The Fourth Watcher

12

The go-go clubs of Nana Plaza, where Prettyman’s bar is located, don’t light up until 6:00 p.m., but the open-air bars flanking the end of the Plaza that spills into Soi Nana are

already packed at 10:30 in the morning and exuding an air of desperate fun. The tables are jammed with drinkers, some of whom can barely sit upright and most of whom look as though they haven’t been to bed in days: Bags sag beneath eyes, graying whiskers bristle, hair as lank as raw bacon hangs over foreheads. Trembling hands hoist glasses. Here and there, Rafferty sees a morning-shift girl, her arms draped around one of the drinkers, looking at him as though he’s just emerged, naked, gleaming, and perfect, from the sea.

Bad 1980s rock and roll, big-hair metal at its most aggressively ordinary, elbows its way onto the sidewalk. The as-yet-unclaimed women, who will be doing short-times until 7:00 p.m., hug the stools they’ve staked out, their miniskirts riding up over their thighs as they scan the crowd in the hope of intercepting a speculative glance. Most of them aren’t even pretending to be interested. It’s too early.

Rafferty knows exactly how they feel. Thanks to the visit from Elson and Rose’s nervousness afterward, he got maybe ninety minutes of sleep. His eyes feel like someone poured a handful of sand beneath his lids, and there’s something sluggish and heavy at his core. He knows there’s only one cure: coffee. The question is whether to go home and drink a pot with Rose or grab some here. He’s thickheaded enough that his indecision actually stops him in the middle of the sidewalk. One of the girls in the bar, seeing him pause, calls him in. For a moment he considers it-they’ve got coffee-but the music and the clientele combine to create a richly textured awfulness that’s better avoided at this hour. The light level drops slightly, and he looks up to see some truly alarming clouds.

Can he even make it home before the rain hits?

He is turning to walk to Sukhumvit Road when he sees the girl.

She instantly stops and drops to one knee to fiddle with a shoe, lowering her head so a veil of black hair falls forward and covers her features. In the half second or so that he sees her, however, the face leaps across the darkening day as though a flashbulb has exploded. She is extraordinarily beautiful. Her pale face is angular, sharp-boned, almost unnaturally symmetrical. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. Not Thai. Chinese, perhaps, or even Korean, although something about her features-the high bridge of her nose, the curve of her lower lip-suggests she might be hasip-hasip, fifty-fifty Western. But the thing that arrests his gaze is that there is something familiar about her. He knows he has never seen her before. He would remember if he had; she is definitely material for the memory bank. But he recognizes something in her face.

He is still staring at her when she glances up from her shoe and catches his eye. She gives him a sliver of a smile, more the thought of a smile than the thing itself, and then stands and walks away, her back to him, heading back up Soi Nana. He is certain she just reversed direction. As she retreats, he sees that she is taller than most Asian women, perhaps five-eight, another reason to think she might be hasip-hasip.

Not as tall as Rose, he thinks, and a bolt of guilt pierces him. He should be doing something-anything-about Agent Elson. And Fon, if he can; for all he knows, Fon is still in jail. The first thing that comes to mind is the two cops who were with Elson. He pulls out the phone again, turns it on, and dials the number of his friend Arthit, a colonel in the Bangkok police. As he waits for the ring, he turns back in the direction of Sukhumvit and begins to amble toward it. Arthit’s voice mail picks up, and Rafferty leaves a message, asking whether they can meet for lunch in a couple of hours at an outdoor restaurant near Arthit’s station.

He snaps the phone shut and asks himself again: home or somewhere here?

His decision arrives in the form of a typical Thai raindrop, perhaps half a pint of warm water, that smacks the top of his forehead much as a Zen master might clobber a meditating student whose attention has wandered. Before he can blink, thunder rumbles and the sky flickers: lights on, off, then on again, and suddenly it’s much darker than before. A giant burps high overhead, a noise like someone rolling cannonballs in a huge pan. Rafferty has learned respect for Thai rainstorms, which can empty an Olympic swimming pool on one’s head in a matter of minutes, and he hurries toward the intersection, hoping to flag a tuktuk before the deluge strikes.

Hope, as is so often the case, is disappointed. Poke hasn’t gone ten yards before the drain opens in heaven, tons of water falling, the drops so fat and heavy that their splashes reach his knees. A whiplash of light precedes by scant seconds a sound like the sky cracking in half. The rain increases in volume, slapping his shoulders sharply enough to sting. His world shrinks to a circle a few yards wide with himself at its soaked center. It is literally impossible to see across the street.

Rain means the same thing in what the tour books call “exotic Bangkok” that it means in more prosaic cities around the world. It means that there will not be a taxi within miles. It means Rafferty could stand on the curb for hours, stark naked, painted fuchsia, and waving a million-baht note, and no one would hit the brakes. It means he has a chance to find out whether his new jeans are really preshrunk or just Bangkok preshrunk, meaning that some seamstress spent several minutes painstakingly sewing on a label that says “preshrunk,” which is usually the item that shrinks first.

He’s running by now, the phone folded and sheltered in his fist, looking for a restaurant, coffee shop, bar-anyplace he can wait out the rain. As if on cue, golden lights bloom to his right, haloed in the rain. A bell rings as he pushes his way through the door, into a small bakery and coffee shop. He is alone, facing a long glass case full of pastries frosted in an improbable yellow the color of Barbie’s hair. The air is thick with coffee, and stools line the window, framing a gray rectangle of rain. He takes a seat and drips contentedly onto the floor, watching the water fall.

As a native of California, where a cloudy day makes the TV news, Rafferty is thrilled by Thailand’s enormous weather. Its sheer magnitude seems a kind of wealth, spending itself extravagantly day after day: thunderous rain, blinding heat, clouds as greasy and dark as oil shale. Nothing makes him happier than being in his apartment with Miaow, all the lights on in midafternoon, as monsoon-force winds lash the rain around and rattle the glass door to the balcony.

And now Rose will be there, too. As his wife.

The lie he told Rose in bed that morning nags at him. In fact, he had tried to find his father. Within two weeks of his graduation from UCLA, he had returned to Lancaster and ransacked his father’s metal box. Two days later he was on a plane to Hong Kong. Once there, he used the decades-old names and addresses he had copied into his notebook to track his father across China, where he ultimately found the woman-fat and blowsy now-for whose decades-old memory Frank Rafferty had left his wife and son behind.

His father had refused to see him.

The only thing Rafferty owes his father is that the search had brought him to Asia, where he has been more or less ever since.

Frank has a yellow heart, his fierce mother had said, the one time she allowed Rafferty to raise the subject of his father’s disappearance. At the time he’d thought she meant he was a coward. Only after he realized that he, too, had a yellow heart did he grasp that his father simply loved Asia, could not live anywhere but Asia. Rafferty’s mother, half Filipina herself, had understood her husband, although that didn’t stop her from hating him later, with that special talent for hatred that Filipinos carry in their blood, mixed in with gaiety and music.

A yellow heart, he thinks.

“Sawadee, kha,” someone says behind him. He turns to see a girl, perhaps ten years old. She wears a pair of shorts more or less the same yellow as the pastries behind the glass and a much-laundered T-shirt that says happy together above a picture of two fat hippies whom Rafferty recognizes as the singers in an old-time band called the Turtles. She is as brown as a paper bag.

“Sawadee, khrap,” Rafferty says. “Caffee lon, okay?”

“One hot coffee,” Happy Together says. “It will coming up.” She looks past him at the rain, and her lips move experimentally. Then she narrows her eyes and takes the plunge. “Have raining, yes?”

“Have raining, yes,” Rafferty says. “Have raining mak-mak.” The Thai phrase for “a lot.”

“Hokay,” Happy Together says proudly. “Talking English, na?”

“More or less. You speak it well.”

“Ho, no,” she says. “Only little bit.” It sounds like “leeten bit.” “Where you come from?”

“U.S.A.”

She raises an index finger as though she is going to lecture him, but the message is mathematical. She says, “U.S.A. numbah one.”

“No,” Rafferty says. “Thailand is number one.”

“Hah.” Her grin is enormously white. He has passed the national test. “Caffee lon now.” She disappears behind the counter, only the top of her head visible. She is no taller than Miaow.

Miaow, he thinks. Miaow is Rafferty’s family now. Rose is Rafferty’s family now. It has taken him years to assemble a home, and now he has one. I’m really hasip-hasip now, he thinks. I have a Thai family. With his mother’s Filipina blood evident in the high bones of his face and his straight black hair, he has often been mistaken for half Thai, although he’s only one-quarter Asian. Still, he thinks, he’s genetically entitled to his yellow heart.

The coffee, when it is slapped down in front of him, is thick enough to whip. He lifts the heavy china mug and stares at the rain.

“Think too much,” Happy Together says, standing beside him. “Think too much, no good.”

“Thinking about good things,” Rafferty says. “I’ve got a little girl at home just like you.”

“Thai girl?” Happy Together gives the operatic rain a disdainful glance. She’s used to it.

“One hundred percent,” Rafferty says.

Happy Together glances at his face, looks again. “You, what? Hasiphasip?”

“Part Filipino.”

“I know where Pipinenes are,” she says, pointing more or less east. “Over there.” It comes out “Oweh dah.”

“My daughter’s smart, too.”

She thinks for a second, pushing her lower lip out. “Some farang no have baby, right?”

“Right.” He has been asked this question before. Most Thais cannot imagine an adult choosing not to have children.

“Why? Why not have baby? No have baby, not happy.”

“I don’t know. But you’re right. Babies are necessary.”

Happy Together fills her cheeks with air as she checks the dictionary in her head and then squints at him. “You say what?”

“Necessary,” Rafferty repeats, following it with the Thai word.

“Word too big,” she says decisively.

“Not for you. You’re smart.”

She goes up on tiptoes. “You know twelve times twelve?”

“One hundred thirty-eight.”

“Ho.” She punches him on the leg, hard enough to raise a lump. “You joking me.”

“See how smart you are? And look, you’ve already got your own shop.”

She balls her fist to punch him again and thinks better of it. Maybe her hand hurts. “My mama make shop. But I make caffee. Good, na?”

“Excellent.” Rafferty brings the cup to his lips and watches as someone comes into sight through the window, shrouded in rain. A woman, her clothes pasted to her slender form. She does not keep her head down against the downpour but shields her eyes with a hand, obviously looking for something or someone. He watches idly for a moment, wondering why she hasn’t ducked inside to wait out the storm, and then, with a start, realizes who she is.

He pushes back his stool. “How many baht?” he asks Happy Together.

“Twenty. Caffee no good?”

The girl has passed from sight. So he was right; she had reversed direction, then turned around and followed him again. “It’s excellent,” he says. “But I just saw someone I know.” He gives Happy Together a bright blue fifty-baht note and hurries out into the rain.

The moment he sets foot on the street, a sheet of lightning flattens everything, turning the raindrops ice-white and freezing them in midfall. The boom that follows feels like his own skull crumpling. He starts walking, as fast as he can without breaking into a run, waiting for the girl’s form to solidify through the gray curtain in front of him.

He had meant to tell Prettyman to call off the trackers. He decided over his morning coffee to drop the book idea as too risky for someone with a wife and child, kicking off the first day of his new life with a firm resolve that made him feel briefly adult, despite a twinge of resentment; the book’s topic had interested him. But now things were different. He had responsibilities. He’d write magazine articles. He’d review books-that sounded safe. Maybe he’d do advertising copy.

The prospect had all the allure of a glass of warm milk, but his wife and daughter would be happier. He and Rose would economize; they’d pay Miaow’s tuition, and then worry about everything else. He’d left the apartment with every intention of abandoning the project. Then he had been distracted, thinking about the conversation about Elson, and he’d forgotten to tell Prettyman he was quitting.

Or perhaps, he acknowledges, he likes the excitement. Or maybe he doesn’t want to let go of the advance money.

But now he can clear it up.

He passes a drugstore, a restaurant, a small hotel, a hair salon full of women anxiously lining the window, staring at the rain that will ruin their new hairdos, barely paid for. Cars splash by in the street, throwing up sheets of water three feet high. The light increases by several f-stops, and he realizes the rain is lifting. He can see half a block ahead now.

The girl is nowhere in sight.

He breaks into a run, his feet slapping through the water. Then some giant hand turns off the faucet and the rain stops, as suddenly as it began. The boulevard yawns in front of him, gleaming wet, its sidewalk almost deserted.

She must have turned into a side street. He looks back, certain he didn’t pass one, and sees nothing. Half a block ahead, though, a tuktuk fords a temporary lake across the boulevard and vanishes to the right, obviously heading down a soi. Without breaking stride, Rafferty chases it and enters the soi.

And sees her, walking briskly, almost a block away. She turns, checking behind her, and spots him. At the same moment, she sees the tuktuk and raises a hand to flag it. The tuk-tuk swerves suicidally to the curb, its driver having obviously seen her face, and she climbs in. As it pulls away, she looks back at Rafferty again. Then, with that same quarter smile, she lifts her hand and waves good-bye.