The Windup Girl (30 page)

On one wall, a
bo
tree is painted, the Buddha sitting beneath it as he seeks enlightenment.

Suffering. All is suffering. Jaidee stares at the
bo
tree. Just another relic of history. The Ministry has artificially preserved a few, ones that didn't burst to kindling under the internal pressure of the ivory beetles breeding, the beetles burrowing and hatching in the tangled trunks of the
bo
until they burst forth, flying, and spread to their next victim and their next and their next. . .

All is transient. Even
bo
trees cannot last.

Jaidee touches his eyebrows, fingering the pale half-moons above his eyes where hair once stood. He still hasn't gotten used to his shaven state. Everything changes. He stares up at the
bo
tree and the Buddha.

I was asleep. All along, I was asleep and never understood.

But now, as he stares at the relic
bo
tree, something shifts.

Nothing lasts forever. A
kuti
is a cell. This cell is a prison. He sits in a prison, while the ones who took Chaya live and drink and whore and laugh. Nothing is permanent. This is the central teaching of the Buddha. Not a career, not an institution, not a wife, not a tree. . . All is change; change is the only truth.

He stretches a hand toward the painting and traces the flaking paint, wondering if the man who painted it used a real living
bo
tree as model, if he was lucky enough to live when they lived, or if he modeled it from a photo. Copied from a copy.

In a thousand years will they even know that
bo
trees existed? Will Niwat and Surat's great-grandchildren know that there were other fig trees, also all gone? Will they know that there were many many trees and that they were of many types? Not just a Gates teak, and a generipped PurCal banana, but many, many others as well?

Will they understand that we were not fast enough or smart enough to save them all? That we had to make choices?

The Grahamites who preach on the streets of Bangkok all talk of their Holy Bible and its stories of salvation. Their stories of Noah Bodhisattva, who saved all the animals and trees and flowers on his great bamboo raft and helped them cross the waters, all the broken pieces of the world piled atop his raft while he hunted for land. But there is no Noah Bodhisattva now. There is only Phra Seub who feels the pain of loss but can do little to stop it, and the little mud Buddhas of the Environment Ministry, who hold back rising waters by barest luck.

The
bo
tree blurs. Jaidee's cheeks are wet with tears. Still he stares up at it and the Buddha in his pose of meditation. Who would have thought the calorie companies would attack figs? Who would have thought the
bo
trees would die as well? The
farang
have no respect for anything but money. He wipes the water off his face. It is stupid to think that anything lasts forever. Perhaps even Buddhism is transient.

He stands and gathers his white novice robes around him. He
wais
to the flaking paint of the Buddha under his disappeared tree.

Outside, the moon shines bright. A few green methane lamps glow, barely lighting the paths through the reengineered teak trees to the monastery gates. It is foolish to grasp for things that cannot be regained. All things die. Chaya is already lost to him. Such is change.

No one guards the gates. It is assumed that he is obedient. That he will scrape and beg for any hope of Chaya's return. That he will allow himself to be broken. He's not even sure if anyone cares now about his final fate. He has served his purpose. Dealt a blow to General Pracha, lost face for the entire Environment Ministry. If he stays or leaves, what of it?

He walks out onto the night streets of the City of Divine Beings and heads south, toward the river, toward the Grand Palace and the glittering lights of the city, down through streets half-populated. Toward the levees that keep the city from drowning under the curse of the
farang
.

The City Pillar Shrine rises ahead of him, its roofs gleaming, Buddha images alight with offerings, sweet incense pouring from them. It was here that Rama XII declared that the city of Krung Thep would not be abandoned. Would not fall to the likes of the
farang
the way that Ayutthaya fell to the Burmese so many centuries before.

Over the chanting of nine hundred ninety-nine monks dressed in saffron robes, the King declared that the city would be saved, and from that moment he charged the Ministry of the Environment with its defense. Charged them with the building of the great levees and the tide pools that would buffer the city against the wash of monsoon flood and the surge of typhoon waves. Krung Thep would stand.

Jaidee walks on, listening to the steady chant of monks who pray every minute of the day, summoning the power of the spirit worlds to Bangkok's aid. There were times when he himself knelt on the cool marble of the shrine, prostrate before the city's central pillar, begging for the help of the King and the spirits and whatever life force the city was imbued with as he went forth to do his work. The city pillar was talismanic. It gave him faith.

Now he walks past in his white robes and doesn't look twice.

All things are transient.

He continues through the streets, makes his way into the crowded quarters along the back of Charoen Khlong. The waters lap quietly. No one poles its dark surface this late at night. But ahead, on one of the screened porches a candle flickers. He steals closer.

"Kanya!"

His old lieutenant turns, surprised. She composes her features, but not before Jaidee has a chance to read her shock at what stands before her: this forgotten man without a hair on his head, without even his eyebrows, grinning madly at her from the foot of her steps. He removes his sandals and climbs in white like a ghost up the stairs. Jaidee is aware of the appearance he presents, can't help but enjoy the humor as he opens the screens and slips within.

"I thought you had already gone to the forests," Kanya says.

Jaidee settles beside her, arranging his robes around him. He stares out at the stinking waters of the
khlong.
A
mango tree's branches reflect against the moonlight liquid silver. "It takes a long time to find a monastery willing to soil itself with my sort. Even Phra Kritipong seems to have second thoughts when it comes to enemies of Trade."

Kanya makes a face. "Everyone talks about how they are in ascendancy. Akkarat speaks openly of allowing windup imports."

Jaidee startles. "I hadn't heard of such. A few
farang
, but. . ."

Kanya makes a face. "'All respect to the Queen, but windups do not riot.'" She forces her thumb into the hard peel of a mangosteen. Its purple skin, nearly black in the darkness, peels away. "Torapee measuring his father's footprints."

Jaidee shrugs. "All things change."

Kanya grimaces. "How can one fight their money? Money is their power. Who remembers their patrons? Who remembers their obligations when money comes surging in as strong and deep as the ocean against the seawalls?" She grimaces. "We are not fighting the rising waters. We are fighting money."

"Money is attractive."

Kanya makes a bitter face. "Not to you. You were a monk even before they sent you to a
kuti
."

"Perhaps that's why I make such a poor novice."

"Shouldn't you be in your
kuti
now
?
"

Jaidee grins. "It was cramping my style."

Kanya stills, looks hard at Jaidee. "You're not ordaining?"

"I'm a fighter, not a monk." He shrugs. "Sitting in a
kuti
and meditating will do no good. I let myself become confused about that. Losing Chaya confused me. "

"She will return. I'm sure of it."

Jaidee smiles sadly at his protégé, so full of hope and faith. It's surprising that a woman who smiles so little and sees so much melancholy in the world can believe that in this case—this one exceptional case—that the world will turn in a positive direction.

"No. She will not."

"She will!"

Jaidee shakes his head. "I always thought you were the skeptical one."

Kanya's face is anguished. "You've done everything to signal capitulation. You have no face left! They must let her go!"

"They will not. I think that she was dead within a day. I only clung to hope because I was mad for her."

"You don't know she'd dead. They could still be holding her."

"As you pointed out, I have no face left. If this were a lesson, she would have returned by now. It was a different sort of message than we thought." Jaidee contemplates the still waters of the
khlong
. "I need a favor from you."

"Anything."

"Loan me a spring gun."

Kanya's eyes widen. "
Khun
. . ."

"Don't worry. I'll bring it back. I don't need you to come with me. I just need a good weapon."

"I. . ."

Jaidee grins. "Don't worry. I'll be fine. And there's no reason to destroy two careers."

"You're going after Trade."

"Akkarat needs to understand that the Tiger still has teeth."

"You don't even know if it was Trade who took her."

"Who else, really?" Jaidee shrugs. "I have made many enemies, but in the end, there is really only one." He smiles. "There is Trade and there is me. I was foolish to let people convince me otherwise."

"I'll come with you."

"No. You will stay here. You will keep an eye on Niwat and Surat. That is all I ask of you, Lieutenant."

"Please don't do this. I will beg Pracha, I will go to—"

Jaidee cuts her off, before she speaks of ugliness. There was a time when he would have let her lose face before him, would have allowed her apologies to spill forth like a waterfall during the monsoon, but not anymore.

"I don't wish for anything else," he says. "I am content. I will go to Trade and I will make them pay. All of this is
kamma
. I was not meant to keep Chaya forever, or she to keep me. But I think there are still things we can do if we hold tight to our
damma
. We all have our duties, Kanya. To our patrons, to our men." He shrugs. "I've had many different lives. I was a boy, and a
muay thai
champion, and a father, and a white shirt." He glances down at the folds of his novice's clothes. "A monk, even." He grins. "Don't worry about me. I have a few more stages yet to traverse before I give up on this life and go to meet Chaya." He lets his voice harden. "I still have unfinished business, and I won't stop until it is done."

Kanya watches him, eyes anguished. "You can't go alone."

"No. I will take Somchai."

* * *

Trade: the ministry that functions with impunity, that scoffs at him so easily, that steals his wife and leaves a hole in him the size of a durian.

Chaya.

Jaidee studies the building. In the face of all those blazing lights, he feels like a savage in the wilderness, like a hilltribe spirit doctor staring at the advance of a megodont army. For a moment, his sense of mission falters.

I should see the boys,
he tells himself.
I could go home.

And yet here he is in the darkness, watching the lights of the Ministry of Trade, where they burn their coal allocation as though the Contraction never happened, as though there are no seawalls needed to keep back the ocean.

Somewhere in there a man squats and plans. The man who watched him at the anchor pads so long ago. Who spat betel and sauntered away as if Jaidee were nothing more than a cockroach to be crushed. Who sat beside Akkarat and observed silently as Jaidee was thrown down. That man will lead to Chaya's resting place. That man is the key. Somewhere inside those glowing windows.

Jaidee ducks back into the darkness. He and Somchai wear dark street clothes, stripped of all identifiers, the better to blend with the night. Somchai is a fast one. One of the best. Dangerous close in, and quiet. He knows his way around a lock, and, like Jaidee, he is motivated.

Somchai's face is serious as he studies the building. Almost as serious as Kanya, when Jaidee considers it. The demeanor seems to creep up on all of them, eventually. Seems to come with the work. Jaidee wonders if the Thai ever really smiled as he has heard in legends. Every time he hears his boys laugh, it is as if some beautiful orchid has blossomed in the forest.

"They sell themselves cheaply," Somchai murmurs.

Jaidee nods shortly. "I remember when Trade was just a bit portfolio under Agriculture, and now look at it."

"You're showing your age. Trade was always a big ministry."

"No. Just a tiny department. A joke." Jaidee waves at the new complex with its high-tech convection vents, with its awnings and porticos. "It's a new world, once again."

As if to taunt him, a pair of cheshires jump up on a balustrade to preen and wash. They molt in and out of view, careless of discovery. Jaidee pulls out his spring gun and takes aim. "That's what Trade has given us. Cheshires should be on their badge."

"Please don't."

He looks at Somchai. "It carries no karmic cost. They have no soul."

"They bleed like any other animal."

"You could say the same of ivory beetles."

Somchai ducks his head, but doesn't say anything more. Jaidee scowls and puts his spring gun back in its holster. It would be waste of ammunition anyway. There are always more.

"I used to be on the poison details for cheshires," Somchai says finally.

"Now it's you who shows your age."

Somchai shrugs. "I had a family then."

"I didn't know."

"Cibiscosis.118.Aa. It was quick."

"I remember. My father died with that one as well. A bad iteration."

Somchai nods. "I miss them. I hope they reincarnated well."

"I'm sure they did."

He shrugs. "One can hope. I became a monk for them. Ordained for a full year. I prayed. Did many offerings." He says again, "One can hope."