Black Tiger (15 page)

‘Drink tea,’ replied Sunii Lee. Rebuffed, Chee Laan felt, not for the first time, that she had been in danger of crossing an unseen line into forbidden territory. Conversations with her grandmother had always taken this course, governed by arcane and unknowable rules, taking one unawares with unsuspected twists and dead ends, like a maze. The tea tasted of smoke and jasmine; in her mouth the mooncakes melted like new snow. Sunii rose and walked to the cabinet. She unlocked a drawer and removed an object wrapped in silk. She handed it to Chee Laan, who saw to her surprise that it was a small revolver.

‘You were not only at the convent with those religious women.’

‘I was not.’

‘Show me now what that man Fly-schurr taught you.’

Chee Laan weighed the gun in her hand. ‘Where?’

‘I will show you. Are you accustomed to live targets?’

‘Some.’

‘Then it is time.’ Sunii was walking back toward the courtyard.

Chee Laan had a lump in her throat. She swallowed painfully. ‘Shoot what?’

Sunii paused, reflecting. ‘The target must be expendable, maybe the dog. It annoyed me by biting the cook; an intelligent animal should have more discernment. Though a brute, it has its uses.’ She walked on, unhurried. They were almost at the steps leading down into the courtyard. ‘But I have a more suitable target. I have become increasingly weary of your elder brother’s antics. It is time to recall him to the path of duty.’

Chee Laan thought the yard was empty at first. Then she saw the maidservant leaning against the flame tree. The bowl of fruit and the knife lay on the ground where she had dropped them. A stocky figure was leaning over the girl. His right arm braced against the tree trunk, his left hand groped brutally under the girl’s sarong. His leering face was thrust close to the girl’s, clearly relishing the spectacle of her pain and fear. Her neck twisted up and backward, like a calf at the slaughterer’s; she rolled her eyes to avoid meeting his gaze. From her parted lips came a low keening. It was not a moan of pleasure.

‘There is your target, Granddaughter. A rat. It is not necessary to kill it,’ Sunii whispered close to Chee Laan’s ear, ‘unless, of course, you wish to.’ She glided silently away toward the house.

Chee Laan took careful aim, two-handed. At that range, she was sure of her control. Lieutenant Fleischer had been uncharacteristically complimentary of her accuracy. ‘Shoot the eyes out of a fucking wasp, China Doll!’

The report racketed deafeningly around the courtyard. Chee Laan’s brother Pao leapt backward and spun round wildly, as if the bullet had done more than pass harmlessly through his sleeve. He stared about, eyes bulging.
Truly, he looks demented
, thought Chee Laan. Shrieking, the maid fled toward the servants’ quarters, sobbing and wringing her hands. Pao Lee’s glazed eyes focused; catching sight of his sister, he lumbered toward her. He was no longer a figure of fun. His heavy shoulders hunched menacingly. Chee Laan stood her ground, swinging in her hand the heavy gun, its ugly black mouth pointing into the ground.

‘What you do that for? Crazy fucking bitch, back in town two seconds and already do something like that!’ he bellowed, fury fanned by his own shame and terror, the desperate loss of face burning a hole in his head. Through his broad, upturned porcine nose and open mouth, the breath came in noisy puffs, sickly and sour-smelling. Sweat glistened on his chubby, pallid cheeks, green-tinged now with delayed shock, his fat legs beginning to tremble uncontrollably.

Coolly Chee Laan returned his stare. ‘Well, hello, Brother. Still the same old Pao. Calm yourself!’ She patted his cheek tauntingly.

He wrenched his head away. ‘Don’t tell me to calm myself, bitch! I do not choose to calm myself! You could have killed me!’

She blew imaginary smoke from the mouth of the gun as she had seen cowboys do in Western films. ‘You are quite right. I could have killed you,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye. ‘I chose not to.’

Rage rendered him speechless. Chee Laan laughed.

From the cool depths of the big house they both heard, like the ripple of a distant stream, merry, fey, and entirely ladylike, their grandmother’s laughter, echoing Chee Laan’s own.

‘Listen, brother. Do you hear that?’ And as Pao shuddered uncontrollably with shock and dawning comprehension, she smiled.

Raven

After my shower, I felt cooped up in the air-conditioned cocoon of the shuttered guest suite. I was powered by an adrenaline high. Even though my talk on environmental issues was merely a cover, I’d worked on it, tried my best to make it interesting. Once you’re up there, confronting your audience, pride enters the picture. Even with the icy blast from the air conditioner, it felt like I was talking in a sauna. But there was a large, well-behaved audience. The speeches of introduction and thanks, professionally delivered by Laila’s pleasant husband, were suitably effusive. The applause was respectful if not ecstatic. All in all, I felt that it had gone well.

Restless, I hurried back downstairs, although I was too early for the evening’s reception. I padded about the pool, nursing the lime and water the silent attendant brought in a long, mercifully ice-filled glass, as I remembered the faces of my audience, politely interested, speculative, or cynical. I wondered where they all fit into this alien, heterogeneous community I’d been sent to analyse, for reasons that struck me, the more I thought about it, as increasingly implausible. What had induced these worthy citizens to sit patiently in uncomfortable clothes in the enervating heat, even with the incentive of free booze? I sensed that some of my audience were motivated not by a fascination with my subject, nor by the attractions of a prestigious social gathering offering copious liquid refreshment, but by an interest in myself—an interest possibly linked with the tiresome machinations that had brought me to this place against my will. The thought was unsettling.

Now Bangkok’s beautiful people, dressed to impress and avid for sensation, would demand their pound of flesh. Eager to shake paws and be photographed with the visiting celebrity, whether he is a hellfire prophet, sword-swallower, or serial killer. One or two might ask intelligent questions; gossip columnists would solicit my views on Thai women, Thai boxing, Thai food. Everyone would ask about the latest European fashions, the prices in Bond Street shops, what music and restaurants were ‘in’, and who was currently holding the ‘must-be-seen-at’ parties.

They’d find me a disappointment. Nancy, on the other hand, would have been a fountain of information. On an impulse, I had slipped my favourite snapshot of her into the ridiculous Kit Kat holder, back to front and upside down. This childish action seemed to express my current feelings about our relationship. Perhaps later, when I was mellow, I’d contemplate her picture with maudlin sentimentality. Or, again, perhaps not.

Standing in the shadows, I allowed my gaze to follow the movements of the girl placing lighted mosquito coils, her bare feet gliding silently over the teak decking, the only sound the rustling of her long black sarong. As she placed each glowing coil beneath the low, ornately carved tables, her graceful swooping soothed my jaded eye.

My hostess, Laila Drinkwater, shattered the idyllic scene with her abrupt entrance. Shrieking, she leapt from the stairwell, loud and bright as a parakeet clattering out of a gum tree. She rushed at the maid and plucked at her clothing. ‘Where is the new blouse I am buying you?’

The girl straightened up; her expression was mulish. ‘New blouse,
mai dai
, no go, madame,’ she declared boldly. ‘Holes in. Can see my meat. Same-same bad low woman.’

‘Low women do not wear best Swiss broderie anglaise!’ Laila plucked a hibiscus from a bush near the veranda and thrust it behind the girl’s ear. She took out a small cut-glass atomizer and sprayed the girl’s arm. ‘Lavender,’ Laila said. ‘Very calming.’

The girl backed away as if burnt. ‘Smell like low woman!’ she protested, rubbing her arm.

Now from the drive, where flaring torches flickered among the palm fronds, the first cars could be heard, sweeping into the drive, crunching over the gravel. Car doors slammed. The girl took up a tray with an ornate silver cigarette lighter and box and stalked toward the sound. ‘Nee!’ Laila stared after her receding back, rigid with indignation.

The Royal Thai Navy musicians were taking up position on a platform in the garden. After some preliminary squawks and hoots, they struck up ‘Wienerblut.’ As they gained in confidence, something of the decadent elegance of Alt Wien pervaded the dark garden. The glow of hanging lanterns and flares glanced off their gleaming brass instruments in the velvet blackness, reminding me of an open-air performance of Don Giovanni in the grounds of Schönbrunn. Here, at least, there were no Japanese tourists to sabotage the magic with their sheet-lightning flashbulbs. A theatrical blood-red moon hung large on the horizon. My sense of unreality deepened.

‘Chinese!’ Laila murmured, scowling after the grumpy maidservant. ‘One always can tell. Clever, but mutinous. This Nee, she trusts nobody! See how she carries personally the cigar box, the lighter? You think this is a sense of duty? Pah! She fears guests pocket them and she gets the blame! Always three moves ahead, the Chinese!’ The first wave of elegant guests surged in, clearly miscast as pilferers. ‘I wonder who she’s spying for?’ Laila mused. ‘No point to fire her before I find out!’ She hurried off toward her guests.

Amid air-kissing, squeals of delight, and jovial braying, I recognised my disagreeable fellow passenger, the American matron. She had draped a spangled net over her foxy hair. I longed for the refuge once offered me by Mozart. This time she had a kid in tow, and a square, bull-necked purple man in the dust-coloured tropical dress uniform of a general of the United States Army. In his squashed snub face, liquid brown eyes brimmed innocently with good humour, like a pug pup. Seizing my hand, he pumped it vigorously, crying, ‘Proud to know you, Dr Raven, sir! That was a fine talk, just fine! You surely brought nature alive! Blaze van Hooten, call me Blaze, this is my wife Taylor…’

The red-haired Mrs van Hooten and I eyed one another coolly. Neither of us referred to our previous meeting, as if by mutual consent. I felt an uncomfortable sense of complicity. She inclined her head stiffly, without speaking. The general continued unabashed, his speech punctuated by palpable italics and the occasional disconcerting exclamation mark mid-sentence.

‘I hope you’ll believe, Dr Raven, that I speak with the
utmost
sincerity when I say there’s nothing to beat
culture
! Our country, the United States of America, for example!—currently conducts a
major
ongoing cultural operation—such bodies as the American Alumni Association, USIS, SEATO—and, let me preempt any questioning of my inclusion of SEATO by assuring you that the civil and military wings of the South East Asian Treaty Organisation have long since been integrated, with the emphasis
firmly
upon civilian and cultural activities!’

The general’s lady cut in, with that imperious nasal whinny I remembered. ‘The general is deeply committed to this adopted land of ours!’ When she smiled, the masklike effect was startling. Her lips stretched around the words. ‘These people are childlike. Delightfully so.’ I remembered her curt dismissal of the young Thai stewardess, which had surprised me by its brusqueness. Until then, I had always found the ready courtesy of Americans impressive. Perhaps she read my thoughts, for she went on quickly, ‘I consider helping these people as my duty. They are, by and large, entirely irresponsible; they display a terrifying disregard for human life. Lilies of the field, Dr Raven, frolicking away with no thought of the morrow, improvident.’ The general watched his wife with unfeigned admiration, breathing heavily, his mouth slightly open.

‘Taylor can command any platform, Dr Raven! Comes to fundraising, she’s dynamite!’

‘Entire villages,’ Mrs van Hooten declared didactically, raising her eyebrows slightly. ‘The American Ladies’ Circle, of which I have the honour to be president, raised the funding to provide state-of-the-art sanitation to an entire upcountry community. Similarly, we financed the acquisition of a mobile ambulance unit to service rural areas.’ She paused for the applause, but was distracted as she stared, deeply affronted, at Siegfried. He was descending the staircase, seraph, clad from head to toe in cloth-of-silver, twirling a silver-headed cane, and paused to pose provocatively at the foot of the stair. Laila embraced him, took his hand, and dragged him through the guests toward me. It became apparent, silhouetted against the torches, that Laila’s diaphanous shift dress had no lining, and that her underclothes were skimpy, if, indeed, she were wearing any at all.

General van Hooten cleared his throat and fiddled with his collar as if it suddenly choked him. ‘The Queen of Spades approaches,’ he rumbled like a baited bear. ‘Baron, my
arm
! Bought his title in Hong Kong, so I hear!’

His lady intercepted silkily, ‘I do believe I see His Highness the prince right over there; come, Blaze! Excuse us!’ The multicoloured throng absorbed the van Hootens. Siegfried, now at my elbow, beaming ingenuously, showed all his teeth, like a dog who had successfully routed a postman. He delicately plucked the glass from my hand, deposited it on the tray of a passing attendant, and replaced it with a full glass of peat-coloured liquid.

‘Have no fear,’ he murmured, close to my ear, ‘it’s the good stuff—and I should know! Nasty tongues will tell you I was once a waiter in a Hong Kong gay bar!’

He laid his index finger alongside his nose and cocked his head, as if waiting for me to ask if the rumour were true. But I merely attempted an expression of unconcerned gratitude.

Siegfried watched me. ‘You do not betray curiosity,’ he pronounced. ‘This is good, especially here. The key to health and long life.’ He moved closer. ‘Whatever will make your stay among us more agreeable, I am at your disposition! See, already I deliver you from the clutches of
la générale
. She told you, no doubt, of her privies and her ambulance?’