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  “So why you join the—ah—thing you joined, the Company?”

  Mitch Turner suddenly grins: “They wanted spies who were fluent in Japanese. At the time there was concern the Japs were stealing American industrial secrets in a government-sponsored program. And I’m a genius at passing exams, so I got through the recruitment stuff no problem.” A condescending smile: “I have a photographic memory and an IQ of a hundred sixty-five—genius level.”

  “So you can be anyone you want?” She is aware how provocative this question might be and deliberately locks eyes with him, in a kind of challenge. She watches his confusion carefully, until he seems to decide on a new direction. With a thoroughly convincing beam: “You know, I don’t think I could live without you, now that I’ve found you. You’re the only woman in the world who has ever understood me.”

  But the alcohol is wearing off, Mitch Turner’s metamorphosis is going into reverse, and soon the guilt and the responsibility will claim him all over again. Chanya thinks there is time for one last innocent question: “So you screwed your brains out while you were in Japan?”

  Too late, the chemical reaction has reversed itself, the impermeable Outer Layer is creeping over him like rust, protecting that bizarre inner core from further oxidation. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  A shrug in which there is more than a little contempt all of a sudden, even revulsion. “There are better things to do during your short time on earth, Chanya. I hope you’ll see that someday. I do wish you would read that Bible I gave you. How much do I owe you for today’s massage?”

  She has grown used to it. At the end of every session, even when they have spent the night together, he will suddenly pretend that he hired her for a simple no-sex massage and insist on paying her whatever she asks. She has learned to play up.

  “For the massage? Five hundred dollars.” When he has paid up in crisp new bills, which he must get from the bank every time especially for her, she says: “When will I see you again?”

  A somber shake of the head. “I don’t know. I’m not sure we should continue with this. It’s wrong. It’s not good for either of us, and I really do need to think about my responsibility to you, about what I’m doing to your soul. I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again for a while.”

  She agrees, making the appropriate expression of regretful acceptance. She knows he’ll call again in a day or so, but does he? How lost between two minds is he?

  This is a question she will not be able to answer until it is way too late. She is all alone in a big rough country, after all, and as tough as she is, there are times when a big lonely hole opens in her mind, too. Once, not thinking, she rang him at his office to tell him about that episode from The Simpsons when Marge got breast implants. She had his number because he’d made a point of giving her his business card when he was drunk. (“I want you to call me every hour on the hour, I want to hear your voice, I want to talk dirty with you for hours and hours”: of course she knew better than to use it when he was at work and sober.) Now, suddenly cognizant of what she has done, she holds her breath, not sure how he’ll react. Maybe she’s gone too far and he’ll break it off for real this time? A long pause, then: “Marge didn’t mean to get implants—it was a screwup at the hospital.” A pause. “I’ll take you to lunch. Where do you want to go?”

  “Jake’s Chili Bowl?”

  “That’s black, not a good idea.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right.”

  “Tell you what. Dress up for business, and I’ll take you to Hawk and Dove, up on the Hill. I’ll tell everyone you’re part of the Thai ecology delegation. They’re here for two weeks to try to stop Americans from buying up huge chunks of their nature reserves. Ad lib if anyone comes up to talk to us.”

  Chanya has not had a chance to be a real human being since Thanee left. She doesn’t realize how much she’s missed playing the exotic Oriental trade delegate until Turner mentions Hawk and Dove, which Thanee took her to twice. The Thai diplomat bought her a black business suit of American cut (pants, not skirt), which she now wears for Mitch Turner, along with the big chunky gold necklace with Buddha pendant that she has never worn outside her apartment. With her hair pinned up and her mascara cunningly applied in the way taught in the beauty salons, black high heels and a serious expression on her face (Thanee once taught her how to do American Grim, advising that it was the best facial expression for getting things done in the United States), the combination of severe trouser suit with extravagant Oriental gold makes her look not so much part of a lobbying group as a member of the Thai aristocracy.

  Context is the most magical of powers. In Hawk and Dove, sitting on a stool next to the very serious Mitch Turner, who never does anything but Grim while on duty, it is clear that staffers who serve the needs of members of Congress assume she is a foreign dignitary of enormous importance and treat her with a respect she didn’t know her soul craved. She decides she loves Hawk and Dove and will extract frequent visits there from Turner as a price he has to pay for the deepening of intimacy, even though at this very minute he is experiencing something of a crisis, not believing he’s had the reckless balls to take her there at all. Surely there are customers of hers among the clientele?

  She looks around with a studious expression on her face. Nope, no man whose cock she’s serviced, as far as she can remember. Mitch Turner’s flesh turns gray, and he orders a bottle of wine.

  In her diary Chanya tells us no more about this lunch, or by what process they wound up back at her apartment, where they proceeded with the usual ritual. The lunch has had an effect on him, though, that neither anticipated. In bed afterward Turner, still high from his medicine, reflects on the wisdom of introducing her to his parents. She does not ask which set of possibly fictional mothers and fathers he has in mind. Obviously, they are playing a variation of the usual game. The mood is light and careless, and Chanya is caught unawares.

  “Not a good idea, Mitch. I’m Thai. Thai women have reputation, you know.”

  Pensively: “But you did so well at lunch today. I could always tell them that you’re here on some kind of trade delegation. They won’t know the difference. You’ll have to meet them sooner or later.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  Watching that hole open up in his mind is more than a little scary. Surely only children experience such lightning mood swings? His face is contorted with fury, quite suddenly, without warning. But what world are they in, exactly? Which parents are they talking about? The senator and the sister disappeared from view weeks ago; in the most recent version he was brought up by an eccentric aunt.

  “You’re saying you’re not going to marry me?”

  The incredulity in his voice says it all: What, a third-world whore passing up the chance of a lifetime?

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I want to talk about it. Chanya, I’m sorry to have to say this, but I can’t go on any longer, I really can’t. I don’t think you realize how much I’m compromising here. You haven’t even read anything of that Bible I gave you.”

  To shut him up: “Okay, I’ll read the Bible, then we’ll talk.”

  She has no idea why her reading the Bible should be a precondition for discussing marriage—after all, he has not shown the slightest interest in Buddhism—but she wants at all costs to do something about his sudden black mood. This is the first time she really admits to herself that alcohol may not have a totally benign effect on this farang.

  When he leaves, she makes an effort and reads the four gospels in the Thai translation, then goes to the beginning and reads Genesis before losing concentration. She can truthfully say she has never heard such infantile mumbo jumbo in her entire life. Christianity, it seems, is a miracle religion, with the blind being restored to sight, lame people suddenly walking, the dead raised, and to top it all that enigmatic fellow who talked in riddles managing to resurrect himself and walk around with the holes from the crucifixion still in his bo
dy. And what about the God himself, who happens to be male of course, who started it all? What a jerk to plant those two trees in paradise and then tell Adam and Eve not to eat their fruit. In her mind the whole book is a kind of extension of Mitch Turner’s fantasy world. The Simpsons is more compelling.

  Fed up with being the recipient of condescension, she gives him her view of the Christian Bible straight, without pulling any punches, and waits for the reaction. Strange expressions pass across his face; his forehead is alive with furrows; then: “Actually, you’re probably right, Christianity is total bullshit. See, I’m going into politics one day, and in this country you need a church to get anywhere in public service. You’ve shown me I have a ways to go. I should thank you for that.”

  Frowning, she asks a question that would never have occurred to her prior to exposure to Washington. “You’re going to run for president one day?”

  Mitch’s face turns grave, as if she has hit a personal truth too deep for discussion. He makes a tolerant smile but does not reply.

  Chanya is not amused this time. This man is simply a tangle of tricks, a lightning-fast but disembodied mind spitting out explanations that change from moment to moment. Maybe politics is the one profession where he really will excel?

  Chanya’s diary shows that their relationship began to deteriorate from that moment on. She sees that alcohol is having a negative effect, indeed he begins to be an increasingly nasty drunk, and she stops giving him wine. He, on the other hand, has started drinking at home for the first time in his life (he claims). She seems wearied by the continual conflict and does not trouble to record their arguments except one in which Mitch Turner takes the side of feminism.

  Chanya: “So here all the women are men. You have only men in this country. Half have pussies, the other half have dicks, but you are all men. Women walk like men, talk like men, call each other assholes and cunts just like men. In other words, two hundred and eighty million people are looking for something soft to fuck.” She flashes him her most brilliant smile. “No wonder I make so much money.”

  He flinches, searching for a way to guide the conversation. (She thinks it is his future political personality he’s airing here.) Quietly and sincerely: “Women gained their independence. Maybe they exaggerate a bit, but the way they see it, they were dominated by men, almost to the point of being slaves.”

  “So now they’re slaves of your system. The system doesn’t love them or treat them well, it only fucks them. They have to slave all day in offices, work work work to make somebody rich. After work they’re exhausted, but they go off looking for men. How is that an improvement?”

  “But you prostitute yourself for men. So you’re a slave to money.”

  “When you say money, you give it farang meaning. When I say it, I give it Thai meaning.”

  “What’s the Thai meaning?”

  “Freedom. I turn trick lasts maybe an hour, two hours, if I want I can live on the money for the rest of the week. I’m not dominated by man, and I’m not dominated by system. I’m free.”

  “You’re still prostituting yourself. You’re still working.”

  “Ah, you see you contradict yourself. I’m working just the same as other women, you just said it.”

  “But you sell your body. How’s that being a good Buddhist?”

  “You don’t understand. I only prostitute part of the body that isn’t important, and nobody suffers except my karma a little bit. I don’t do big harm. You prostitute your mind. Mind is seat of Buddha.” Shaking her finger at him: “What you do is very very bad. You should not use your mind in that way.”

  “What way? I use my brain for my work. That’s not prostitution.”

  “Thanee told me many times Washington professionals like you don’t agree with the president, the way he’s doing things. He’s very dangerous, could have whole world hating America. You told me he has to divide the world into good and evil because he can only count up to two. But you work for him, let him use your brains for schemes that will bring trouble on whole world. That’s prostitution. Could be very very bad karma for you. Maybe you come back as cockroach.”

  Mitch Turner bursts out laughing. He seems to admire the wacky ingenuity of her argument.

  Chanya in a fix, don’t know what to do about this guy.

  She thinks that probably the affair would have continued to deteriorate in the way of such affairs, they would have gone their separate paths, perhaps she would have had to leave Washington, perhaps she would have gone back to Thailand after a few more months, for she had really done exceptionally well and already had enough money to retire on. But the date of this last conversation was September 10, 2001.

  Curiously, it is on this very day that Chanya, feeling depressed and exhausted from their argument, records one of those revelations that come to everyone who spends a long time in a foreign country. On the corner of Pennsylvania and Ninth she is overcome by nostalgia for her homeland. She is experiencing a revolution in attitude.

  From the start something very specific has impressed her about Americans, even the humblest: it is the way they walk. Even bag people walk with purpose and energy and with total certainty about the direction they want to go in, which is a lot different to the way Thais walk in Bangkok or Surin, where the need for purpose and direction has not much penetrated the collective mind. Now she has seen quite a lot of the country, and in the process a germ of awareness has slowly grown.

  They don’t know where they’re going, they just know how to look as if they do. They walk like that because they’re scared. Some demon is whipping them from inside. Chanya will never walk like that.

  For a moment she feels she understands everything about Saharat Amerika; it coincides with a decision to go home to Thailand sooner rather than later. She doesn’t want to marry a frightened man who has perfected the art of going nowhere with such zeal and determination. To admit that you are lost seems closer to enlightenment and a lot more honest. More adult, even.

  Mitch Turner calls her around three p.m. the next day, when the whole country is in turmoil. He is playing the impeccable, responsible professional, which is the character he uses for work.

  “You’ll have to get out.” He knows, of course, that she is an illegal immigrant, has checked her out on the CIA database, perhaps even checked with his contacts in Thailand. “I don’t know where in hell this is going to lead, but you can bet everyone with a foreign passport from anywhere east of Berlin is going to come under scrutiny. They’re already talking of arrest without trial. You could get caught up in something that could take away years of your life.”

  She doesn’t need to be told twice. As soon as the airlines are working again, she gets on a plane. She is back in her home village near Surin on the Cambodian border by the twenty-second of that month. The first luxury item she buys is a Sony flat-screen TV, on which the images of 747s crashing into the twin towers are replayed over and over again, no matter the channel.

  That’s the end of Chanya’s diary, farang.

  FIVE

  Al Qaeda

  27

  It’s early afternoon by the time I reach Soi Cowboy and open the bar. I’m keen to check with Lek after his evening with Fatima, but first I need to discuss Chanya’s diary with Nong.

  I wai the Buddha as soon as I’ve switched the lights on. The important thing, always, is to keep the beer and spirits replenished. Most customers drink Kloster or Singha or Heineken, and the girls of course make half their money through lady drinks, a fact which is never far from my mother’s mind. She has left a message telling me to order more Kloster and tequila from the wholesalers as soon as I get in. The tequila is not a problem, in the worst case we can always buy a few bottles retail, but the Kloster is dangerously low.

  When I look up at the Buddha statue, I finally understand why I’m feeling so edgy. The little guy is fresh out of marigolds. Out in the street I find a flower vendor, from whom I buy as many garlands as I can carry. (Wherever you go in my countr
y there will be a flower vendor, her stall laden with Buddha garlands: it’s a sure bet in a land populated by sixty-one million gamblers.) As soon as I’ve smothered him in flowers, I light a bunch of incense, which my mother keeps under the counter, wai him mindfully three times, and stick the incense in the little sand pit we keep for that purpose and beg him to switch the luck back on. The minute I’ve finished, my mother Nong arrives with her arms full of marigolds.

  “I was so busy yesterday I forgot to feed him,” she explains from behind all the flowers. I don’t say anything, merely watch while she takes in the garlands I’ve just hung all over him. “Oh. Well, he’ll forgive us now.” A beam. “We should be in for some really good luck. How did you get on in Songai Kolok?”

  I make a face and tell her to sit down at one of the tables. I tell her about the diary and the all-important fact that Chanya knew Mitch Turner in the United States. Had a passionate affair with him. Nong gets the point immediately. “There could be evidence linking her to him? If the Americans investigate, they’ll surely find out he was seeing a Thai girl in Washington. Even though she was traveling on someone else’s passport, they might find out who she really is?”

  “Exactly.”

  I gaze up at the Buddha and make a face. How many marigolds will it take before he forgives us for neglecting him? Nong follows the direction of my gaze, goes up to him, lights a bunch of incense, and wais mindfully, with rather more piety than I was able to muster.