebrows. ‘Then one shouldn’t even use fly spray?’

  He smiled. ‘Ah, well, o
ne is not killing the fly directly. One is merely spraying the air.’

  ‘So killing is all right if it’s indirect. You don’t differentiate between zapping a mosquito and, say, arranging a murder or killing people with bombs?’

  ‘I am Swiss, a pacifist. Nevertheless, in some senses, one should not attach too much importance to human life, for there is always rebirth.’

  Claire was not always sure he meant what he said. He often had a mocking expression in his small round eyes.

  ‘But why,’ she persisted, ‘if Buddha taught that even the death of an insect is wrong, have there been so many wars in this part of the world?’

  ‘Man is imperfect, alas, but at least wars have not been fought in the Lord Buddha’s name, whereas man has created havoc in the name of Jesus Christ – and still does.’

  ‘True.’ She paused. ‘But, tell me, does the everyday-man-in-the-paddy-field Buddhist really want Nirvana, nothingness? I mean, you have surrounded yourself with beautiful things. I can’t see you as a self-denying monk.’

  ‘I, too, am imperfect, but one has to strive. Like Christians, Buddhists believe that one should not constantly covet the possessions of others. Selfishness and craving result in suffering.’ He smiled. ‘But I do admit to the sin of covetousness as far as antiquities are concerned. Now, let us strive to identify this piece of pottery, Sawankalok or Ayuthia, would you say?’

  At that point they were interrupted by the arrival of a visitor. Jean-Louis introduced him as Professor Meng, a local archaeologist, who was also a collector, a semi-professional photographer and a gourmet.

  ‘A man of many interests,’ said Claire, smiling at the handsome islander.

  The visitor was perhaps even more beautiful and certainly more powerfully built than Pel, who was standing on the edge of the group looking uneasy. It occurred to Claire that Meng might be another of Jean-Louis’ lovers – except that he glanced at her in an appreciative manner and began to ask her questions about her life in Maising, flashing his dark eyes at her and smiling a great deal. After a while, Jean-Louis said briskly that he and Meng had private business to discuss.

  When they had departed Claire asked, ‘Who’s that, Pel? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nobody, nothing,’ he said and went to his room slamming the door.

  *

  During the weeks that followed Claire worked hard on her project, determined to meet her self-imposed deadline. Jean-Louis was out late one afternoon when she was unable to guess the origins of a fragment of bas-relief. In the hope that Pel might be able to help, she called him in from the pool. Shaking the water from his long hair, he wrapped a towel around his waist and came into the office.

  ‘Do you have any idea where this came from, Pel? It must be Khmer.’

  He ran his hands over it over several times. ‘Maybe Angkor Wat.’

  ‘From Cambodia? But I thought . . .’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows what happens in that country even now, so long after the war.’

  ‘Does Jean-Louis have any records in those files about that sort of thing? I’m worried it’s not legal.’

  ‘Pose your questions to him,’ he said uncomfortably.

  ‘Do you have the key to that filing cabinet over there, Pel?’

  His eyes travelled towards a green jar on the bookcase. ‘Pose your questions to Jean-Louis,’ he repeated.

  She put her hand on his arm. ‘Don’t you mind that your country is being raped of all its antiquities?’

  He stared out of the window. Then he spoke slowly. ‘What does it matter? What does it matter about pieces of stone? Many much more terrible things happened. Many, many people were killed. My grandparents . . .’

  He looked as if he were about to cry. She was stricken. ‘I’m sorry. What about your parents?’

  Tears began to roll down his handsome face.

  She put her arm around his shoulders. ‘I’m so very sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I know you must have suffered. How everyone in your country suffered.’

  He was silent and then he spoke. ‘The only thing I have of my parents is a bird of ivory. That is all I have of them. It belonged to my mother.’

  ‘An ivory bird?’

  ‘Yes, it is quite small, delicate.’

  ‘Will you show it to me?’

  ‘Perhaps one day. I keep it in my room. Sometimes, sometimes I pray to it. It is white, like bones.’

  They remained with their arms about each other for several minutes; Pel sobbing quietly and Claire rocking him gently as if he were an unhappy child.

  The door opened. ‘A charming scene,’ said Jean-Louis. He marched in, his small dark eyes angry. Pel jumped and ran from the room as if he were guilty of some crime.

  ‘Is it not time you went home, my dear Claire? You must not work so hard,’ said Jean-Louis, without smiling.

  ‘We were talking about . . .’ began Claire awkwardly, wondering how best to explain why Pel had been in the office in his swimming gear and why she had put her arms around him.

  ‘As I said, it is time you went home.’

  ‘But I wanted to tell you that . . .’

  ‘There is nothing to say,’ he said coldly, and left the room.

  As she walked to her car, she heard Jean-Louis shouting and sound of Pel weeping again.

  *

  When she returned to work the next Monday, there was no sign of either of them. The maid, full of excitement, told her that Pel had left in a rage and had not returned. She said that the master had told her to pack all Pel’s belongings and then an unknown driver had arrived to collect them.

  Claire found a note from Jean-Louis telling her he would be away for a day or two. During the course of the day, it occurred to her to look in the green jar for the key of the cabinet. She found the key, but when she unlocked the cabinet it was empty.

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  Fourteen

  Next weekend at the seaside Deborah opened her eyes early in the morning when she heard her son’s piping voice. He was talking to Pima, who was beseeching him to be quiet and not disturb all the mothers and fathers still asleep in the hotel.

  Deborah lay back listening to the muffled noises. After twenty minutes or more, all was quiet. Pima must have dressed the children and taken them down to the beach. Such luxury, she thought, to bring a maid at the weekend to take care of both kids now that Jojo had been weaned at last.

  Johnny was snoring with his mouth open, his greying curls spreading over the pillow in damp clumps. Deborah dressed silently in a bikini and white T-shirt. Carrying her sandals and a beach towel, she crept across the room and out into the tropical dawn.

  Dawn was her favourite time at the Yacht Club because then she could have the view to herself. During the middle of day she enjoyed watching the sailors and their colourful boats, but with all the bustle it was not much more peaceful than the city. Similarly, in the evening, one always had to share the spectacular sunsets with others, all of them drinking and talking. At dawn she could be private and selfish. The pale light reminded her of Europe. She might even feel a little chilly. It was a rare treat to be cold enough to pull on a sweater.

  That morning the sky was not yet blue, but a glow rising in the trees behind her promised the inevitable long, hot day. The sea scarcely rippled as it spread towards the three dark islands on the horizon where a solitary fishing boat was making its way to port. She saw that the tide was ebbing away, leaving a shiny expanse between the edge of the sea and the line of seaweed and driftwood thrown up during the night. Above the tidemark the yachts sat on the dry sand, their sails neatly furled.

  Alex would like to paint this, she thought. He’d been drawing more lately, moving away from landscapes to spend time sketching her face over and over again. Smiling to herself, she dried one of the dew-soaked rattan chairs on the verandah and sat down. Across the slope of spiky grass, a gardener stood clipping back the purple bougainvillaea which formed the boundary hedge beneath the tall palms. Otherwise
there was no one to be seen, not even the children. Pima must have taken them around the headland to hunt for shells.

  It was now six thirty. Breakfast at the club would not be served for another hour. Not that she particularly enjoyed breakfast here; the toast was always soggy and the coffee tasted of old cardboard. Only the tropical fruits – pawpaw, mango, pineapple and banana sprinkled with fresh lime juice – made the meal worth waiting for.

  She opened her book. The novel concerned an affair between a female tutor and her young male student, with graphic sex scenes. Arching her back and stretching, Deborah thought of Alex again. He was too much on her mind. She should end the affair before it became public knowledge, before it ruined her friendship with Poppy, not to mention her own reputation. What if her mother-in-law should somehow find out? Their relationship was cool at the best of times. She could just imagine those thin pursed lips. The never-ending stream of criticism would become a torrent. If Muriel became upset about Deborah’s toilet-training methods, or lack of them, what would she say about a love affair with a teenage boy?

  As for Johnny, she definitely did not want him to know about it. At the very least, he’d sneer and make the affair seem sordid and banal, whereas to her it was a secret, special delight.

  Alex didn’t like the secrecy. ‘Why don’t you ever phone me, and why won’t you let me phone you?’ he would say as they sat side by side on the edge of Poppy’s pool, a discreet distance apart, hands by their sides, fingertips just touching. ‘I need to talk to you, even if I can’t see you every day.’

  ‘You see me two or three times a week.’

  ‘Seeing you like this is no good. I need you. I want you now. Let’s go up to my room. Poppy’s out.’

  Deborah smiled. ‘You’re crazy. The maids are all over the house.’

  ‘I can give them all the morning off.’

  ‘No, absolutely not. They’re far too conscientious to accept such an order from you anyway. But next week, on Tuesday, Johnny’ll be away. Come at seven thirty, if you want to.’