There was no sign of the dog, but I heard someone above me say something in Thai.
“Hello,” I said. “Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“What do you want?” the voice in the leaves growled.
“It’s Lara McClintoch,” I said.
“So?” he said.
“So I phoned,” I said. “It is Mr. Fitzgerald, isn’t it?”
“I suppose you want to come up,” the voice said.
“You can come down if you like,” I said. Indeed, from my standpoint it would have been preferable, my tree climbing days long gone.
“I don’t like,” he said. There was a grinding of gears, and a set of stairs, much like a ship’s gangway, which maybe they were, swung down toward me, stopping just high enough above the ground to be truly inhospitable.
“Well?” the voice said. “Haul yourself up.” I hauled.
I found myself in a sala, a room open on all sides to the air, the ceiling the canopy of leaves above. The floor was beautifully burnished teak. I noticed a pair of shoes at the top of the stairs, and remembering the Thai custom, slipped out of mine. The floor felt smooth and wonderful under my bare feet. There was a dining room table and four chairs in teak and rattan, a sofa of bamboo, covered with cotton cushions in orange and pink, a coffee table in solid teak. The view, so prosaic from the ground, was at this height a pleasant vista over a klong. As I watched, a longtail boat swept by, causing the water to rock up and down either side of the narrow waterway. The place even smelled wonderful, the scent of flowers and freshly cut wood.
There was another spirit house, this one under construction, pieces of it scattered about the place. Dozens of tiny animals stood in neat rows on the coffee table. I leaned over to admire the workmanship, which was exquisite.
Mr. Fitzgerald, if that’s who it was, was nowhere to be seen. I could tell right away, though, that this was not the Robert Fitzgerald of the portraits. Several paintings were on display. To my way of thinking, they were the kind of art that would be interesting to study in a gallery, but not the kind of art to have in your home. There was an underlying violence to it that I found quite upsetting. Some showed angry gashes of red across what would normally have been lovely scenes of rural Thailand. Another showed a Thai house that looked as if it was dripping with blood. A particularly disturbing one showed a pair of eyes looking out of a tree. One of the eyes had a knife stuck in it. I was clearly in the wrong place.
The sound of footsteps heralded the arrival of a man of about fifty, with reddish hair and mustache. He was way too thin, and furthermore, too young to have painted the portrait of Helen Ford. He didn’t say anything, just looked at me.
“I’m afraid I may have come to the wrong Robert Fitzgerald,” I said hesitantly. “I was looking for a portrait painter, someone much older than you.”
“Then you are correct. You have come to the wrong place.”
“Would you have any idea where I could find such a per-
“No,” he said.
“Then I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time,” I said.
“I am, too.” What a nice person Mr. Fitzgerald was.
“I guess I should be on my way then.”
“I guess you should.”
I turned to go, and as I did so, I had a feeling that the one good eye in the painting with the knife was looking at me. I decided I was going to have to persevere.
“Who painted that?” I said, pointing to the canvas.
“My father,” he said.
“And could I speak to him?”
“That would require a medium,” he said.
“What?” I said.
“He’s dead,” he replied. “Two years ago.”
“Did he paint portraits?”
“A long time ago.”
“Do you have any of them left?”
“No.”
“I don’t suppose the name William Beauchamp means anything?” I said.
“Not particularly.”
“Is that a yes or a no?” I said.
He didn’t reply.
“Look, William Beauchamp is a former colleague of mine. He disappeared a few months ago, and I am trying to find him. He has a wife and a disabled child, and they need to know where he is.”
“I can’t help you,” he said.
“Can’t or won’t?” I said.
He said nothing.
“Okay then, I’ll be on my way.”
He remained silent. I walked toward the stairs once again, but as I did so, a shaft of sunlight filtered through the leaves of the trees and made these lovely patterns on the floor of the house. I just paused for a moment and admired it, thinking how I’d take this tree house over the Chaiwong residence any day. I decided then and there that the person who lived there, and who had carved these wonderful houses and animals, couldn’t be as bad as he sounded. “You have a wonderful place here,” I said. “I’m glad that I got the chance to see it. And your carving is extraordinary. Now, about the dog. Is there one?”
“Dog?” he said.
“Dog. As in Beware of the,” I said.
A faint hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Oh yes,” he said. “But like most dogs, his bark is worse than his bite.
“In that case,” I said. “How about some tea?”
“Tea?” He looked perplexed.
“Tea. You know, dried leaves you pour boiling water over to get a brownish-colored drink.”
He paused for a moment, apparently baffled by my approach. “Would scotch do, as brownish liquids go?” he said at last.
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Then come along.” He led me down what I suppose one might call a hallway, with the tree trunk on the inside and wooden walls to the outside. This part of the house, unlike the sala, was enclosed in a manner of speaking with wooden walls and screened windows. It was still open to the air above, although I could see it was possible to pull canvas awnings across for protection. There was a tiny little kitchen, with a very small propane refrigerator and stove, and open shelves for dishes. Farther along there was a bathroom—I wasn’t sure how it worked—and a room that looked as if it functioned as both bedroom and study. There was some electricity, strung from a pole out on the soi, and a cell phone rested on the kitchen counter.
“Do you live here or work here?” I said.
“Both,” he said, taking down the bottle and a couple of glasses.
“How did you find it? Or did you build it yourself?”
“It was my father’s studio,” he said. I waited in vain for a detail or two. There weren’t any. We took our drinks back to the sala and sat sipping them silently. I wondered which one of us would break down and say something. I was determined it wouldn’t be me.
“Do you like my father’s paintings?” he said finally.
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” I said slowly. “He was an immensely talented artist, but I suppose I would have to say that I find them too disturbing to enjoy. What happened to him?”
“He died. I told you.”
“No, I mean what changed him from a portrait painter to the person who saw such violent images?”
“I have wondered that myself,” he said. “I don’t know. He was certainly successful. His work is in many galleries. I, on the other hand, am a failure. I tried to be a painter—for years in fact—but never measured up. I have all his brushes and materials. I cannot part with them, but they are a daily reminder of my own inadequacy.”
“Did you carve the spirit house?”
“I did. Oh, that reminds me,” he said, going back out to the sala and peering over the side. “Just checking,” he said, turning back. “You have to place them where the shadow of the house never falls on them. I studied everything very carefully before I placed it the other day, but you will understand with a tree house, there are certain challenges. I wouldn’t want to offend the chai. Very bad luck indeed. I don’t suppose you’d like one, a spirit house, I mean. Didn’t you tell me when you phoned you have a shop?”