Jade (11 page)

I put on my make-up while I’m sitting on Chanlina’s bed, and while she tries on the new clothes Oliver has purchased with her at the market. I’m fascinated. She has no idea how fabulous she looks. She’s got a figure to kill for, and a natural elegance which is so amazing that she could actually model dressed up in a garbage bag and look chic! 

She’s not coming with us for dinner. She says she hates those boring meals with a bunch of dressed up grown-ups, and she’d rather stay in her room and watch movies on television. She’ll leave the separation door open so that we can come say goodnight when we get back.

Oliver calls me from the lobby, and I go downstairs. He came up to change earlier, while we were at the pool. As I step out of the elevator, Oliver and I both do a double take. It’s the first time we’ve seen each other dressed up. 

My heart skips a beat as I take in his new look. I spent the afternoon with Indiana Jones, and now I’m going out for dinner with James Bond. 

I’m not sure which one I like better but, right now, I think he’s really hot with his dark suit, white shirt, and red tie. Very classy. 

He’s classy, but icy cold. During the taxi ride to the restaurant, he remains silent, and I let him be. I have very dark moods too, and I’m enjoying the scenery anyway. I’m a city girl at heart. While I can’t see myself living in Luang Prabang, I imagine that I could live here, in Bangkok. The city has a pulse similar to Manhattan, with the bonus of a more laid back population.

What I’ve discovered that I love about Asia is the lack of raised voices. I’ve learned that in this part of the word, if you lose your cool, you lose face. Here losing face is bad, very bad.

“Preoccupied?” I ask as we get out of the car, and enter the magnificent hotel in which the restaurant is located.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” he says, “There is a deal I’m working on, and we were unable to reach an agreement earlier. I’m uneasy because I’m not sure what the other guy really wants.” 

He sighs, and runs a hand from his forehead to the back of his head. It’s a stress gesture that I’ve never seen him make before.  

“The dinner was organized to celebrate the closing, but it’s just going to be a continuation of the discussion. I’m sorry I won’t be very good company tonight,” he says.

We reach the restaurant, and are walked to a very large table set for ten. Once we’re seated, two empty chairs remain. Oliver introduces me to some of his fellow dealers. There’s a giant man from Turkey with a diminutive wife; well, maybe she’s not shorter than me, but he’s so large and she’s so thin that she appears unsubstantial. Next to them is a couple from Israel, and then there is a Chinese couple. I sit next to the Chinese woman who starts chatting with me. Her accent is so perfect that, for an instant, I feel as if I’m listening to a BBC program. She’s been raised in Hong Kong and then studied at the London School of Economics. 

She tells me that she used to assist her husband and work with him.  She had stopped, now that they have four children. Even with help, she says, it takes a lot of work and organization to run a big household like hers. 

Despite her light chatter, I can feel that she’s stressed. Actually, everyone at the table seems under pressure. 

The last couple arrives, they’re all smiles but the existing tension goes up a notch. He is American, in his forties and she’s Thai, and probably much younger. With the ton of makeup she’s wearing, though, I can’t tell for sure. She sits between this man, and the Turkish giant. 

As soon as they are settled, the staff pours us a drink. I taste it, and it’s a fabulous iced tea. I ask my neighbor what type it is because it doesn’t taste like anything I’ve ever had before. 

“It’s chrysanthemum tea,” she says. “It’s a cooling tea. It helps cool the body for the digestion… and it also helps cool the mind before the discussions get too heated.”

The hint is clear: whoever ordered for the group is expecting fireworks. 

Nevertheless, she’s most pleasant, and acts as if it’s a normal social dinner. She chatters about the advantages of living in Bangkok as we’re served tiny plates with bite-sized portions of various specialties. There’s a soup and then mini kebabs with shrimp and scallops, and it goes on and on.

The food is amazing, but no one seems to be enjoying it, except me. They’re all so tense that if one wrong word is spoken, the room will explode. Periodically, I glance in Oliver’s direction. He’s engaged in a heated discussion with the latecomer, and, even though he’s keeping the appearance of calm, I can see that he’s more than annoyed.  His hands are rolled up in fists so tight that his knuckles are white.

We finish the meal, and one by one the other couples excuse themselves. Only four of us remain at the table. I get up to go to the bathroom; I drank so much tea that I’m drowning. I think I have a new addiction. Oliver barely acknowledges my departure with a nod. 

The Thai woman gets up with me. She bends over to say something to the American, who shakes his hand at her, as if she was an annoying insect. She’s pissed, and I can’t blame her. I would be upset, too, if I were discarded in a similar fashion. I would consider ‘accidentally’ spilling a very cold drink on the man’s lap.

She walks with me to the lady’s room, where she readjusts her make-up. As I get out of my booth, she tells me, “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of being ignored.”

As I wash my hands, I answer, “The conversation was stilted but at least the food was good.”

“What do you say we go get a drink or two at the bar? Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky and find guys who would enjoy spending some time with us!”

“Sure, why not,” I say, “I’m not sure they’ve noticed we’re gone.”

“I’m Apsara,” she says.

“Like the Cambodian dancers?” She nods. “I’m Jade.”  

She laughs, and for an instant appears a lot younger. Underneath the stern appearance and the heavy make-up I see a girl about my age.  

“How appropriate,” she says, “Jade is dating the Jade Master. Come on, Jade, let’s get smashed, and bill our drinks to their table.”

I follow her to the bar of the hotel, feeling very curious. She obviously knows Oliver. Maybe I’ll get some information about him from her. 

She picks a central table not too far from a baby grand piano. A young man is playing an old Nat King Cole song. I thought that only my grandmother and I listened to that type of music these days. 

The waiter comes to us. Apsara orders something for herself in Thai, and then asks me, “How drunk do you want to get?” 

“Not too much,” I answer, “I never drink.”

“Oh, I see. So, something fruity with just a little kick for you!” 

A few minutes later, I’m facing a tall glass with a mixture of exotic flavors. It’s sweet, but it’s laced with something strong that I can’t identify. Apsara has two small glasses of a clear liquid-Vodka maybe. Whatever it is, it’s strong because her eyes are all teary after she’s drank both shots.

She starts telling me about herself. She’s twenty-four. She’s not much older than me.  She has studied gemology. Right now, she works in a lab where she tests precious and semi-precious stones. 

I notice that the table she’s picked is strategically located. We’re far enough from the piano to have a conversation at a normal pitch of voice, yet close enough to make eavesdropping on us impossible.

“Soon, I will be recognized as one of the best in the field.” She tells me, “Of course, it’s taking me longer to shine than some of the idiots I went to school with, but that’s because I’m a woman.  Today, in Thailand, it’s a man’s world, but that won’t last forever. You’ll see, one day we won’t have to play the silly bimbos to get ahead in life.”

I like her spunk, and I enjoy the way she’s telling me what she thinks instead of beating around the bush. So when she’s finished venting and asks me about myself, I feel relaxed enough tell her that I cam to Laos to try to decide what to do with my future. I also tell her how I met Oliver. I’m wondering if it’s not the drink that’s making me so talkative.

“Do you know him well?” I ask.

“I met him a few times before tonight,” she tells me. “He works with John, the ass I came with tonight. John’s my boss as well as my boyfriend.  I’ve heard other dealers speak about Olivier. You knew they call him The Jade Master, right? He’s respected in his field. He’s tough but he has the reputation of being a straight shooter.”

She signals the waiter with a sweeping gesture that indicates that she wants the same for both of us. I’m already buzzed from the first drink, which I have yet to finish. I won’t be able to drink a second one.

While she’s waiting for the man to bring back her new order, she continues. 

“According to what one dealer told me, the man has a tender heart. He said that shortly after Oliver moved to Bangkok, he adopted a ten year old. The story I heard is that she propositioned him in the street, and that the thought of her being screwed by some dirty old man revolted him so much he had to bring her home with him. Last I heard, he’s got her tucked away in a local boarding school, and has been taking real good care of her.”

I smile at the description. A tender heart is a sweet way to describe him. “I had no idea how they had met,” I tell her. “I know the girl and she’s lovely. He’s sending her to college in the fall.”

The waiter brings us our new drinks and after he leaves, Apsara takes a business card from her handbag, scribbles her private email address on the back, and gives it to me.

“Just email me if there’s anything specific that you need to find out about him. I’ll see what I can find out.” She adds wistfully, “I think us women should stick together.” 

“Thanks,” I say, and I hope that she can see I truly mean it. 

“Do you have a card?”

“No, I don’t. The only thing I could put on it would be an email address. I no longer have a home, nor a phone number. I’m pretty much up in the air. All that I own is stored in two boxes in my parent’s garage, and I’m not sure what my next move will be.”

 “You’re so lucky,” she says, “Nothing to hold you down. You can do whatever you please. I wish I could be that free!”

I raise an eyebrow. Even though she seems very open about a lot of things, I do not dare ask a direct question on the subject. 

“Family obligations,” she offers as an explanation before swallowing the content of one of the two shot glasses that she just ordered. She looks at the other, but decides against it, for now.

I’m finished with my first drink and I’m so relaxed that I know it’s becoming dangerous. The already fragile filter between my brain and my mouth has been dissolved in alcohol and, at any moment, words that should remain unspoken are likely to fly out.

❦

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

DO
YOU WANT TO GO dancing?” Apsara asks out of the blue.
        “You mean now? Just the two of us?”

“Yes, I’ll text John where we’re going and when they’re done, they can meet us there.”

“I’m not sure, Apsara, you must have me confused with someone else. I’m no party girl,” I explain.

“Then it’s time to become one,” she says, “Life is too short to be dull.” She gets her cell phone out of her pocket book, and is about to text a message when I see John and Oliver come into the bar. 

Oliver sees me, and smiles. My heart stops, and I smile back. In my mind I’m playing a rerun of last night. A wave of lust washes over me. Butterflies are doing an aerobatic demonstration program in my stomach in anticipation of getting back to the hotel room. 

Oliver says something to John, who looks quite happy, too, and they start walking in our direction, when John puts a hand on Oliver’s arm and points with his chin to the other side of the room.

Oliver turns around, and his smile vanishes from his face. His jaw drops. Apsara and I both look in the same direction. There’s a woman walking purposely in their direction. I can’t see her face, but even from the back, there’s no mistaking the fact that she’s in an advanced stage of pregnancy.  

She reaches the men, and John steps away, leaving Oliver and the pregnant woman to begin what seems to be a heated discussion. 

Curiosity is eating me up, but the piano covers the sound of their voices and they are too far away to even attempt to read Oliver’s lips.

John sits at our table in front of me and blocks my view. I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. If he is, then they are friends again, or maybe solidarity between men supercedes professional disagreements.

John looks at the second untouched cocktail, and at the shot glass on the table. I push my drink in his direction. 

“It’s all yours; I haven’t touched it.” 

I get up. The room is spinning a bit, but not enough to prevent me from walking where I want to go. As I get closer, Oliver notices that I’m approaching. His hand rests on the woman’s arm, and his face looks as if he’s pleading with her more urgently. I can read “please,” on his lips.

She brushes his hand aside, and turns around to look in my direction. She’s Thai, and I’m sure her face is lovely when it’s not swollen as it is right now. 

So much swelling is not normal. There must be something wrong with her pregnancy: she is retaining way too much fluid. I want to slap myself. Why should I worry about her condition when she obviously wants me dead?  

If looks could kill, I would be shattered into oblivion. There’s such hatred in her eyes that it can’t be directed only at me. To hate so much, one must have loved first. Horrible thoughts collide in my mind about her and Oliver. I scold myself. I will not let my dreadful imagination get the better of me. I will wait for the very reasonable explanation he will necessarily have for me. 

As I get close, Oliver tenses, and shakes his head sideways, silently asking me to go away.

“Don’t bother,” she tells him, “I was going, anyway. I certainly don’t want to be introduced to my husband’s whores.”

I stop dead in my tracks. It takes all my willpower to not punch her in the face. I only resist the urge because she’s pregnant and tiny. If I knock her out, something could happen to her baby.  Oliver’s baby?