Black Tiger (25 page)

He punched the steering wheel several times, repeating his words. I sensed in him, however, the tension of frustration, rather than the jangling nerves of relief.

‘What a relief, old buddy—I can’t tell you!’ Van Hooten eased the car into gear. ‘Who knows what he wanted—the car radio, your change, your watch, anything that’s not nailed down. No sense even going after the bastard—that’s the trouble with this entire continent. Everything’s so haphazard!’

I drew a deep breath and settled down to watch the road. I conjured up the fierce blue eye of the so-called bandit, but forbore to mention to my companion that, amongst a million men, even if they’d all been blue-eyed, I’d have recognised the mad stare of Angel Fleischer.

Afterward, van Hooten concentrated fiercely on the road. Thankfully, he had lost his cigar in the attack, and made no move to find another. His feigned bonhomie had evaporated. We travelled in silence. For all of these blessings I felt grateful. My head was pounding and I felt nauseated as well as bewildered by the ambush, the presence of Fleischer, and other unforeseen complexities.

Van Hooten brought the car to a squealing stop on the outskirts of the city by a public post box, leapt out and dropped the missionary’s letters into it, and got back into the car. I felt sure this was not what Waddle had intended, and I wondered at the preacher’s naïve faith in entrusting them to the colonel. He had surely expected his letters to be despatched through more secure military channels. But then, I reflected, all military mail was date-stamped as a matter of routine. The official stamp would establish a connection that Waddle might well be reluctant to broadcast.

I had to rally my waning forces, pull myself together and keep a promise to a lady. Seldom had I felt less like donning the motley, but I did want to see Chee Laan again.

If only Thai journalists had a bit of style and less obvious modes of expression, thought Chee Laan Lee. She read out the article to her grandmother, assuming a scornful high voice to express her distaste. They were seated side by side in Sunii’s sitting room. As Chee Laan read, the older woman watched her face. The tea was getting cold on the inlaid ebony table. They both ignored it.

Miss Thailand Contest Inaugurates Rachanee Ballroom

His Highness Prince Premsakul has graciously consented to judge the year’s most glamorous event. Co-judges will be movie prince Vilas Petchandra, Madame Laila Drinkwater, and Madame Sunii Lee, owner of the Rachanee Queen Hotel and doyenne of Bangkok’s business community. Madame Lee’s talented granddaughter, Miss Chee Laan Lee, will compere the dazzling show. Recently returned from her studies in Europe, Chee Laan’s double life as PR girl for Lee Enterprises and popular disc jockey ‘Julie’ (catch her show on Radio Tor Tor Tor) makes full use of this attractive young lady’s sparkling personality, sexy voice, and scintillating wit.

Bangkok Post, Sanita’s Social Diary

‘Absurd puff!’ Chee Laan scowled. ‘Scintillating!’ She snorted indecorously. ‘Still, as the lady said, I shouldn’t care what they say about me as long as they keep talking about me.’

Her grandmother graciously ignored the snort. ‘You quote who, Granddaughter?’

‘Talullah Bankhead. An old
farang
lady.’ Chee Laan shook the newspaper straight and folded it.

‘Not all
farang
are stupid,’ murmured Sunii.

‘No,’ Chee Laan said slowly. She was thinking of Raven. It seemed strange that she should ever have longed to be
farang
. She had yearned for Western freedom, but now knew that it was just another kind of servitude. And yet this
farang
had impressed her. At the thought that she would see Raven that evening, her heart sang. These new feelings were most confusing, and rather unwelcome. Chee Laan had always considered it great foolishness to invest one’s happiness in another person. Foolish and dangerous. But she was happy, for now.

She jabbed a finger at the article again. ‘I’m glad they didn’t rake up my friendship with Salikaa, anyway. If she wins, everyone will say it was rigged. Unsuccessful “Miss” contestants have a nasty habit of hawking their hard-luck tales round the gutter-press.’

‘Usually when the winner has granted favours to members of the judging panel.’
Tsu mu
nodded. ‘If your friend does not win, I hope you will not be sad for her.’

‘Oh, she’ll win,’ Chee Laan said. ‘Unless the judges are blind, she’ll win. Salikaa always gets what she wants. And she’d walk over dead bodies to get this.’

She rose and placed the newspaper on the table within her grandmother’s reach, so that when Chee Laan had gone Sunii might check the article for herself.

‘Excuse me,
Tsu mu
. I’ll just go check on the arrival of the Kobe steaks. It’s all very well having them flown in specially from Japan, as long as they make it to their destination and don’t take detours into undesignated freezers.’

Sunii Lee smiled her concurrence.

The Miss Thailand competition was in full swing. Raven had looked round in vain, hoping to see Chee Laan, but he assumed she was busy behind the scenes. Now he sat at table with the Drinkwater party, seduced, despite himself and his still-aching head, by the whole tasteless Saturnalia. He had to admit that the Rachanee had put on a good show.

The Kobe steaks tasted of the beer the industrious Japanese had massaged into the hides of the young cattle. The lobster
Pattaya
was served in the form of lotus blossoms; the butter and ice were carved in the shape of swans. The tables groaned under the weight of crystal, orchid bouquets, and towering ice sculptures of Garuda birds. Between each of the six courses, the twenty aspirants for the Miss Thailand crown strutted down the raised catwalk above the diners, sporting day outfits, then swimsuits, then evening dresses, each apparition more spectacular than the last. Each appearance was greeted by a storm of clapping and the clash of silver and glass as people dropped their cutlery and abandoned their drinks to applaud. Those with their mouths not crammed with food whistled and hooted. Others stamped their feet or hammered on the tables, making the ornaments jump. The contestants simpered and tittered and fluttered their false eyelashes. Only one of them swaggered arrogantly, swinging her hips in challenge.

From the moment she stepped forward, her eyes flashing, her blue-black mane tumbling free unlike the tortured coils of the other girls, Salikaa’s victory was a foregone conclusion. She was more than beautiful. She was annihilating—she blazed like a torch. As her defeated rivals applauded dutifully, some with tears smudging their make-up, the crown was placed upon her head and the absurd crimson velvet mantle draped about her shoulders. Raven glimpsed for one second the blaze of triumph in the fierce black eyes. Then Salikaa dropped her head, covering her eyes as though overcome by emotion. When she raised her eyes, the modest smirk was tacked firmly in place. An awed child in a sequinned dress presented Salikaa with a bouquet of orchids. Prince Premsakul, the senior judge, took her hand and led her forward in triumph. Another storm of cheering and clapping erupted.

Seated at a nearby table, Raven saw Princess Pim shoot a worried glance at her brother. Prince Toom was leaning forward, breathing heavily, nostrils flaring. His glasses had slipped to the end of his nose. Previously, Raven had thought the young man appeared sulkily preoccupied; now he looked half mad. As he watched, he saw the young prince’s sister nudge him sharply. When Toom turned to glare at her, she arched her eyebrows at him in query. He mouthed something that looked like ‘She’s amazing! A goddess!’ Toom’s eyes glazed over. Pim shook his arm, but he shrugged her off. He continued to devour Salikaa with his eyes, as though he had seen a vision.

Salikaa stood on the edge of the stage and surveyed her worshippers. Her searching gaze fell on Pim and Toom. In one fluid movement she stepped down and moved to their table. She plucked a white orchid from her bouquet. She
wai
’ed the siblings, then handed the orchid to Toom. She pressed his hand to her cheek and he snatched it back as though burnt, his eyes boring into hers. Prince Premsakul, his face rigid with controlled fury, waddled purposefully up behind Salikaa, took her arm and led her back to the stage. Pim looked down at her hands, folded in her lap; she was pale with embarrassment. Toom half rose and made as if to follow Salikaa, but Pim laid a restraining hand on his arm.

Salikaa looked back over her shoulder as she allowed herself to be led away, and she smiled. Scandalously, she blew a kiss to Toom, and then extended it to the whole shrieking audience.

Raven was not sure what he had witnessed. But he knew Salikaa had triumphed.

Chee Laan Lee

Across the studio table of Tor Tor Tor Radio, I faced Salikaa. Once, we had been comrades—not long ago, though it seemed a lifetime. There was not a trace of affection in the way we looked at each other now. The green baize tabletop was bare except for my notebook, with a few scribbled questions listeners would be burning to ask the newly crowned Miss Thailand, who had just announced her engagement to a Prince of the Blood: Pim’s brother, Toom.

Our initial mutual wariness had returned. The friendship forged in exceptional circumstances had evaporated. I might have regretted it, but life is too short for regrets. I have not been close to many people outside the family. Even within it, only
Tsu mu
, and she was a very private person. She kept her feelings in check. Even I did not know her thoughts, or why she secretly associated with Sya Dam.

Above us loomed the bulbous overhead microphone in its fuzzy covering. I drew a deep breath, then began to speak in the quick, breathless, girly voice I adopted for broadcasts. It wasn’t a bit like my day voice, which was quite sharp and incisive, especially when speaking Mandarin or Hakka. But listeners expected female announcers to be ultra-feminine, eager to please, kittenish. Cute and unthreatening.

‘Welcome to the programme,
Khun
Salikaa—whom we must soon call
Mom
Salikaa, as befits the bride of a Prince of the Blood,’ I fawned.

Salikaa inclined her head regally. She’d probably been practising before a mirror. I continued smoothly,

‘Queen of Songkran, then Miss Thailand—crowned, of course, at the magnificent Napalai Ballroom at the Rachanee Hotel.’ There was our subliminal plug, deftly slipped in. ‘And soon to be a princess—most young women would think you were living a fairy tale, a dream come true! Are you overwhelmed by your good fortune?’

I looked down at the table, unwilling to let her see that I knew how ruthlessly she had schemed and clawed and manipulated her way to success. I couldn’t condemn her, because business is business, after all, but I felt bad for Pim and her brother. This engagement was proof of her heartlessness. Toom had no more chance of protecting himself against Salikaa than a mouse in a boa constrictor’s cage. He was besotted with her, but I knew she would have no compunction about throwing him away when he ceased to be useful.

Salikaa purred huskily. ‘Destiny has indeed smiled on me.’ She smirked sweetly toward the microphone. I stifled the impulse to remind her tartly that this wasn’t television; she could spare the simpers. She kept twisting the huge square-cut sapphire ring she’d boasted that Prince Toom had set upon her finger.

‘Remind our listeners of how you and the prince first met. Are you an old friend of the family?’ I cooed innocently. I knew that would annoy her. Upstart bandit brats don’t move in court circles, and we both knew it. It was sheer malice. Pim would not have done it. But I wasn’t Pim, and when I saw the angry tightening of Salikaa’s sculpted jawline, I was glad.

‘My fiancé’s sister, the princess Pim, is my dearest friend,’ Salikaa count-ered icily. ‘We first met in France.’ Pim, an eccentric royal revolutionary; my comrade in blood, sweat, and tears, and co-survivor of a thousand humiliations. She was my friend, too—more than Salikaa’s.

‘In France?’ I prompted encouragingly, thinking of France, and Lieutenant Fleischer, and the mud. Oh, gods, how I recalled the mud! And that sadistic bully—how we loathed him, Pim and I. Although I had often wondered how Salikaa genuinely felt about Fleischer. Now her eyes challenged me boldly to mention any of this.

‘Yes, in Paris, actually,’ she drawled, ‘when I was working as a fashion model.’

‘Really?’ I was so surprised by this bold fiction my eyebrows shot up.

‘Yes. For Balmain—you have heard of the maestro? Even our dear Princess Regent patronises his salon.’ Salikaa sighed wistfully. ‘Monsieur Pierre was desperate for me to turn professional, to travel all over the world for private showings of his collection.’

I started to laugh appreciatively. Her talent for invention certainly made good radio. I effused admiringly. ‘Most girls would have leapt at such a fabulous chance. But not you?’

Salikaa sighed even more histrionically. ‘Ah, Julie, you know how it is. I was homesick. What are fame and fortune beside happiness? I am just a home girl at heart.’ Salikaa flashed her perfect teeth in that healthy animal grin. Her right hand caressed the sapphire, tracing its contours like a blind person reading the beauty of a face.

‘What beautiful sentiments, ladies and gentlemen, dear listeners! Truly,
Khun
Salikaa represents the ideal of Thai womanhood: modest and home-loving, despite her glamorous Cinderella story! Listeners will join me,
Khun
Salikaa, in wishing you every happiness, and congratulations!’

I’d got enough. Anything more would have been gilding the lily. Besides, another minute spent enduring her pretentious flummery would have severely compromised my professional equilibrium. I already felt like slapping her very hard. What the French call an
aller et retour
. I wrapped up the interview with my usual formula. My technicians, who had been shamelessly ogling Salikaa, crowded about us, murmuring, saluting Salikaa adoringly. She smiled and purred and tossed her mane, then flitted away through the studio door, kissing her hand and flicking her fingers at them like a movie star. I caught up with her in the corridor.