Saving Fish From Drowning (30 page)

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a degree in death—death of the mind if not the body. You could not write about any bad news, so what was left to write?

The girl was correct. It depends. But how could he tell these Americans that? They were here so briefly. They would never be affected.

What would they gain by his telling the truth? What did he risk losing if he did? And as he gazed out on the lake, he saw a way to answer.

“Look there.” He pointed. “There—the man standing in the boat.”

The travelers craned their necks and uttered cries of delight upon seeing one of the famous Intha fishermen of Inle Lake. My friends retrieved their cameras, making ripping sounds as they pulled open the Velcroed cases. They cooed happily as they looked through the viewfinders.

Walter continued: “See how he stands on one leg while the other is curled around a paddle? This allows him to glide as he uses his hands to fish. It seems impossible. Yet he does this effortlessly.”

“Niche adaptation!” Roxanne and Dwight simultaneously called to each other from their separate boats.

“I’d fall into the lake,” Bennie said.

Walter went on: “That, in essence, is how my friends and I sometimes feel. We have adapted so that we can effect this one-legged stance and not fall over. We can dream of fish and propel ourselves forward, but sometimes our nets are empty, our rowing leg tires, and we are just drifting with the current, along with the weeds. . . .”

My friends had already forgotten the question. They were contorting their heads so that they were best positioned for capturing this oddly beautiful scene. Only Black Spot heard Walter’s answer.

FLOATING ISLAND RESORT was only a year old, modeled after its competition, the highly successful Golden Island Cottages and its sister hotels. It was the subsidiary of a large tribe, which had agreed to a cease-fire with the Myanmar military junta in exchange for a 2 0 8

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stake in the hospitality industry. This latest resort had the additional advantage of Western management and expertise in comfort, decor, and service, or so the brochures proclaimed.

This management came in the robust form of a Swiss German expatriate named Heinrich Glick, who knew what amenities appealed to foreign tastes. As the longboats drew to the dock, uniformed boys in matching green-checked longyis welcomed the passengers and speedily unloaded their luggage. Names were called out, cottage numbers quickly assigned, and the designated bellhops grabbed keys attached to small floats. The bellhops earned their keep solely from the generous tips that Western tourists gave, and each tried to outdo the others in carrying the greatest amount of luggage.

Heinrich appeared on the dock. When I first met him years ago, he had been a handsome man, with thick, wavy blond locks combed back, a smooth voice, a sophisticated air, and a Teutonic jawline.

Now he was portly, with a pouchlike neck, thin legs, sparse hair, pink peekaboo scalp, and Windex-blue eyes rimmed in red. He wore a collarless white shirt of loose-weave linen over yellow washed-silk trousers.

“Welcome, welcome,” he saluted his guests. “Welcome to paradise. You’ve had a pleasant trip, I trust. A bit brisk,
ja? Brrrrr.
All right, then, go admire your rooms, and after you are settled in, please join me in the Great Hall for a toast with bubbles.” He gestured behind him, toward a tall wooden building with many windows. He looked at his watch. “Let us say noon-ish, with scrumptious lunch to follow. Run along now and freshen up.” He shooed them away with his hands as if they were a flock of pigeons. “Ta-ta! See you soon.”

My friends and their bellhops scattered toward the various oiled teak walkways that fanned out from the dock like the legs of an insect. Cries of delight echoed as they approached their accommodations: “This is more like it.” “Just like tiki huts.” “How cute is that?”

The bungalows were indeed rustically charming.

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Bennie stepped into his. The interior was of pleated rattan, the floors covered with hemp mats, the low twin beds adorned with simple white linens and enveloped by gauzy mosquito netting. Oh, he loved that last touch, so tropically romantic, reminiscent of former nights of sweaty tangled limbs. On the walls were painted renditions of celestial creatures and carvings on bone, the sort of mass-produced native art that passed as chicly primitive. The bathroom was a nice surprise, spacious and free of mildew, the floor covered with a plain white tile, and the shower built a step lower and separated by a half-wall.

In Heidi’s room, the bellhop opened the windows. They lacked screens, and nearby were coils of insecticidal incense and pots of citronella, all signs that alerted her to the fact that the stagnant waters beneath the walkways were mosquito breeding grounds. One door over, Marlena and Esmé were all oohs and ahs over the views of the lake, marveling that this place truly was paradise, a Shangri-La.

Harry was even more pleased than the others. His bungalow was at the far end of pier five, and its secluded location made for a perfect love nest. Oh, look. The resort had thoughtfully provided lemon-scented candles, a romantic touch. He went outside to the small porch. It held a couple of teak chairs with adjustable reclining backs—fantastic, ideal for lying together to do a bit of moon gazing and set the mood for an exquisite night of lovemaking.

Marlena and Esmé had stepped out of their bungalow just two

piers away from him. A porter who looked to be about the size of Esmé had arrived, dragging two mammoth suitcases, a duffel slung from each shoulder. Harry waved to catch Marlena’s eye, and she eagerly waved back. They were like two lovebirds flapping their wings.

The message was clear: Tonight was the night.

A half-hour later in the Great Hall, Heinrich poured champagne into plastic tumblers. “To pleasure and beauty, to new friends and lasting memories,” he said warmly. Soon he would bestow on them 2 1 0

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pet names—Our Great Leader, Our Lovely Lady, Our Nature Lover, Our Scientist, Our Doctor, Our Resident Genius, Our Roving Photographer, and the like—the same stock descriptions he assigned to all guests to make them feel special. He never remembered actual names.

Heinrich had managed a five-star beach resort in Thailand for a number of years—I went there twice myself—but then it was discovered that three tourists over the previous six months had died not of misadventure, heart attack, and drowning, respectively, as the death certificates had indicated, but of jellyfish stings. The place was closed down after the demise of the third victim, the son of an American congresswoman. After that, Heinrich surfaced in some directorial capacity for a luxury hotel in Mandalay. I ran into him there, and he acted as if I were his long-lost friend. He called me “Our Dear Art Professor.” And then he wrote down the name of a restaurant he described as the “utmost.” His moist palm encircled my elbow, rubbing it as he might a lover’s, as he told me in confidential tones that he would inform the maître d’ that my companions and I were coming.

“How many of you are there? Six? Perfect! The best table with the best view shall be reserved, and I shall join you and would be honored to have you as my guests.”

How could we refuse? How bad could a free lunch be? We went.

He was unctuous and jovial as we perused the menu. He called out the specialties we should order, and to hell with the bloody cost, it was his treat. By the second course, he was blustery and loudly sentimental about Grindelwald, his birthplace, it seemed. He began singing a Swiss German yodeling song, “Mei Biber Hendel,” that sounded like a chicken clucking. A table full of Thai businessmen seated nearby cast sideways glances and made “tut-tut” comments in low voices. The end was signaled by his head lowering until his forehead rested on the table, and that was where it remained until waiters arrived and lifted him by his armpits, then dragged him to his 2 1 1

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waiting car and driver. The waiter and maître d’ shrugged regretfully when I informed them that Mr. Glick had said he would pay. Thus, I was stuck with the bill, a rather costly one, given the number of people, and the quantity and caliber of alcohol that he ordered for all and which he largely consumed. But at the hotel the next day, Heinrich apologized profusely for his “sudden illness” and hasty departure. He said he would make up for the lunch bill by deducting an equivalent amount from our hotel charges. “How much was it?” he asked, and I rounded the number down a bit and he rounded it up with a sweep of his pen. In this manner, he ingratiated himself to his clients, dined lavishly free of charge, and pilfered from his employer.

As you can see, he was a slippery charmer and a thoroughly dishonest man. He once told me he had managed the Mandarin Oriental in Hong Kong, a claim I found hard to believe, given that he knew not a whit of Cantonese. “What’s good to eat there?” I asked, baiting him. And he said, “Sweet-and-sour pork,” the favorite of those who know nothing of Chinese food and are unwilling to try anything else. So I knew he was full of poppycock, and it was maddening that he showed absolutely no shame about his lies. He never lost the gleaming smile.

Some of the other tour leaders told me he was not really a hotelier at all. He worked for the CIA, they said. He was one of their best operatives. The accent was faked, the Swiss nationality a sham. He was an American, Henry Glick, from Los Angeles, the land of actors. In the early days, when he first came to Asia, he listed his occupation as

“waste management consultant.” On other visas, he said he was a

“water purification engineer.” “Waste” was code for CIA targets, don’t you see, people they wanted to get rid of. “Purification” was code for filtering information through sources. For a spy, a position in the hospitality industry was ideal, since in this capacity, or rather as the incapacitated host, he wined and dined all sorts of government officials in Thailand, China, and Burma, and gave off the im2 1 2

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pression he was merely a bumbling drunkard, too soused to be of any threat as they spoke of under-the-table deals when he was under the table himself.

All this I heard. But I found it too incredible. If I knew of the story, then wouldn’t the people he was supposedly spying on have caught wind of it as well? He would have been ousted by the Myanmar government long before now. No, no, he could not possibly be a spy. Besides, I had smelled the alcohol on his breath. How do you fake that?

I watched him drink the “bubbles” until he nearly burst of carbonated blood. Then again, he had to be up to something to have managed all these years to hang on to a job. Granted, his career had taken him to the backwaters of Asia. For a hotel executive, this was clearly a demotion.

Strangely enough, only Esmé detected early on that Heinrich was a phony. The child was innocent yet astute beyond her years, as I had been when I was her age. She saw how easily her mother was duped into liking him. “Our Ravishing Beauty,” he called her. Harry became

“Our English Gentleman,” and a bit later, when someone informed Heinrich that Harry had a popular television show on dogs, he dubbed Harry “Our Famous TV Star,” which pleased him a great deal.

Heinrich, however, was not skilled at beguiling children. He smiled too broadly and spoke as many adults do to infants. “Is your tummy hungry?” Esmé watched him suspiciously and saw the pattern: how he always had some excuse to touch the women lightly on their arms, press a palm on the men’s backs, compliment each person in private with, “You look like a seasoned traveler, different from the others, a person who seeks more deeply when in another’s land. Am I right?”

Esmé was carrying Pup-pup in a nylon sack. A light scarf was draped over the top, and the puppy was content to curl up in this improvised womb, that is, until she needed to relieve herself and tried to climb out. Then she let forth a yelp. When Heinrich glanced 2 1 3

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toward Esmé, she pretended to sneeze. The pup squeaked again, and again Esmé pretended to sneeze. She headed for the restroom, where she pulled out a few pages of the teen fashion magazine she had brought, and laid these on the tile floor. She put Pup-pup on top and urged her to “go potty,” and soon enough the puppy squatted and the pages darkened. Pup-pup was very smart for being just a baby.

When Esmé returned, Heinrich greeted her with glazed eyes: “Ah, so Our Little Pipsqueak has come back to the fold.” She gave him her best blank face, then hurried to find her mother seated at a table.

Lunch was about to be served,
tout compris
, except for the wine and beer, and, as they would learn later, the overpriced “welcome” champagne they had downed with their gracious host.

Over lunch, Heinrich joked that they had better not gripe about the food and service here. “ ’Tis all owned by a formerly fierce tribe that once settled disagreements by having you over for a
tête-à-tête
and carrying off your
tête
. What’s more, they receive protection from their friends, the SLORC soldiers. So you see, your satisfaction is guaranteed, no complaints. Ha, ha, ha.”

“No complaints here,” Bennie said. “Food’s great.”

“What do you mean, protection?” Moff said. “Like the Mafia

kind?”

Heinrich looked around as if to check that no one among his staff was listening. “Not exactly.” He rubbed his fingers, the sign for filthy lucre. “If you help others, you receive merit, a bit of good karma.

Oh, come now, don’t act so surprised. It’s a tradition in other countries, yours as well.” He clapped Moff on the shoulder. “Isn’t it so, my friend?
Ja?
” He laughed uproariously at his own comments.

Then he added, “Actually, yes, everyone has become quite friendly, quite, quite. When business is good, relations are good. The past is old business—
fffttt!
—forgotten, time to move ahead to the future.”

He paused and reconsidered. “Well. Of course nothing is ever completely forgotten, unless you’re dead, but we can
selectively
ignore, 2 1 4