“Contact them tomorrow and tell them that the scout is very excited and can’t wait for the director to get here next week. A week should do us.”
“Already did. I called them this afternoon.”
“Hiding out in a ghost house!” Carl laughed out loud. “Pure genius. Even the assassins in this country are scared of ghosts.”
They opened up the house and turned on some lights. At the back of the upstairs sitting room was a door that opened onto a very large wooden deck that ran the length of the entire house. To the side of the deck was a wooden stairway that went down to a pond that occupied the entire back section of the land. It was home to various kinds of birds and plants. It was straight out of old Siam, all except for Carl’s favourite inhabitants, a pair of imported white swans that glided around the surface of the water like luxury yachts. They were imports.
“This is absolutely fucking wonderful George.”
“You want to hear the best bit? A Canadian lived here for a while. He rented the whole place for forty thousand baht a month. The Thais won’t live here because on television it’s full of ghosts and the foreigners don’t like it because it’s in the middle of nowhere.”
“Let’s have a drink George. But when this is all over I want to rent this place.”
“I’ll go find a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses,” Georgesaid as he went into the house.
There were mosquitos but for once Carl didn’t mind. This house was where he wanted to be. George came back and they sat drinking under the deck and looking at the private world of the old house bathed in moonlight.
When they had become comfortably numb George asked Carl, “How come you never talk about my wife?”
“Would it help if I did?”
“No it wouldn’t, in fact it would make it worse.”
“That’s why I don’t talk about it.”
“I figured that was the reason,” George said and then didn’t feel like talking any more.
They sat in silence watching the swans glide backwards and forwards across the pond surrounded by the dances of the fireflies. After a couple more drinks they stumbled off to find their beds.
Chapter 23
Carl was woken at dawn by a screeching sound outside his bedroom window. It was a shocking grating noise and it was being made by something very close, too close for his liking. Carl pulled on his jeans and went outside to see what was going on.
George was already awake and sitting on the deck drinking coffee after having taken a ten-kilometre run and a shower. Carl was dehydrated and miserable. His head hurt, even his eyes hurt. He’d always seen George as an alien creature. What kind of person slept only a few hours, and then ran a ridiculously long distance with a smile on his face? Not Carl, that was for sure.
At the end of the deck perched on the wooden rail within a few feet of the window to the room where Carl had been sleeping was an adult peacock. His fan of a tail was open in all its multi-coloured glory and he was jumping up and down on the wooden rail in all the excitement of wanting his opinion heard.
“What the fuck is that?” Carl asked.
“It’s a peacock.”
“I know it’s a fucking peacock George. What’s it doing screaming abuse at me outside my bedroom window?”
“Sorry, I forgot to mention Pretty Boy Floyd over there. He was another pet of the Canadian that used to live here. He was abandoned to be fed and looked after by the gardener, like the rest of the wildlife.”
“Maybe you can reason with him. Tell him that all of us foreigners may look alike but it wasn’t me that abandoned him.”
Pretty Boy Floyd turned around to face them and continued to scream at Carl.
“I need a coffee,” Carl told George as he walked away and re-entered the house. Carl was getting very attached to the house. It would be a wonderful life, away from the madness of central Bangkok and it was a long way from his enemies.
Carl found a coffee maker and a bottle of cold water in the kitchen. He went upstairs and found a dock for an iPod on the second floor landing connected to two battered speakers. He retrieved the iPod from his bedroom and plugged it in before selecting some appropriate morning music. Good morning Sibelius and welcome to paradise.
The violin concerto suited his mood. He carried the coffee mug and bottle of water out onto the deck and sat contentedly in the morning sun. Carl didn’t have anything to do with his day. He had put a plan in process and had allowed it to run with its own momentum. Now he had nothing to do but wait.
“Where’s the gardener?” he asked George.
“I told them we had some famous people arriving from Hollywood that didn’t want to be bothered by paparazzi so he has been given the week off.”
“Good move.”
“I know you like your privacy. I’ll take the car and do some running around today.”
“Give the old man a call late afternoon while you’re out.”
“I’ll do some shopping as well,” George said, and then he was gone.
Carl heard the car engine disappearing into the distance. He went into the house and got a piece of paper and a pen, which he brought out to the deck. Carl always thought more clearly when he wrote things down, so he wrote out his entire plan. He then made notes beside each section with all the things that could go wrong. It was not perfect but he was not unhappy with it. It was all he had. He read it through one more time and then went down the steps to the garden and burnt the paper.
Carl had been hiding and looking over his shoulder for several days so he decided to take advantage of his rural surroundings and go for a walk. The ability to open the gate and walk along the dirt road through the orchards and over the small canal bridges was magical. Being a foreigner and of a certain age meant the local people didn’t see him as a threat so he could ramble through their lanes and fields. It was midday and the heat meant the local dogs barked and postured but didn’t really have the heart for a fight. Mad dogs of English men go out in the midday sun, Carl thought. Well somebody has to do it.
He noted that the house he was staying at was isolated and the nearest neighbour was some distance away. He had walked for five minutes before seeing another occupied house. There was another wooden palatial residence a couple of hundred meters along the dirt road but it was rundown and empty. Probably a wealthy person from Bangkok who had been bitten by the nostalgia bug but lost interest when confronted with the reality of lengthy traffic jams, country smells and violent mosquitos. Carl noted how isolated he was and smiled. His plan had just got bigger.
He returned to the house a couple of hours later drenched in sweat. The car was not there, so George was still out checking on things for him. Good old George. The rule was that no phones were to be switched on within fifty kilometres of the house so Carl was totally without communication. He took a shower and put his wet clothes back on. He was still travelling a bit too light for his liking. He went to sit in the sun to dry off but immediately started sweating again. Carl stripped down to his boxer shorts and went looking for books.
There was a small room with a desk and a table light, behind which was a bookshelf with a few dozen mildewed paperback books. The shelves had the usual collection of semi-pornographic muzak read by millions. Fortunately there were also a couple of gems. He picked out Death in the Afternoon by Ernest Hemingway. An unfortunate title in his recent predicament, but it was a wonderful escape into the world of Spanish bullfighting. Carl threw himself into the nostalgia of a Spain from the past, sitting in his garden from old Siam. All in all he had a very pleasant afternoon.
George came back around five o’clock with plastic supermarket bags and a paper shopping bag containing new jeans and casual cotton shirts. Carl immediately took a cold shower and put on the new clothes. Carl felt good, surprisingly happy. He was in the Thailand he had fallen in love with in his youth. More accurately Carl had fallen in
