“Yuck,” Jennifer said.
Being in this place made me think of Rob, Rob the policeman, that is. He’d have had the place closed down in ten minutes. We passed a particularly young girl—she couldn’t possibly have been more than twelve—sitting on the lap of an overweight American in a Hawaiian shirt who was fondling her as she murmured, “You my darling,” or words to that effect. Make that five minutes, I thought. Rob would have been absolutely horrified.
Mr. Prasit’s office was at the top of the dark stairway. He shared it with another young man. The room had a small window on the inside, presumably so that he could keep an eye on the goings-on downstairs, a small desk, and a computer. His job, I could see, was to keep the accounts. Even up there, the noise was painful and the heat almost unbearable. He looked surprised to see us.
“My name is Lara McClintoch, and these are my friends Jennifer and David Ferguson,” I said. “I’m here at the request of Natalie Beauchamp, Mr. William’s wife. I am hoping you can spare a few minutes to talk to me, and perhaps have something for me to take back to Mrs. Natalie.”
“Not here,” he said, looking terribly embarrassed, which I would have been, too, if I’d been him, dressed in his bright pink shirt in such a place. “Please to follow me.” He spoke in Thai to the other resident of the office, who nodded. We made our way out the back—I was happy not to have to press my way through the throng in the bar again—and down an alley that I wouldn’t want to be in alone. A block or two away from the hubbub we mounted a staircase to a second-floor flat. Prasit’s apartment was tiny and smelled of cooking from the restaurant below. He shared it with his wife, Sarigarn, who was out at work at that time, he told us, his mother, and two children of about five and two. I found it hard to reconcile his home and his job, and apparently he did, too.
“You will please not to mention my children about my job, okay?” he had said just before we went in.
“Okay,” we agreed in unison.
“Please sit,” he said. “My mother bring tea. Cannot rest here so long. Must go to club very soon. I have for Mrs. Natalie package. Please wait here.”
He disappeared into another room as his mother poured tea into chipped cups—David had to stand because there weren’t enough seats—and reappeared a minute or two later with a large package wrapped in brown paper. “Sorry not send Mrs. Natalie. Very expensive for mailing. I am for saving money to send it.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll make sure she gets it.” But not without opening it first. “How do you know Mr. William?” I asked.
Prasit pondered the question. “I think one year,” he said.
“Why don’t I translate?” David said. “It’ll go faster.” The two spoke for a moment or two, while I smiled at Prasit’s mother and his two kids.
“Prasit’s wife works for a cleaning company that has the contract for the building Fairfield Antiques is in,” David said finally. “She works at night. During the time Will had the antique business, Mr. Prasit had a day job, and he would take his wife there so they could have a little more time together. Mr. William would talk to him while he waited for her to finish up. He says Mr. William was very kind and gave his wife extra money for special cleaning, and also helped to get him medicine for his mother, who has what I think is arthritis. Occasionally Will came to the Pink Pussy Kat Klub, but I gather from Prasit he was not a regular and only stopped by for a drink. He says he thinks Will was a bit lonely and wanted to talk. He also practiced his Thai on Prasit, and Prasit did the same with English.”
“Can you ask him when he saw Mr. William last?”
“I already did. He saw him early in July. Same time as just about everybody else. It was about that time that he got the night job, so he didn’t take his wife in anymore. She went in and cleaned for several weeks without seeing Will, but that was not necessarily unusual. She only saw him when he worked late. He had often left by the time she got there. Finally, of course, the landlord came, and the store was closed.”
“And how did he get this stuff of Will’s? The envelope with the clippings and this big package.”
Ferguson and Prasit spoke for a minute or two. “He says Will gave it to him shortly before the last time he saw him. He said Will just told him if he didn’t see him for awhile he was to send it to Natalie. He feels badly, I think, that he took so long to send it. He said that he didn’t realize at first that Will wasn’t coming back. His wife didn’t say much, and when the store was closed down, he realized he had to send the stuff. He knew where Will lived. I gather his wife made extra money from time to time doing some special cleaning there, and he knew there was a Mrs. Praneet next door with a key, and so he checked for Will there. He says he has to go back now, or he’ll lose his job. I think we should let him go. I’ll give him my card, and if he thinks of anything else, I’ll ask him to call me.”
Jennifer was rather silent the rest of the way back, especially as we sank into the back of the Chaiwong limousine. “You’re thinking about the conditions under which Mr. Prasit and his family live,” I said.
“I am,” she said. “It is quite a contrast to Ayutthaya, isn’t it? I suppose I have trouble reconciling the two, but I can see why Chat thinks things could be better for people here. What is it, do you think?” she said, changing the subject and pointing to my package.
“We’ll have to wait and see,” I said.
I knew what the package contained, but I didn’t open it until I was back in my room at the Chaiwongs. I didn’t want the driver to see it. After Yutai’s conversation with the security guard, I decided I didn’t trust any of them. It was the painting, of course, the one by Robert Fitzgerald that had hung in Will’s bedroom. I unwrapped it carefully and stood it up against the back of a chair.
A young woman stood there staring straight at me. She was in her mid- to late twenties, with dark hair and pale, flawless skin, dressed in a celery green suit and white blouse. She was standing behind a small table on which was placed, to her right, a stone head of Buddha. Her left hand seemed to be reaching for the Buddha, although she wasn’t looking at it; the right hand was at her side. She was very beautiful, but there was, indeed, a touch of defiance in her gray eyes, as Robert Fitzgerald had said. Behind her was a mirror in which could be seen, only faintly, a dark shadow.
“She’s lovely,” Jennifer said. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Helen Ford, and it’s a long story, not necessarily a lovely one. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll look forward to that. It’s late. I think I’ll just leave Chat to sleep. I won’t wake him. He’ll feel better in the morning. I’ll show you the you-know-what then, too,” she added, pointing at her ring finger. I watched her go down the hall, wondering whether I should tell her about Fatty. I decided I’d see how I felt in the morning.
Chapter 11
It is a solemn but also a joyous occasion when one is admitted to the monkhood. Once across the river, Yot Fa was carried on the shoulders of two courtiers to the Khok Phraya Monastery, to the sound of drums and gongs, and accompanied by his friends, including me. There the head abbot directed the young king to kneel, and after prayers, cut a lock of the young man’s hair. Then his head and eyebrows were shaved, he was undressed and wrapped in the simple robe of the monk, then water was poured over him to wash away the world. As I watched him rub his bare head and smile, I thought how both prince and poor man were alike, somehow, in the robe of the monk. Like the others, Yot Fa would go out at dawn to beg for food, would spend his days in contemplation and prayer. It was an unsettling experience for me. As I looked at him, I felt the world shift beneath my feet. “You can join me as a monk,” he said to me, but I could see nothing but my beloved’s face and turned back to the city. It was a terrible mistake.