Breathing Water: A Bangkok Thriller

Rose says, “I doubt it.” She looks down at herself and tugs at the sleeve of her blouse with an intensity of loathing that Rafferty can hardly comprehend. They are obviously deep in female territory.

“Besides,” Dr. Ravi says with the secure air of someone who knows he’s got a first-class closer, “Khun Pan would kill me if I allowed someone as beautiful as you to leave without at least an introduction.”

Rafferty says, “What do you mean, ‘at least’?”

“He’s jealous?” Dr. Ravi asks.

Rose drops her sleeve like a rag that’s been dipped into something disgusting and says, “He can’t believe his good fortune.”

“I can’t either,” Dr. Ravi says.

“Hey,” Rafferty says.

“And here we are.” Dr. Ravi pulls the swan to the bottom of the broad marble steps leading up to the front porch. The double doors have been thrown wide, and even at this distance Rafferty can feel the cool air pouring out. A small orchestra is cricketing away inside, and he hears the usual party montage of conversation, laughter, and ice cubes hitting glass. Two women wearing, as even Rafferty can tell, several thousand dollars’ worth of clothing apiece float across the doorway on a cloud of privilege.

“Absolutely not,” Rose says. “I can’t go in there.”

“Oh, come on,” Rafferty says. “You look beautiful. And, Jesus, look at me.”

“He’s right,” Dr. Ravi says. “You’ll be the most beautiful woman in the house.”

“What I’ll be,” Rose says, “is a dark-skinned, big-footed peasant girl wearing a dust rag.” She puts a hand on Rafferty’s arm. “Poke. I want to go home.”

“Well, well,” someone says from the top step. Rose turns at the sound of the voice, and her jaw very discreetly drops.

“You are surprising,” Pan says to Rafferty. “You must have strengths you haven’t shown me. Goodness,” he says, turning to Rose. “What jeweled box does he keep you in?”

Rose says, “Oh, my.” Her nails dig into Rafferty’s arm.

“You said she was pretty,” Pan says, coming down the steps, “but you didn’t tell me she was stunning.” Halfway down, he tosses his partially smoked cigar to smolder on the marble. He wears bright yellow silk slacks with burgundy patent-leather shoes, lavender socks, and a shirt of a vibrating grass-snake green, the precise color to set off the pink lips. He looks, in all, like a newly successful pimp who hasn’t found the right haberdasher yet. Rafferty would bet everything he owns that the look is intentional, down to the last agonizing detail. “I have a show planned that will curl their hair,” Pan says to Rose, “but nothing compared to you. You’ll drive them completely crazy.” He puts a hand on Rose’s shoulder and studies her face as though he were memorizing her bone structure. “You’re Isaan, of course. Where?”

Rose’s face is flushed with embarrassment. “About a hundred kilometers from where you were born.”

“We were neighbors,” Pan says. “This farang is lucky that I never saw you when you were growing up. I’d have stayed in Isaan, and he’d never have laid eyes on you.”

“Of course,” Rose says. “You’d be loafing barefoot on some hammock while I nag you to feed the chickens.”

Rafferty says, “Go ahead. Talk as though I’m not here.”

“Get used to it,” Pan says. “No one’s even going to notice you.”

“Since someone has to have some manners,” Rafferty says, “this is my wife, Rose. Rose, this is-”

“I know who he is,” Rose says. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Pan says, “And you’re the…” He pauses, screws up his eyes, and says in English, “…whipped cream on the evening. You’re so beautiful it’s almost wasteful.” He glowers at Dr. Ravi. “Why didn’t you think of this?”

“I hadn’t seen her.”

“No, of course not.” Pan looks at Rose again and actually rubs his hands together. “I’ve made a life out of excess,” he says. “Improving the lily-”

Dr. Ravi says, “Gilding the lily.”

“Actually,” Rafferty says, “it’s ‘painting.’ Painting the-”

“Oh, fuck the lily,” says Pan. He leans in toward Rose as though to whisper in her ear. “I have an idea for you, something that will ruin the evening for most of my guests. We know they think of Isaan as mud. Let’s remind them that mud is where the lotus grows.” He turns and says over his shoulder, “Please, please come with me.”

Rose and Rafferty follow Pan’s broad yellow bottom up the steps as Dr. Ravi climbs back into the swan and heads for the gates. Pan leads them at an angle, chatting with Rose all the way, partly in Lao, which Rafferty doesn’t understand. They top the steps to the left of the door and follow Pan around the side of the house. Halfway back they come to a marble wall with an iron gate in it. Beside the gate is a combination pad, which Pan prods with a sausagelike index finger for a second, and then Rafferty finds himself in the garden he’d seen that morning from Pan’s office.

“This will take me a minute,” Pan says, shoving a glass door aside and motioning them to file into the office. He comes in behind them and closes the door. “But, believe me, it’ll be worth it.” A few steps take him to a corner, where he opens a closet door, revealing a safe the size of a refrigerator.

“I don’t give up easily,” Pan says to Rose as he twirls the dial, “but I was beginning to think I’d have to return these. You’ll know what I mean at a glance. Not just anybody can wear them. They’d look ridiculous on someone who isn’t tall, for one thing. How tall are you?”

“Almost two meters,” Rose says.

“You should think about modeling, except you’d have to kill eight or nine society girls to get a job.” The door swings open without a murmur, although it must weigh three hundred pounds. “And even most tall women would disappear behind these. Just vanish, like the stars when the sun is out.” He pulls out a long, gray box covered in velvet and pops it open.

Rose emits something that sounds like a long hiss.

“They’re canaries,” Pan says, looking closely at her face. Draped over the swirl of burns on his fat little hand is a concentration of golden light: solid yellow drops of brilliance chained together somehow. “Average size is four carats,” Pan says, “but the one in the center is six. Canary diamonds this size are very rare, I’m told. I don’t know anything about it. I just thought they were pretty.”

“Why…why are you showing me these?” Rose asks.

“To wear, of course,” Pan says. “Oh, don’t worry,” he says to Rafferty. “I’m not trying to dazzle your wife with presents, although I would if you weren’t here. These are a loan for the evening, just to give those snobs out there something to stub their noses on. Let’s show them an exquisite Isaan girl, the most beautiful woman in the room, wearing three million dollars’ worth of yellow diamonds.” He holds up the necklace. “What do you say?”

Rose reaches out a hand and says, “Let’s make their teeth hurt.”

Rafferty’s first impression when Pan plunges into the thick of the gathering, dragging him and Rose in his wake, is that everyone is surface, brought to a high polish. Everyone shines, everyone glistens, everyone seems to reflect everyone else. Gold, jewels, hair, the shimmer of fabrics, the mysterious gleam of money. He practically squints in self-defense.

The men are a mixed lot, although all have the sheen of power he noticed in the poker game. Despite the occasional immaculate uniform, glittering with medals, most of the men wear suits, sober garments with the effortless drape achieved through highly paid effort. The men are mostly in their fifties and early sixties and look like they would put on a suit to pull a dandelion.

Seen from six or eight feet away, the women seem younger than the men, and some of them actually are- trophy wives or favored mia noi, “minor” wives who have been towed into public as a treat. Silk is everywhere, bordered at neck and wrists by the hard sparkle of precious stones. Young or old, most of the women are variations on a theme. They are grimly slim and brilliantly made up. Noses too broad in the bridge have been subtly shaded to appear narrower. Thin lips have been plumped up and thick lips minimized. White skin is the ideal, and those who do not have it wear pale, almost ghostlike powder to simulate it. Hair is architectural: sculpted, layered, lacquered against gravity. Perfume is everywhere. In the midst of the crowd, Rafferty feels like he is being attacked by flowers.