Bangkok 8 Part 8

I'll have to explain that, won't I? Look at it this way: you're facing old age, your sins have been mounting steadily, but you cannot for the life of you see how you could have reacted differently, given the pathetic cards Fate handed you at birth, and now you have to consider the inevitable karmic bill: You think this this lifetime has been tough? See that legless guy on his atrocious trolley begging on the sidewalk? Last time around he wasn't nearly as bad as you've been, why, he was a saint compared to you. lifetime has been tough? See that legless guy on his atrocious trolley begging on the sidewalk? Last time around he wasn't nearly as bad as you've been, why, he was a saint compared to you.

With us the lifting of the egoic veil at the moment of death reveals the workings of karma in all its pitiless majesty: see that clubfoot in your next life, that's from when you fouled your best friend on the football pitch; see those buckteeth the size of gravestones, that's your cynical sense of humor; see that early death from leukemia, that's your greed.

To make a good death is to proceed gracefully into a better body and a better life. The consequences of a bad death are hard to look at. You will not make a good death You will not make a good death is a power curse; it makes is a power curse; it makes f.u.c.k you f.u.c.k you sound like a benediction. sound like a benediction.

Nong stays with me while they carefully help me into a wheelchair and push me down the corridor to the lift, which takes us down to the garden. This is my first outing and I insist on sitting near the deliciously swis.h.i.+ng irrigation system. I like the intermittent spray on my face, the return to infancy in more luxurious surroundings than I ever knew. Is it just me or are we all hardwired to expect our first years to be spent surrounded by flowers in a magic garden? I'm surprised that my mother seems to read my thoughts, holds my hand and smiles. Over the wall the harsh city claws away like an animal. I experience the invalid's repugnance toward return: two more days and they will let me out. I suppose it would be unmanly to ask to stay a little longer?

A hospital orderly brings some of the art books and sets them on a table near my chair, then a few minutes later Rosen comes with a complex expression on his face where shame does battle with career-path paranoia. On the one hand, he gives me the photographs himself in broad daylight in front of my mother; on the other, they are in a brown paper envelope on which no eagle or other identification appears. He departs rather abruptly, too. After a while Nong takes her leave with some unconvincing excuse. She is bored and a little repulsed by the anodyne atmosphere. She belongs on the other side of the wall, in the l.u.s.ty, clawing city.

Now that I've had a chance to examine the pix (as the FBI call them), I wonder if Rosen is making a point: Warren with the first Bush, Warren with Clinton (twice), Warren with the second Bush, looking older and sleeker. I was not expecting a jeweler to be a man of steel, but that's how he comes across, as if it was sheer willpower that got him into the Rose Garden every time. Clinton was tall, and Warren is the same height, but leaner. Gray-blue eyes, thinning light brown hair turning elegantly gray. He looks so much more sophisticated than the President, with his even tan, filigree gold chain on his left wrist, the posture of a man who has no need to insist. You can almost smell the cologne. He will outlast this President, his smile says; every time. I put him down on top of one of the art books, feeling my strength start to fade. I doze off for a couple of minutes and wake to find him still there, staring at me. I pick him up again. Perhaps it is the power of the White House that triggers an old appet.i.te for the art of detection. Often when we are sick the mind is temporarily released from its prison in the body and floats freely. During this afternoon I sense my own begin to dock again with its destiny.

"What's the matter?" Kimberley Jones asks me when she comes up behind my chair and catches me staring at Warren for the thousandth time. "You were frowning as if you know him."

How to explain? I dare not mention the dark figure that, spiritually speaking, I see standing behind him in each of those pix and whom I seem to recognize.

27.

In Kat's modest home the scent is mostly sandalwood, from her joss sticks. Like me, she lives in one room which our national optimism leads us to call an apartment, although hers is inches bigger. Her picture of our beloved King hangs in exactly the same position as mine, and her Buddha shrine sits on a high shelf near the door. I watch her bow to the Buddha three times with the incense held in a bunch between her hands. She concentrates mindfully, no doubt praying for luck. She is wearing a baggy housecoat and, I suspect, nothing else.

"I'm going to have to practice, Sonchai, I missed five balloons last night. You don't mind? It'll be like old times. Did you ever tell your mother how you helped me? I didn't, I was afraid she might be angry with me for corrupting your young mind." She walks to a slim cupboard in the opposite corner and takes out a plastic lunch box.

"I told her a few years ago. She thought it was funny. She wanted to know if it ever got any further than helping with your act. It didn't, did it?"

"Sonchai, you were ten years old and I'm not that kind of woman."

"My mother said no wonder I had a wild adolescence, when my first experience of a woman's private part was darts shooting out of it."

"Not totally misleading, if you listen to the way some men talk about women. D'you hate women?"

"No. But you hate men."

"Let's not go into that. I hate men in the abstract. You I like. You helped me perfect my act." She has taken an aluminum tube out of the lunch box together with a pack of condoms. She hands me the condoms while she lies on a futon on the floor. While she is fitting the tube, I cross the room and blow up the condom until it is about a foot long, then I tie the end and hold it out. Kat has prudishly arranged her dress so that she can shoot the darts without flas.h.i.+ng me, like an archer from a fortress. I hold the condom as far from my face as I can while she fits a dart into the tube. Suddenly, without any sign of movement from Kat, the c.o.c.k-shaped balloon bursts and a dart sticks in the plaster. There are pinp.r.i.c.ks and chips all over the plaster.

"I never understood why you couldn't use a dartboard."

"The customers always move the balloons a little bit. I think I make them nervous. I need to know how to hit something wobbly." She giggles. "Anyway, there's a certain satisfaction in killing c.o.c.ks."

"Was it Bradley made you hate men?"

"s.h.i.+t." The dart had missed and now it was stuck in the wooden door, really some distance away. I had noticed a slight movement in her lower abdomen this time, in the region of her ovaries. "My first and only husband made me hate men. I'm the jealous, possessive type and he was a motorcycle taxi driver. All over the city, especially to the bars and ma.s.sage parlors. I don't think there was a wh.o.r.e he didn't screw. I was seventeen years old, for G.o.d's sake. Thai men claim to like women, but they only like f.u.c.king. Not even that, they love anything forbidden, new, unused. They're terrible for underage girls, far worse than any farang farang. He was like that. I'm a one-heart woman. I give it once, then I don't have it anymore. So I decided I would never have another man. I learned to shoot darts from my p.u.s.s.y instead. I shoot down a whole army of inflated d.i.c.ks just for practice. Of course, there's always another army waiting to be shot down."

"But you did know Bradley?"

"Yes, I didn't want to talk about it in Nana. Yes, I knew him. An American marine. It's a little painful to talk about. He persuaded me to give men a second chance, after all that time. Five years ago he was a regular visitor to Nana. You know, one of those foreigners who come and can't believe their eyes, get addicted for a few months, then the charm starts to wear off. He was quite a character, though. A man like that, magnificent and very black-who could forget him? He told me he was different. I'm a sucker, aren't I? I'm surprised you didn't find anyone else who recognized his photograph."

"How many women stay five years in the bars? Tell me how he was different."

"He was respectful. He didn't have that mixture of l.u.s.t, fear and contempt. He really seemed to like us women, as if we were people he could be friends with. He was very popular in all the bars."

"He picked you up? He paid your bar fine?"

Bang. A good shot! I saw the dart pierce the center of the condom and impale it against the wall, from which it now hangs shriveled and flaccid, all pa.s.sion dead.

"Certainly not. I told you, I don't go with men, not even to sell my body. This was different. I do private parties, that's how I really make my money, the floor show is just my shopwindow. I use an agent, and the agent tells the clients: 'Look, don't touch. This lady is not for sale. She does her act, she'll socialize, maybe even sit on your lap if you really want, but that's it.' Usually the agent is very strong about that, really makes sure the client has understood. Anyway, it happened five years ago that the agent called me to say he had a party for me, and the money was double what I usually charge. He didn't say why it was double, so I was suspicious. I said: 'Farangs?' 'Farangs?' and he said: 'No.' I said: 'You told them no s.e.x?' And he said: 'Yes, yes, all understood, no s.e.x.' " and he said: 'No.' I said: 'You told them no s.e.x?' And he said: 'Yes, yes, all understood, no s.e.x.' "

I've got into the swing of it now. The inflated condom was already in my hand, at arm's length. Kat paused and sat up slightly. "It was in the Dusit Thani Hotel. The suite on the third floor is for hire for private functions. Very expensive, I would imagine. That's where the party was. They even rigged up a revolving stage for me. This was soon after the first time they showed me on farang farang TV, and I think this party wanted the live version, exactly as they'd shown it on the doc.u.mentary-it was the BBC, I think. So I do my act without paying too much attention to the clients. I have to concentrate on the balloons, after all. But how could I help but notice that a giant black man is there, with a lot of peasants?" TV, and I think this party wanted the live version, exactly as they'd shown it on the doc.u.mentary-it was the BBC, I think. So I do my act without paying too much attention to the clients. I have to concentrate on the balloons, after all. But how could I help but notice that a giant black man is there, with a lot of peasants?"

She uttered the word with contempt. "Not even peasants, hill people. Tribesmen down from the mountains, getting filthy drunk and out of hand. When one tried to come up to the stage to touch me, I started looking for the way out. One of the tribesmen had a familiar face, as if I'd seen him somewhere, but I didn't know where, maybe the newspapers, I think he was one of those drug lords from the borderlands. He was the leader, he had this way of barking, and when he barked the others stopped whatever they were doing and listened. It was exactly like a movie, with some chief thug trying to control the other thugs. Two of them got so drunk, though, they were out of control, and their leader didn't seem to care too much-they were talking about, you know, having me onstage together while the thing was going round. In all my years in this game, I'd never allowed myself to get into such a situation, and I thought: Oh no, here we go. Mentally, I prepared myself for gang rape-it's a professional hazard and I thought it had to happen sooner or later."

Another condom, another bang. "When they took out their guns and started comparing, I knew I was in for a brutal night. Then the black man stands up, comes to the stage, takes off his s.h.i.+rt-it was one of those tropical things, with pineapples and mangoes all over, and obviously it's enormous. He puts it around my shoulders and it comes down to my ankles." She laughed. "Then he says to the boys: 'She's mine, fellas, okay?' "

She reached in the lunch box for more darts. "And these Stone Age creeps just looked at him. No one was going to mess with this black giant. He takes me into the dressing room and says, really gently: 'Better get out of here-how about a date tomorrow?' " She laughed again. "I'm not the swooning type, but I was thirty-six and wondering if I hadn't been a little hard on the opposite s.e.x for the past twenty years. He had saved me from a nightmare, and he was just-well, frankly, irresistible."

The practice was over apparently. She stood up to pack away the darts, the condoms and the aluminum tube.

"How was it?"

"How was it? Strange was how it was. I thought he was a real gentleman, he took me to dinner, treated me like a lady. He didn't seem in any hurry to go to bed with me. It was as though he wanted to find out something-I think maybe he was still trying to find out about Thai women-what makes us tick. We didn't go to bed together until the third date." She pursed her lips.

"Would you mind telling me about that?"

"About the s.e.x? Is that a part of your investigation? I think he was disappointed. Like most men, he a.s.sumed I was something very special between the sheets, you know, as if I was going to have two v.a.g.i.n.as or something? I kept hinting, explaining: Look, I developed the act exactly because I'm shy and not very good in bed-I don't know how to please a man at all-I don't know what men want."

"But for you, how was it?"

"Not like anything I've known before, but I'm not an expert. The girls say most men just want to get it in, have their little spurt, then get it out again. Well, he certainly wasn't like that."

"Could you try to be a little more specific?"

Kat gives me a dirty look. "This turning you on, Sonchai? Want to know what it's like for a woman to be underneath a man like that? Actually, I think he must have been used to being adored. He lay there and seemed to expect me to do all the work. I think he was used to women drooling and l.u.s.ting after him. Or maybe it's the way Americans have s.e.x, I don't know."

"How big was his p.e.n.i.s?"

She put a hand over her mouth. "Sonchai! It was normal size, I mean, if it was in proportion to him he would have torn me in two. Normal size, Sonchai, bigger than Thai men, same as a farang farang."

"But you did make love?"

"Of course. But only once, and I didn't enjoy it because I was dealing with this feeling that I'd disappointed him, that he was looking for some kind of extra-exotic, freaky s.e.x-I felt inadequate, I suppose." She sighed. "Afterwards, just to please him, I asked if he wanted me to shoot darts." She laughed. "I must have suspected that's what he wanted, or I wouldn't have brought my darts, would I? A woman like me, you never know exactly what men expect. I got the feeling he wanted me to perform for him, to be his s.e.x toy, but he never asked me to do anything. He wanted me to know what to do. He was being like a woman, in a way. Shooting darts is the only thing I do that interests men."

"Did you perform for him? Did he say yes?"

She nods sadly. "Yes. He came alive then. It turned out that he'd planned it. He'd even bought a dartboard and he positioned me on the bed-and he made a video, with close-ups and everything. He'd planned everything beforehand, but he hadn't wanted to ask me. I don't know if he was a gentleman or some kind of strange romantic. Everything had to be perfect, though, the lighting, the position of the camera-everything. That's when he got most excited, but we didn't make love again." A pause. "What I remember most was the silk."

"Silk?"

"Yes. Everything was silk, really nice quality with beautiful colors, and he tied a silk headscarf around my head, and tied one around his own head. He kept saying how good it felt on the skin, wanted me to feel it. It was quite nice on the skin, but it was just silk-it didn't turn me on. It was like some Middle Eastern show, him being so black in this purple scarf, and when I left he gave me the scarf. He wanted to give me money, but I refused. I was pretty depressed-I suppose I was in love with him, and wanted it to go on a bit longer-and I was disappointed, you know, that he wanted to make that video, that he was like the others, only more so, in a way."

I take a photograph out of my pocket and hold it for her. Kat winces. "I've never met her, but I've heard about her. I mean, you know what people are like, they love to see you suffer? About two years after that night with Bradley, people started telling me about this woman he'd been seen with. The way they described her, that must be her. There can't be more than one in Krung Thep like that. What a body! You can't blame him for preferring her to me, can you? I can say it, now that it's so long ago: that's a fantastic-looking wh.o.r.e."

"You never heard where she worked, what she did?" She shook her head.

I'm about to leave when a whim makes me fish out the pictures of Warren. I show her the most recent: Warren with George W. Bush at a reception in the Rose Garden. Her eyes flicker between me and the photograph. Fear? More like consternation. She put a hand on my arm. "Is he involved? Sonchai, if he is you better forget about this case."

"Why?"

"Did you ever hear the phrase 'a special job'?"

"Of course. He's one of those?"

"He's the original special job. He used to be very well known in the bars. He would arrive once a month and the word would go round. He paid top dollar for any girl who would go with him, but none of them ever wanted to go a second time. They wouldn't talk about it, but you can guess. Farangs Farangs don't understand us Thais. They think if a girl sells her body, then she has no dignity, no limits. Actually, the opposite is often the truth. Women like your mother are very free spirits. Could you imagine Nong ever holding down a normal job? Or putting up with abuse from a man? A woman might sell her body because it's more dignified and safer than being married to a violent drunk who goes whoring without protection. Well, anyway, n.o.body went with him twice, at least that was what I heard." don't understand us Thais. They think if a girl sells her body, then she has no dignity, no limits. Actually, the opposite is often the truth. Women like your mother are very free spirits. Could you imagine Nong ever holding down a normal job? Or putting up with abuse from a man? A woman might sell her body because it's more dignified and safer than being married to a violent drunk who goes whoring without protection. Well, anyway, n.o.body went with him twice, at least that was what I heard."

"And he stopped going to the bars, all of a sudden?"

"In the middle of the nineties all those Russian women started appearing, from Siberia. The story was they would go with him time after time and put up with his things, whatever they were. They knew all about special jobs. Their pimps contacted him, so he didn't need the bars anymore. Those Siberians are real tough women. Must be the weather up there."

Kat's hovel belongs to a project almost identical to my own, except that it is not near the river, or anything else of interest to the eye. I stand at the edge of a man-made desert, waiting for a cab, wondering if this wasteland is another Western import. Have we, in our headstrong grabbing of all things Western, inadvertently bought up pieces of the Sahara? Fortunately, I have brought my Walkman with me and listen to Pisit Sritabot's phone-in radio show while I wait. A female professor of sociology is talking in such authoritative tones about prost.i.tution that Pisit for once forgets to interrupt.

"It's an unfortunate word in that everyone has a different definition. These days a huge percentage of young women studying at university and colleges are subsidized by so-called sugar daddies-men, often farangs farangs but usually Thai, who pay their expenses, even a kind of salary, in exchange for the right to sleep with the students whenever they choose. It is not illegal, but the girl is certainly selling her body. If the sugar daddy isn't rich enough to pay all her expenses, she'll have to take on another, perhaps as many as three. Often the girl will own three separate mobile telephones, one for each lover so she doesn't get the name wrong when one of them calls. Then you have the very naive rice grower from Isaan who has heard about the money to be made in the big city, who spends a weekend hanging out at the bars on Sukhumvit, perhaps finds a man or two who hire her, only to discover she has not the slightest clue about foreign men, speaks not a word of English. She may be horrified and mystified by the very idea of oral s.e.x and catches the next bus home to her farm in the far north, never to visit the big city again. Then you have experts, very talented and attractive women who can literally wrap men around their fingers. Such girls often receive income from three or more foreign men, who live overseas and of course are unaware of each other, who are paying her to stay out of the bars until they arrive for their vacations. Of course, she continues to sell her body every night and is probably receiving a total income in excess of any middle-ranking professional, such as a lawyer or doctor. Then you have the girls who travel, often on false pa.s.sports supplied by our local mafia, who also procure visas for countries like Britain and the U.S. Such girls, if they are gifted in their profession, may make as much as U.S.$180,000 a year in cities like London, Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, Paris, Hong Kong, Berlin, Tokyo, Singapore. Of course they never pay tax, and usually they save a significant amount, so within a few years they return to join our wealthier cla.s.ses. Then there is the girl who is caught in some loan scam, usually in order to pay medical bills for her mother or father, who finds herself trapped in a brothel in the country, or in Malaysia, who is in reality a s.e.x slave all of whose earnings go to pay off the original loan, who may be required to service a man every twenty minutes while she is on duty, which may be for as long as twelve hours a day. Then there are the pool hustlers. Our girls cannot compete with Filipinas, who are world cla.s.s, but they're improving all the time." but usually Thai, who pay their expenses, even a kind of salary, in exchange for the right to sleep with the students whenever they choose. It is not illegal, but the girl is certainly selling her body. If the sugar daddy isn't rich enough to pay all her expenses, she'll have to take on another, perhaps as many as three. Often the girl will own three separate mobile telephones, one for each lover so she doesn't get the name wrong when one of them calls. Then you have the very naive rice grower from Isaan who has heard about the money to be made in the big city, who spends a weekend hanging out at the bars on Sukhumvit, perhaps finds a man or two who hire her, only to discover she has not the slightest clue about foreign men, speaks not a word of English. She may be horrified and mystified by the very idea of oral s.e.x and catches the next bus home to her farm in the far north, never to visit the big city again. Then you have experts, very talented and attractive women who can literally wrap men around their fingers. Such girls often receive income from three or more foreign men, who live overseas and of course are unaware of each other, who are paying her to stay out of the bars until they arrive for their vacations. Of course, she continues to sell her body every night and is probably receiving a total income in excess of any middle-ranking professional, such as a lawyer or doctor. Then you have the girls who travel, often on false pa.s.sports supplied by our local mafia, who also procure visas for countries like Britain and the U.S. Such girls, if they are gifted in their profession, may make as much as U.S.$180,000 a year in cities like London, Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, Paris, Hong Kong, Berlin, Tokyo, Singapore. Of course they never pay tax, and usually they save a significant amount, so within a few years they return to join our wealthier cla.s.ses. Then there is the girl who is caught in some loan scam, usually in order to pay medical bills for her mother or father, who finds herself trapped in a brothel in the country, or in Malaysia, who is in reality a s.e.x slave all of whose earnings go to pay off the original loan, who may be required to service a man every twenty minutes while she is on duty, which may be for as long as twelve hours a day. Then there are the pool hustlers. Our girls cannot compete with Filipinas, who are world cla.s.s, but they're improving all the time."

"What's pool got to do with prost.i.tution?"

"Thai pool. The game is used as a hook. Not every farang farang likes go-go bars or wants to spend an evening drinking beer. Pool mops up the remainder of the market-shy men like it too, it provides a lead-in, a hobby in common. It can seem almost like a holiday romance, which happens to last an evening instead of the usual week." likes go-go bars or wants to spend an evening drinking beer. Pool mops up the remainder of the market-shy men like it too, it provides a lead-in, a hobby in common. It can seem almost like a holiday romance, which happens to last an evening instead of the usual week."

"I see."

"There is really no comparison between the destinies, mind-sets or lifestyles of these different women, but because they are all prost.i.tutes we inadvertently find ourselves talking about them as if they were in the same plight, which they are not. The truth is that prost.i.tution fulfills many functions. It is a subst.i.tute for social welfare, medical insurance, student loans, a profitable hobby as well as being the path to that wealth which many modern women expect from life. It also brings an enormous amount of foreign currency to our country, which means the government is never serious about suppressing it."

"I see," Pisit says again, in an unusually somber mood. "And we are talking about a significant proportion of Thai women?"

"Huge. When you consider that many women are ineligible by reason of age, or lack of physical charms, it begins to look as if perhaps twenty percent of women in Krung Thep who are in a position to sell their bodies do so. If you include the sugar daddy phenomenon and the overseas industry, which is very very big, the figure must be even higher."

"Are we as a nation dependent on this trade?"

"I don't want to exaggerate or paint these women as heroes, but it's true that without their work we would all be a little bit poorer."

"Is there something about Thai women that leads them so easily into the trade?"

Laughing: "Well, farangs farangs especially say how beautiful we are and we don't seem to have the same hang-ups as many Western women. The West tries to turn the act of s.e.x into a religious experience, when to us it is no more than scratching an itch. I'm afraid we're not as romantic as we seem. And perhaps we are a little strange. In other countries such as j.a.pan and South Korea, prost.i.tution declined dramatically as the economy improved. When our economy improves, the number of prost.i.tutes tends to go up rather than down." especially say how beautiful we are and we don't seem to have the same hang-ups as many Western women. The West tries to turn the act of s.e.x into a religious experience, when to us it is no more than scratching an itch. I'm afraid we're not as romantic as we seem. And perhaps we are a little strange. In other countries such as j.a.pan and South Korea, prost.i.tution declined dramatically as the economy improved. When our economy improves, the number of prost.i.tutes tends to go up rather than down."

I switch Pisit and his guest off when the cab arrives but find myself haunted for a moment by the rice grower from Isaan. I can see her, uncomfortable without her sarong in the short skirt or black leggings and black tank top which are almost a uniform of the trade. Perhaps her legs are short and muscular, her a.s.s a little on the wide side, her expectations wildly out of whack with reality as she stares at pa.s.sing white men, wondering which of them will be her savior. She owns the broad open face and smudge nose of the northern tribes. I experience her astonishment when her first customer tries to initiate her into the black art of f.e.l.l.a.t.i.o, her disbelief that he could be serious, that people really did that sort of thing. In my mind's eye I follow her all the way to the terminus, share her disgust with the city while she waits for the bus home. I find I love her, though I've never met her. If we are to be saved it will be by the likes of her.

On the way to my own hovel I meditate on my p.e.n.i.s. Not only mine, my thoughts encompa.s.s every owner. Sooner or later one comes to a forked path: make it the centerpiece of your life, or put it away to be used in tumescent mode only on special occasions. Those who take the first option must surely reach a point where the sole function of one's lovers is to serve the organ in all its glory? You might put it anywhere, share it with anyone, so long as it's running the show. I find I'm not thinking about my c.o.c.k at all, I'm thinking of Bradley's: the man who sported a perfect phallus on his web page. And what of his strange bedfellow Sylvester Warren, the man who played so rough only Siberians would partner him?

28.

I was twenty-one and already a cop when I visited Fritz for the second time. I went alone and never told Nong of what was to be an ongoing mission of mercy. By then he had been in the jail for more than eleven years and the transformation from suave young European to wizened sewer survivor was complete. He was entirely bald apart from a couple of tufts, with wrinkles which crossed his white s.h.i.+ny dome. A hypersensitivity to nuances of body language gave the impression of extreme cunning bordering on insanity. If I touched my ear, rubbed my nose, coughed or looked at the ceiling I triggered responses vital to his survival. I had come on a whim, no doubt in my usual pathetic search for a father; he emerged in chains from behind the endless warren of bars into his side of the visitors' room in the hope of finding a savior who might somehow get him out of there. No two men have ever disappointed each other more; after five minutes we were laughing like drains. His family had disowned him, his close friends had been rounded up in Germany after his bust and prosecuted for trafficking in heroin. Their incarcerations had pa.s.sed more quickly than his-he was in for life-but none of them wanted to visit him. I came away with the clear certainty that I was the only person in the world who could save his mind.

Eleven years later I am making my sixty-first visit. Just before we reach the watchtower I have the cabdriver stop for me to buy six packs of two hundred cigarettes. Fritz smokes local brands himself, but 555s are the more valuable currency in the prison economy. In addition I buy a packet of Marlboro Reds and have the driver stop again near the prison while I work in the back of the cab. Fritz has money-by Thai standards he's quite wealthy-but translating this into prison power is not so easy as all that. Every prisoner can open a prison account if he likes, but the amount he can take out of that account from day to day is strictly limited. At first I brought Fritz some of his own money in the form of thousand-baht notes folded and compressed so small I was able to simply flick a couple through the bars in the visiting area whenever I came to see him. The problem here was that in the jail he needed small denominations. A thousand-baht note was unmanageable and made the temptation to murder him and steal it irresistible to some of the inmates. Now I clean out the insides of ten Marlboros, slide a few tightly rolled hundred-baht notes inside each one, pack the end with tobacco and play the rest by ear. We've never failed yet. At the prison my police ID lets me get away with a light frisk. Other visitors, especially farangs, farangs, are body-searched. are body-searched.

There is always a moment of suspense while I wait in the visitors' room for the duty guard to look for him. Is he still alive, or did the last beating finish him off? Is he sick in the hospital building, perhaps with HIV from sharing a needle, or from one or other of the fatal maladies that affect the inmates? Has the King agreed to pardon him this year? Here he comes, holding up the heavy chain of his leg irons with a piece of string in his left hand, as if he were taking a dog for a walk. Officially there are no leg irons in Bang Kwan anymore, but the message never seems to have reached the guards on Fritz's block. He sits in a chair on the other side of the bars and drops the chain with a dull clank on the floor.

Amazingly, he has heard about Pichai and tells me how sorry he is. The aging process which accelerated so dramatically in the first years of his imprisonment came to an abrupt halt some time ago, as if it were aiming for a specific state of reptilian cunning. Now he is a wrinkled tortoise, anywhere between fifty and two hundred years old. He thanks me for the 555s, which the guard has already inspected and handed over, and scans my face. I know that he is not an ordinary man, will never be an ordinary man again, much as he would love to be one of the millions of middle-aged mediocrities living nondescript lives whom he once despised. I feel him probing me with that hyperalertness and know that he has read my mind, not through any supernatural power but simply through having developed the ability to read faces to a monstrous degree.

"I knew you were coming today. I saw a white bird through a crack in the ceiling and I knew it was you. I've become totally Thai, haven't I?"

"How have you been?"

He pulls the string to rattle the chain a little. "Fantastic. I've been promoted-how about that!"

"A blue boy? A trusty?"

He snorts. "Do I look like a snitcher? No, they finally realized they had a use for Germanic efficiency and attention to detail-I'm in charge of our little red-light district."

"They're bringing girls in now?"

A shudder. He speaks with incredible rapidity in a loud whisper, like some kind of eccentric genius-or a madman. "There are still things about your country you don't know. Of course they're not letting girls in-they'd be torn apart. I'm talking about the pig farm. Your people are genuinely h.o.m.ophobic, did you know that? A female pig rents for twenty-five times what a male will rent for-short time, by the half hour. They've given me the books to keep and of course I'm scrupulous about the time and the money both. I've even rigged up a little electric buzzer so the john knows when it's five minutes before withdrawal time." He holds up his hands. "What can I say? It's an honor-last year they let me run the c.o.c.kroach project, and I increased production by a thousand percent-the improvement in the standard of nutrition and general health of the prison population was immeasurable, and of course I've always been the upwardly mobile type."

I give him the nod-something so slight that in the beginning I could not believe anyone could notice such an infinitesimal movement-and he rubs the back of his ear. This means the guard sitting in the chair in the corner will turn a blind eye. Perhaps Fritz has bribed him with a few 555s. I take out the pack of Marlboro, select one of the cigarettes I worked on, light it, then make a questioning gesture to the guard, who nods. I hand the lighted cigarette to Fritz through the bars, he takes a couple of drags, then pinches it out. With a faint smile: "I'll save it for later."

I tell him that this time there is something he can do for me and he listens with his usual paranoid alertness while I tell him about Bradley and Dao Phrya Bridge. It is a matter of choice whether to speak in English or Thai, since he is now fluent in both and knows more prison slang than I do. When I've finished I light up another cigarette and pa.s.s it to him. This time the guard seems not to notice. Fritz takes a couple of tokes and pinches the end, as before.

He knows nothing about Bradley or the squatters under the bridge but he agrees there must certainly be someone in Bang Kwan with the information I need. He is full of his usual twitches and restless hand movements and his eyes pierce me, asking for more information. I find myself describing the woman in Bradley's oil painting, which does not seem to trigger any response until I add a reference to the Khmer. His eyes light up for such a tiny fraction of time I would never have noticed if I had not been trained in prison semaph.o.r.e. I stop in mid-sentence. I have been speaking in Thai, but now he switches to English.

"I've heard of her. Everyone in here has, she's a legend because of those Khmer. Even the Thai thugs are scared of them. She runs some kind of yaa baa yaa baa operation and uses the Khmer as protection-that's the story anyway. The reason she's so respected is she's managed to turn herself into a religious figure for them. You know how operation and uses the Khmer as protection-that's the story anyway. The reason she's so respected is she's managed to turn herself into a religious figure for them. You know how jungle jungle Khmer are at the best of times, but apparently they would literally die for her. That's the legend, anyway. I haven't paid any attention to it until now. I'll see what I can do." Khmer are at the best of times, but apparently they would literally die for her. That's the legend, anyway. I haven't paid any attention to it until now. I'll see what I can do."

He asks politely after my mother and we discuss his chances of a pardon this year. By the time I leave I have pa.s.sed him all the cigarettes stuffed with banknotes. This is the cash flow which has kept him alive all these years. Someone in Germany wires the money into my account once a month.

The road from the grim prison buildings to the outside world is very long and very straight and ends in a public garden overflowing with hibiscus, bougainvillea, orchids and the luscious green leaves of the Tropics. How could a meditator not see it as a proxy for the axis of the mind?

Back in my cave I find my spirit has exhausted its capacity to deal with the world and I'm in agony from the wound. A meditation aid is called for, as always after a visit to Fritz.

Ganja is, of course, much frowned upon by mainline Buddhist tradition and indeed the Greatest of Men expressly forbade intoxication in any form. On the other hand, Buddhism (I explain to myself) was never intended to consist of a static set of rules boilerplated for all time. It is an organic Way, which automatically adapts itself to the present moment. I keep it under the futon.

I roll a fat spliff, light up, inhale heartily. Now all of a sudden I'm distilling grief. I'm ripping off every Band-Aid, I'm daring to bleed, and I'm concentrating the pain (sweet Buddha, how I loved that boy!). I don't want relief, I want him. With my agony carefully located right between the eyes, I take another toke, hold it as long as I can, repeat the process. I don't want enlightenment, I want him. Sorry, Buddha, I loved him more than you.