Bangkok Tattoo (12 page)

I’m in a pretty somber state of mind when Mustafa arrives at the restaurant in a pickup truck. It’s a Toyota four-by-four with three young men in the back. I guess from the bulges they are armed guards. Mustafa and I sit in the front of the truck with the driver while the guards, scarves covering their heads and faces against the dust, bump up and down on a bench in the open back.

The road out of town leads northeast, and we soon leave the paved highway for a rutted track. There is no air-con in the cab, so we drive with the windows open. The heat down here is always a few degrees higher than in Bangkok; it doesn’t sound like much, but when you live at the upper limit of what the human frame can tolerate, it makes a difference. When we slow down to accommodate the rutted terrain, I feel like we’re in a mobile oven. The terrain is lush, though, even for Thailand, because they have a lot more rain down here. When the driver finally stops the truck and we get out, the intensity of the silence hits us all between the eyes. We’ve been rattling up and down in a noisy vehicle for more than half an hour; suddenly there is only a single cicada with the energy to rub its legs together.

Mustafa beckons to me, and I follow him down a footpath that leads into a tranquil valley in which the only buildings are a large wooden house on stilts and a tiny mosque, apparently made of wood that has somehow been fashioned to produce a dome. He tells me to stay with the guards while he checks on his father. He emerges from the house with joy in his face and beckons for me to climb the stairs to join him. Inside the house the old imam with the fire in his black eyes welcomes me with his usual hospitality. We sit on mats drinking peppermint tea. My report is brief but welcome. Of course, in light of the photograph of Chanya in Mitch Turner’s bedroom in Songai Kolok, no responsible cop could avoid the conclusion that Chanya killed Mitch Turner, for whatever reason. They knew each other; she went back to his hotel when he came to Bangkok. Whatever happened in the hotel room, only she came out alive.

The imam has been examining my face while I speak. “But your Colonel is strangely keen to protect this prostitute. Why is that?”

“She’s a key worker. These things happen from time to time. I guess he’s just protecting the club and its reputation.”

“You will put your report in writing?”

“I can’t do that without permission.”

Silence. Mustafa looks angry.

The old man says: “If Colonel Vikorn changes his mind under pressure from the Americans, will you warn us?”

“Yes,” I say. “Okay.” A long shot comes to mind. I’m shy to ask the question, considering its mystic origin, but what the hell? “Does the name Don Buri mean anything to you?” Blank glances.

The interview is over, and I go back to town in the truck with Mustafa, who is wrestling with some karmic obsession and says nothing throughout the journey. Indeed, he hardly manages to say goodbye.

Back in my hotel room I call Vikorn with my heart in my mouth. “I’m just about finished down here.” I tell him about Hudson and Bright, the picture of Chanya.

“So?”

“I’m convinced Chanya did it.”

Impatiently: “Well, what else is new?”

“So it wasn’t a Muslim assassination.”

A pause. “I hope you’re not resurrecting that bleeding heart of yours?”

“It’s not a bleeding heart, it’s practical politics. If we try to blame Al Qaeda, it could have repercussions down here.”

Even more impatiently: “Nobody’s blaming Al Qaeda. You wrote her fucking statement yourself. Chanya acted in self-defense.”

“She knew him from the States. He had a picture of her in his apartment. She sent me a copy of the diary she kept when she was over there. They were longtime lovers.”

A longer pause. “You better get back here.”

“I think I should make a written report—”

“No.”

“If the CIA find out that she knew him, the cover story won’t work, and you’ll start blaming Muslims. That’s your B plan, isn’t it?”

“Get back here.”

“If the Americans put pressure on us and our government gets clumsy, there could be war down here.”

“War or no war, people die. They’re always causing trouble in the South. Don’t you want to save Chanya?”

“I don’t want to be responsible for an insurrection.”

“Then tell Buddha it’s all my fault. Obedience is part of the Eightfold Path; you tend to forget that from time to time. Read my lips:
no written report.
”

16

R
ebirth,
farang
(in case you’re wondering): You are lounging on a magnificent balcony open to the starry sky, divine music is playing with such exquisite perfection you can hardly stand it, when all of a sudden something terrible occurs: the magical sounds break up into an obscene cacophony. What is happening? Are you dying? You could put it that way. That awful noise is the first scream of an infant: you. You have been born into a human body hardwired with each and every transgression from the last time around, and now you must spend the next seventy years clawing your way back to the music. No wonder we cry.

THREE

The Zinna Distraction

17

F
arang
, I humbly offer an apology. I had intended, on my return to Krung Thep, to reread Chanya’s diary and share it with you (honestly), but duty—and ambition—compel me to postpone. Just now, while I was unpacking in my hovel by the river at about six this morning (the flight from the South was delayed, I didn’t get in until after midnight), the cell phone rang. It was Vikorn’s formidable female assistant, Police Lieutenant Manhatsirikit, known, not inappropriately, as Manny.

“The Colonel’s not around and I can’t get hold of him, so you’ll have to sort this out on your own. It sounds like a nice little Trance 808 at the Sheraton on Sukhumvit. The general manager’s scared shitless about the publicity, so you’d better get over there. Take someone with you.”

“Why me?”

“I think it’s X file.”

“Zinna?”

“Must you be so indiscreet over the phone?”

I call Lek, whom I extract from the depths of sleep by dint of persistent ringing on his cell phone. He is all deference, though, as his mind clears and I tell him to be waiting outside his housing project so I can collect him in the cab.

At the Sheraton the general manager, an elegant but anxious Austrian (one of those European men who spend a good chunk of their time in this body trying to persuade a slick of hair to cover a bald patch—he was a woman last time around: vain, snobbish, and French; as is often the case when we switch genders between incarnations, he is having trouble adjusting:
bald
was never an issue last time; on the contrary he kept a magnificent head of hair all the way to his—actually
her
—deathbed), is waiting for us.

He ushers us into a lift, which takes us to the floor of suites near the top of the building. Outside room 2506 he produces a key to let us in. “Room service found him early this morning when they went in to collect a food trolley from last night. No one responded to their knocks, so they assumed the suite was empty. No one’s been inside since.”

In the room Lek takes one look at the corpse, then falls to his knees to
wai
the Buddha and pray that we will not be contaminated by death or bad luck, while the manager looks on in amazement. I tell the manager to wait outside.

The Japanese, dressed in smart casual, is slumped sideways on the sofa with that telltale professional hole in his forehead. I note that rigor mortis has set in but have forgotten exactly what that means in terms of the time of death. Lek, fresh from the academy, can’t remember, either. I undo the buttons on the shirt to check if there are any other wounds, in the certainty that there will be none.

“Not a mark on him,” I confirm, mostly to myself. There won’t be any other clues, either, of course, so why waste time looking for them? I call the manager back in.

“It’s a very professional hit. One small-bore slug between the eyes. How long has he been staying here?”

“He wasn’t staying here. He must have been invited by the guest, who has disappeared, of course. Why the hell they had to choose this hotel I can’t imagine.”

My cell phone rings. It’s Vikorn. “What are you up to?”

“I’m on a T808 at the—”

“I know where you are. Get out of there.”

“But Manny said it’s X file. Zinna.”

“That’s why I want you out of there. This is needle, pure provocation, I’m not taking the bait. Let the fucking army deal with it. I don’t want any record that you were there at all. I’ll needle him back with silence, while I think up something better.” Despite the restraint in his strategy, he is boiling with rage.

“Oh.” Somewhat crestfallen, I take another look at the corpse. “This is the General’s calling card?”

“He’s just letting us know he’s back on form, after that court-martial.”

Out of the corner of my eye I watch Lek posturing in front of the long mirror opposite the sofa. He can stand on one leg and pull the string of an imaginary bow with extraordinary elegance. I’m wishing I hadn’t allowed the manager back in.

“So who’s the stiff?”

A grunt from Vikorn. “The victim is a muckraking journalist based here and employed by some Japanese environmentalist group with an ax to grind about Japanese destruction of forest lands in Asia. He was investigating a Thai-Japanese corporation that intimidates peasants off their lands in Isaan so they can plant eucalyptus trees. Eucalyptus soak up the whole of the water table and destroy all other forms of vegetation, making the land useless for generations, but they grow fast and keep the Nips supplied with disposable chopsticks. Why the fuck they can’t use plastic chopsticks, I just don’t know. If the Chinese used disposable wood, there wouldn’t be a tree left on the planet.”

“So what’s in it for Zinna?”

“The dear General owns a thirty-five percent stake in the Thai-Nippon Reforestation and Beautification of Isaan Corporation. His men do the intimidating.”

“He’s never done this on your patch before.”

“The little prick’s showing off, making a point, breaking all the rules. He got off that court-martial, and now he’s rubbing my nose in it.” The Colonel can hardly speak for indignation.

“You’re going to let him get away with it?”

“I’m hardly going to knock heads with Zinna for one little T808, am I? Because that’s exactly what he wants me to do.” A pause dominated by his dragon breathing. “There’s always more than one way of skinning a snake.”

“What shall I tell the general manager?”

“That there won’t be publicity. That’s all he needs to know.”

I close the phone and lock with the manager’s anxious eyes. “It’s taken care of,” I say. He checks my expression to see if I mean what he wants me to mean, then grunts with relief. “What about the corpse?”

“Army specialists will take it away later today.”

“
Army
specialists? Why would they deal with this?”

“Because we won’t, and they can’t just leave it here. Someone will call them. Don’t worry about it—it’s one of those funny little Thai things.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“I don’t take money. Save it for the army.”

“Look,” Lek says as we are about to leave. I’d left the corpse’s shirt undone. Lek is pulling it open again. “Isn’t that the most beautiful butterfly you’ve ever seen? I mean, it’s just gorgeous.”

I pause to study the tattoo, which in my haste I had disregarded. It’s true, the workmanship is magnificent, the colors both subtle and vivid. Come to think of it, it’s a minor masterpiece.

“I’ve never seen one as good as that before,” Lek says.

In the cab on the way to the station, stuck in a brooding jam at the intersection between Petburri Road and Soi 39 (on the other side of the glass: carbon monoxide laced with air), Lek says: “Did you know that according to Buddhism there were three human beings at the beginning of the world?”

“Yes.”

“A man, a woman, and a
katoey
?”

“That’s right.”

“And we’ve all been all three, over and over again, going back tens of thousands of years?”

“Correct.”

“But the
katoey
is always the loner.”

“
Katoey
is a tough part of the cycle,” I say as gently as I can.

“What’s a Trance 808?”

“The murder, love. It comes from the number of the standard homicide documentation: T808. Vikorn called it
Trance
808 once, and it caught on.”

Back at the station Manny (she’s five feet tall—just—and so dark she’s almost black, with the intensity of a scorpion) commands me in her most severe tone to go see Vikorn. “Don’t take him with you,” she adds, not rising from her desk, jerking her chin at Lek. In a meaningful glance at me, she adds: “The old man’s been looking at the Ravi pictures.”

I turn pale but say nothing.

Upstairs, I’m standing all alone on the bare wooden boards outside his office. In response to my knock, a bark: “What?”

“It’s me.”

“Get the fuck in here.”

I enter gingerly, in case he’s waving his pistol around, a common adjunct to Vikornic rage. Well, actually he
has
taken it out, it’s lying on his desk, but the signals are even worse. In a single timeless locking of eyes, I see that he’s been playing those old memory tapes again; wallowing. There’s a near-empty bottle of Mekong rice whiskey next to the gun, and an album of photographs in a large plastic cube showing his son Ravi at key moments in his short life. Ravi’s corpse dominates the montage.

For everyone in District 8, the story is fundamental to our mythology. None of us were there at the time, but each of us has lived every moment. A few snaps from the photo album will be enough for your astute understanding,
farang
:

Snapshot 1: Ravi at age zero. Vikorn, husband to four wives, father to eight girls, holds his only son as if he were holding the meaning of life.

Snapshot 2: Ravi aged five, playing kiddie golf in a lush garden with the lovestruck Colonel.

Snapshot 3: Ravi at age sixteen bearing the symptoms of a seriously spoiled brat (smirk; gold Rolex; Yamaha V MAX motorbike; a beautiful girlfriend he was in the process of destroying with cocaine, sex, and alcohol; the old man making up the threesome with an obscene beam).