“If I violate this pledge, may my life be plagued by misery, despair, misfortune and disaster: may my life end with extreme pain and in torment;
“If I remain true to this pledge, may I be blessed with mental and physical strength, ability to overcome obstacles and evil; may I be blessed with happiness, advancement and continued success in my official and private life.”
The words of the pledge still echoing in his ears, Yuddha turned toward the altar in his office. On it were Buddha’s images of various sizes, most of which had been purchased by him or given by well-wishers. Just below the altar stood his graduation sword in its gleaming scabbard. Absent-mindedly, the young colonel approached the altar and the sword. He grabbed the sword and gently pulled it out of the scabbard. Yuddha saw that the engraved blade was still shining despite the years that had passed. His thoughts returned to the graduation day: the moment before his name had been announced by the Commissioner of the Academy, the steps he had cautiously taken toward His Majesty the King and the sword he had accepted directly from the King’s hands.
The phone rang again. This time Yuddha did not hear it. The only thing he heard was the pledge he had solemnly made in the Temple of the Emerald Buddha.
At 20:00 hours, the duty officer knocked on the door of the superintendent’s office. He had not seen the superintendent leave and presumed the superior officer was still in the office. He knocked again. When there was no response, the officer decided to pull the door open and stepped inside.
The lifeless body of the superintendent was found lying face up on the carpeted floor. His eyes were wide open. The pool of blood under and around the body looked fresh. At the left side of Yuddha’s chest, about two thirds of the sword blade was visible. The rest was embedded in his chest. The grip was swaying a little, as though it had just been left there by somebody.
“Looks like suicide,” remarked the lieutenant colonel who headed the crime scene investigation team, after preliminary examination. “No sign of foul play.”
Later in the night, the medical examiner reported to the Metropolitan Police Commissioner a puzzling, disturbing finding: the sword bore no fingerprint, not even a smudge. It looked brand new, untouched and unused, ever.
Pol. Gen. Vasit Dejkunjorn
Police General Vasit Dejkunjorn has had a long and distinguished career as a police officer, newspaper columnist and writer. Widely regarded as a public servant with high integrity and professionalism, as a career police officer he served as police inspectorgeneral, deputy director-general of the Royal Thai Police, chief of Royal Court Police, and after his retirement, senator and deputy minister of interior. He started his career in literature early. Since his time as a student at Chulalongkorn University in the late 1940s, he has written thousands of articles, numerous short stories and over 20 novels. His Thai-language novels have been best-sellers among Thai readers and made into films and TV series such as
Now in his retirement, Pol. Gen. Vasit continues his writing as well as his public service work in various capacities, including as special court police officer and vice president of Transparency Thailand. He also lectures on management and ethics and teaches Buddhist meditation.
The Lunch That Got Away
Eric Stone
“Sorry, no fish today, Khun Ray.” Plaa looks more upset by that than she ought to be.
Maybe she has sold out. I hope so, for her sake. But it is still early, and this would be the first time ever.
“Plaa, is something wrong?”
“No, no problem, Khun Ray, only no fish today.”
She’s a bad liar.
“Come on, what is it?” She bites her lip and looks away. I can barely hear her.
“Robbers, Khun Ray, take fish and all my money. Make big trouble for me.”
I’ve been buying lunch from Plaa for a few years. She makes the absolute best green curry-coated, banana leaf-wrapped baked fish I’ve ever had. And she sells it every day out of her cooler on the street at Sukhumvit Soi 11, across from my hotel, for twentyfive baht.
I’m in town for one hellish day of appointments. Our Bangkok correspondent is mad at the editor of the magazine. I can’t blame him. I am, too. But I don’t see why he had to take it out on me. I guess it’s my fault for letting him arrange my schedule.
My first appointment was an interview at the Central Bank at four-thirty this morning. The guy I met gets into the office at three to avoid traffic. My last interview is set for seven this evening, back next door to the Central Bank. In between I’ve got four more appointments scattered all over town. Those six interviews are going to add up to a total of about three hours of work, for which I’m going to spend at least twelve hours stuck in traffic.
I like Bangkok when I don’t need to get anywhere.
At least the correspondent has loaned me his rolling office, so I can work at the desk in the back of the van as his brother-in-law drives me around town. And, having been the one who introduced me to Plaa’s fish, he didn’t want her to lose out on my business, so he has kindly routed us past her usual spot just before lunch.
“When did this happen, Plaa?”
“I get here ten o’clock, Khun Ray. They waiting for me, push me, take cooler, run away.”
That was an hour ago, and Bangkok is a very big city. I doubt there’s much I can do.
But I like Plaa. She works hard and spends little on herself so she can afford to keep her fifteen-year-old daughter Noi in school and out of the bars. I’m here to write an economic update on the country. My appointments are all with big shots. But it’s Plaa and people like her that actually make this place tick.
“Do you know who it was? Did you recognize them?”
In Bangkok everybody knows who everybody else is, at least within their neighborhoods. And why would anyone come across town to rob a street vendor?
She gets a look on her face that I don’t like. A look that tells me she knows who it was but doesn’t want to say.
I ask again and she pretends she doesn’t understand me. I know she does. Her English isn’t good, but it’s good enough.
There’s a tap on my shoulder. It’s Cho, my driver for the day. He wants to get me back in the van. We’ve only got an hour to get to the next appointment, and it’s a couple of miles away. I’d walk if it wasn’t ninety-nine degrees and ninety–some-odd percent humidity and not likely to rain at any minute, and I’m not in a suit.
Cho wants to be a journalist. I have him sit in on my interviews in case I need any translation. It’s a matter of pride for him that we’re punctual, no matter how bad the traffic.
But I don’t want to let this drop. I’m getting tired of hearing all the glowing reports about the booming Thai economy. I could already write exactly what the next three interviews are going to tell me. “It’s 1992. If the economy keeps growing at eleven percent a year, by 2000 it will be blah blah blah.” I can do the optimistic math as well as the next well-connected mogul or government minister. It all sounds too good to be true, which it is.
