The Windup Girl (8 page)

"Emiko!"

She flinches. It's Raleigh, motioning her toward his office. Men's gazes follow her stutter-stop movements as she passes the bar. Kannika looks up from her date where they twine hands and nuzzle close. She smiles slightly as Emiko goes by. When Emiko first came to the country, she was told that the Thais have thirteen kinds of smile. She suspects that Kannika's denotes no good will.

"Come on." Raleigh says, impatient. He leads her through a curtain and down the hall past where the girls change into their work clothes, then through another door.

The memorabilia of three lifetimes lines his office's walls, everything from yellowed photographs of a Bangkok lit entirely by electricity to an image of Raleigh wearing the traditional dress of some savage hilltribe in the North. Raleigh invites Emiko to recline on a cushion on the raised platform where he does his private business. Another man is already sprawled there, a pale tall creature with blue eyes and blond hair and an angry scar on his neck.

The man startles when she comes into the room. "Jesus and Noah, you didn't tell me she was a windup," he says.

Raleigh grins and settles on his own cushion. "Didn't know you were a Grahamite."

The man almost smiles at the taunt. "Keeping something this risky. . . You're playing with blister rust, Raleigh. The white shirts could be all over you."

"The Ministry doesn't give a damn as long I pay the bribes. The guys who patrol around here aren't the Tiger of Bangkok. They just want to make a buck and sleep through the night." He laughs. "Buying her ice is more expensive than paying the Environment Ministry to look the other way."

"Ice?"

"Wrong pore structure. She overheats." He scowls. "If I'd known beforehand, I wouldn't have bought her."

The room reeks of opium and Raleigh busies himself filling the pipe again. He claims that opium has kept him young, vital through the years, but Emiko suspects that he sails for Tokyo and the same aging treatments Gendo-sama used. Raleigh holds the opium over its lamp. It heats and sizzles, and he turns the ball on its needles, working the tar until it turns viscous, then he quickly rolls it back into a ball and presses it into his pipe. He extends the pipe to the lamp and breathes deeply as the tar turns to smoke. He closes his eyes. Blindly offers it to the pale man.

"No, thank you."

Raleigh's eyes open. He laughs. "You should try it. It's the one thing the plagues didn't get. Lucky for me. Can't imagine going through withdrawal at my age."

The man doesn't answer. Instead, his pale blue eyes study Emiko. She has the uncomfortable feeling of being taken apart, cell by cell. Not so much that he undresses her with his gaze—this she experiences every day: the feel of men's eyes darting across her skin, clasping at her body, hungering and despising her—instead his study is clinically detached. If there is hunger there, he hides it well.

"She's the one?" he asks.

Raleigh nods. "Emiko, tell the gentleman about our friend from the other night."

Emiko glances at Raleigh, discomfited. She is fairly certain that she has never seen this pale blond
gaijin
at the club before, at least, that he has never attended any special performance. She has never served him a whiskey ice. She wracks her memories. No, she would remember. He has a sunburn, obvious despite the dim flicker of the candles and opium lamp. And his eyes are too strangely pale, unpleasantly so. She would remember him.

"Go on." Raleigh urges. "Tell him what you told me. About the white shirt. The kid you went with."

Raleigh is normally fanatic about the privacy of guests. He has even talked about building a separate stairwell for patrons, simply so they will not be seen entering and leaving Ploenchit tower at all, an access passage that would allow them to enter from a block away, under the street. And yet now he wants her to reveal so much.

"The boy?" she asks, stalling for time, unnerved by Raleigh's eagerness to expose a guest, and a white shirt, at that. She glances at the stranger again, wondering who he is, and what sort of hold he has on her papa-san.

"Go on," Raleigh motions impatiently, the opium pipe gripped in his teeth. He leans into the opium lamp to smoke again.

"He was a white shirt," Emiko begins. "He came with a group of other officers. . ."

A new one. Brought around by his friends. All of them laughing and egging him on. All of them drinking free because Raleigh knows better than to charge, their good will worth more than the liquor. The young man, drunk. Laughing and making jokes about her in the bar. And then stealthily returning later, in privacy, hidden from his colleagues' prying eyes.

The pale man makes a face. "They'll go with you? With your kind?"

"
Hai
." Emiko nods, showing nothing of what she thinks of his contempt. "White shirts and Grahamites."

Raleigh laughs softly. "Sex and hypocrisy. They go together like coffee and cream."

The stranger glances sharply at Raleigh, and Emiko wonders if the old man can see the disgust in those pale blue eyes or if he is too stoned on opium to care. The pale man leans forward, cutting Raleigh out of the conversation. "And what did this white shirt tell you?"

Is there a flicker of fascination there? Does she intrigue him? Or is it simply her story that interests him?

Despite herself, Emiko feels a stirring of her genetic urge to please, an emotion that she hasn't felt since her abandonment. Something about the man reminds her of Gendo-sama. Even though his blue
gaijin
eyes are like pools of chemical bath acid and his face is kabuki pale, he has presence. The air of authority is palpable, and strangely comforting.

Are you a Grahamite?
she wonders.
Would you use me and then mulch me?
She wonders if she cares. He is not beautiful. He is not Japanese. He is nothing. And yet his horrifying eyes hold her with the same power that Gendo-sama used to exercise.

"What do you wish to know?" she whispers.

"Your white shirt said something about generipping," the
gaijin
says. "Do you remember?"

"
Hai
. Yes. I think perhaps he was very proud. He came with a bag of newly designed fruits. Gifts for all of the girls."

More interest from the
gaijin.
It warms her. "And what did the fruit look like?" he asks.

"It was red, I think. With. . . threads. Long threads."

"Green hairs? About so long?" He indicates a centimeter with his fingers. "Thickish?"

She nods. "Yes. That's right. He called them
ngaw
. And his aunt had made them. She was going to be recognized by the Child Queen's Protector, the Somdet Chaopraya, for her contribution to the Kingdom. He was very proud of his aunt."

"And he went with you," the man prompts.

"Yes. But later. After his friends were gone."

The pale man shakes his head impatiently. He doesn't care about the details of the liaison: the boy's nervous eyes, the way he approached the mama-san and how Emiko was sent up to wait for him to follow a safe time later, so that no one would make the connection. "What else did he say about this aunt?" he asks.

"Just that she rips for the Ministry."

"Nothing else? Not where she rips? Where they have test fields? Nothing of that sort?"

"No."

"That's it?" The
gaijin
glances at Raleigh, irritated. "This is what you dragged me here for?"

Raleigh rouses himself. "The
farang
," he prompts. "Tell him about the
farang
."

Emiko can't help but show her confusion. "Sorry?" She remembers the white shirt boy, bragging about his aunt. How his aunt would be given a prize and a promotion for her work with
ngaw
. . . nothing of
farang
. "I don't understand."

Raleigh puts down his pipe, scowling. "You told me he talked about
farang
generippers."

"No." She shakes her head. "He said nothing about foreigners. I am sorry."

The scarred
gaijin
makes a face of irritation. "Let me know when you've got something worth my time, Raleigh." He reaches for his hat, makes to stand.

Raleigh glares at her. "You said there was a
farang
generipper!"

"No. . ." Emiko shakes her head. "Wait!" She puts out a hand to the
gaijin
. "Wait.
Khun
, please wait. I know what Raleigh-san is talking about." Her fingers brush his arm. The
gaijin
jerks away from her touch. He steps out of reach with a look of disgust.

"Please," she begs. "I did not understand. The boy said nothing about
farang
. But he used a name. . . . it could have been
farang,
" She looks to Raleigh for confirmation. "Is this what you mean? The strange name? It could have been foreign, yes? Not Thai. Not Chinese or Hokkien. . ."

Raleigh interrupts, "Tell him what you told me, Emiko. That's all I want. Tell him everything. Every single detail. Just like you're talking to me after a date."

And so she does. As the
gaijin
sits again, listening suspiciously, she tells everything. About the boy's nervousness, how he couldn't look at her, and then how he couldn't look away. How he talked because his erection would not come. How he watched her undress. How he talked about his aunt. Trying to make himself seem important to a whore and a New People whore at that, and how strange and silly that had seemed to her, and how she hid her thoughts of him. And then finally the part that makes Raleigh smile in satisfaction and the pale scarred man's eyes widen.

"The boy said the man Gi Bu Sen gives them blueprints, but he betrays them more often than not. But his aunt discovered a trickery. And then they made the successful rip of the
ngaw
. Gi Bu Sen did hardly anything for them with the
ngaw
. It was all his aunt's work, in the end." She nods. "That is what he said. This Gi Bu Sen
tricks them. But his aunt is too brilliant to be tricked."

The scarred man studies her closely. Cold blue eyes. Pale skin like a corpse. "Gi Bu Sen," the man murmurs. "You're sure that was the name?"

"Gi Bu Sen. I am sure."

The man nods, thoughtful. The lamp that Raleigh uses for his opium crackles in the silence. Far below on the street, a late-night water seller calls out, his voice floating up through the open shutters and mosquito screens. The noise seems to break the
gaijin
from his reverie. His pale eyes focus on her again. "I would be very interested to know if your friend returned for another visit."

"He was ashamed, afterward." Emiko touches her cheek, where she hides a fading bruise with makeup. "I think he will not—"

Raleigh interrupts. "Sometimes they come back. Even if they feel guilty." He shoots her a dark look. She makes herself nod in confirmation. The boy will not be coming back, but it will make the
gaijin
happy to think so. And it will make Raleigh happy. Raleigh is her patron. She should agree. Should agree with conviction.

"Sometimes." It's all she can manage. "Sometimes they come back, even if they are ashamed."

The
gaijin
eyes them both. "Why don't you go get her some ice, Raleigh?"

"It's not time for her next round. And she's got a show coming up."

"I'll cover the loss."

Raleigh clearly wants to stay, but he's smart enough not to protest. He forces a smile. "Of course. Why don't you two talk?" He looks at her significantly as he leaves. Emiko knows Raleigh wants her to seduce this
gaijin
. To entice him with herky-jerky sex and the promise of transgression. And then to listen to him and report, as all the girls are asked to.

She leans closer, letting the
gaijin
see her exposed skin. His eyes trace across her flesh, following the line of her thigh where it slips beneath her
pha sin
, the way her hip presses against fabric. He looks away. Emiko hides her irritation. Is he attracted? Nervous? Disgusted? She cannot tell. With most men, it is easy. Obvious. They fit such simple patterns. She wonders if he finds a New Person too disgusting, or if perhaps he prefers boys.

"How do you survive here?" the
gaijin
asks. "The white shirts should have mulched you by now."

"The payments. As long as Raleigh-san is willing to pay, they will ignore."

"And you live somewhere, too? Raleigh pays for that as well?" When she nods, he says, "Expensive, I suppose?"

She shrugs. "Raleigh-san keeps a tally of my debts."

As if summoned, Raleigh returns with her ice. The
gaijin
pauses as Raleigh comes through the door, waits impatiently as Raleigh sets down the glass on the low table. Raleigh hesitates, and when the scarred man ignores him, he mumbles something about enjoying themselves and leaves again. She watches the old man's departure thoughtfully, wondering at the hold this man has over Raleigh. Before her, the glass of icy water sweats, seductive. At the man's nod she reaches for it and drinks. Convulsive. Before she knows it, it is gone. She presses the cold glass against her cheek.

The scarred man watches. "So you're not engineered for the tropics," he says. He leans forward, studying her, his eyes moving across her skin. "It's interesting that your designers modified your pore structure."

She fights the urge to recoil from his interest. She steels herself. Leans closer. "It is to make my skin more attractive. Smooth." She draws her
pha sin
above her knees, lets it slide up her thighs. "Would you like to touch?"

He glances at her, questioning.

"Please." She nods permission.

He reaches out and his hand slips along her flesh. "Lovely," he murmurs. She feels a flush of satisfaction as his voice catches. His eyes have gone wide, like a child unmoored. He clears his throat.

"Your skin is burning," he says.

"
Hai
. As you say, I was not designed for this climate. "

Now he's examining every bit of her. Eyes roaming across her, starving, as if he will feed upon her with his gaze. Raleigh will be pleased. "It makes sense," he says. "Your model must only sell to elites. . . . they'd have climate control." He nods to himself, studying her. "It would be worth the trade-off, to them."