The Thai Amulet

Chapter 3

I should begin with an explanation of how I, son of a rather minor court official, should come to play a role in the political affairs of the royal court of Ayutthaya. It is because my mother was appointed wet nurse to Prince Yot Fa, son of King Chairacha by the royal concubine Lady Si Sudachan. The lady, who had not a drop of motherly love in her, as her consequent actions make clear, had no interest in the nurturing of her child.

That role fell to my mother, whose loss of a daughter, my only sister, when the baby was three days old, made her an excellent candidate for the position. She lavished the love for her lost child on the little prince.

I was six years old at the time and can recall my fierce jealousy of the child I saw as a rival for my mother’s affection. In time though, I came to love Yot Fa as a younger brother. He was a melancholy child, a worry for his father, and everyone was pleased that I took the boy under my wing. For me it meant the run of the inner palace, the finest of food and clothing, and an education way beyond my station. I began to take on the swagger of a prince, to imagine that somehow I had been switched at birth. My mother scolded me for putting on airs, but she, too, was happy that we were so close, that I, unlike others, could make Yot Fa laugh.

Six years later, a second son was born to the king and the concubine, the Prince Si Sin, but I believe that the two princes were never as close as Yot Fa and I were, and certainly my affection for Yot Fa did not extend to his little brother, despite my mother’s obvious adoration of both princes. I found Si Sin—I’m not sure how to put this—untrustworthy, perhaps, or even somewhat devious as he grew older—although I’m not sure one should ascribe such traits to a child. Perhaps it was the rather churlish disdain older children have for those much younger, but I felt Si Sin was his mother’s son, unlike Yot Fa, who was much more like his father, the king.

As I grew older, I came to admire King Chairacha, if it is not too presumptuous for someone like me to say so about divinity. I was well aware, as was everyone in the palace, that he gained the throne by putting to death his nephew, the young King Ratsada. Despite that, I found him to be a wise and even-handed ruler, and diligent in his efforts to improve our seafaring capability and our army by improving the river channel and bringing in the Portuguese to instruct us in the use of firearms. He was also a religious man, building Chi Chiang Sai Monastery and placing there an image of Lord Buddha and a holy relic soon after he became king. I have often wondered since, though, if the horrible act that brought him the kingship lay at the heart of the difficulties that plagued his reign, as if the spirits, angered by the deed, wreaked their revenge. Certainly there were many evil omens that indicated all was not well in the kingdom. But perhaps I imagine this.

It is difficult for me to describe Lady Si Sudachan, in part because of what was to happen later, but also, if I am to be honest, the fascination she held for me. I was afraid of her certainly. She was not a woman to be taken lightly, often cold and distant, always quick to anger, even faster to seek revenge for any insult, intentional or otherwise. She was also—I don’t know—seductive? I was much too young to appreciate the sexual side of her appeal, of course, but I sensed something. As much as I feared her, I also found myself wanting to be near her, to do something, anything, which would cause her to see me in a favorable light, to smile in a certain way she had, to glimpse a flicker of interest or even amusement in her eyes.

In a way, I suppose, we were two of a kind, both commoners who found themselves in the inner palace, both barely tolerated by the queens and consorts, all of them, unlike us, of royal blood.

Jennifer looked absolutely beautiful at dinner that evening. In a bright blue silk dress, her blond hair piled up on her head, she had a quality about her—I’m not sure what the word is: luminescence, perhaps?—that made her the subject of many admiring glances. I felt a pride in her I cannot quite explain. She was not, after all, my daughter, just my partner’s. I could claim no hand in her upbringing. Watching her, so poised, I wanted everything to be perfect for her.

She’d spent the day shopping with Khun Wongvipa and arrived in my room a few minutes before we were due to go upstairs for some help with her hair.

“Do I look all right?” she said.

“No,” I said. “You look wonderful. I ordered a mustard gold suit today. I wish I had it to wear this evening.”

“Will they think I look all right?” she said, with a slight emphasis on “they.”

“If they don’t,” I said, “then you and I are going to have to come to terms with the fact that there is something seriously wrong with your boyfriend’s family.”

She giggled. “It’s all a bit overwhelming, isn’t it? All this gold and everything. Look at these, will you?” she added, leaning her head toward me and gesturing to a pair of small but not insubstantial gold earrings set with tiny sapphires. “These are a gift from Chat’s mother. Not a loan, a gift,” she repeated.

“They’re lovely,” I said. “But you don’t have to accept them if you’re not comfortable.”

“I couldn’t imagine saying no in the first place, and now I can’t imagine giving them back,” she said. “Chat would be hurt. His mother would be hurt. She scares me a little. I can’t really tell you why.”

“Can’t wait to meet her,” I said.

She smiled. “I am so glad you are here,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t. I think I’d get lost, somehow, sucked into this family and all this wealth.”

“That wouldn’t happen to you,” I said, feeling my way through this new intimacy between us. “You have a very firm grasp on reality and a very good sense of what is important in life. Your father has done a good job raising you. While he and I disagree on a lot of things in life, one thing we agree on is you. I wish he were here to see how beautiful you look.”

“You’ll get to meet the rest of the family, too,” she said. “Dusit, that’s Chat’s brother, and his dad, Khun Thaksin. I hope he’s here. He’s been in Chiang Mai on business the last couple of days and is supposed to be back.”

“I look forward to meeting them all.”

“You know what I like most about Chat?” she said. “It’s his belief that one determined individual can really make a difference. He thinks he can change things for the better in Thailand, do something about the poverty and things like that. He’s quite different from the rest of them.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “That’s all that matters.”

“I don’t know if that’s the only thing,” she said. “He’s also kind of cute, don’t you think?”

“Very cute,” I said. “I believe I heard Mr. Cute last night creeping down the hall to your room?”

She blushed. “Dad won’t be pleased, will he? He couldn’t possibly think that we traveled together for three months without… you know.”

“Actually, he probably could. I’ll talk to him,” I said. I was tempted to say that given the state of her father’s current relationship with me, he could hardly be judgmental, but it didn’t seem appropriate somehow, disloyal to him and perhaps not setting the right tone in my discussions with her. “Time to go. Let’s see how many of them we can intimidate between the two of us.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she repeated, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

To say that the Chaiwong family was wealthy was an understatement. They lived high above the troubles of everyday life, the poverty, the disease, the hopelessness of many a Thai’s situation, floating instead in a cocoon spun of golden threads. They lived ten stories above the Chao Phyra, where the lights of the barges could be seen below, and off in the distance, a chedi, or spire, of some ancient temple, was lit against the darkness.

Khun Wongvipa was waiting to greet us as we stepped off the elevator onto the tenth floor. “You are most welcome to our home,” she said, shaking my hand, Western style. “I hope you’ve found your accommodation comfortable.”

“It is absolutely wonderful,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Doesn’t Jennifer look lovely?” she said, and Jen smiled shyly. She looked for a moment as if she was going to curtsy, but mercifully didn’t. I could immediately see why she felt the way she did about Chat’s mother. Khun Wongvipa looked too perfect, for one thing. Her dark hair was immaculately coiffed at chin length, her skin was almost impossibly smooth, and, for a woman in her mid-forties, and the mother of three children, she looked to be in remarkably good shape, slim, almost tiny. If she had a flaw it was that her face was almost expressionless, which might explain the lack of any perceptible wrinkles. She did smile, of course, but her eyes did not smile with her. She was dressed in a spectacular green and gold silk dress, a modern version of the traditional phasin, with its long tube skirt, deep hem in contrasting fabric, and short jacket. “Please,” she said, indicating we follow her.

“What a lovely home you have,” I exclaimed, as she led us into the living room, and I meant it. It could so easily have been overdone, but the room was huge, and it was decorated with impeccable taste. Furthermore, I loved the mixture of periods and styles. A lot of my clients want a particular look right down to the last detail: Victorian, Tuscan farmhouse, Provence, Georgian, whatever. I am, of course, always glad to sell it to them. But for myself, perhaps because I travel so much and like so many different things, I prefer a rather more eclectic mix of objects.

The living room was an antique dealer’s dream. There were priceless objets almost everywhere you looked: stone carvings, Khmer-style wood carvings, antique textiles, and silver. There was more of the gold nielloware I’d seen in my bedroom; mother-of-pearl inlay on half the furniture; exquisite coromandel screens; gilded lacquer furniture; Chinese Shang bronzes along with artifacts from India, Cambodia, and Laos. Surprisingly, a lot of the furniture was European in design but covered in silk. There were a pair of wing chairs in a lovely pale green silk, a couple of Queen Anne side chairs, and in a corner, that most Western of instruments, a grand piano.

While most of the art was Asian, there were two oil portraits, the kind you’d expect in an oak-paneled hall of some baron’s estate: the family ancestors on display, over a lacquered side chest.

“Thank you,” Wongvipa said. “I’m honored that someone who knows so much about antiques and antiquities would be so kind in her comments about our home.”

“My wife has done all the decorating herself,” a man said, coming forward to greet us. “It is her aesthetic alone that has made this place what it is. I am Thaksin,” he said, “and it is a pleasure indeed to meet Miss Jennifer’s stepmother.” There it was, that odious word again, the one Clive kept taunting me with. It wasn’t the step part I objected to, it was the word mother. I wasn’t her mother, I was her father’s partner, that’s all.

Khun Thaksin was not as old as Jennifer had implied, but he was, I’d say, at least seventy-five. His obvious status in the room would indicate that I should wei, but I’m never sure if it’s appropriate. There is something often referred to as the foreigner’s wei, a sort of halfhearted effort where the palms are brought up just below the chin, but there are so many conventions associated to whom and when one should wei, I usually just stand there wondering what to do with my hands. My discomfort was over in a second, though, because he reached out and shook my hand, then signaled for a waiter to bring me a glass of wine.

“This is Prapapan,” he said, as a girl of about five or six dashed by. “We call her Oun. In English that would be Fatty,” he added. “That is because she was so tiny when she was born that we worried about her. We named her Fatty so she would grow big and strong. As you can see,” he said, as the little girl stuffed a handful of peanuts into her mouth, “we succeeded. That’s enough now, Oun,” he said indulgently. “I consider myself most fortunate at my age to have a little daughter,” he said to me.

Chat was there, in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. A lovesick puppy expression came over his face the moment he cast eyes on Jennifer. Rather than standing beside her, he remained where he could just look at her. It was rather sweet. He caught sight of me watching him and blushed.

“This is our son, Dusk,” Khun Wongvipa said, presenting a young man of about seventeen or eighteen. Dusit was rather pouty, if not borderline surly, but at a glance from his father, he spoke a few polite words of welcome and then went back to playing something on his handheld computer.

Yutai, the family secretary, came over to say hello and to ask about my day, before I was introduced to another couple, Sompom and his wife, Wannee, a rather large woman in a silk sari, and their daughter, Nu. A young woman named Busakorn was introduced as a friend of the family. She was rather plain, it must be said, but she looked very nice in a red and gold version of the phasin, much like Wongvipa’s. She was accompanied by her father, Khun Wichai, a rather handsome man who I gathered was a business associate of Thaksin’s. All, even little Fatty, spoke English, to my great relief.

Dinner was at a table set for twelve, but which could easily have accommodated twice that number. The table was low, Asian-style, but with an artfully concealed depression beneath, which allowed us to sit Western style, something for which my middle-aged bones were most grateful. We sat on gold silk cushions, with mon kwang, or pyramid-shaped cushions, also in gold silk, as arm- and backrests. An antique silk runner in red and gold ran the length of the table, on which were placed banana leaves, each topped with a single red lotus blossom, with orchids and gardenias strewn about the bases. Sprigs of jasmine had been twisted in little chains, which served as napkin rings. The places were set with brass rather than silver flatwear, gold-rimmed crystal, and china in a lovely red, green, and gold Bencharong. The rim was decorated with a stylized lotus blossom, really lovely, and it was all I could do not to turn one of the plates over to read the manufacturer in hopes of finding some to import for McClintoch Swain.

“I see you are admiring the china,” Yutai, to my left, said. “It is designed by Khun Wongvipa herself. The pattern is called Chaiwong, and for the use of the family only.” So much for the shop, but I did think Khun Wongvipa and I just might be able to do business if this was the sort of thing she came up with. “She also did the floral arrangements herself this afternoon.”

“Khun Wongvipa is obviously an extraordinarily talented person,” I said. I was quite envious really, of everything: her obvious talents, her home, her antiques, her life of wealth although obviously not leisure. So enchanted was I by everything I saw, it took me a minute or two to notice that Khun Wongvipa and Busakorn matched the table. I’m all for the perfect table setting, but this, if deliberate, and I was reasonably sure it was, was over the top, and there was something vaguely unsettling about it. Busakorn was seated in an honored position at Khun Thaksin’s right, and next to Chat, while Jennifer was down the length of the table from her beau, seated between Sompom and Wannee. Wichai, Busakorn’s father, had the other position of honor, to Wong-vipa’s right. Jennifer seemed to have recovered from her earlier stage fright, however, and was talking in an animated fashion to Sompom. I was seated to Thaksin’s left, and while Busakorn sat across the table from me, she rarely spoke to me. Indeed, she rarely seemed to speak at all.

Yutai sat on my left. “How long have you worked for the family?” I asked him, as my opening conversational gambit, prosaic though it might have been.

“Eight years,” he said. “I worked as a clerk at Ayutthaya Trading at first, but Khun Wongvipa discovered me, I suppose you might say, and offered me the office manager’s position at Ayutthaya, and then later the position here. Khun Wongvipa is most generous and kind, as are the others, and I feel I am treated almost as one of the family.”

“I don’t suppose the name William Beauchamp means anything to you,” I said.

There was a perceptible pause before he answered. “I do not believe so,” he replied. “Should it?”

“Not really, I suppose. It’s just that he rented space from Ayutthaya Trading, but when I went to his shop, it was closed. He is a fellow antique dealer from Toronto, and I was hoping to drop in to see him while I was here. I was wondering if there was any chance you would know where he’d moved.”

“I don’t believe the name is familiar. Ayutthaya Trading has so many properties, I’m afraid. But perhaps tomorrow I could look in the files and see what I could find. The name is not familiar to me.”

“Who are you looking for?” Khun Thaksin, at the head of the table to my right, asked. He seemed a little hard of hearing and cupped his ear in my direction.

“William Beauchamp,” I said, a little more loudly than I might otherwise. Heads turned in my direction. I wasn’t sure, but the name seemed to be a source of interest.

“Certainly,” Khun Thaksin said. “We know Mr. William. He has been in our home. You remember him, Yutai.”

“That was a long time ago,” Khun Wongvipa said, down the length of the table, before Yutai was required to reply.

“I suppose it was,” Thaksin said. “But he was here. Pleasant fellow. I can’t recall why he was here. Do you?” he said, looking at his wife.

“I think he was interested in some of our antiques,” she said.

“That’s right,” he said. “Antique dealer, wasn’t he?”

“I suppose he was,” Wongvipa said. “Now, I hope everyone will enjoy the meal.”

“I hope you like Thai food,” Thaksin said. I was sorely disappointed to have the conversation turn away from Beau-champ, but politesse was required. Indeed, I do like Thai food, and the meal was a rare culinary experience. “In this part of Thailand we really have two types of cuisine,” Yutai, who apparently had taken on the responsibility for my education in all things Thai, said. “One is what I suppose you would call the cooking for the everyday. The other is what we call palace cooking, I suppose, or perhaps royal cuisine would be a better name for it. It is much more elaborate and at one time would have been made only for the royal court. Now we have it on special occasions. This evening Khun Wongvipa has planned a royal meal in your honor.”

Dish after dish flowed from somewhere mysterious. There was soup, chicken and coconut scented delicately with lemongrass. There was a spicy green papaya salad, a really elaborate dish called mee grop made with very thin and crispy rice noodles served with shrimp, some lovely little pancakes stuffed with pork that are called kai yaht sai, grilled whole fish flavored with lemongrass and basil, a couple of curries, vegetables of all sorts, mounds of steaming, fragrant rice, and much more. Each platter was decorated with exquisitely carved fruits and vegetables. I wondered if Wongvipa had carved the melons into roses herself, and if she’d consider showing me how to do it. It would certainly add a certain elan to the meals I served at home.

“Jennifer was telling me you have been in Chiang Mai the last few days,” I said to Khun Thaksin in an attempt to make small talk. “I’ve heard it is a most interesting city, with a great deal of history.”

“It is, but I suppose when one is there on business, one doesn’t appreciate the surroundings,” he said. “Even at my age there is a requirement to deal with business problems, putting out fires, I believe would be your expression. Unfortunately, there have been a number of fires in our Chiang Mai office of late. A problem with a supplier. Khun Wichai has been helping me resolve the problem. I notice, though, you have been looking at the prang of Wat Chai Watthan-aram,” he said, changing the subject and gesturing to the window. “It looks rather splendid against the night sky doesn’t it?”

“Is that what it is?” I said. “I wondered.”

“It is a world heritage site now,” Thaksin said. “But once Ayutthaya was a powerful kingdom that ruled over much of what is now Thailand, and also part of Cambodia. It was founded in the thirteenth century and ruled until it was defeated and destroyed, burned to the ground, by the Burmese in 1767. We have still not forgotten, nor forgiven, them for that. I suppose coming from such a young country you find that extraordinary, holding a grudge for centuries. I think we Thais see the reign of Ayutthaya as a golden age, really. You must go and see it. It is in ruins but still evocative, I think, of that time. You can sense the great power that it once held.”

“Perhaps,” Chat said, turning from his conversation with Busakorn, “we ignore the fact that it was a time of almost constant warfare, terrible disease, slavery, autocratic rulers who believed they were god, who marched the common people back and forth across the country as the spoils of war, to say nothing of the fact that during that golden age, as you call it, women’s status, once considered equal in the Sukhothai period, deteriorated to the point they were barely considered human.”

“Please,” Wongvipa said. “No politics during dinner.”

“My idealistic son,” Thaksin said. “And so serious. Sometimes I worry about him, that he will be hurt by life’s disappointments.”

“Chat is quite right,” Sompom said. “In many respects it was not the best of times. However, to offset that, we should remember it was also a golden age for the arts. Music, dance, the decorative arts, all flourished, supported by the royal court. Some of the most beautiful temples and palaces in all the world were constructed during that time.”

“My team won our cricket match,” Dusit said.

“Dusit is an excellent sportsman,” Wongvipa said, smiling indulgently at her younger son. Fatty started throwing little balls of sticky rice at her brother.

“My other idealistic son,” Thaksin said.

“Dusit?” I said. That young man didn’t strike me as idealistic at all. Spoiled was the word that immediately sprang to mind.

“Sompom,” Thaksin said. “My eldest. He is a professor at Chulalongkorn University. I wanted him to take over the business, but he has chosen the academic life and the arts over more material goals. He is something of an expert, apparently, in a form of dance we call Khon. It probably developed in the royal court of Ayutthaya, but was lost when the Burmese burned the city. The National Theater puts on Khon performances from time to time. You should take one in if you get the chance. Rather esoteric, I’m afraid, but interesting nonetheless.”

I looked at Sompom, who had touches of gray at his temples and a daughter, Nu, who was maybe thirty-five.

“So Wongvipa is…” I said, then stopped. When in a foreign country, don’t ask too many personal questions would be a good general rule.

“My first wife died many years ago,” Thaksin said answering my unfinished question. “I am fortunate to have a second family. I met Wongvipa shortly after I lost my first wife.”

“Khun Wongvipa worked in the office of Ayutthaya Trading,” Sompom’s wife, Wannee, said. “Packing boxes, I believe. That is where my father-in-law met her.” I heard a rather sharp intake of breath from Yutai, beside me, and a brief hint of displeasure crossed Wongvipa’s face. I thought I saw the faintest hint of a smile flit across Khun Wichai’s face, but I couldn’t swear to it, and when I looked a second later it was gone. Thaksin, however, seemed to have missed the remark entirely.

“We will have tea and coffee in the living room,” Wongvipa said. Her tone had an edge to it. We all climbed out of our seats.

“I know Mr. William,” Nu said very quietly as the beverages were served. “I do not know where he has gone, but I would be very happy to talk to you about him.” She looked as if she was going to give me her business card, but stopped. I looked up to see Khun Wongvipa coming toward us. “I was just offering to show Ms. Lara around the ruins of Ayut-thaya,” Nu said before she moved quickly away to sit by her mother.

“That will not be necessary, Nu,” Wongvipa said. “We will see to it that Ms. Lara is shown the sights. Yutai is well steeped in our history and would be delighted to show her around. Now, I see you looking at some of the objects in the room. Is there anything I can tell you about them?” she said, leading me away from Nu.

“I think everything is so beautiful,” I said, making appreciative noises as Wongvipa pointed out a few of her possessions to me. “Who are the people in the portraits?” I asked, peering more closely at them. “Family? That’s Khun Thaksin, is it not?” I asked pointing to a portrait of two relatively young men, dressed in very formal Thai clothes. Both men were dressed in high-collared white jackets, what we might call Nehru style, dark, short pants I suppose we would call pantaloons, and what the Thai call chong kaben, white kneesocks and black shoes. Both wore brightly colored sashes, chunky silver rings and bracelets, and one of them, who reminded me of Chat, held a sword.

The portrait was very detailed and quite extraordinary.

Thaksin looked rather determined and serious, the other young man rather more relaxed, distracted might be a better word. The artist had captured with his careful brushstrokes something very fundamental, I thought, about his two subjects.

“Yes,” she said. “My husband, many years ago, of course, and his brother, Virat. Virat unfortunately died shortly after this was painted. It was a great tragedy for the family.”

“And this?” I asked, pointing to the second portrait. It showed a woman in a rather luxe dress of gold-printed silk. It was a combination of Thai fabrics and Western dress and looked unbelievably opulent. The woman was standing with one hand resting on the shoulder of a young boy, who was dressed like a little Siamese prince in heavily embroidered fabric and a gold, pointed headdress.

“That, if you can believe it, is Sompom,” Wongvipa said. “With his mother. My husband’s first wife,” she added, in case I’d forgotten. “Rather grand, isn’t it?” She abruptly turned away and went back to the group.

“Rather unusual portraits, aren’t they?” Khun Wichai said, coming up behind me and studying them closely. “A moment in time, and a certain social status captured forever.”

“They are very interesting,” I agreed. My companion was taller than the average Thai, and he had lovely almond-colored eyes, which seemed to take some amusement from everything he saw.

“I hope you’ll enjoy your stay in Thailand,” he said graciously.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sure I will.” I found myself wanting to talk to him more, but it was clear Wongvipa had other plans. She was signaling me to rejoin the group.

As I turned to do so, I had a sense the woman in the portrait was watching me. I wonder, I thought, and went back to check for a signature. It was there, Robert Fitzgerald, signed with something of a flourish.

“Do you know anything about the artist?” I asked our hostess. “This Robert Fitzgerald. Is he well known in Bangkok? The paintings are really exceptional.”

“I know nothing, I’m afraid,” Wongvipa said. “The paintings have been in the family for years. My husband likes them.” Something in her tone told me she did not.

“I was interested to read the paper you sent me, your thesis, Chat,” Thaksin was saying as we returned to sit with the others. “On the possibilities for true democracy in southeast Asia. I am interested in your theories about…”

Dusit sat down at the piano and started playing, not particularly well, but loudly.

“I have a gift for you,” Wongvipa said, handing me a beautifully wrapped parcel.

“And I have one for you,” I said, “And some little things for the family.” I had arrived with some packages, which I’d placed on a side table. When I’d seen my surroundings, I’d felt that it would not be possible to give anything to this family that they didn’t already have, but I soldiered gamely on. I had brought a pair of lovely old sterling silver candlesticks for Wongvipa, which rather paled in comparison to all the lovely silver she had, but they were unusual and, as I’m always telling my customers, you can always use more candlesticks. She seemed pleased, but perhaps she was just being gracious. Fatty declared the maple sugar candy to be excellent, and Thaksin asked a number of questions about the piece of Inuit soapstone I’d chosen for him. They were all rather perplexed by the cranberry preserves and the Ontario ice wine, but you can’t win them all.

My gift was quite lovely. A padded silk box contained four unusual, cone-shaped silver pieces, with a beautiful repousse design, and each of them different. “They are betel nut containers,” Wongvipa said. “Not very old, I’m afraid, only two hundred years or so. I find them very useful as napkin holders.”

“What a creative idea,” I said. “I love them.” I did, too. I like original uses for old things a lot, but I was getting hard pressed to come up with new superlatives for everything I’d seen that evening.

“And here is another small gift,” Wongvipa said. “I have one for you and another for Jennifer.”

I opened the package to find a terra-cotta amulet. I just didn’t know what to think about that, nor could I think of anything appropriate to say. I just sat staring at it for a moment, thinking about Will Beauchamp’s apartment and the missing amulets.

“They are for good health, speaking of which, you must be exhausted,” Wongvipa said. “After all that traveling. Please do not feel you have to stay if you are tired.”

“You know, if you don’t mind, I think I will retire for the evening,” I said, and after an exchange of pleasantries with everyone there and profuse thanks all around, I went to my room. Still, sleep wouldn’t come. I blamed it on jet lag, but I knew it was more than that, even if I couldn’t articulate it right at that moment. Perhaps there was something unsettling about the family. Jennifer certainly thought so. It was hard to think what it might be. Dusit was a rather tiresome young man, obviously jealous of his older sibling, but there was hardly anything earth-

shattering about that, nor the fact that the matriarch was a paragon whose only fault that I could see was that she was something of a control freak. Wannee, Sompom’s wife, was jealous of her, but it would be hard not to be. Maybe, I thought, as a vision of splatters of red crossed my mind, my sleeplessness had nothing to do with the family but instead with the possibility that Will Beauchamp was dead.

Regardless of the reason for my disquiet, I couldn’t get to sleep for hours. Sometime very late I decided to see if there was some nice herbal tea in the kitchen, something preferably with the word sleep in its name. I tried to be exceptionally quiet, so as not to disturb Jennifer. The light was on in the kitchen, and I could hear low voices. It was Yutai and Khun Wongvipa. Yutai’s tie and jacket were gone, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. He looked much more casual and relaxed than I’d seen him heretofore. Wongvipa was in a silk blouse and slim black pants. As I watched from the dark of the hallway, Wongvipa reached up and took Yutai’s glasses off. It was a gesture so intimate, somehow, I was stunned. I turned back as quietly as I could, but in my haste to get away, stumbled on the edge of a carpet. The voices stopped abruptly, and I heard footsteps moving to the doorway. I was reasonably sure they saw me retreating quickly down the hall.