Killed at the Whim of a Hat

“They did, did they?”

I had him. His teeth had been exposed to the air for too long and they’d stuck to the inside of his lips. My tentative dig had hit a pipe and caused a sudden charisma leak. There was something. I was prepared to leave it at that and go on to a different topic but he’d switched to slow advance.

“What exactly did she say?” he asked.

“Who?”

“The…Madame Chainawat.”

“Well, actually, we were discussing land. There’s a plot in Ny Kow that my family’s interested in procuring. We have a number of projects on the drawing board, hotels, you know, study camps for university students, cattle ranches, erm…”

I was struggling. I needed a few seconds to think of why on earth wicked old lady Chainawat might have mentioned the eel to me.

“…paintball courses, that kind of thing,” I continued. “Mrs. Chainawat said if I needed to know anything about land in that area, Nong Sugit was the man to ask.”

Whew! I thought the Nong was a nice touch.

“That’s how she put it?”

“Pretty close.”

“Nong Jimm,” he said, after a sip from a coffee cup long empty, “there are a large number of good, respectable Chinese families such as that of my ancestors: families who only have the future of our great kingdom in their hearts. Then, there are people like the Chainawats. Be very wary about doing any business with their sort and certainly don’t believe anything they tell you.”

With that, we were suddenly at the end of our interview. The ex-minister was on his feet and hustling me to the door.

“Would you mind if I scheduled another session with you?” I asked. “I’d like to get on to your years in government and perhaps take a few pictures. Matichon Weekly news magazine wants to make it a two-page spread.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, still prodding me onward. “Only too pleased to speak with the press.”

“When can…?”

But he’d turned and was back in the shadows of his house, leaving me in the sunshine of the front step surrounded by three or perhaps four camouflaged gardeners.

Twelve

“ We must all hear the universal call to like your neighbor just like you like to be liked yourself.”

— George W. Bush, As Quoted In The Financial Times, January 14, 2000

You know how it is when the chicken manure man comes by with his truck and, instead of placing the dung in an orderly fashion twenty centimeters around the trunk of the palms as is de rigueur, he dumps it all on top of your best watermelon and drives off? One great mountain of dung. And all the chickens in the yard are looking at this pile and wondering why you’d pay for it when they could have produced it for nothing, eventually — not a mountain exactly but certainly a creditable amount. “Aren’t you pleased with our work?” they’d say.

You don’t know how it is? Well then you wouldn’t know how I was feeling when I finally got back to the resort that evening realizing I still had dinner to cook. I was like that watermelon, feeling claustrophobic and damp and dungy. I needed time to spread some of the manure around. A little bit of breathing space. But Mair, in one of her billion customer-free moments, strolled over to me in the kitchen.

“Ed…” she began.

“Mair, can we not talk about Ed for once?”

“All right. He said he’d be back at eight and he has something to say.”

“Thanks. Look, Mair. I’m running a bit late. Can you peel the carrots for me?”

“Oh, child. If only I could. But somebody has to watch the shop.”

I felt my cool pop like a tendon.

“You get three-point-seven customers a day,” I said. “They spend, on average, twenty-seven baht. Our biggest sales are bottled water, ice, individual cigarettes and garlic. At this rate, in twenty-three years we can afford a wind chime to hang in front of the shop. We’re surviving on what’s left of the sale of our place in Chiang Mai, and at the speed with which we’re spending, that should all be gone by the new year. Watching the shop isn’t going to put a meal on the table. Peeling carrots just might.”

She did her Titanic smile and I knew I’d got through to her. She picked up a carrot and started to eat it.

“The skin of a carrot contains most of its goodness, you know?” she said.

I upended the bowl of unpeeled carrots into the pot of boiling water and probably deserved the scalding splash on my cheek.

“There,” I said. “Goodness.”

“Did I mention that Ed would be stopping by at eight?” she asked.

“No, you didn’t.”

“He will.”

She turned and headed back to the shop.

¦

It was seven thirty. Ed, if he actually came, would be here in half an hour. I had to admire his persistence. He was a nice young lad, obviously enthralled by the exotic nature of our family. It had nothing to do with romance. Not really. He’d heard about us city girls and how loose our morals were. He was jumbling love and lust in his country boy mind. It wouldn’t take long to frighten him off. I’d suggest we become friends. He’d agree but soon tire of that sort of relationship and head off to the Pepsi karaoke beyond the bridge and work it all out of his system.

I imagined the fellows down here would prefer a more traditional mate than someone like me. It’s evident from the almost completely flat back tires of motorcycles I see passing that they like their women meaty. Wide and solid as boulders. I’d put my life savings on a Maprao ladies tug-of-war team. So, although my broad hip line shouldn’t be a hindrance for me, I’d be hard pressed to find anything in common with a local man. Yes I like spicy food but I prefer a good slice of pizza. What good would pillow talk be with half the night spent with your nose in the dictionary? And what kind of southern wife would I be if I couldn’t fix nets or trim palm trees with one of those chisel thingies? No, Ed the grass man, aka Ed the carpenter, would be very disappointed if I ever gave him the opportunity to get to know me.

I’d showered and put on my most matronly white blouse even though it did leave my shoulders bare. I’d compensated for this inadvertent titillation by putting on a full-length batik sarong with fish pictures on it. It didn’t even provide a glimpse of ankle. I’d gelled my hair back but only because there was a stray breeze from the Gulf and my untidy locks had been blowing in my eyes. The red lipgloss was in lieu of the lip salve which I hadn’t been able to find.

I sat on a deckchair on the sand with Gogo at my feet and a glass of Romanian red on my lap. We’d bought twelve cases, ten bottles in each, from Chiang Mai but hadn’t found anyone with the sophistication to sample them. It wasn’t any kind of a brew to write home about but I doubt brand identity was the reason the bottles remained untouched on the top shelf. We weren’t living in Paris. Since we’d arrived, I’d taken it upon myself to work my way through the stock to clear up that shelf for sardines. I had one case to go. The bottle and one spare glass sat beneath my seat. I mean, it would have been rude to drink alone and not offer. He’d accept, of course, sip at his drink, say it was delicious, and leave nine-tenths of it behind.

I heard footsteps along the sand and stared moodily at the shimmering boat lamps strung out across the horizon.