The fourth watcher

comes up, he ages ten years; he has lost fifteen pounds in three days, and his face has slackened and droops downward as it comes toward vertical. His throat is as loose and rippled as a theater curtain. When he is upright, he reaches for a small carton of apple juice, sips it through a straw, closes his eyes for a moment to gather some strength, and says, “Dangerous. Chu. . dangerous.” The words are barely audible, not much louder than someone tearing paper.

“You bet he is,” Elson says. “He’s got fangs like a wolf spider. Your friend’s right. Your father wanted you to be afraid of Chu, wanted you to realize how dangerous he was. He was doing you a favor.”

“If you believe that, don’t spend too much time with him,” Rafferty says. “He’ll have you nominating him for the Presidential Medal of Freedom.”

“You’re overreacting,” Elson says.

“Irwin Lee,” Rafferty says, and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “My father is going to be Irwin Lee. Do you know what Lee means?”

“No idea,” Elson says.

“The character used to write it,” Rafferty says, the sentence not coming easily, “is a tree over a child. It’s an image of parental care.”

“That’s nice,” Elson says. “I can’t see the immediate usefulness of the information, but maybe something will come to me.” He crosses his legs and looks approvingly at the shine on his shoe. “We’re flying him back to America tomorrow. Get him out of here and put him somewhere safe. So we’re going to have to take him away from you, just when you guys have sort of gotten together again.”

“Take him today,” Rafferty says. “That way I don’t have to feed him dinner tonight.”

Arthit says, “Poke.” He puts a hand to his throat and tries to clear it. The effort obviously hurts. “He’s. . your father.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“So anyway,” Elson says, “he’ll be leaving. And I won’t forget that I owe you.”

“Yes,” Rafferty says with some vehemence. “You do.”

“Well, don’t get too comfortable with it.” Elson turns and looks out the window, which opens onto a world of merciless sunlight. The monsoon has moved on, and it is so hot outside that the air-conditioning in the hospital room is producing a misty film of condensation on the inside of the glass. “You may have overachieved.”

“That’s the curse of talent,” Rafferty says, still furious, and Arthit lets go with something that sounds like a toy steam engine releasing its first little puff. It’s a laugh, Rafferty realizes, and in spite of everything he finds himself grinning at his friend so hard he feels like his face will split. Arthit has a hand pressed to his chest, damping down the pain of the laugh, but he laughs again. This one doubles him up, and when he sits upright again, he shakes his head and wipes the sweat off his brow and says, “Over. .” He breathes. “Achieved. .” He grabs another breath. “How?”

“Remember how I hated the monsoon?” Elson says to Rafferty. “Well, I hate this heat more. I hate everything about this climate. I hate the traffic here. I hate the food-it gives me the squirts, and they feel like lighter fluid. So what’s my reward? I’m an expert, they say. I’m the guy with the map, they say. I’m being assigned here for a year.”

Arthit, who has been sipping at the apple juice, suddenly spurts a substantial amount of it through his nostrils and into his lap. He bends forward, making the puff-puff sound again, and Rafferty takes the apple juice out of his hand and puts it on the tray, letting his free hand rest on his friend’s shoulder.

To Elson he says, “I’ve got a great maid for you.”

47

He’s More Nervous Than You Are

Four hours later Rafferty opens the apartment door and finds himself in the Seven Dwarfs’ cave. Little white lights create a rectangle of diamond sparkle to frame the evening

sky, darkening through the sliding glass door. Small colored lights- rubies, emeralds, sapphires-have been strung to outline the inside of the front door. Looking around, focusing through the dazzle, he sees that his desk has been cleared and polished, that the dirt worn into the white leather hassock has been scrubbed away, that three new chairs have been crowded around the living-room table. A white candle flickers on his desk, and another gleams on the coffee table, beside a large crumpled plastic bag from Bangkok’s new Book Tower.

The room smells like someone is cooking flowers.

And it is empty.

Going farther in, he sees a partial explanation for the fragrance of frying lilies. The counter between the living room and the kitchen is teeming with flowers, enough of them to create an optimistic send-off for a midlevel Mafia don. Beyond the flowers, on the kitchen side of the counter, is a sloping ziggurat of cookbooks, all open. Rafferty has never seen a cookbook in the apartment. He starts curiously toward them and remembers the Book Tower bag on the table. He gives the living room a second survey.

The door to the bedroom opens, and Rose comes in. She stops at the sight of him, so abruptly that for an instant he thinks she has failed to recognize him. Then her eyes clear, and she comes up to him and kisses his cheek, leaving a faint coolness behind. Rafferty touches it involuntarily and quickly pulls his hand away. Rose’s upper lip is damp with perspiration.

This is practically a first. He has seen her weave through a crowded Bangkok sidewalk in the full glare of the sun, carrying Miaow’s weight in plastic shopping bags, without popping a bead of moisture. When she does deign to perspire, it’s always at the edge of her hairline. He resists the urge to check.

“How’s Arthit?” she says, but her eyes are everywhere in the room.

“He’s fine. He’s amazingly fine.”

He watches her hear the tone of his voice, her mind a mile away, and then put the words together. She gives him the smile that always puddles him where he stands. “That’s wonderful. Noi must be so happy.” Then her gaze wanders off again.

“Rose?”

Her eyes come to his, then slide down to take in his clothes. Her lower lip is suddenly between her teeth.

She says, “You have to get dressed.”

He looks down at himself. “I am dressed. I’ve been outside and everything.”

“I mean dressed.” She tugs at his shirt and checks her fingers to make sure the color hasn’t come off on them. “Your good clothes.”

“I don’t have any good clothes. Since when do we have cookbooks? Have I been complaining about the food?”

“Don’t talk about the cookbooks,” she says. “Never say ‘cookbook’ to me again.” She goes past him into the kitchen, and he sees that she is dressed entirely in white linen: a flowing, midthigh something that he supposes is a blouse, over a pair of loose pleated slacks. The gold bracelet he gave her hangs on her left wrist. She starts slamming cookbooks closed. Without looking at him, she says, “Tell me you didn’t forget.”

“Of course I didn’t forget,” he says. “I just don’t know why you need cookbooks.”

“Oh, Poke,” she says hopelessly. Then she stops, sparing the last couple of cookbooks in the stack, and stands still for a moment. Turning to him, she opens her arms. He’s holding her in an instant, feeling the long arms wrap around him, feeling the cool dampness of her cheek against his, and then all there is in the world is the two of them, trying to press themselves into one.

“They’ll be here in ten minutes,” she says. “Your father and Ming Li.”

“The place looks beautiful,” he says. Then he says, “I need a beer.”

“There isn’t time.”

“Please, Rose. I can actually drink beer while I get dressed.” He opens the refrigerator and stares openmouthed. Every shelf is full of food: dishes, bowls, pans, even cups have been pressed into service and jammed any old way onto the shelves. “How many people are coming?”