Bangkok 8

The song had to be “Bye Bye Blackbird,” didn’t it? Corny perhaps, but wonderful, too, with a depth of melancholy I’ve never heard before. I wouldn’t have guessed she could even sing like a woman. Jones is enjoying the shock on my face.

“She’s not bad. Not a professional of course, and jazz outside the States is always a bit of a disappointment, but she’s not bad.”

I realize that Jones is deaf to a specific quality in Fatima’s voice. Let’s call it heart: build the fire, light the light, I’ll be home late tonight, blackbird, bye bye.

Let’s not call it heart. The sound she is making is the sound hearts make after they’re in pieces and the fragments dissolve into the overwhelming sadness of the universe. The power to hear it may be the only privilege of the thoroughly dispossessed. “No,” I say, and sip the margarita, “not as good as an American, but not bad.”

“Now look to your left at about ten o’clock. Don’t move your head, just your eyes.”

“I already saw them.” Warren and-a triumph for Jones to judge by the expression on her face-Vikorn. She doesn’t know that the short dapper Thai man sitting with them is Dr. Surichai until I tell her. Together the threee of them make a half-moon around a large round table. They are all absorbed by Fatima and have no inclination to look behind them, but the diva in the long purple silk gown and heavy pearl necklace glances in our direction. Our eyes meet for a moment and she misses a beat. Not a professional at all. She recovers quickly and the band covers her mistake, but not before that total blackness has intervened behind her eyes. A few seconds later and she’s got a better idea. She cocks her head slightly to one side and engages my eyes mercilessly while she sings: No one there to help or understand me, oh what hard-luck stories they all hand me…

“I want to go,” I tell Jones, sounding just like a girl who is out too late and-I’m afraid-covering a single sob by leaning over and coughing. We wait until Fatima has finished her song, when the clapping masks the noise of our departure.

“Pretty well as soon as Ke

“Warren.”

“Sylvester Warren was born to a theatrical couple in Boston. They were the usual alcoholic narcissists who started to fade early in life. The only way they could deal with the responsibilities of parenting was to employ a Chinese maid on a minimum wage. A Chiu Chow girl from Swatow who hardly spoke English. As the parents faded out altogether, she took over the house. She ran everything, including Sylvester’s education, which took on a very Chinese flavor. To survive at all the kid had to learn Chiu Chow, and this fascinated the other Chinese from Swatow who were living in Boston and particularly New York. They saw a low-risk investment. Warren has been involved with them all his life. They funded his gemology degree, set him up in his first businesses and loaned him as much money as he wanted. The price he paid was to belong to them body and soul. When the CIA found out about him he was already in the jade trade, importing into the States with a shop in Manhattan. They didn’t worry too much about conflict of interest. On paper he looked like the perfect broker for the Hmong’s opium when it reached Saigon and Vientiane. As a matter of fact, he didn’t do too badly by the Hmong. He got halfway decent prices for their opium. At the same time he did exactly what Vikorn did. He built up co

We’re turning into Wireless Road now, on the way to the Hilton. I wonder what is going to happen next when I say: “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because I wasn’t going to pop your naÏveté until you popped mine. I kinda liked that medieval loyalty you have for your Colonel-says a lot for your heart, but not much for your head. No money no honey, isn’t that what your ma always told you?”

“Fuck you.” As she’s getting out of the cab, I say: “Surichai? What was he doing there tonight?”

An elaborate raising of the hands and shoulders. “Did I say I knew everything?” Then: “Want me to pay for the cab, or can you manage?” Poking her head back into the car, almost going nose to nose with me: “Warren’s wi

I am in the back of the cab, racing through the night; the shock of Vikorn socializing with Warren and Surchai, of Fatima singing in a jazz club, is slowly eclipsed by a shock of my own making. I’ve never told the story of my mother’s first sale of her body before, never really taken it out from that secret, painful place where it resides in my heart. It wasn’t Nong who told me, but Pichai. The friend who sat in the toilet was Wa