everything they had: women, boys, girls, slaves, gold, their astrology and their temple designs, music, dance — it was an early example of identity theft. Not their cuisine, though, which was way behind ours and still is. If we'd known how long they were going to hold the grudge, we might have shown more mercy.
Suddenly the FBI and I don't want our eyes to meet. Without the illusion of work, or at least a case to discuss, we are left to wonder what to do about each other. We sneak glances when we think the other is not looking, bestowing wonder and pity at each other's karma. Finally Kimberley plays with a spare spoon on the table prior to getting something off her chest.
'Maybe it's something about your country. I'm starting to feel like those middle-aged Western men you see walking up and down Sukhumvit with a girl on their arms half their age and looking like the cat that found the cream. I know I'm kidding myself.' Looking me in the eye at last: 'I know that, or at least the left lobe does. But I can't stop myself. Suddenly it's spring again, the kind of spring I never had — there were always too many goals to aim for. When he's around, I experience a deep sense of love, of affection, of compassion. What can I say? It's what I was always supposed to experience as a human being, right? That's what we're here for, even though it's totally impossible, isn't it? Don't tell me you didn't go through this with Damrong.'
I inhale deeply. 'Of course I did. When you notice light seeping into your coffin, it's hard to go on pretending you're dead. You know the promise of life is not entirely hollow. Ecstasy is not just the name of a drug-there is something behind stones of paradise.' I try to look at her with compassionate eyes. 'If even a tiny part of you is still alive, you can't refuse the challenge.'
She looks up with humble eyes. 'So you forgive me?'
I slide my small hand over her big one. 'Just be careful.'
'You think I'll destroy him?'
'The other way around.'
She looks up into the trees that surround the open-air restaurant. 'He hardly even notices me, right? He's not aware of me at all in that way.'
'How do you think the girls feel, when they walk down Sukhumvit with those farang men who grin like Cheshire cats? Do they feel like they found the cream too or merely a dirty job that pays better than factory work?'
She nods. 'But the surgery, Sonchai. That's just plain wrong.'
I shrug. No point getting back into that. We let a good ten minutes pass, during which the restaurant has started to play some old rock music on the sound system. At other tables a young Thai couple are looking as if they intend to spend the afternoon in a hotel nearby; five male middle managers in their twenties are having a lunchtime boozeup on rice whiskey; some farang tourists are poring over a map; and cats roam under tables looking for scraps. The FBI says, 'I'll come with you. You need to go to Phnom Penh-a detective like you has to see for himself. I want to go too-I'm here for the case, after all. Anyway, I need a reality check. Maybe if I'm in a different country, I won't think about him so much.'
The FBI leaves me at Sala Daeng Skytrain station to go pack. I call Lek and tell him to meet me early this evening at his favorite katoey bar, called Don Juan's. I go back to the station to deal with a pile of paperwork, then go home to change and to tell Chanya I'm going to Cambodia for a day or so with the FBI. She toys with jealousy for a moment, but it's not enough to distract her from the soap she's watching. Her egg-shaped center of gravity provides an imperturbable complacency these days. 'I'm also going to see Lek's moordu,' I admit.
She looks at me for a moment to make sure I'm serious, then smiles. 'About time. Tell me if he's any good.'
'It's a katoey,' I explain.
She makes big eyes. 'Even better.' Katoeys are known to make excellent moordus.
There are plenty of different expressions to denote transsexuals: second women, third sex, the different ones. I like Angels in Disguise best. Don Juan's is crammed with them. Smooth brown feminized flesh, padded bras and silicon-enhanced buttocks, plenty of jewelry-especially silver necklaces-shapely legs, lascivious laughter, cheap perfume, and sophisticated camp combine to lift desperate spirits for a night. You have to admire their guts. I hardly recognize Lek in his lipstick, rouge, and mascara; a tight T-shirt emphasizes his budding breasts. I think he is wearing jeans rather than a skirt for my sake. He squeezes between sisters to reach me, beaming. I don't think he's given the FBI a single thought since her last lovelorn call to him.
'This is my boss, my master,' he tells his friends with unrestrained pride. 'We're working on the most terrifying case you can imagine.' He clamps a hand over his mouth. 'But I can't tell you anything about it, it's so secret.'
'Pi-Lek is such a tease!' a katoey in long imitation-pearl earrings exclaims. 'It's such a privilege to meet you. Pi-Lek has told us all about you-we know you're the most compassionate cop in Bangkok, in the whole world probably. Pi-Lek says you're already a private Buddha and stay on earth only to spread enlightenment. It's such an honor.'
'He exaggerates,' I say. 'I'm just a cop.' It's hard not to be borne along by the avalanche of charm.
'Come,' Lek says, 'let's go find Pi-Da.' To his friends: 'You can all run along now-my master hasn't come to waste time with silly girls.' He waves a dismissive hand at them, provoking imitation tantrums and stamping of feet. He takes me by the hand to lead me through a crowd near the bar, then across to the other side of the room. His voice is considerably less camp when he says, 'Pi-Da, this is my boss, Detective Jitpleecheep.'
Pi-Da clearly belongs to the other category of katoey. In his forties, with a big round face, a paunch, and heavy legs, he was never beautiful, but his womanly soul must have yearned for self-expression all his life. Lek has explained he is a performer in the 'ugly drag' cabarets that feature in most katoey bars, when they send up their own camp culture. He is also a kind of wise aunt who eschews campspeak and all the usual trappings of his kind. His voice is high and naturally feminine, though. He is assessing me shrewdly even while we wai each other. Then he takes my hand to maneuver me to a table, where we sit down. I watch him clear his mind while he stares at me and I sense his penetration of my heart. He shudders, makes big eyes, stares at Lek for a moment, then back at me. Lek's face collapses when he says, 'I'm sorry, this is too big for me, I can't go there. This haunting is too powerful.' He makes a gesture to push me away. Lek and I share a moment of confusion; then Lek says, 'You have embarrassed me.'
There is hardly a greater cultural sin. Pi-Da's face collapses under Lek's relentless glare. When Lek turns away in disgust, Pi-Da says reproachfully, 'You don't know what you're asking.'
'You're supposed to be clairvoyant. You're supposed to look fearlessly into the Other Side,' Lek says more in sorrow than in anger. The whole of the katoey's resentment at not being taken seriously is suddenly at issue here: if Pi-Da can't handle heavy-duty hauntings, what kind of moordu is's/he anyway? Just another aging queen?
Pi-Da's expression has changed. No longer the flabby aunt, he is now rather a man whose adulthood has been called into question. 'We'll have to go upstairs,' he says in a grim tone. Staring at me: 'There will be no charge.'
'Upstairs' is a collection of rooms used for the storage of alcohol and boxes of snacks. Pi-Da clears a space, and the three of us sit on the floor. Pi-Da holds my hand again and closes his eyes. After about a minute he opens them again, but they seem to be unseeing. I watch with horror and fascination as he stands, places his hands on a wall, and bends forward with his backside sticking out. 'Sonchai, why don't you have me from behind like this? Whip me if you like.' It is Damrong's voice to the last nuance. 'You're such a great lover, Detective, you remind me of a charging elephant.' A hysterical cackle.
Pi-Da shakes his head violently as if to break free. When he turns to us, his flesh is gray and he seems exhausted. 'I can't do more than that-her energy is too crude and too powerful. She'll kill me if I let her take over. You have no idea what you've got involved with. This is Khmer sorcery, not a party game.' Without another word he leaves us to go back to the bar. Lek is staring at me with huge eyes.
'Yes,' I say, 'it's true. I had an affair with her.' I cannot face Lek any longer. I leave him to rush down the stairs two at a time into the anonymity of the busy Bangkok night.
26
There are lots of bankrupt states and plenty of kleptocracies; there are a few failed states; and there is
