The Fear Artist

gathered in little pools on the balcony floor, but it’s not slanting sharply enough to get into the apartment. She’s got the rising river on her side, a thick gray-brown snake a mile or two away, but he can’t see anything out of the ordinary, not that he’d recognize anything short of the city’s being full of water.

“It’s your husband,” he says into the phone in Thai when Rose answers.

“I know,” she says. She’s also speaking Thai. “Who else would call me in the autumn of my life?”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d heard the way they talked about you at the Expat Bar last night.”

“Them,” she says. “They remember a much younger woman. No, you’ve frightened off all my admirers.”

“You bet I have.”

“And a good thing, too. Motherhood being what it is.” She sniffles. “I thought I was supposed to call you tomorrow.”

“That’s right. You were.”

“That’s so sweet. You couldn’t wait to hear my-”

“Actually, there’s a problem.”

“On your end, too? Good. It doesn’t seem fair that I’ve got Miaow all to myself.”

“Well, you’re going to have her longer.” She doesn’t reply, so he says, “What is it this time?”

“She’s become a vegan.”

“You mean, no meat?”

“Oh, it’s not that easy,” Rose says. “Nothing that’s ever heard of meat. Nothing that’s ever been in the room when the word ‘meat’ was spoken. Nothing that came in a package made of anything that moves faster than a tree. Did you know that shrimp raised in captivity don’t have enough swimming space?”

“Is she serious about it?”

“Loudly serious. My mother starts to look worried hours before dinner.”

“Well, take her to the temple and leave her there. They’re vegetarians.”

“She’s a girl, remember? And the monks are much too bloodthirsty for her. They’ve vegetarians, not vegans. They wear leather sandals.”

“Boy,” Rafferty says. “I’m glad she’s your problem, not mine.”

“You don’t really know a man until you marry him.”

Mrs. Pongsiri comes into the room, heading toward the kitchen, a towel fastened over her shoulders with a big rhinestone hair clip. She mimes tilting a glass to her lips, eyebrows raised, and he shakes his head.

“In fairness to Miaow,” Rose says, “I’d forgotten how boring it is here. The kids just stare at her with their mouths open and wipe their noses. Everybody’s nose is running. People’s houses leak, and it looks like the rice crop is ruined.”

“Well, I’m sorry about that, and we’ll send extra money to your parents if the crop fails. I’ll even mail you some Kleenex, but I need you to stay away from Bangkok and to keep her with you.”

“Oh?” She pauses and sniffles. “Me, too,” she says.

“You too, what?”

“Nose running. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t really know what’s going on, so why don’t I tell you what’s happened instead?” And he does. He’s halfway through when she says, “Arthit’s got a girlfriend?”

“I don’t know,” he says, barely throttling his impatience. “How would I know? I’m a man.”

“You were there.”

“Okay, yeah, I think he does. I think they like each other.”

“And she knew Noi? Did you like her?”

“Listen, I know I’m being all insensitive and male in wanting to talk about my problems when-”

“You care about Arthit, too.”

“Well, of course I–Look, look. Here’s the deal. These people think I know something, whatever it is, and that I might pass it on to someone else. And they don’t really give a shit if they flatten a few bystanders. They can haul me in anytime they want-”

“How?”

“And they’ve got my gun.”

A pause on her end. “How did they-”

“I was just about to tell you. They broke into the apartment and took the gun.” The pause this time is so long that he says, “Hello?”

“I’m here. I can’t believe I’m asking this question, but who was shot with that gun?”

He’s been asking himself the same question from the moment the bag of coins hit the bed. “Madame Wing, but nobody’s going to find her if they haven’t already. Couple of Chu’s guys, same thing. But the point is, I have no right to have it in the first place.”

“It’s not a big crime.”

“Rose. This is a country that fired a prime minister because he made an omelet on television.”

“No they didn’t, they fired him for political-Okay, right, you’re right.”

“Plus, I’m under surveillance.”

“That’s why you’re not using your own phone. Whose number is this?”

“Mrs. Pongsiri’s. I want you to toss your phone and get a new one up there. When you’ve got it, hang on to it, and I’ll figure out how to get you my new number.”

“You can call my mother.”

“You’re not going to be at your mother’s. Do you remember where you went after Howard Horner? Don’t mention any names. You know the place I mean?”

“Oh, no,” she says. “Yes, I remember it. Somewhere else where everyone’s nose will be running. Why can’t we go to … I don’t know, someplace sunny?”

“Go to that village. Stay there until I get in touch with you.”

“I’ll go, but I don’t know if they’ll let us stay.”

“They did before.”

“I didn’t have a twelve- or thirteen-year-old vegan with me before.”

“They’ll love her.”

Rose says nothing.

“Pay them money,” Rafferty says.

“And where am I going to get money?”

“Right, good thinking. No ATMs. Call those people’s daughter on your new phone and tell her I’ll be in touch with her to get your number, then ask her to send a few thousand baht up to you.” The place he wants her to go to is the home of the parents of a woman nicknamed Fon. Soon after coming to Bangkok, Rose had taken refuge with Fon’s family when she had to hide from one of the psychopaths who batter their way through the bars every now and then.

Rose says, “I hate this.”

He doesn’t know what to say, so he says, “I’m sorry.”

“I should have married Walter.”

“Who’s Walter?”

“The little fat one with the rubbery lips who’s lost most of his hair. You’ve met him three times.”

“I don’t remember him.”

“That’s the point,” Rose says. “Nobody remembers Walter.”

“Oh, well,” Rafferty says, “if it’s safety you want …”

“I’ll call when everything is set.” Rose hangs up, and Rafferty stands there with the phone at his ear, feeling like he’s just stepped into thin air.

He puts the phone back on the table, and he’s still staring down at it when Mrs. Pongsiri comes back in. She’s got a glass of something dark in her hand, and she presses it upon him.

“Here,” she says in a tone of command. “You drink.” Her face is a masterpiece of the painter’s art. It doesn’t look natural, and it’s obviously not supposed to. What it says is skill. What it says is determination. The makeup tells a customer everything he could want to know about a