The Thai Amulet (6 page)

“Yes?” I said.

“Well he’s certainly not here.”

“No.”

“Neither is the painting,” he added. “The one with the eyes that follow you. You can see the mark on the wall. A couple of missing amulets, no painting. Other than that, everything is as I remember it. What do you figure this means?”

“I don’t know. My theory all along has been that he is hiding out from Natalie and her lawyers. I guess the question is, if that’s what you’re doing, would you take all your stuff with you, or, for that matter, clean out the refrigerator before you left?”

“Maybe he just couldn’t pay the rent here either, and was clearing out before the landlord caught up to him,” Ferguson speculated. He said something to Mr. Poon, and the man replied.

“I’m wrong on that score. The rent is paid up until the end of the year, and Poon had no idea Beauchamp was gone,” Ferguson said. “Well, I guess we might as well be going. There isn’t much to learn here, I’m afraid. I’ll drop you off at the Sky train station.”

And then I made one of those unconscious gestures we train ourselves to do, like turning off the lights when we leave a room, or giving the door handle one more turn, just to be sure, after we’ve locked it. Without much thinking about it, I closed the closet door.

A splatter of dark reddish brown droplets, now dry, speckled the wall behind the door. We both looked at it in silence for a moment of two. “I suppose it could be tomato sauce or red curry paste,” I said finally.

“In the bedroom?” Ferguson said. “I think it’s time we called the police, don’t you?”

Chapter 3

I should begin
with an explanation of how I, son of a rather minor court official, should come to play a role in the political affairs of the royal court of Ayutthaya. It is because my mother was appointed wet nurse to Prince Yot Fa, son of King Chairacha by the royal concubine Lady Si Sudachan. The lady, who had not a drop of motherly love in her, as her consequent actions make clear, had no interest in the nurturing of her child.

That role fell to my mother, whose loss of a daughter, my only sister, when the baby was three days old, made her an excellent candidate for the position. She lavished the love for her lost child on the little prince.

I was six years old at the time and can recall my fierce jealousy of the child I saw as a rival for my mother’s affection. In time though, I came to love Yot Fa as a younger brother. He was a melancholy child, a worry for his father, and everyone was pleased that I took the boy under my wing. For me it meant the run of the inner palace, the finest of food and clothing, and an education way beyond my station. I began to take on the swagger of a prince, to imagine that somehow I had been switched at birth. My mother scolded me for putting on airs, but she, too, was happy that we were so close, that I, unlike others, could make Yot Fa laugh.

Six years later, a second son was born to the king and the concubine, the Prince Si Sin, but I believe that the two princes were never as close as Yot Fa and I were, and certainly my affection for Yot Fa did not extend to his little brother, despite my mother’s obvious adoration of both princes. I found Si Sin
—
I’m not sure how to put this
—
untrustworthy, perhaps, or even somewhat devious as he grew older
—
although I’m not sure one should ascribe such traits to a child. Perhaps it was the rather churlish disdain older children have for those much younger, but I felt Si Sin was his mother’s son, unlike Yot Fa, who was much more like his father, the king.

As I grew older, I came to admire King Chairacha, if it is not too presumptuous for someone like me to say so about divinity. I was well aware, as was everyone in the palace, that he gained the throne by putting to death his nephew, the young King Ratsada. Despite that, I found him to be a wise and even-handed ruler, and diligent in his efforts to improve our seafaring capability and our army by improving the river channel and bringing in the Portuguese to instruct us in the use of firearms. He was also a religious man, building Chi Chiang Sai Monastery and placing there an image of Lord Buddha and a holy relic soon after he became king. I have often wondered since, though, if the horrible act that brought him the kingship lay at the heart of the difficulties that plagued his reign, as if the spirits, angered by the deed, wreaked their revenge. Certainly there were many evil omens that indicated all was not well in the kingdom. But perhaps I imagine this.

It is difficult for me to describe Lady Si Sudachan, in part because of what was to happen later, but also, if I am to be honest, the fascination she held for me. I was afraid of her certainly. She was not a woman to be taken lightly, often cold and distant, always quick to anger, even faster to seek revenge for any insult, intentional or otherwise. She was also
—
I don’t know
—
seductive? I was much too young to appreciate the sexual side of her appeal, of course, but I sensed something. As much as I feared her, I also found myself wanting to be near her, to do something, anything, which would cause her to see me in a favorable light, to smile in a certain way she had, to glimpse a flicker of interest or even amusement in her eyes.

In a way, I suppose, we were two of a kind, both commoners who found themselves in the inner palace, both barely tolerated by the queens and consorts, all of them, unlike us, of royal blood.

Jennifer looked absolutely beautiful at dinner that evening. In a bright blue silk dress, her blond hair piled up on her head, she had a quality about her—I’m not sure what the word is: luminescence, perhaps?—that made her the subject of many admiring glances. I felt a pride in her I cannot quite explain. She was not, after all, my daughter, just my partner’s. I could claim no hand in her upbringing. Watching her, so poised, I wanted everything to be perfect for her.

She’d spent the day shopping with Khun Wongvipa and arrived in my room a few minutes before we were due to go upstairs for some help with her hair.

“Do I look all right?” she said.

“No,” I said. “You look wonderful. I ordered a mustard gold suit today. I wish I had it to wear this evening.”

“Will they think I look all right?” she said, with a slight emphasis on “they.”

“If they don’t,” I said, “then you and I are going to have to come to terms with the fact that there is something seriously wrong with your boyfriend’s family.”

She giggled. “It’s all a bit overwhelming, isn’t it? All this gold and everything. Look at these, will you?” she added, leaning her head toward me and gesturing to a pair of small but not insubstantial gold earrings set with tiny sapphires. “These are a gift from Chat’s mother. Not a loan, a gift,” she repeated.

“They’re lovely,” I said. “But you don’t have to accept them if you’re not comfortable.”

“I couldn’t imagine saying no in the first place, and now I can’t imagine giving them back,” she said. “Chat would be hurt. His mother would be hurt. She scares me a little. I can’t really tell you why.”

“Can’t wait to meet her,” I said.

She smiled. “I am so glad you are here,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t. I think I’d get lost, somehow, sucked into this family and all this wealth.”

“That wouldn’t happen to you,” I said, feeling my way through this new intimacy between us. “You have a very firm grasp on reality and a very good sense of what is important in life. Your father has done a good job raising you. While he and I disagree on a lot of things in life, one thing we agree on is you. I wish he were here to see how beautiful you look.”

“You’ll get to meet the rest of the family, too,” she said. “Dusit, that’s Chat’s brother, and his dad, Khun Thaksin. I hope he’s here. He’s been in Chiang Mai on business the last couple of days and is supposed to be back.”

“I look forward to meeting them all.”

“You know what I like most about Chat?” she said. “It’s his belief that one determined individual can really make a difference. He thinks he can change things for the better in Thailand, do something about the poverty and things like that. He’s quite different from the rest of them.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “That’s all that matters.”

“I don’t know if that’s the only thing,” she said. “He’s also kind of cute, don’t you think?”

“Very cute,” I said. “I believe I heard Mr. Cute last night creeping down the hall to your room?”

She blushed. “Dad won’t be pleased, will he? He couldn’t possibly think that we traveled together for three months without… you know.”

“Actually, he probably could. I’ll talk to him,” I said. I was tempted to say that given the state of her father’s current relationship with me, he could hardly be judgmental, but it didn’t seem appropriate somehow, disloyal to him and perhaps not setting the right tone in my discussions with her. “Time to go. Let’s see how many of them we can intimidate between the two of us.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she repeated, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

To say that the Chaiwong family was wealthy was an understatement. They lived high above the troubles of everyday life, the poverty, the disease, the hopelessness of many a Thai’s situation, floating instead in a cocoon spun of golden threads. They lived ten stories above the Chao Phyra, where the lights of the barges could be seen below, and off in the distance, a
chedi,
or spire, of some ancient temple, was lit against the darkness.

Khun Wongvipa was waiting to greet us as we stepped off the elevator onto the tenth floor. “You are most welcome to our home,” she said, shaking my hand, Western style. “I hope you’ve found your accommodation comfortable.”

“It is absolutely wonderful,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Doesn’t Jennifer look lovely?” she said, and Jen smiled shyly. She looked for a moment as if she was going to curtsy, but mercifully didn’t. I could immediately see why she felt the way she did about Chat’s mother. Khun Wongvipa looked too perfect, for one thing. Her dark hair was immaculately coiffed at chin length, her skin was almost impossibly smooth, and, for a woman in her mid-forties, and the mother of three children, she looked to be in remarkably good shape, slim, almost tiny. If she had a flaw it was that her face was almost expressionless, which might explain the lack of any perceptible wrinkles. She did smile, of course, but her eyes did not smile with her. She was dressed in a spectacular green and gold silk dress, a modern version of the traditional
phasin,
with its long tube skirt, deep hem in contrasting fabric, and short jacket. “Please,” she said, indicating we follow her.

“What a lovely home you have,” I exclaimed, as she led us into the living room, and I meant it. It could so easily have been overdone, but the room was huge, and it was decorated with impeccable taste. Furthermore, I loved the mixture of periods and styles. A lot of my clients want a particular look right down to the last detail: Victorian, Tuscan farmhouse, Provence, Georgian, whatever. I am, of course, always glad to sell it to them. But for myself, perhaps because I travel so much and like so many different things, I prefer a rather more eclectic mix of objects.

The living room was an antique dealer’s dream. There were priceless objets almost everywhere you looked: stone carvings, Khmer-style wood carvings, antique textiles, and silver. There was more of the gold nielloware I’d seen in my bedroom; mother-of-pearl inlay on half the furniture; exquisite coromandel screens; gilded lacquer furniture; Chinese Shang bronzes along with artifacts from India, Cambodia, and Laos. Surprisingly, a lot of the furniture was European in design but covered in silk. There were a pair of wing chairs in a lovely pale green silk, a couple of Queen Anne side chairs, and in a corner, that most Western of instruments, a grand piano.

While most of the art was Asian, there were two oil portraits, the kind you’d expect in an oak-paneled hall of some baron’s estate: the family ancestors on display, over a lacquered side chest.

“Thank you,” Wongvipa said. “I’m honored that someone who knows so much about antiques and antiquities would be so kind in her comments about our home.”

“My wife has done all the decorating herself,” a man said, coming forward to greet us. “It is her aesthetic alone that has made this place what it is. I am Thaksin,” he said, “and it is a pleasure indeed to meet Miss Jennifer’s stepmother.” There it was, that odious word again, the one Clive kept taunting me with. It wasn’t the
step
part I objected to, it was the word
mother.
I wasn’t her mother, I was her father’s partner, that’s all.

Khun Thaksin was not as old as Jennifer had implied, but he was, I’d say, at least seventy-five. His obvious status in the room would indicate that I should
wei,
but I’m never sure if it’s appropriate. There is something often referred to as the foreigner’s
wei,
a sort of halfhearted effort where the palms are brought up just below the chin, but there are so many conventions associated to whom and when one should
wei,
I usually just stand there wondering what to do with my hands. My discomfort was over in a second, though, because he reached out and shook my hand, then signaled for a waiter to bring me a glass of wine.

“This is Prapapan,” he said, as a girl of about five or six dashed by. “We call her Oun. In English that would be Fatty,” he added. “That is because she was so tiny when she was born that we worried about her. We named her Fatty so she would grow big and strong. As you can see,” he said, as the little girl stuffed a handful of peanuts into her mouth, “we succeeded. That’s enough now, Oun,” he said indulgently. “I consider myself most fortunate at my age to have a little daughter,” he said to me.

Chat was there, in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. A lovesick puppy expression came over his face the moment he cast eyes on Jennifer. Rather than standing beside her, he remained where he could just look at her. It was rather sweet. He caught sight of me watching him and blushed.

“This is our son, Dusk,” Khun Wongvipa said, presenting a young man of about seventeen or eighteen. Dusit was rather pouty, if not borderline surly, but at a glance from his father, he spoke a few polite words of welcome and then went back to playing something on his handheld computer.