The Thai Amulet (4 page)

“I’d like to talk to you about this,” she said. “Not tonight. I know you’re tired. But this place is all rather overwhelming.”

“And look at these gold boxes. Gold nielloware. Did you know these were once made exclusively for royalty?”

“If you think this floor is something,” Jennifer said. “Wait until you see where they hang out. I swear they own half of Bangkok. I exaggerate, of course, but only slightly.”

“And those doors when we came in. Did you see the carving? Exquisite! I think they’re temple doors, real ones, I mean, off a real temple.”

“I had no idea Chat came from this kind of home. He has a nice enough apartment off campus, and yes, he drives a BMW, but this is way beyond well off, you know. I find it all a bit much.”

“Do you know what this is?” I said, picking up a small bowl on the desk. “It’s called Bencharong, which means ”five colors“ in Sanskrit. This kind of ceramic was made in China for Thai—at the time it would have been Siamese—royalty. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“I feel as if they’re sizing me up all the time, and I’m sure I don’t measure up. I don’t think he wanted his family to meet me, but they insisted.”

“Look at these lamps. The bases represent deities. They’re called kinaree. See, they’re half human, half bird. What did you say?” I said, pausing for a moment in my catalogue of the treasures.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Yes, you do: something about not measuring up. Of course you do,” I said. “They may have lots of money, but they’re lucky their son likes someone like you. So there!”

“I guess,” she said. “Now you better get some sleep. It’s almost midnight. We’ll
get
all caught up tomorrow. Shall we have breakfast together?”

“Yes,” I said. “Please wake me when you want to eat. We have a little project while we’re here, by the way.”

“I love a project,” she said. “What is it?”

“We have to find an antique dealer by the name of William Beauchamp,” I said.

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” she said. “Where’s his store? I’m sure Chat will know where it is.”

“I know where the store is,” I said. “At least I have an address. But he hasn’t been seen in months. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

“I like it!” she said. “A little detective work, just like Dad. I can’t tomorrow, though. Khun Wongvipa wants me to go somewhere with her. I figured you’d need the day off, given how long it takes to
get
here. Sleep well.”

I had a shower and gratefully crawled into the big bed. I was asleep almost instantly and awoke some time later, I’m not sure when, to the sound of footsteps padding down the hallway. I was reasonably sure they went into Jennifer’s room, and I was almost certain it was Chat. I wondered what her father would think if he heard about that. And then I wondered where Will Beauchamp was.

I was in Bangkok early thanks to a combination of a twelve-hour time change that got me up at the crack of dawn and a car and driver who dropped me off at the Sky-train and promised to pick me up again at five.

I love Bangkok. Sometimes it’s hard to explain why, even to myself. The traffic is horrendous, the air even more so, the poverty relentless, the sex trade highly visible and unpleasant. Still, when the sun touches the golden spires of The Grand Palace or reflects off the glass mosaics on the temple facades, making them sparkle as if wreathed in a million tiny, multicolored lights, when I smell for a moment, even in the city, the heady scent of jasmine and fran-gipane, or catch a glimpse of the rhythm of daily life on the
klongs,
then I am seduced once more. It is as if I have arrived for the first time, to be overwhelmed by the sights and smells, drugged by the heat, confused by sights so foreign. But it is also as if I’ve been there all my life, that somehow it is where I belong. For a few moments, I just stood there, taking it all in.

As Clive had pointed out, more than once since we’d had our first conversation on the subject, I held wildly divergent views on Will. Part of me thought he’d be easy to find. All I had to do was wait for an hour or two outside his home, and he was bound to come crawling out. The other pact held that he was off on some beach somewhere, a drink with an umbrella in it in one hand, suntan lotion in the other. Both these scenarios were based on a single premise, however: that he was trying to avoid paying a dime to his wife and daughter.

I had no trouble finding Fairfield Antiques. It was located on a
soi,
or lane, off Silom Road, in an old mansion that had been converted into the Bangkok version of a shopping plaza. The area was once the center of town from the point of view of foreigners, or
farang
as they are called. It is near the river, off what was then referred to as New Road, now by its Thai name of Charoen Krung, a street built in the mid—nineteenth century to accommodate the carriages of foreign diplomats, and many of the embassies were nearby. The neighborhood then centered, and perhaps still does, on the exotic Oriental Hotel, which played host to writers like Joseph Conrad, Somerset Maugham, and Graham Greene, and where the expatriate community liked to gather and socialize.

The mansion, which may well at one time have housed an embassy or perhaps an adventurer who had made his fortune in the East, was now a maze of tiny shops, most of them purporting to sell antiques. I say purporting, because my experience is that some of the best fakes in the world can be found in Bangkok, an alarming proportion, indeed, of what is an offer. Worse yet, a disturbing number of those left over after the fakes are factored out have been ripped illegally from temple sites, in other words, stolen. A quick look around confirmed my opinion. It is one of the reasons that my buying trips to Asia often bypass Thailand, and when I do go there, it is to find interesting articles—carved doors, windows, furniture, other decorative pieces—that McClintoch & Swain offers as reproductions to our clients who like the look but don’t insist upon or can’t afford the genuine antique article.

Fairfield Antiques was there, on the second floor. At least the sign was, in English, and presumably in Thai. The display window was covered with brown kraft paper, however, and the door was securely locked and fastened with a padlock and chain. A few advertising flyers had been partially stuffed through the mail slot, but there was nothing of any interest in them, at least the ones I could read. A notice taped to the door, again in two languages, indicated exactly what the lawyer’s letter had, that the contents had been seized by the landlord—in this case the landlord was mentioned, a firm called Ayutthaya Trading and Property as it turned out; I don’t know why I was surprised, given Jennifer had told me they owned the proverbial half of Bangkok—and would be auctioned at the River City auction facility on the weekend.

I peered through a tear in the paper. It was dark inside, although a window on the far side did shed some light, enough that I could see the place was completely empty.

I did a canvass of some of the stores surrounding Fairfield’s. All said they hadn’t seen Will for some time. One young woman, who perhaps had not been employed long, had no idea whom I was talking about. It was in a tailor’s shop that I made some headway, although not much.

“Mr. William, yes,” the proprietor said. “I know Mr. William. You like to buy Thai silk?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, reluctant to bring the conversation to a close before I learned anything.“

“This color very good for you,” she said, pulling a jacket in a gorgeous sapphire blue off a rack.

“It’s lovely,” I said. “Now, about Mr. William. Have you seen him recently?”

“No recently,” she said. “I think this color more better,” she added, this time showing me a mustard yellow jacket. “You very white. With skirt, very good. Same color or maybe black silk. Good for your parties.”

“It’s too small, I’m afraid,” I said. I towered over this woman and most of the Thai women I met. Nothing in this shop would fit me. But a tape measure was produced with lightning speed.

“You come back tomorrow,” she said. “I have for you. Perfect fitting.”

An assistant, a pretty teenage girl, miraculously appeared from the back and started writing down my measurements as the diminutive woman called them out. Fortunately, I couldn’t understand them—she was speaking in Thai—so I didn’t have to sink into a deep depression at the mention of my waist size.

“I think we make jacket a little longer for you,” she said. “Covers, you know,” she said, patting her hips. “Not so much extra you pay.”

“But about Mr. William,” I said, doggedly determined to get something out of this. “When do you think you saw him last?”

“Two, maybe three months,” she said. “How you like skirt? I think at the knee, on top, is good for you. To show your legs, yes?” She pushed up my pant leg and peered at my calves. “Leg is okay,” she said.

“Do you know Mr. Narong?” I asked, referring to the name Mr. PPKK, as I was coming to think of him, had mentioned. The girl who was helping out tittered.

“Of course,” the tailor said, also smiling. “Is my husband. He will make for you the clothes. Not here now. I think you need also silk pants. Black is very good. Also blouse for under jacket. Maybe two. One yellow like jacket, one black. With sleeves, I think. The arms you know,” she said lifting up her arm and pulling at the fleshy part of her upper arm. “For older women not so good to show. Very versatile for you.”

“I’m not sure I need all this,” I said. “Maybe just the jacket.”

“Thai silk best in the world,” she said, severely. “Why you not buy more? You will be most beautiful in your country. Now you stand here,” she said, pointing to a raised platform. “I measure for your pants and I tell you about Mr. William. You wear shoes like this always?”

I sighed and silently cursed Clive for about the thousandth time since he’d first mentioned Will Beauchamp’s disappearance.

“Very sad man, Mr. William,” she said. “Turn please.” I turned.

“I think he want to go home,” she said. “At first he find Bangkok very nice, but after he misses very much his home, I think. Why he not go home I don’t know.”

“What happened to the business?” I said. I was already in a mental debate about whether or not to tell Natalie about this most recent revelation. “Fairfield Antiques. Do you know why it’s closed?”

“Mr. William has very good antiques,” she said. “Not like some of the others,” she added, waving her arm in the general direction of the other shops: “Maybe not so many people know the difference between his antiques and the others. I don’t know. One evening I see him lock the door. He stops here to say good night as always. I never see again. Soon the others came. Turn again please.”

“What others?” I said.

“From Ayutthaya Trading. They own this plaza. They ask many questions, then they take away all Mr. William’s lovely antiques.

“What kind of questions did the people sent by Ayutthaya Trading ask?” I said. My, but dinner that evening was promising to be useful.

“Just like you,” she said. “When did you see him? Things like that.”

“How long after you last saw him did they come?”

“Maybe one month, maybe more.”

“Do you know a Mr. Prasit?” I asked.

“Many Mr. Prasit,” she said.

“The Mr. Prasit who is assistant manager of PPKK,” I said. I felt like an idiot saying that.

“What is this PPKK?” she said.

“I was hoping you would know,” I said.

“No,” she said. She spoke to her assistant in Thai, but the girl shook her head.

“My daughter not know also,” she said. The girl said something to her mother.

“My daughter tells me there was a young man came here asking for Mr. William. He spoke to my husband. My husband knows nothing of Mr. William also, so the young man left. Maybe he is Mr. Prasit.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “Has anybody else asked about Mr. William?”

“No,” she said. “You like blouses, yes?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“I am mistaken. There was a woman like you.”

“You mean a
farang?”
I said.

“Yes,” she said. “Not so nice as you, though. She not buy Thai silk.”

“What did she look like?”

“
A
farang,”
the woman replied.

“Hair color,” I said. “Like mine?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But more,” she added, indicating a spot just below my shoulder blades.

“Eyes?” I said.

“Like you,” she said.
“Farang
eyes.” I meant what color, but it seemed hopeless to pursue this.

“Was she taller than me?”

“Yes,” she said. “I think also slimmer. I didn’t measure, but I know. Twenty years in business.”

“Did she tell you her name?”

“No,” she said. “She came here only one time. She do the same as you—try to look into store.” She put her hands up to shield her eyes and pretended to be peering at something. “Nothing there to see.”

“Nobody else?”

“No,” she said. “What time you come back tomorrow for fitting? Same time?”

“Okay,” I said. Why argue? A rather tall man in a very fine dark suit entered the store, and the three of them began a heated discussion.

“Mr. Narong. My husband,” the woman said. “He says there was one other who asked for Mr. William. Thai girl. Very pretty. No name also. Now,” she said, whipping out a calculator and showing me the tally. “Very good price, yes?” I stared at it for a moment, thinking what a fool I was. It was awfully pretty though, I thought, fingering the bolt of fabric, the color so rich and the texture, with its hint of roughness, so pleasant against my hand. I could picture myself wearing it at the next CADA Gala, even if it was a year away. Maybe I would bring Jennifer in and get something made for her, too.

“Okay,” she said, taking my hesitation for reluctance.

“For you, special, as friend to Mr. William, another ten percent. You pay half now,” she said. I paid.

Having forked over about a hundred and fifty dollars, with the same amount to come, for a “versatile” outfit and very little information, I went on my way. Will’s house was my next stop. It was as easy to find as the shop, and for the same reason. I had the address from the lawyer’s letter in Natalie’s packet. My vision of Will hiding out at home, embellished over the thirty hours or so of traveling to reach Bangkok, was one of a house on a
klong,
or canal, complete with teak floors and walls, exquisite art—he was, after all, an antique dealer who specialized in Asia—and a terribly young and beautiful Thai woman, a sort of Madama Butterfly who catered to his every whim, at his side. At some point in my jet-lagged reverie, there had even been a baby gently rocking in a cradle nearby. Or maybe it was a grass hut on a beach in the south I was thinking of, open to the ocean breezes, a la Paul Gauguin in Tahiti. Or something like that.