A minute or two later David Ferguson caught up to me in the aisle. “Do you know that fantastic-looking woman over there?” he said. “The one in the green dress?”
“That’s Praneet,” I said. “Praneet Chaiwong. She is fantastic looking, and she’s also a doctor.”
“I don’t suppose you’d introduce me,” he said. “Maybe we could invite her to dinner.”
“Sure,” I said.
“You’re a pal,” he said.
I found myself seated next to Khun Wichai. His daughter, Busakorn, was, as usual, supposed to be with Chat, but Chat was changing seats to sit with Jennifer.
“I see you and I are rivals of a sort,” Wichai said, as we watched the musical chairs. He looked amused and not at all the rather intimidating person David had described to me. Two large men, however, were sitting in the row behind us, one to either side. I assumed they were Wichai’s bodyguards, two of the cadre of loyal followers David had mentioned.
“I suppose we are,” I agreed with a smile. “I have a feeling that no matter what, though, we will have nothing whatsoever to say regarding the final decision.”
“Alas,” he said. “Times have changed since I was young. My wife was picked out for me when I was a mere boy. Still, we got along well enough. Your Jennifer is so, well, Western.”
“Please don’t say she’ll never fit in here,” I said. My tone was light, but I was starting to wonder whether the hoarse voice had belonged to Mr. Wichai.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “I have done rather well, speaking personally, from globalization. May it flourish. And now I think the performance is about to begin.”
He’s not such a bad sort, I thought, as the lights went down. For a man whose rivals simply disappear. I looked around for Yutai. I couldn’t see him, but I could see the other man I recognized. Who is that? I wondered. I know him from somewhere.
The Khon performance was an interesting one. Masked dancers told a story from the Ramakien, Thailand’s rather more secular version of the Hindu Ramayama. There was live music played on the traditional Thai instruments: klong tadt and klong kak drums, the sacred tapone, the two-faced drum that Thai dancers pay homage to before the performance so they will dance well, and ranadek and ranad-thum, both xylophone type instruments, and assorted cymbals and gongs. The dancing was highly stylized, the costumes and masks spectacular, and I really wished I was able to enjoy it more.
The Khon depicted the battle between good and evil, and I had a feeling, somehow, that it was being played out in real life, right in front of my eyes. It was as if everything I had seen in the theater lobby had been almost as choreographed as the performance I was now watching. The masks of the demons on the stage were the smiles of the people I had met. The vision of Yutai and Wongvipa, and the looks on their faces, haunted me. Shrimp, I thought suddenly. The brother of the monk who was now in jail for smuggling, the big man in the amulet market who told me his name was Shrimp, and who had seemed determined to take the bad amulets off my hands. That’s who was talking to Yutai. The way I saw it, the meeting was neither a coincidence nor casual.
At the end of the performance I found David Ferguson.
“Come with us,” I said to Jennifer and Chat. “It will be fun.” In truth I just wanted to keep them both near me, to keep them safe.
“You go, Jennifer,” Chat said. “I have a really bad headache. I think I’ll just go home.”
“I’ll go with you,” she said loyally.
“No, really,” he said, squeezing her arm. “I’m just going to take something for this headache and go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“If you’re sure,” she said.
“I’m sure. I’ll have the car pick you up at the Skytrain around what? Eleven, eleven-thirty?”
We spent a very pleasant evening with David. I made the introductions with Praneet, but she was on her way back to the hospital and couldn’t join us, much to David’s disappointment. As promised, he took us to a restaurant where we were the only farang. I had no idea where we were, but the food was fabulous. Jennifer enjoyed herself, too, although I could see she was thinking about Chat a lot of the time.
It was a busy night in Bangkok, and after dinner we got stuck in traffic that barely crawled along. At some point we found ourselves in what I suppose might euphemistically be called an entertainment district, all flashing neon and crowded sidewalks.
“This is Pat Pong, as you’ve no doubt already surmised,” David said.
“Stop the car,” I said.
“That shouldn’t be difficult. We’re barely moving.”
“Pull over,” I said.
“Are you going to be sick or something?”
“We have to find a parking spot.”
“A parking spot!” he exclaimed. “Here? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m getting out,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”
“Lara!” David exclaimed. “Where are you going?”
“I’m coming, too,” Jennifer said. “Wherever it is we’re going.”
“Hold it! You’re not going anywhere without me,” Ferguson said. “Just give me a minute to park. Now what is this all about?” he grumbled a few minutes later, as we abandoned the car in an alley. I pointed to a bright neon sign on top of one of the buildings and the arrow that pointed down the street.
“You have a sudden urge to go to something called the Pink Pussy Kat Klub?”
“PPKK,” I said. “We’re going to have a chat with Mr. Prasit, the assistant manager.”
“Okay, here we go.” Ferguson sighed. “Hold on to your wallets. There are pickpockets everywhere.”
The Pat Pong may be tame now, compared to its heyday, when American servicemen fighting in Vietnam went there for a little R and R. But it was still racy enough for me. Neon signs flash out Kiss Me Club, Dream Boys, and Super Pussy. VIP-service rooms to rent on a short-term basis are advertised everywhere. There’s a massage parlor every few yards. In the midst of all this, there’s a night market the locals disdain for its cheap merchandise and high prices, and for something of a contrast, a few well-known fast-food and coffee chains.
At night most people come for the alcohol and titillation, not for the burgers. From the soi, it is easy to see inside to the table dancers, young and not so young men and women scantily clad, gyrating to the loud and persistent music.
Outside are the hustlers, trying to lure you in. Sometimes these are men with suggestive photos of what is inside. In other cases there are women in long, formal gowns, with numbers pinned to their dresses, shouting at unaccompanied men to get their attention.
The Pink Pussy Kat Klub was, if anything, among the worst. Outside, very young Thai girls were dressed in school uniforms, of all things, with oxfords and kneesocks, navy pleated skirts and ties, white shirts, and blazers. In keeping with the theme, the kneesocks and blazers were pink. I felt a pang as they reminded me of Bent Rowland’s Parichat, and indeed maybe she’d been one of them until Rowland took her away, at least temporarily, from it all. Inside, the music was so loud I could feel it in my bones, and flashing strobes made me dizzy. The place smelled of stale booze, perspiration, and cheap perfume. Rather lithe young women in extremely brief bikinis, pink, it perhaps goes without saying, were contorting themselves into positions middle-aged women like me can’t even think about without hurting ourselves. I yelled my question about where to find the assistant manager to David, who in turn shouted in Thai to the bartender, who waved us in the direction of the back. We pushed our way through a throng of men, mostly white, overweight, and badly dressed, who were sweating from heat and excitement, as young Thai women pressed themselves against them. It was, in a word, revolting.