CIA, I studied Standard Arabic-most of us did. We got to study the history too. The Islamic empire, which was really the Arab empire, once stretched from Pakistan and western India in the east to Spain and southwest France in the west. The civilization they put together in Andalusia was fabulous beyond anything we have today.
“At its peak it was run by a guy named Abd ar-Rahman III, who built an amazing palace called Az-Zahra. After he died, somebody found a note of his that read-see, I remember it pretty much word for word: ‘Fifty years have passed since I’ve been caliph. Treasures, honors, pleasures, I’ve enjoyed them all to the point of exhaustion. Princes admire me, fear me, and envy me. Everything man desires has been mine for the asking. So I’ve calculated how many days of happiness I’ve enjoyed during all this time, and the number comes to fourteen.’ ” Linda takes another long toke and hands me the joint.
“Well, I’ve had pretty much the best America has to offer. I’ve had any man I ever really wanted, any job. When I was young, I intended to travel and learn foreign languages, which I did. When I moved from the CIA to the private sector, I went from well paid to extremely well paid-you could almost say excessively well paid. I’ve known the best of the world, and you know what? I envy that old caliph his fourteen days, ’cause I can’t remember more than a few hours of happiness myself, mostly when I’ve had the chance, which comes maybe once or twice a decade, to smoke some decent dope without risking my career. Too damned anxious staying ahead of the competition to even think about being happy-it would take up too much time.” She smiles again at Chanya. “That’s what being a fully liberated woman has done for me. How about you?”
I hand Chanya the joint, and she takes a few tokes before answering. “I’m Buddhist. We don’t think that way. The question has no meaning for me.”
“Uh-huh? How’s that?”
“The kind of happiness you’re talking about is a form of clinging-of greed, part of a cycle. Of course it leads to unhappiness in the end.”
Linda stares at her. “Well, I’ll be damned. I wish you’d been around when the Founding Fathers drafted the Constitution. They’ve got three hundred million of us chasing our own asses in the pursuit of that same happiness you Buddhists already knew didn’t exist.” She laughs. “I did always wonder why it was the pursuit of happiness-like you’re never really expected to get there. Kind of a Godot thing right at the center of the American mind. The best is always yet to come, yet to come, yet to come…”
The dope has reached her, and now she’s stuck in a vortex like the slow-spin phase of a washing machine. She shakes her head and smiles beatifically as if nothing unusual has happened. I think Chanya must be stoned too, because she gets a gleam in her eye and stands up.
“D’you get anonymous porn in your inbox, Linda?” she asks. “I got a prize yesterday. Want to look?”
Personally, I don’t think it’s such a good idea to show the American her porn collection. I guess she’s decided it must be the way farang women bond these days. She goes to her computer and jogs the mouse. “Come and see,” she says to Linda, who has to use the wall as support before she can stand. Now Chanya calls to me: “Sonchai, there’s another one. He must have just sent it. Want to see?”
I get up to stand with the two women. Chanya clicks on the new attachment to the latest e-mail. It seems the anonymous one is smarter than we thought. He’s not so much a random pornographer, more a focused campaign strategist. Now the image unfolds from the feet up, as before, and just as before, we are treated to a veritable fireworks display of male virility-but the revelation no longer stops at the neck; it continues unrolling until we have the full face.
Linda doesn’t have time to reach the yard before she throws up; as a resourceful American, she manages to open the window just in time before emptying her stomach’s contents. The room is filled with the sound of her retching while Chanya stares in fear and awe at the monitor, and I feel a strange kind of rage. At first I can hardly credit what I’m looking at. Then I have to shove a fist into my mouth. “Oh, no,” I mutter. “No, no. It can’t be.” Can’t be what? Can’t be a human face. Well it is. A face put together by a demon, to mock our species all the way to annihilation. Nothing is aligned properly, the ears, the eyes, the mouth-especially the mouth-and it’s hard to see anything that isn’t scar tissue. There is no nose, only a hole, and a chunk of the upper lip is missing, showing crooked teeth and crimson gum. This is man inside out. If I was that young fellow, I’d probably rape anything that moved.
“Sweet Buddha, such suffering,” Chanya whispers.
Linda has stopped retching but is still in cannabis-enhanced shock. She signals it’s time for her to go, and I help her cross the road to the blue Rolls-Royce. I have to admire the strength with which she pulls herself together. Apart from one unplanned stumble, you would never know she was stoned out of her skull. I note, with an ironic smile, that her limo is parked under one of General Zinna’s election posters. Just like Vikorn, he commands every third lamppost, but never the same one as the Colonel. I wait until the limo starts to move away and wave at the tinted windows. I’m a tad stoned, and I’ve got the munchies; I noticed we’re almost out of both fig rolls and three- in-one, so I stroll down to the 7-Eleven to buy some.
When I return to the house, I see that Chanya is holding her cell phone and staring at the street. She clears her throat. Her voice quivers when she says, “General Zinna just called me. I could hardly believe it was him-he sounded broken. He said there’s a risk Manu-apparently that’s his name-is headed this way.”
“Why would he be headed this way?”
She inhales. “Zinna is stuck in traffic. That’s why he called. He said Manu is following up contacts with women he’s met over the past few years. Apparently he met us once in Phuket-you remember, when we were celebrating our wedding anniversary, and we went to that five-star hotel for supper, and Zinna was there with his lover? He got our address from Zinna’s address book. He said Manu is unarmed but very strong. It seems he’s a big, muscular young man. He has already harassed a young army wife this morning, and yesterday he raped two women whose names also were in Zinna’s address book. The general says it’s all about Manu getting back at him for ruining his life. We should lock the door and protect ourselves.” She nods toward the sink where a carving knife is prominent. “I stood here for a few seconds just now with that in my hand, but I felt foolish. D’you have your gun?” I show her the gun. “I don’t want you to use it, Sonchai. Not to protect me. Protect yourself with it if you have to.” She goes to the window and leans on the frame. “Such suffering. Dear Buddha. And I thought I had problems.”
“He’s a killer,” I blurt. “He’s the one who killed those three at Vulture Peak.”
We stand at the window like two androids in a sci-fi movie and watch a late-model Benz draw up on the opposite side of the street. It’s a convertible with the top closed: some kind of famous sports model. I can just make out a man in the driver’s seat wearing a sports jacket and cravat, although I cannot see his features. He stops and sits in a composed posture staring straight ahead, no doubt with the engine running for the air- conditioning. He seems to be waiting for something specific to happen. We watch.
The man in the driver’s seat shifts to pull out a cell phone from his pocket. He seems unhurried, even serene. Now he punches in a number and raises the phone casually to his ear. Then something clicks in my head, and I’m seeing him in a different light: a man in a daze.
“Zinna?” Chanya asks, squinting at the car.
“I’m ninety percent certain-” I stop talking because a five-ton covered army truck has appeared. The driver of the Benz moves the car forward as far as he can, so the truck can park behind him.
“It is Zinna,” Chanya says, putting her hands on her hips and staring hard at the Benz and the army truck behind it. After a couple of minutes the man in the Benz opens his door and gets out. Yes, it is General Zinna of the Royal Thai Army, dressed in a sports jacket with brass buttons, open-neck shirt, and beige pants, hands thrust into his pockets; there’s no mistaking that strut, nor the broad chest in a short body. He seems uncertain, though, as to what to do. His strut droops. When he approaches the truck a sergeant jumps out to give him a stiff salute, but the General in civvies only thrusts his hands more deeply into his pockets and stares up and down the street. He seems frustrated, helpless.
Now Chanya and I gasp because some army privates have emerged from the back of the truck with a net. It could be a fishing net for large fish, but to me it most resembles the kind of thing they cover ammunition dumps with in the jungle. About five of the young soldiers have rifles with bayonets fixed. Zinna stares at the bayonets for a moment, then starts to remonstrate with the sergeant. To my surprise, the sergeant remonstrates back, as if this is a private job he’s doing for Zinna, and therefore he has civil rights here. I have the feeling he’s protecting his men. No way will he tell them to put the bayonets and rifles away, and Zinna in civvies has no authority in this street at this time. The little General looks sad more than angry.
Now everyone suddenly turns to stare in the same direction, as if there has been a shout. Zinna seems scared and relieved at the same time. Now five of the soldiers run off with the net. There’s a commotion loud
