Breathing Water (20 page)

“I’m sorry,” Da says, drying her cheeks on her T-shirt. “I just felt like I was back home.”

WITH ANOTHER NINETY
minutes on tape in the apartment downstairs, and with Rose back in bed and Miaow reading in her room, Rafferty has time on his hands. When he came home the previous evening, he’d been able to spot two of the people watching the apartment. He’d guess that there’s one more, one assigned to each of them. The third one had undoubtedly been behind Rafferty, following him, and probably peeled off when he saw Rafferty was going home, probably called the others for confirmation that Rafferty had actually arrived and entered the building. There’s not that much traffic on Rafferty’s
soi
. No point in the follower drawing attention to himself.

Probably two shifts, possibly even three, since apparently money is no object. Not much use trying to memorize all the faces when they’ll change in a few hours. He figures that they’ve chosen their surveillance spots and that by and large they’ll stick to them, so he’ll keep an eye on those places. He needs to find spot number three.

And soon. His best guess is that he can continue for another day, two or three at most, to do a convincing imitation of someone who thinks he has a book to write. If they’re unconvinced, there’s nothing to say they won’t grab either Rose or Miaow as a way of holding his feet to the fire.

To get whatever it is they really want.

How would Ton be working the surveillance? The watchers are in the street. The microphones are in the ceiling. Presumably someone is listening in real time, and the two groups, the watchers and the listeners, are communicating. When the information from inside the apartment indicates that the family won’t be going anywhere, all but one of the watchers are probably encouraged to leave their positions. No sense drawing attention to themselves needlessly. They’d be somewhere nearby, most likely someplace crowded out on Silom, with cell phones. When the listeners hear that someone is going to leave the building, all of them would get a call and move into their spots.

Maybe the best thing to do is to separate them. The three of them go out and head in a different direction, put some distance between them, and then…

And then…what? If one member of the family disappears, Ton’s guys will probably kill the other two. Rafferty has to take Weecherat’s
murder as a message. Rose and Miaow need to vanish at the same time, and then Rafferty needs to become invisible, too.

Information overload
, he thinks. There’s a lot of information going to Ton’s men, between the sounds coming in over the microphones and what the watchers are seeing. They’ll be comfortable, maybe a little lax. All those eyes, all those ears. He needs to exploit that. Create a disconnect of some kind, a contradiction between what they hear and what they see, and use the confusion to make two people vanish in plain sight. Up until now he’s been focused on figuring out how to make them think that Rose and Miaow are still in the apartment for a day or so after they’ve left it. He’s been trusting himself to come up with the way to
get
them out, postponing dealing with the big illusion while he putters around preparing this beginner’s parlor trick, which will be useless until they’ve gone.

Putting second things first.

He looks at his watch: 9:25. Time to imitate a writer. He puts the yellow list on the table and starts to dial numbers. He starts with the cop and then moves to the gangster.

THEIR BELLIES ARE
full. Peep is clean and freshly diapered, engrossed in a bottle of formula from Foodland. Da and Boo sit on the riverbank in the shade, watching the river slide by.

“I don’t know what I can do for you,” Da says. “I’m probably too old to help you with those cops. Peep’s too young. We’re just two more mouths for you to feed. And you did all that—I mean, Kep and all of it—for me.”

Boo watches a gleaming white cruiser speed upstream. The reddish brown water parts before it, sluicing up over the sides, all the way up to the big red letters that say RIVER QUEEN.

“Rich people,” he says. “That’s from the Queen Hotel. Rich
farang
being taken up to look at the ruins at Ayutthaya. Do you know how much it costs to sleep there for one night?”

Da says, “In Ayutthaya?”

“No, Da,” Boo says with exaggerated patience, “not in Ayutthaya. At the Queen Hotel.”

“How would I know? I’ve never even been in a hotel.”

“Three hundred, four hundred dollars,” he says. “Some of the rooms cost more than a thousand dollars.”

Da looks over at him. It sounds like a lot of money. “How many baht?”

“More than thirty thousand.”

“Thirty thousand
? My whole village didn’t have thirty thousand baht.”

“The people on that boat could buy your village with what’s in their pockets. They wouldn’t even have to go to an ATM. But they wouldn’t want your village.” The boat is well upstream by now, and Da can make out some of the men and women gathered at the back of it. Most of them wear white clothes, and many of them look fat. “But you know what some of them
would
want?”

“What?”

“Peep.”

Da says, “Oh,” and she sees it all. Poor mothers, rich people, and the currency a baby. She holds Peep a little more snugly.

“I didn’t get you away from them because I need your help,” Boo says. “What I want you to do is talk to somebody. About you and Peep.”

“Who? Who would want to know about us?”

Boo shakes his head. “I have no idea whether he’ll want to know. I don’t even know if he’ll let me in. But if he’ll talk to us, he can do something about it.”

“What? What can he do?”

Boo takes her hand in his. Hers is cold, but his is warm and dry. It feels natural to her. He says, “If he wants to, he can tell the world.”

A
s always lately, the first thing Arthit sees when he comes into the room is Noi’s face in the photograph.

What he really sees is the back of the photograph, since it’s turned toward his swivel chair on the far side of his dented, olive drab steel desk. What he’s actually looking at is a cardboard stiffener with a fold-out triangle to make the frame stand upright. But what he
sees
is the two of them, ridiculously young and fate-temptingly happy, the immaculate white linen thread of marriage tied loosely around their foreheads. He’d had a couple of drinks for courage before the wedding, and his face is a bright red that’s part alcohol, part blush. Noi’s is alive with mischief. Below the edge of the photo, she had just made a trial grab at the part of him that now belonged exclusively to her. Although of course all of him actually belonged exclusively to her.

As he drags himself in, he doesn’t see the window he fought to get, or the dull, industrial, alley-bisected view it looks out onto, or the rattan cricket on the table, or the couch pillows covered in yellow silk that
Noi picked out, or the photographs of himself on the wall, standing next to men-of-the-moment, mostly forgotten now but worth pointing a camera at, back whenever. He doesn’t see the rug he hauled in a year ago, grunting under its weight, because he hated the brown linoleum.

Just the photograph. Just his wife’s face.

Of course he
knows
that he’s not seeing the other things. He’s stopped seeing them in self-defense, amazed to learn how much sadness inanimate objects can give off, an emotional vapor that says,
When I bought that / was given that /put that there, I didn’t know
. I thought the world’s natural state was to be whole, I thought it would remain whole.

I thought if anything ever happened to one of us, it would happen to me.

Beside the framed photograph, a stack of work waits for him. Papers he needs to review pointlessly, reports he needs to initial pointlessly, a calendar of pointless meetings he’ll drag himself to, just a little late, so he can sit on the periphery, against the wall instead of at the table, and try to look attentive. Try not to look like a man who has just been hit by a train.

He trudges across the room and sits down with a sigh he doesn’t hear. The chair makes its invariable squeak of complaint, something he has meant to take care of for weeks—a squirt of WD-40, what could be easier? It would just take a second. The can is on top of the filing cabinet, put there at his request by one of the secretaries a million years ago. Picking it up would take more strength than he possesses. He thinks briefly about getting up and throwing the chair through the window. That’s something he can visualize doing. Breaking things. For that he could find strength.

He reads the first sentence on the top page of the stack and then reads it again. Halfway through he goes back to see what the memo’s subject is. It’s got something to do with a new copying loop, a list of people who are to be copied automatically on several sorts of documents, very few of which ever cross his desk. He takes the page, rips it lengthwise down the center, and sits there, holding half of the sheet in each hand, looking right through the photograph.

In the three days since he found the pills buried in the flour, Noi has paled and lightened. She seems to walk more weightlessly, to absorb more light, to carry her pain more easily, as though it were a cloak she
can lift from her shoulders when the weight becomes too much for her. Today, as she stood at the stove heating the water for his coffee, he had the sense that if he squinted hard enough, he could see the stove through her. That she was some sort of colored projection in the air.

That she was already beginning to fade.

Of course, the impulse, the instinct, is to hold on, to wrap his arms around her and anchor her. To do whatever it takes to keep her beside him. But to do that would be to keep her in her pain, the smoldering in her nervous system that will simply get worse until she bursts into flame like a paper doll. Fire no one can put out. Won’t it be better if she simply goes to sleep?

Of course it would. Of course it wouldn’t.

That morning, as he drank his coffee, trying to act the way he acted every morning—as though this were just the beginning of another day in an infinite progression of days—Noi pulled her chair around from the side of the table where she usually sits and put it beside his. She wound her arms around his neck and leaned against him. He sat there cup in hand, inhaling the smell of her shampoo, feeling the heat from her skin, listening to the flow of her breath and watching the room ripple through the tears in his eyes, while his heart slammed against his ribs like a fist. They sat there until the coffee was cold. Neither of them spoke a word.

His phone rings.

He looks at it as he might look at a scorpion on his desk. It continues to ring. Finally he drops the scrap of paper in his left hand and reaches for the receiver, seeing the glint of his wedding ring. Picks up the receiver and says his name.

“This is Thanom,” says the voice on the other end, a voice with some snap to it. “We need to talk. Now. Come up here.”

Arthit hangs up the phone, thinking,
Poke
.

“I’VE JUST HAD
an interesting chat,” Thanom says as Arthit comes through the door. Today Thanom is in his usual uniform, not the ceremonial outfit Poke had described him wearing at Pan’s fund-raiser. He has a short, flattened nose and an upper lip that’s longer than the nose above it. Those features, plus round black eyes as expressive as bullet
holes, have always made him look to Arthit like a monkey. But he’s not a monkey one should underestimate. Thanom has a perpetually wet index finger raised to detect the slightest shift in the political winds.

“Really,” Arthit says. “A chat with whom?” He has not been invited to sit.

Thanom gives a tug at the left point of his collar. “A friend of yours. The
farang
who’s writing Pan’s biography. What’s his name?”

“Rafferty,” Arthit says. “More an acquaintance than a friend.”

“Is that so,” Thanom says, not making it a question. “I’d heard otherwise.”

“Obviously I have no way of knowing what you’ve heard.”

Arthit’s tone sharpens the interest in Thanom’s face, but he puts it aside for the moment to pursue his topic. “I’m apparently on some sort of list of people he’s supposed to talk to about Pan, although I can’t imagine why.”

Arthit says, “Who gave him the list?”

Thanom leans back in his chair and regards Arthit speculatively. “That’s an excellent question. I should have asked it.”

“You’ve been behind a desk for a while,” Arthit says, pleased to see the spots of red appear on Thanom’s cheeks. “Focused on more important things than nuts and bolts. First-year-patrolman stuff.”

“No, no,” Thanom says between lips that are stretched tight enough to snap. “A really good policeman never forgets the basics.”

Arthit says, “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

Arthit can practically see Thanom make an imaginary mark:
One to get even for
. “Did he tell
you
who gave him the list?”

“I don’t know him as well as you think I do.”

“It’s been a while since we talked, hasn’t it?” Thanom says. “It’s a shame my responsibilities don’t give me more time with my men. One thing about your friend interested me. He kept asking to see the files on Pan. When I said it wasn’t possible, he asked whether they were even accessible. As though we might have misplaced them somehow.”

“That
is
interesting.”

Thanom lifts his tie and glances at it, as though he expects to find a stain. “Any idea where he might have gotten the idea?”

“None. Is it true?”

Thanom’s eyes come up. “Of course not. We don’t misplace files.”

“That’s a relief,” Arthit says. “Since we’re the institutional memory of law and order in Bangkok and all that.”

“You don’t know where he could have picked up such a notion? Your friend, I mean.”

“Acquaintance. No, of course not. But if he’s got whole lists of people to talk to, maybe one of them suggested something of the sort.”

“Yes, yes,” Thanom says, holding up a hand. “And you personally,” he says. He squeezes some feeling into his voice, as persuasive as food coloring. “How are you bearing up?”

Arthit has no idea how Thanom knows anything is wrong with Noi. “Beating against the tide,” he says, “as we all do.”

“Do we?” Thanom says, standing to signal the end of the conversation. “I don’t think so. I think some of us learn to ride it.”

FOR PURPOSES OF
his work, Rafferty’s favorite kind of people are the ones who are dumber than they think they are. The policeman, Thanom, had practically redefined the category. Yes, of course he’d be happy to help Rafferty, especially in light of the call he’d received. Rafferty certainly had prominent friends, didn’t he? Heh, heh. And the time was long overdue for a book about this disgusting man, this scab on the Bangkok social scene. Practically a common criminal, for all the flash and the…um, amazing girls. Here Thanom had actually stopped talking long enough to press the side of his index finger against his upper lip, blotting sweat Rafferty couldn’t see.

But of course Rafferty knew a few things about beauty himself, didn’t he? Thanom said when his finger was out of the way, considering the rare orchid Rafferty had been parading at the event at Pan’s house. And then Thanom brandished the official elbow: Amazing how resilient women are, isn’t it? he asked. Take them out of the mud and six months later they look like they’ve never been dirty a moment in their lives. Not that Thanom thinks of Patpong as mud, of course. It’s just regrettable that there aren’t better career choices for these flowers of the northeast. And how fortunate she was, Rose, to find a good man to rescue her, one who wouldn’t object to…well, to all that. But change was coming. Surely Rafferty could feel it in the air, after—here Thanom glanced down at a single piece of paper sitting in regal splendor on his
desk—after three years and nine months in the kingdom. Why, he said with an admiring shake of the head, you must feel half Thai yourself.

And no, he didn’t know how Pan had gotten his start, how he had climbed from thugdom to the top of the industrial heap, or even—for sure—that there
was
any thugdom back there in the first place. “Common criminal” had just been a figure of speech based on, you know, how he dresses and behaves in public. There were rumors, of course. There were always rumors wherever there were envious people, but nothing official. And of course he’d be delighted to let Rafferty look at the official records, especially considering who had called him to suggest that he find time for this meeting, nothing would make him happier, but he would have to exceed his authority to do so. No matter how high you rise, there’s always someone higher, isn’t there? Although Rafferty, as a freelance writer with two—no, three—books to his credit and another one in the pipeline (isn’t that the term you use, “pipeline”?), yes, Rafferty probably lives a much freer and less constrained life than a simple civil servant. How I envy you that freedom as I sit chained to this desk all day, working for the people’s good.

And now you’ve got this fascinating project about one of Bangkok’s most…uh, visible citizens.

And I’d like nothing better than to show you the files, but it’s impossible. Just procedure, rules and regulations, you know. But of
course
all of Pan’s records are accessible. The police didn’t
lose
records. There were backups of backups of backups. To purge anything, even something inconsequential, would be a vast enterprise, requiring hundreds of man-hours. But nothing of that kind had happened in Pan’s case. The records are there, but unavailable, I’m sorry to say.

By now Thanom had taken the paper clip off the sheets and was flicking one end of it with an index finger to make it spin. The activity had the unfortunate effect of making him look even more like a monkey, one who is on the verge of inventing a tool but probably won’t. When Rafferty asks him about Pan’s political aspirations, the paper clip sails off the desk and lands in Rafferty’s lap.

On the street, having wasted much of his morning and with yet another interview in front of him, Rafferty asks himself again: What do they actually want?

SEVERAL HOURS LATER
Arthit has made a third improvement to his new paper-plane design when someone knocks on his door. Elaborately folded official reports, symmetrically streamlined and sharply pointed, most of them with a downturned nose borrowed from the Concorde, litter the carpet. The nose
looks
good, but it seems to impair the lift a good paper plane needs, so Arthit has just counterweighted the tail with a staple and launched it across the room.

He doesn’t bother to tell whoever it is to come in.

Arthit doesn’t have anything as grand as a secretary, but he has access to a pool of women with widely varying skill levels. The one who comes through the door is his favorite: in her sixties, dressed and made up like a nineteen-year-old, she calls herself Brigitte, after Brigitte Bardot. Except for Arthit she is probably the only person in the station who remembers Bardot in all her pouting, carnal glory.

“For you,” she says. She has an envelope in her hand.

“So I assumed,” Arthit says. “Since this is the office you brought it to. What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Brigitte says, although her eyes say she does. “It’s sealed.”

“Unseal it, then. Unseal it and read it to me.”

Brigitte shifts from foot to foot, obviously wishing she were elsewhere. “I’m not sure I should.”

“Whoever sent it to me probably wants me to know what it says, right?”

“Well…I suppose.”

“Then open it and read it to me. I can promise you that if you don’t, it will probably be weeks before I get around to opening it myself. I have far too much on my hands.” He rips out another page of another report and folds it lengthwise, already visualizing a triangular tuck in the tail section that might make the staple redundant. Staples seem like cheating.