The Thai Amulet

Chapter 10

Indeed the young king had every reason to be out of sorts, and not just with me. Lady Si Sudachan, now the mother of a daughter by Khun Worawongsa, went to her chief ministers and suggested that, given Yot Fa had still not reached the age of the cutting of the topknot, that is thirteen years, and because he was, according to his mother, although I would not agree, still uninterested in affairs of state, the enemies of Ayutthaya might try to turn this state of affairs to their advantage. The solution, she said, was that the ministers should invite Khun Worawongsa to administer the kingdom until Yot Fa was of age.

The chief ministers, some, no doubt thoroughly intimidated, others under the lady’s spell, agreed, and to the sound of trumpets, Khun Worawongsa was escorted into the inner palace on the royal palanquin and proclaimed king with great ceremony.

From this moment on, the affairs of the kingdom altered drastically. Worawongsa’s brother was appointed uparat, or heir apparent and viceroy, and the governors of all our northern provinces were recalled to Ayutthaya and then dismissed, men loyal to the queen regent and Khun Worawongsa appointed in their places. But that was not the end of it.

Next, the queen regent and the usurper, Khun Worawongsa, determined that Yot Fa should spend some time in a monastery, something that many young men did, and it was arranged that he go to the Khbk Phraya Monastery.

It is customary, before a young man enters the monastery, for a great celebration to be held, and on the evening before he was to go, Yot Fa commanded a performance of a masked dance. All the court was invited to the event, including me.

It was a most spectacular occasion. The middle court was lit with hundreds of torches as we arrived, and great delicacies were served before the performance. The royal party ate as usual from bowls of delicate celadon porcelain, because, as it is well known, celadon will crack if it is touched by poison.

Soon the dance began. It was a most edifying production, telling the story of how Phra Ram and his brother Phra Lak, supported by an army of monkeys led by Hanuman, fought Thosokanth and his demon army.

All the roles in the drama are performed by men, even the female roles, such strenuous activity being, of course, too much for women. The costumes of the dancers, brocade encrusted with stones, glittered in the torchlight. The masks of the demons were truly terrifying, and the battles between good and evil most ably performed.

What made the evening most wonderful for me, though, was the presence of my beloved beside me. We had found a place toward the back of the crowd where we could see everything but not be overlooked by anyone. Her hand rested lightly on mine when we were certain no one was watching us.

At the point in the drama where the evil Tosokanth appears, I noticed a court official approach Khun Worawongsa. That in itself would not necessarily be unusual, but there was something about the way they both looked about them, as if to ensure no one was looking, that intrigued me. As I strained to see, Worawongsa took something from under his garment, a vial, I think, and handed it to the man, who then slipped into the crowd and away.

I was puzzled, but turned back to the performance. As I did so, I saw the queen regent watching me. I was terrified by her glance. I knew I had seen something I was not supposed to, even if I didn’t understand it. But then I saw my sweet love’s smile, and in a moment I forgot.

“There seems to be a little tension in the air,” I said to Jennifer, as we stood in the lobby of the National Theater, waiting for the doors to open for the performance. “Between Chat and Yutai, I mean.” Around us the rest of the Chai-wong family was holding court. A number of dignitaries had come to pay their respects, and there was much wei-ing on everybody’s part. Chat was doing his best to help his mother with the hosting, even though it was clear he wasn’t in his element. He was a shy man, like his half brother more at home in the academic world, but he took his family responsibilities seriously. From time to time he’d look to see where Jennifer was, and a smile would light up his face when he found her in the crowd.

“I’m afraid so,” Jennifer said. “Between Chat and his mother, too. Chat went and had a long conversation with her about the business. He wasn’t too happy about her bringing Khun Wichai into it without telling anybody, and I gather, given what you’ve learned from David, he’s right. She has responded by telling Chat that she understands that he doesn’t really want to be involved, and she has therefore appointed Yutai as chief operating officer. To top it off, Yutai’s brother, Eakrit, has been brought in as chief financial officer. Chat is to remain as president, but really, the day-to-day will now be taken care of by Yutai and his brother. Poor Chat.” She sighed. “He really doesn’t want to run the business, but I think he is completely disconcerted by this latest move of his mother’s. And Yutai! He is just reveling in it. He even bosses Chat around. Personally, I think we should just leave them to it and get on with our trip, and then live in the States or Canada. If we get married—”

“Has he asked you?”

“He has. I said yes, too. Don’t tell Dad if you’re talking to him, will you. Chat wants to formally ask for my hand in marriage, can you believe it? He’s bought me the most astonishingly beautiful ring. I can’t wear it right now, of course, not until it’s official, but I’ll show you later. Anyway, when we get married, Chat can certainly stay in Canada.”

“I’m really happy for you,” I said. “If you’re sure this is what you want.”

“I’m sure,” she said. “I really love him, Aunt Lara. This trip together was to see if we were meant to be together, and given all that’s happened, I think we must be. I know it will work for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that he has become my best friend.”

“One more question,” I said. I felt a lump in my throat. “Has he told his family?”

“He’s going to tell them tonight. Wish both of us luck. Now here we go. I think they’re opening the doors.”

I turned to look for the others. As I did so, I had a blinding flash of insight that left me stunned. Standing over to one side were Wongvipa and with her, Fatty. As I watched them, Yutai came over to speak to Wongvipa, and for a moment the three of them stood together in front of a portrait of Thaksin that had been placed on the wall of the lobby for the occasion. I suddenly knew that I was looking at a family. But it was not Thaksin’s. It was Yutai’s. Little Fatty had the same cheekbones and slightly flattened nose as Yutai, and bore no resemblance that I could see to the man in the portrait behind them. I would stake my life on it: Fatty was Yutai’s daughter.

As I tried to digest this information, I saw Yutai move away and speak to the chauffeur cum security guard, the same one who had called him when Chat and I had gone looking for financial statements, and to two other men, one of whom looked familiar, although I couldn’t see him very well, and couldn’t place him. After first looking about him carefully, Yutai took something from the man who looked familiar and handed it to the chauffeur, who nodded, then quickly slipped into the crowd and out the door. Yutai looked back at Chat, and the most awful smile appeared on his face. It was only there for a split second, but I felt the mask had slipped for a moment, and the man’s true feelings were revealed. It made me feel slightly ill, and I turned away. When I turned back, Yutai was gone, but Wongvipa was looking straight at me. I didn’t like the way she looked at me, either. Something was wrong. Perhaps Chat was going to be drummed out of the company completely. I smiled and waved at Wongvipa as if I hadn’t seen a thing. She didn’t smile back.

The crowd started moving forward toward the doors into the theater, and I found myself caught in something of a crush. As I stood there, trapped, I heard a hoarse voice behind me and very close to my ear. “Go home,” the voice said. “You don’t belong here.” I tried to turn but couldn’t, and by the time I did, no one I knew was that close to me.

A minute or two later David Ferguson caught up to me in the aisle. “Do you know that fantastic-looking woman over there?” he said. “The one in the green dress?”

“That’s Praneet,” I said. “Praneet Chaiwong. She is fantastic looking, and she’s also a doctor.”

“I don’t suppose you’d introduce me,” he said. “Maybe we could invite her to dinner.”

“Sure,” I said.

“You’re a pal,” he said.

I found myself seated next to Khun Wichai. His daughter, Busakorn, was, as usual, supposed to be with Chat, but Chat was changing seats to sit with Jennifer.

“I see you and I are rivals of a sort,” Wichai said, as we watched the musical chairs. He looked amused and not at all the rather intimidating person David had described to me. Two large men, however, were sitting in the row behind us, one to either side. I assumed they were Wichai’s bodyguards, two of the cadre of loyal followers David had mentioned.

“I suppose we are,” I agreed with a smile. “I have a feeling that no matter what, though, we will have nothing whatsoever to say regarding the final decision.”

“Alas,” he said. “Times have changed since I was young. My wife was picked out for me when I was a mere boy. Still, we got along well enough. Your Jennifer is so, well, Western.”

“Please don’t say she’ll never fit in here,” I said. My tone was light, but I was starting to wonder whether the hoarse voice had belonged to Mr. Wichai.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “I have done rather well, speaking personally, from globalization. May it flourish. And now I think the performance is about to begin.”

He’s not such a bad sort, I thought, as the lights went down. For a man whose rivals simply disappear. I looked around for Yutai. I couldn’t see him, but I could see the other man I recognized. Who is that? I wondered. I know him from somewhere.

The Khon performance was an interesting one. Masked dancers told a story from the Ramakien, Thailand’s rather more secular version of the Hindu Ramayama. There was live music played on the traditional Thai instruments: klong tadt and klong kak drums, the sacred tapone, the two-faced drum that Thai dancers pay homage to before the performance so they will dance well, and ranadek and ranad-thum, both xylophone type instruments, and assorted cymbals and gongs. The dancing was highly stylized, the costumes and masks spectacular, and I really wished I was able to enjoy it more.

The Khon depicted the battle between good and evil, and I had a feeling, somehow, that it was being played out in real life, right in front of my eyes. It was as if everything I had seen in the theater lobby had been almost as choreographed as the performance I was now watching. The masks of the demons on the stage were the smiles of the people I had met. The vision of Yutai and Wongvipa, and the looks on their faces, haunted me. Shrimp, I thought suddenly. The brother of the monk who was now in jail for smuggling, the big man in the amulet market who told me his name was Shrimp, and who had seemed determined to take the bad amulets off my hands. That’s who was talking to Yutai. The way I saw it, the meeting was neither a coincidence nor casual.

At the end of the performance I found David Ferguson.

“Come with us,” I said to Jennifer and Chat. “It will be fun.” In truth I just wanted to keep them both near me, to keep them safe.

“You go, Jennifer,” Chat said. “I have a really bad headache. I think I’ll just go home.”

“I’ll go with you,” she said loyally.

“No, really,” he said, squeezing her arm. “I’m just going to take something for this headache and go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“If you’re sure,” she said.

“I’m sure. I’ll have the car pick you up at the Skytrain around what? Eleven, eleven-thirty?”

We spent a very pleasant evening with David. I made the introductions with Praneet, but she was on her way back to the hospital and couldn’t join us, much to David’s disappointment. As promised, he took us to a restaurant where we were the only farang. I had no idea where we were, but the food was fabulous. Jennifer enjoyed herself, too, although I could see she was thinking about Chat a lot of the time.

It was a busy night in Bangkok, and after dinner we got stuck in traffic that barely crawled along. At some point we found ourselves in what I suppose might euphemistically be called an entertainment district, all flashing neon and crowded sidewalks.

“This is Pat Pong, as you’ve no doubt already surmised,” David said.

“Stop the car,” I said.

“That shouldn’t be difficult. We’re barely moving.”

“Pull over,” I said.

“Are you going to be sick or something?”

“We have to find a parking spot.”

“A parking spot!” he exclaimed. “Here? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I’m getting out,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

“Lara!” David exclaimed. “Where are you going?”

“I’m coming, too,” Jennifer said. “Wherever it is we’re going.”

“Hold it! You’re not going anywhere without me,” Ferguson said. “Just give me a minute to park. Now what is this all about?” he grumbled a few minutes later, as we abandoned the car in an alley. I pointed to a bright neon sign on top of one of the buildings and the arrow that pointed down the street.

“You have a sudden urge to go to something called the Pink Pussy Kat Klub?”

“PPKK,” I said. “We’re going to have a chat with Mr. Prasit, the assistant manager.”

“Okay, here we go.” Ferguson sighed. “Hold on to your wallets. There are pickpockets everywhere.”

The Pat Pong may be tame now, compared to its heyday, when American servicemen fighting in Vietnam went there for a little R and R. But it was still racy enough for me. Neon signs flash out Kiss Me Club, Dream Boys, and Super Pussy. VIP-service rooms to rent on a short-term basis are advertised everywhere. There’s a massage parlor every few yards. In the midst of all this, there’s a night market the locals disdain for its cheap merchandise and high prices, and for something of a contrast, a few well-known fast-food and coffee chains.

At night most people come for the alcohol and titillation, not for the burgers. From the soi, it is easy to see inside to the table dancers, young and not so young men and women scantily clad, gyrating to the loud and persistent music.

Outside are the hustlers, trying to lure you in. Sometimes these are men with suggestive photos of what is inside. In other cases there are women in long, formal gowns, with numbers pinned to their dresses, shouting at unaccompanied men to get their attention.

The Pink Pussy Kat Klub was, if anything, among the worst. Outside, very young Thai girls were dressed in school uniforms, of all things, with oxfords and kneesocks, navy pleated skirts and ties, white shirts, and blazers. In keeping with the theme, the kneesocks and blazers were pink. I felt a pang as they reminded me of Bent Rowland’s Parichat, and indeed maybe she’d been one of them until Rowland took her away, at least temporarily, from it all. Inside, the music was so loud I could feel it in my bones, and flashing strobes made me dizzy. The place smelled of stale booze, perspiration, and cheap perfume. Rather lithe young women in extremely brief bikinis, pink, it perhaps goes without saying, were contorting themselves into positions middle-aged women like me can’t even think about without hurting ourselves. I yelled my question about where to find the assistant manager to David, who in turn shouted in Thai to the bartender, who waved us in the direction of the back. We pushed our way through a throng of men, mostly white, overweight, and badly dressed, who were sweating from heat and excitement, as young Thai women pressed themselves against them. It was, in a word, revolting.

“Yuck,” Jennifer said.

Being in this place made me think of Rob, Rob the policeman, that is. He’d have had the place closed down in ten minutes. We passed a particularly young girl—she couldn’t possibly have been more than twelve—sitting on the lap of an overweight American in a Hawaiian shirt who was fondling her as she murmured, “You my darling,” or words to that effect. Make that five minutes, I thought. Rob would have been absolutely horrified.

Mr. Prasit’s office was at the top of the dark stairway. He shared it with another young man. The room had a small window on the inside, presumably so that he could keep an eye on the goings-on downstairs, a small desk, and a computer. His job, I could see, was to keep the accounts. Even up there, the noise was painful and the heat almost unbearable. He looked surprised to see us.

“My name is Lara McClintoch, and these are my friends Jennifer and David Ferguson,” I said. “I’m here at the request of Natalie Beauchamp, Mr. William’s wife. I am hoping you can spare a few minutes to talk to me, and perhaps have something for me to take back to Mrs. Natalie.”

“Not here,” he said, looking terribly embarrassed, which I would have been, too, if I’d been him, dressed in his bright pink shirt in such a place. “Please to follow me.” He spoke in Thai to the other resident of the office, who nodded. We made our way out the back—I was happy not to have to press my way through the throng in the bar again—and down an alley that I wouldn’t want to be in alone. A block or two away from the hubbub we mounted a staircase to a second-floor flat. Prasit’s apartment was tiny and smelled of cooking from the restaurant below. He shared it with his wife, Sarigarn, who was out at work at that time, he told us, his mother, and two children of about five and two. I found it hard to reconcile his home and his job, and apparently he did, too.

“You will please not to mention my children about my job, okay?” he had said just before we went in.

“Okay,” we agreed in unison.

“Please sit,” he said. “My mother bring tea. Cannot rest here so long. Must go to club very soon. I have for Mrs. Natalie package. Please wait here.”

He disappeared into another room as his mother poured tea into chipped cups—David had to stand because there weren’t enough seats—and reappeared a minute or two later with a large package wrapped in brown paper. “Sorry not send Mrs. Natalie. Very expensive for mailing. I am for saving money to send it.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll make sure she gets it.” But not without opening it first. “How do you know Mr. William?” I asked.

Prasit pondered the question. “I think one year,” he said.

“Why don’t I translate?” David said. “It’ll go faster.” The two spoke for a moment or two, while I smiled at Prasit’s mother and his two kids.

“Prasit’s wife works for a cleaning company that has the contract for the building Fairfield Antiques is in,” David said finally. “She works at night. During the time Will had the antique business, Mr. Prasit had a day job, and he would take his wife there so they could have a little more time together. Mr. William would talk to him while he waited for her to finish up. He says Mr. William was very kind and gave his wife extra money for special cleaning, and also helped to get him medicine for his mother, who has what I think is arthritis. Occasionally Will came to the Pink Pussy Kat Klub, but I gather from Prasit he was not a regular and only stopped by for a drink. He says he thinks Will was a bit lonely and wanted to talk. He also practiced his Thai on Prasit, and Prasit did the same with English.”

“Can you ask him when he saw Mr. William last?”

“I already did. He saw him early in July. Same time as just about everybody else. It was about that time that he got the night job, so he didn’t take his wife in anymore. She went in and cleaned for several weeks without seeing Will, but that was not necessarily unusual. She only saw him when he worked late. He had often left by the time she got there. Finally, of course, the landlord came, and the store was closed.”

“And how did he get this stuff of Will’s? The envelope with the clippings and this big package.”

Ferguson and Prasit spoke for a minute or two. “He says Will gave it to him shortly before the last time he saw him. He said Will just told him if he didn’t see him for awhile he was to send it to Natalie. He feels badly, I think, that he took so long to send it. He said that he didn’t realize at first that Will wasn’t coming back. His wife didn’t say much, and when the store was closed down, he realized he had to send the stuff. He knew where Will lived. I gather his wife made extra money from time to time doing some special cleaning there, and he knew there was a Mrs. Praneet next door with a key, and so he checked for Will there. He says he has to go back now, or he’ll lose his job. I think we should let him go. I’ll give him my card, and if he thinks of anything else, I’ll ask him to call me.”

Jennifer was rather silent the rest of the way back, especially as we sank into the back of the Chaiwong limousine. “You’re thinking about the conditions under which Mr. Prasit and his family live,” I said.

“I am,” she said. “It is quite a contrast to Ayutthaya, isn’t it? I suppose I have trouble reconciling the two, but I can see why Chat thinks things could be better for people here. What is it, do you think?” she said, changing the subject and pointing to my package.

“We’ll have to wait and see,” I said.

I knew what the package contained, but I didn’t open it until I was back in my room at the Chaiwongs. I didn’t want the driver to see it. After Yutai’s conversation with the security guard, I decided I didn’t trust any of them. It was the painting, of course, the one by Robert Fitzgerald that had hung in Will’s bedroom. I unwrapped it carefully and stood it up against the back of a chair.

A young woman stood there staring straight at me. She was in her mid- to late twenties, with dark hair and pale, flawless skin, dressed in a celery green suit and white blouse. She was standing behind a small table on which was placed, to her right, a stone head of Buddha. Her left hand seemed to be reaching for the Buddha, although she wasn’t looking at it; the right hand was at her side. She was very beautiful, but there was, indeed, a touch of defiance in her gray eyes, as Robert Fitzgerald had said. Behind her was a mirror in which could be seen, only faintly, a dark shadow.

“She’s lovely,” Jennifer said. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Helen Ford, and it’s a long story, not necessarily a lovely one. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll look forward to that. It’s late. I think I’ll just leave Chat to sleep. I won’t wake him. He’ll feel better in the morning. I’ll show you the you-know-what then, too,” she added, pointing at her ring finger. I watched her go down the hall, wondering whether I should tell her about Fatty. I decided I’d see how I felt in the morning.