I nod. I’m a cop, I think I know when I’ve got the full story. Without another word I stand up and leave. While I am walking away I am sending a text message to Krom: Roberto Eduardo Santos Tavares Melo da Silva. On the one hand, I’m feeling optimistic: that is one very unusual name; if Krom can find his records, then she must be able to find out the names of the other men who were in his squad.
On the other hand, I have at least five images of this strange man, my father: the classic naïf who believed the lies his country told him; the Special Forces psychopath; the MKUltra volunteer-perhaps; the vet locked in vengeful nostalgia for those terrible, intoxicating years four decades ago; the man who, somewhere in all this, really did once love my mother.
17
The parcel from Know the Father Corporation arrived promptly with my DNA sample collection kits. It was quite large because I’d ordered three packs, and came with instructions the tone of which swung abruptly from kindly parental (phrases began with We at KTFI want you to be comfortable with…) to the fanatical when it came to preventing contagion.
I’m excited about paying a visit to the upmarket hospital in Chinatown to which the three old men have been sent, but when I reach the station there are over three hundred e-mails with my name on them and at least ten percent are urgent and need answering. Then, when I’ve waded through the e-mails, one of the sergeants wants me down in the cells to interpret for a farang couple: Brits who have brought in about ten thousand Ecstasy pills expecting to make a small fortune. Now they are going to spend a few decades in jail and are hysterical and hard to understand. It’s about eleven-thirty in the evening when I finally retrieve my pack of DNA sample collectors and grab a cab.
The hospital is crowded, despite the hour. In Asia we are much attached to our traditional cures for common diseases; after all we have been using them for thousands of years and, generally, they all follow the principle that the body should be treated holistically. Acupuncture, Ayurveda, meditation for healing, Chinese herbal remedies all follow this impeccable ideal, and we embrace one or more of them, depending on the case, with faith and reverence-except if the disease hurts like hell or threatens death, when we opt for the quick, artificial, life-denying fixes of farang drug-and-cut cures. Sure, we Thais have plenty of folk remedies for gout, for example, which we believe comes from eating too much chicken, but try living with the agony of a swollen knee joint for a month (or have the metatarsal-phalangeal joint at the base of your big toe swell to the size of an orange), while your revered herb master guides you majestically through the Four Natures, Five Flavors, and the Meridians before finally arriving at the Specific Function, when you know that colchicine will fix it in a day. In other words, the international-class Western hospital in Chinatown is always busy-and not only with Western medical tourists (drugs average twenty percent of the cost stateside and the atmosphere is much less militarized). The department for intestinal diseases, for example, is perpetually crowded with Thais who are unable to curb their chili habits despite the holes the pepper burns in their intestines.
It is close to midnight by the time I arrive at the special ward to which they have transferred the three American vets. The huge hospital is as alive and vibrant as the go-go bars at this time; many of the patients are on Western time schedules, especially those who have popped over from California to change sex on the way to the beach. A guard takes me up to the ward in a special lift; there are two more guards at the door to the ward, which is very small and at this time contains only three beds and as many patients. A large sign in Thai and English says: SILENCE. It seems the Registrar sent the fingerprints of the three oldies to the American embassy, who maybe checked with Veterans Affairs, or the U.S. military, and came back with their names within the hour. Now I read the names at the ends of the beds upon which three men lie unconscious: Willie J. Schwartz, Larry Krank, and Harry Berg.
Harry Berg is the closest to death, but I don’t pay him much attention. His breathing is shallow, there is very little brain activity. There is no sign that he will ever resume command of his body, or even want to. Larry Krank is still unconscious but the machines are recording bouts of rapid eye movement, which might prefigure a return to the world. Now I fixate on what I consider my best bet: Willie J. Schwartz, whose middle name is John, but he might be known as Jack. I noticed when I entered that he moved his eyelids a few times and may be ready to emerge from his coma. I don’t want him to recover just yet, though, and start to open the large envelope into which I’ve slipped the sterilized envelope with the two swabs. I’m just about to open the seal when one of Larry Krank’s machines starts buzzing. It’s not an insistent emergency kind of buzz, more like a friendly hey this guy’s waking up kind of signal. I see that Larry Krank has opened his eyes and is staring at the ceiling. Now a nurse enters, a Thai woman in her forties who looks like one of those devout Buddhists whose life direction was always to help others. She sees me but has no time for me just now. Her nametag says she is Nurse Silapin. She’s a pro and only needs one look at Larry to call a doctor. When the doctor enters she doesn’t ask him what he wants to do, though. She tells him what drugs she wants to give the patient and the doctor apparently agrees. Now she is calling the hospital pharmacy. Now she is looking at me.
“Detective Jitleecheep,” I say, flashing my ID.
“Why are you here, Detective? It will be days before any of these men can speak. Perhaps not even then.”
“Just checking,” I say, holding the envelope behind my back.
A junior nurse arrives with a drug concoction from the pharmacy and gives the package to the senior nurse, who takes out the vial with the cork top and the disposable syringe. Meanwhile the male doctor leaves the room. I watch in fascination as she plunges the needle into the cork, turns the bottle upside down, withdraws the piston, and fills the syringe with a colorless liquid. I think she is going to inject him in the arm; instead she pulls the sheets down, bares a part of his chest, and stabs him with the needle in the solar plexus at the same time as pressing down hard on the plunger.
It is like watching a resurrection. The big old man opens both blue eyes wide as if he’s seen God, sits bolt upright, lets out a scream, then allows himself to descend gracefully back to a lying position.
“Adrenaline and testosterone,” the nurse says. “The combination works better with men than women. It’s like they’re made for the big crude blast. Then they fade on you.” She spares Larry Krank a long look. He has closed his eyes again. “He’ll pull through, though. He’s strong.” She offers me a celestial smile. Now she turns to Willie J. Schwartz. Apparently he is the subject of a different experiment. She keeps her eyes on the patient as if she has a keen intuitive understanding of where his mind is at; then, at a given moment, she caresses his bare forearm in a blatantly sensual way. His eyelids spring open. She smirks at me. “It works in fifty percent of cases. It’s like most human beings don’t really want to return to the world unless there’s some love waiting. A tender touch can stimulate the will to live better than any drug.”