Freedom Angel Read online

  ”You know Hank?" Nong said. “He has a huge cock.” Angel blinked. “Chompoo and me can handle it okay most times, but when he eats Viagra and gets really horny and goes on and on we hurt the next day.” She looked into Angel's eyes and giggled. Angel didn't want even to speculate on why Nong should have suddenly shared this news with her. Nor did she need to. “When he comes back from a trip he's always very horny, wants it all the time. So last night it was boom-boom all night and now Chompoo and me, we don't think we can take it again tonight. But he's such a good guy, you know, he takes care of us so good, we don't want to say no. He can always go to the bars, but it's not nice to stay with a man, to be his mia noi, let him take care of you, and tell him to go to the bars. It's not polite.” She looked down, fiddled with her bag of shopping, then looked straight into Angel's eyes. “Want to stay one more night? You are farang, so I guess you have a big pussy, no?”

  Culture shock. Angel forced herself to view the proposition in terms of a radical difference in perspective. She had simply never thought of sex as part of the general commerce of everyday life, never would, not if she lived to be a hundred, she was far too much the American puritan for that—but looked at from a strictly abstract, anthropological point of view, she could find it interesting.

  Nong saw that she had gone too far; or, to put it another way, had played her hand too soon. She smiled. “Look, you can stay as long as you like, never mind fucking Hank. If I ask him, he'll say yes. If he says no, Chompoo and me will give him the works. We know what he loves. See, he can only sleep properly when he's between two ladies. That's just the way he is, so we always get what we want in the end. He'll say yes, sure.” Then she added, ”Even if it hurts our pussies, never mind.”

  Angel was on the point of trying to explain in simple English that it was out of the question for her to help them out in that way—totally, completely, unequivocally—when she remembered two things. She remembered how mystically wonderful the balcony was at Hank's condo, and she remembered the gorgeous snake in her dream the night before and how outrageously horny she had been. Then she remembered a third thing. She remembered how on the plane Hank had used the phrase: Not in this lifetime. If nothing else, it was a good opportunity to change the subject.

  ”Nong?” Nong gazed into her eyes. “Do you believe in rebirth? I mean, do you believe people who meet in this life have met before in another?”

  “Sure,” Nong said, without a moment's hesitation. “Everyone you meet in this life, you know already from before. You and me and Chompoo and Hank, we know each other many times, in many lives. And you came to Krung Thep before, definitely. That's why your name Angel.”

  Angel was not atheist, merely cautiously agnostic. It could be true. One thing she knew, she had never felt so totally at home in any foreign country before. And despite the outrageous proposition, she felt entirely relaxed and happy with Nong. In fact, she could not remember ever feeling so relaxed since she embarked on the dehumanising treadmill of further education that had led to the still more dehumanising treadmill of work, which had perhaps left her about as mentally exhausted as it was possible for a girl to be at age twenty-nine. Compared to Nong, who was twenty-five, she felt about sixty. At the same time she wondered if she were not emotionally underdeveloped. This pretty, child-like girl was also tough as seasoned leather.

  “Look, Nong, I want to say how much I like you. I want to say how good it feels being with you. And I'm sure I'll feel the same way about Chompoo when I get to know her. Maybe even Hank. But this thing—this thing…ah…you know…” she felt a deep blush spread over her face, “This problem you have with the size of his cock. I can't help.”

  ”I told you, never mind,” Nong said. “I told you, you can stay with us. I'll take care.”

  Angel looked around the market which surrounded the restaurant and wondered why she didn't feel in the least afraid or disorientated, merely amused—and kind of high from being amused. She'd forgotten Nick, it seemed, with one simple trip to the other side of the world. She thought of his heavy guilt, heavy loving, heavy wanting to be the perfect sensitive man—who somehow had developed a heavy, passionate—though of course sensitive—interest in another man's asshole—well, one had to be frank at least with oneself and call a spade a spade. And how light everything seemed to be here. On the other hand, she had a distinct feeling that Thais didn't give up that easily. She was right.

  ”One thing I tell you, then I shut up,” Nong said. “Hank, he's going to die soon. That's why he went to UK. He hates UK but he had to go to that street full of millionaire doctors, you know?”

  “Harley Street?”

  “Yeah. that place. He's got about five years, max. Cancer. That's why he fucks so much. Chompoo and me, we pity him markmark.” Angel happened to know from reading the in-flight magazine that markmark meant very very much. “He want to die fucking. That's what he told us. He said: when I'm ready to die, I'm going to take a whole bottle of Viagra and I'm gonna fuck fuck fuck, just because life is such a bust.”

  Angel remembered that vulnerable look that came over Hank's face from time to time. But Nong wasn't finished. “Today his birthday,” she said. “That's why he went out with Chompoo to buy stuff—flowers, ganja, champagne, food—for tonight. You have to come to the party, right?”

  Angel said, “Sure,” at the same time as telling herself that she was not—not in a month of British Sundays was she ever—going to sleep with a man just because it was his birthday, even if he did have cancer. She thought of a way of changing the subject. “What does he do—you know, for money? How did he get so rich?”

  Nong frowned as if it were not a very intelligent question. “How you think? Nobody gets that rich from working.” Angel raised her eyebrows. ”Okay, if you stay, one day maybe he let you see the boat.” Angel let her jaw hang for a moment. Even a naive Yank like her could see the implication.

  Four

  As Angel had feared, the party turned out to be an intimate affair. Nong and Chompoo made it clear that there were hundreds of people Hank could have invited, even though quite a few of his old business associates were in jail, but he'd given up on socialising a few years ago when he discovered he had some kind of bone cancer. His two wives didn't know the name of the disease in English and doubted that it existed in Thai. Thais don't much mind if the party is big or small, though, they generally find ways to amuse themselves, and after a couple of glasses of champagne Angel found herself dancing with Hank's stereo system turned up loud, but not too loud. Hank sat in a paisley smoking jacket looking on and smiling. Nevertheless Angel knew that some kind of British home-truth conversation was on the cards, and so it happened when the two Thais realised it was time for their favourite Korean soap opera, and went upstairs to watch it in the bedroom. Hank didn't bother with a preamble, but invited her to sit on the chair nearest the sofa where he reclined. Angel noted how careful he was not to introduce any sexual element into the gesture or the conversation.

  ”I was going straight. I had every reason too, I had the best background the UK can offer, public school, Oxford, all that crap. I came out to be a money man in Hong Kong. Trouble was, I'm just not cut out to work for anyone. And I can't do clients—you know, indulging some other bastard's weaknesses, fawning, learning golf because he plays, or scuba diving because he scuba dives, or parachuting because he parachutes, or sitting in some boring steam bath in Tokyo because that's what the man expects you to do if you want to play with his money. And it doesn't matter what background you have these days, if you don't master the art of absolute grovelling pretty damn quick, you're out on your backside without ceremony.”

  ”You got the sack?”

  ”Sure. That's how all great fortunes are made. They begin with a personal disaster.”

  ”What did you do?”

  ”You already know what I do.” He leaned forward to engage her in the first frank and intimate eye lock since they had met on the plane. “Let me tell you something. No matter what
they say about heroin or crack cocaine, the biggest addiction in the world is personal freedom. Nobody ever gets over that. I tasted it once and, quite frankly, I didn't give a damn after that; so long as I could stay free I'd do anything. Luckily I abhor violence, otherwise I daresay I would not have drawn the line there either.”

  Angel unconsciously drew back. She'd never had anything to do with a confessed gangster before, not even an upper-class non-violent one; the thought precipitated a torrent of unsavoury headlines in her imagination. He gave a bitter smile and leaned back on the sofa himself. She saw that this was a man so entirely out of her range of experience she simply didn't know how to relate to him at all. Reptilian was the word that came to mind. Pretty much the opposite of self-indulgent, self-pitying—and self-obsessed—Nick.

  Now he was staring at her with what felt like contempt and she thought perhaps it was time for her to find different accommodation. Trouble was, it was dark again and she'd rather assumed she would be staying in Hank's condo for at least a couple of nights. She had congratulated herself on her luck and it was a little difficult to make the psychological switch after two glasses of champagne and the rather wonderful sense of friendship she'd discovered with Nong and Chompoo—a great improvement on the competitive, over-chatty superficial Brit thing she was used to. So when his mood suddenly changed again she felt a wave of relief.

  ”Tell you what,” he said. “Stick around. No obligation, none at all. Especially not—you know—that of which we British do not speak. I only ask one thing.” She raised her eyes. “That you do whatever you can to drop your Western post-puritan hang-ups. Let's say I'm giving you the chance to take a holiday from yourself. Which, let's face it, is the reason you've come East whether you know it or not. Feel free to judge me afterwards, not before.”

  She gulped. Luckily for her, because she had no idea how to react, the girls came down declaring that the soap was over for that night and how did Hank want to party? There was hardly any doubt about it, because they had both changed into silk dressing gowns and were probably naked underneath. Hank winked at Angel, raised himself from the sofa. The girls came to put their arms around him and made to help him up the stairs. Nong threw Angel a knowing look as they went, which Hank saw. He turned to look at her: “The dope in that cigar box is top quality, by the way. Strictly cannabis. I disapprove of everything else for personal consumption. And I wouldn't smuggle alcohol or tobacco if you paid me a king's ransom,” he added with a long aristocratic laugh.

  After a while, alone with nothing else to amuse her, she opened the cigar box and stared at the zip lock bag full of dark green shreds. She was not a regular smoker, had hardly touched it in New York, but when she came to live in London and found how much Nick enjoyed a Friday night joint, she took a puff from time to time. The fact was that as an alternative to British pub culture, which was a polite way of referring to the big dirty open secret of English society more accurately called mass alcoholism, it was a lot preferable. It had two main effects on her. She became sensitive to classical music, for which taste she had sensitive Nick to thank, and very amorous. Now she rolled herself a joint using some cigarettes and papers also in the box.

  Five

  Angel had no idea how long she had been staring at the view over the balcony. The marijuana was stronger than anything she'd tried before and she'd lost all sense of time. Even so, she probably would not have climbed the stairs that fateful evening if not for the most astonishing surprise. The party goers had left open the door to the master bedroom, but instead of pornographic groans and sighs, there emitted the unmistakable music of her soul. Vivaldi's Stabat Mater was, in her opinion, the most convincing hymn to woman in all European culture. Whenever she heard it she felt as if some secret being were calling to her. And there it was, compelling, tormenting, convincing in its total dedication to the spiritual—and seductive beyond words in the sweetness of its submission to the goddess. She felt as if she had been summoned.

  When she reached the top of the landing, there emerged from the darkened, but not quite dark, room the aroma of sandalwood entwined with the baroque choral counterpoint. She tip-toed toward the partly open door and glimpsed in the half-light the tan naked bodies of the two Thais: perfect in form; breasts and buttocks balanced in voluptuous feminine harmony, the living measure of beauty itself. One of them squatted atop the white man and moved slowly, rhythmically, to the sacred music while the other caressed his body and face. Incense snaked upward from a brass holder in the shape of a Hindu god. There were no moans, no groans, merely the odd soft murmur, the tender word, the grateful single syllable in Thai from the man, the singsong reply from the women.

  Now, under the influence of the cannabis, she understood it all. This was death, his death they were celebrating on his birthday. It wasn't five years he had left, it was a lot less than that—and it was the unflinching resignation to death that made him so different from other men. She guessed that was the message he'd brought back from Harley Street, and the power of imminent annihilation had turned their loving into a sacred rite and him into a kind of classical hero.

  The girl atop the man turned—it was Nong—saw her and gestured for her to approach. She entered the room and undressed. Hank seemed hardly aware of a change of guard as she mounted him and—for she was ripe as a melon now—sank with a grateful groan onto his impressive member. Nong and Chompoo knelt on either side and licked her nipples as she moved rhythmically with her pelvis. After a few minutes she realised that he was not going to just start jerking as a sign it was all over, the way Nick always did. She didn't care if it was Viagra or some kind of yoga that gave him such stamina—she didn't even care if it was age—she relaxed and enjoyed the luxury of sustained, slow-motion loving. The two girls saw that she had got the hang of it quicker than they expected. They found some aromatic massage oil and while she enjoyed herself with Hank's heavy tool they applied the oil all over her upper body until her breasts were slippery as eels under their small hands and when she achieved orgasm it was in a long, slow crescendo that ended by making her cry out in astonishment.

  Six

  I've made a terrible, terrible, terrible mistake, Nick's e-mail said. Please, please, please forgive me, I beg you. I had to experiment, you know. Never did it at school. But it's great, now I know I'm not gay, not bent at all. Forgive me. Please do come back. We can marry now. Make babies. Promise. Where the hell are you? I've looked everywhere, tweeted and phoned and tex'd everyone. I'm going crazy. Love Nick.

  Shocked, Angel's first impulse was to type fuck you; then she deleted, shrugged and decided to reply later—or maybe never. It had been a month—an exceptionally full one—since she'd arrived in the city of angels. It was far too soon to make any kind of permanent life decision, but she had the feeling that she wasn't going to leave—ever. For one thing she was still at Hank's condo. He'd called in some Thai lads to clear one of the bedrooms of junk, and bought a bed for her to sleep in. This was nothing to do with sex—there had been no repeat of, nor any mention of, that extraordinary birthday party—and everything to do with business. Hank owned a half dozen medium-range condos in various parts of the city, which he let out. She supposed he had bought them with the proceeds of his core enterprise—of which, like sex, he never spoke. While the girls were quite fiendishly smart about everything practical as well as everything sexual, they had one fatal flaw as far as administration was concerned: they couldn't make decisions or get heavy with non-paying tenants. When a tenant called to complain that electricity had been cut, or there was a leak from a water pipe, or someone had parked in the space belonging to the condo, or when someone fell behind with the rent, they had not the faintest idea how to respond except to ask Hank, who had better things to worry about. When he discovered that Angel had worked in London for an estate agent —that she was a qualified realtor in the States of Connecticut and New York—he had offered her a job at very modest pay but with food and accommodation included.

  Nick's e-mai
l had thrown her, but she didn't need to make a decision then and there. She could take a month or more, even a year. He had brought back to her the memory not so much of a former love, but of a former life. It was incredible to her that the woman who had been all ready to move in with her man, make him happy and secure enough to be a husband and a father, telephone her mum and dad to tell them they were coming to London for a wedding, then call them again a year or so later to tell them they were going to be grandparents—she had a dramatic imagination that always envisaged the crucial phone calls and the joyful reunions—this woman was now someone quite different.

  She was so shaken she left her laptop in her bedroom and went downstairs in search of the cigar box. She took a deep breath, rolled herself a joint and was about to light it when Nong came down. She knew that the girls had stayed home while Hank went off on one of his super secret rendezvous with a key business associate—Angel had realised that neither of the girls knew quite how his scam worked, except that it had something to do with Hong Kong and a boat and one of the triad societies that had links with Bangkok. Nong saw what she was doing and grinned. Neither of the girls smoked, but they thought it amusing that she and Hank did. Then Chompoo descended the stairs, too. For a moment the three young women shared glances, then Nong went out on the balcony to water the plants and Chompoo went to wash dishes in the kitchen. Angel finished rolling the joint, smoked it and found herself staring at Nong who was in her utility gray sarong, which did nothing to diminish the perfection of her form.