'Helps with digestion. Did any childhood clip come up when she did that?'
'Ten years of car sickness. We lived in Florida, but both sets of grandparents lived in New York. Reunions four times a year. We drove every time.'
A pause while my feet are bent inward and pressed. 'So, what we really want is a lead to the paymasters?'
'I'm optimistic. Porn stars of either sex tend not to rate so high in IQ tests. A couple days of interrogation should give us everything.'
We both fall silent under the power of the Wat Po massage technique. There comes a point where the masseuse must confront the sex organ if her client is male. Usually one is totally relaxed and the girl delicately shifts your dormant member from one side of your groin to the other. Often there is humor in the moment, especially if the client has been finding the massage stimulating and the girl gives a why-are-you-so-big? twist to her lips. This time, though, in my relaxed and vulnerable state, the sudden erotic connection triggers off the nightmare I've avoided replaying all week. I block it, though, somehow, and now that the massage has reached the relaxing stage, I start to nod off.
I wake in a state of total disorientation. Despite what I told the FBI, I myself do not normally fall asleep during massage. Why has Kimberley opened her curtain? Why is she kneeling next to me, stroking my cheek?
'You started screaming, honey. You were scaring the staff.' Her face is the very picture of compassion when she says, 'You're a passionate man, Sonchai. Anyone can see a part of you kept on loving her, bad as she was.'
After we have dressed and paid, standing together in the narrow soi at something of a loss, I finally have the courage to say, 'Kimberley, I have a favor to ask. Can you guess?'
'Sure. You need to watch the video again, and you need me to hold your hand.'
I touch her shoulder. 'Thanks, Kimberley.'
24
The video and Stanislaus Kowlovski's performance in it weigh on my mind all the way home. Knowing I'm going to have to put myself through it all over again is a little like the second parachute jump. I've never done it, but I've heard people talk: the first jump is tolerable because you don't know what to expect. On the second something deep in the mind rebels, a feeling like, Why am I driving myself through this terminal horror? After all, Vikorn wouldn't bat an eye if I gave up investigating the Damrong video altogether. In fact, he would prefer it. I'm asking myself this question as I reach home, kiss Chanya, pat the Lump, and eat the food she puts before me with love and devotion in her eyes. She catches my gaze with hers for a moment, then swallows hard. I think, Oh Buddha, she has seen into my heart. Then a lover's intuition kicks in, and I grab her and kiss her. The darling was feeling threatened because I had a massage with my farang friend. Chanya would never be challenged by a Thai girl, but she is overawed by Kimberley, whom she believes to represent the Western side of my mind: much as she loves me, Chanya can never forget I am a leuk kreung, a half-caste, and must surely have farang tendencies and farang preferences lurking somewhere.
It is almost comic, how accurate the heart can be and at the same time how mistaken. Of course I spend most of my time thinking about another woman, but it isn't the FBI. My vow-which I make with a mixture of tears and giggles, to the effect that I volunteer to be reborn a hungry ghost if I ever have so much as thought of sleeping with Kimberley-is so forceful, so convincing, that Chanya now is ashamed of herself and wants to compensate for doubting me. She promises to cook my favorite, pla neung menau, steamed fish in lemon sauce.
We make love as best we can in her condition. She is anxious to please me, needing comfort and reassurance. She uses some of her old tricks from her days on the Game, which causes us to share a smile or two. I make her feel how much I love her, force that certainty upon her, and there is no hypocrisy here, only a haunting. Afterward, perhaps from subtle signals she has interpreted, whole packets of information transmitted by the subtlest alteration of pressure in the touch or intonation of voice, now processed properly through her encyclopedic experience of men, gives the right answer: 'It's her, isn't it?'
I grab her to hug her, but she turns away.
'I have to see the video again, my love. It's quite a chore for me. Kimberley is going to be with me.'
'Why not me?'
A long silence full of the anguish of separation: 'Because of what you would see.'
'You think I can't handle a video like that?'
'Of course you can. I can't handle you watching me watch it.'
Neither of us wants an argument, and Chanya has grown too used to serenity to squander it on something trivial like a snuff movie. I watch while the kind of divine sleepiness which is the privilege of the pure takes over.
I take the opportunity to caress the Lump, full of wonder, fear, and anticipation. Vipassana meditation affects everyone in different ways. Although I was never any kind of master, I penetrated to that part of the psyche where memories of the womb lurk. These have returned to me since I've known that I will soon be a father. I can easily relive the fear of birth that afflicts us in that transient security: that first agonizing acid-breath of oxygen, air burning your skin like napalm, hanging upside down like a bat while someone in a white coat smacks your ass, then-and here's the first taste of the police state-if you've seen enough already and decide to turn back because corporeal existence is not for you, it's the oxygen mask: It ain't optional, bud-you're here to be processed. Who would fardels bear? Pichai seems still to be quite merry in his shrinking domain, though. According to the ultrasound, he is kicking and flapping his arms about and showing commendable faith in the future. In my less confident moments I fear a sports-obsessed brute. I reluctantly decide to pay a visit to Lek's moordu, when I have the time.
'Want a painkiller?' Kimberley asks the minute I've settled on the sofa in her suite at the Grand Britannia. 'I don't have any coke, but I guess you could get that if you wanted it. How about a single-malt Scotch? They have miniatures in the minibar.'
She goes to the minibar and hands me a tiny bottle, keeping one for herself. We unscrew the tops and clink. 'Good luck,' the FBI says. I take the video out of my jacket pocket and hand it to her.
At first I think I've cracked my inner resistance, that I've got my objectivity back. I am able to watch the prolonged foreplay with a certain distance and professional eye. I have to admit, Damrong pulls out all the stops. With her, fellatio is developed into an art form, complete with elegance, romance, humor, drama, tension, and an attention to the visual side of the thrill which is nothing less than masterful; a sorceress at the top of her game. The masked man, too, is no amateur. He understands that he is the foil to this extraordinary performance and does not permit ego to intrude. Kowlovski is particularly courtly on his knees during the cunnilingus scene. Advanced camera techniques allow us to participate in the versatility of his tongue, the anguish of her pleasure. Kimberley pauses the disk for a moment, freezing Damrong with the tip of her tongue just touching her upper lip with her eyes half closed, to say in a philosophical tone, 'I've been thinking about it, and the way I see her, she's a kind of Madonna phenomenon. A basically plain face, nothing special at all, which somehow highlights the sexual charisma. A paradox, really. But you can see how it works.' The FBI presses the button that makes Damrong come to life again. 'Look, she's actually enjoying it. She's not faking. She's excited.'
Which is very hard to take; her excitement, I mean. Accepting how real her enjoyment is ten minutes or so before she dies does something to my head. She isn't even slightly frightened; she is in a state of ecstasy. I tell Kimberley to turn it off, but she refuses.
'Tough love, kid,' she growls. 'You're going to suck it up this time.'
'At least give me another shot.'
She pauses the video to get four more miniature bottles from the minibar. With the action frozen, it is possible to take in a little of the scenery. Just as I recalled, a shelf with priceless objets d'art is visible: the jade reclining Buddha. Now that I know what I'm looking for, it is easy to identify the decor of Tanakan's room at the Parthenon Club. We swallow the miniatures quickly, and she unleashes the rest of the flick.
'Wait,' I say. She pauses again, using the remote, with a what-now look on her face.
'I'm not going to be able to look at it again, after the ending, so let's rerun the story so far. I need to know
